The morning sunlight glinted across the frozen village rooftops, painting the snow in hues of pale gold and silver. Félix moved carefully, each step deliberate, boots crunching in the thin crust of frost that clung to the ground. He could still feel the remnants of adrenaline from the previous night, the cold bite of the defeated demon's blood lingering faintly on his gloves. Even with the sun rising, the village seemed suspended in time, as though it existed only to test him. The air was crisp, biting at his lungs with every breath, but it carried a promise, too—a whisper of the strength he had begun to awaken within himself. Control is the key, he repeated silently, gripping his twin katanas with renewed focus.
The early light revealed the extent of the damage: walls splintered, doors shattered, and the soft blanket of snow disturbed by the chaotic battle. Félix's eyes scanned the scene, noting each detail, measuring each shadow. Every mission, every encounter with a demon, demanded not just physical skill but vigilance. He crouched low, blade in hand, the Frost Wind technique now flowing with a rhythm almost instinctive, a current of ice pulsing through his veins. But the old man's words echoed, persistent and unyielding: Talent is meaningless without mastery. Force without precision is death.
Félix had understood the lesson in principle the previous night; now he needed practice. He raised one katana, feeling the balance in his hands, and whispered to himself, "Ice Blade." The air shifted immediately, colder, sharper, as if the technique sensed his intent. He slashed at a snow-laden fence, and a thin sheet of ice formed along the trajectory of his blade, fracturing neatly into shards that scattered like frozen petals. The movement was simple, yet it required complete attunement—breath, body, and will fused in a single, decisive motion. This was the second technique of Ice Breathing, one that demanded both precision and discipline.
A rustle from the treeline caught his attention. Félix's eyes narrowed, and he shifted into a low stance, katanas at the ready. From the shadows emerged a familiar figure—Tanjiro Kamado, carrying his own black Nichirin blade, expression earnest and observant. Félix's heartbeat stuttered slightly, not from fear, but from recognition. Tanjiro's presence was a reminder of the wider world, of the other slayers who carried burdens equal to, or heavier than, his own.
"You've been busy," Tanjiro said softly, stepping closer, careful not to startle the child who still clung to Félix's coat from the previous night. His eyes scanned the scene, assessing damage and residual danger. "But your movements… there's control now. You're learning fast." He crouched briefly beside the child, offering a reassuring smile before focusing again on Félix. "Ice Breathing is rare. It's difficult to master. Your precision has improved, but speed and adaptability—those come only with experience."
Félix nodded, tightening his grip on the blades. "I understand. Last night was… a start. But I know there's much I still cannot control." His voice was steady, though he felt the weight of truth pressing into his chest. Every battle, every demon, revealed not only the limits of the body but the fragility of the mind. He had survived, yes—but survival was not mastery. Mastery required patience, observation, and an intimate understanding of both his own strength and the demonic force he opposed.
Tanjiro studied him for a long moment. "I can help you," he said finally. "There are missions, smaller demons to face first. You'll learn to adapt, to trust your instincts, but also to think ahead. Ice Breathing is powerful, but even the strongest techniques fail if you act rashly." He glanced toward the treeline, where the faint outline of mountains shimmered under the rising sun. "The path you've chosen… it won't be easy. But you're capable. I've seen it."
Félix allowed a faint nod, processing the words, aware of the weight behind them. Tanjiro's presence, calm yet commanding, was a balm and a challenge all at once. I am not alone, Félix thought. And yet, I carry my own burden. He turned slightly, practicing a swing of the Ice Blade, letting the cold bite of the air sharpen his focus. The technique hummed, a faint resonance that echoed in his bones, and he felt a surge of clarity—the subtle integration of body, mind, and breath. Each swing, each controlled cut, became more than an action; it became a declaration of will.
Suddenly, movement from the nearby forest snapped Félix's attention. The branches shook violently, snow falling in shards like falling stars, and from the shadows stepped a demon, its eyes glinting a deep, unnatural crimson. Unlike the previous night's creature, this one was larger, muscles twisted, sinew visible beneath thin, pallid skin. It growled low, a sound that vibrated through the frozen ground, and the hair on Félix's arms stood on end.
He shifted immediately, stance wide, blades raised. The child moved behind him instinctively, seeking protection. Félix inhaled, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and exhaled sharply, flowing into the rhythm of the Ice Blade technique. The first strike was a calculated sweep, slicing through the snow with lethal precision, shards of ice forming along the edge. The demon reacted quickly, dodging with surprising agility, but Félix anticipated, moving fluidly, the second swing slicing closer to its flank. Each movement was deliberate, measured, controlled. The Frost Wind technique whispered through his veins as a subtle undercurrent, supporting the strikes, enhancing their lethality without overwhelming his balance.
The demon lunged, claws outstretched, aiming for the child. Félix shifted, the blades meeting the attack, ice forming where metal met flesh. Sparks of cold erupted with each clash, a symphony of destructive grace. He pivoted, spinning the blades in tandem, a dual display of strength and rhythm, and each strike carved a path of frost through the morning light. It was a dance—violent, beautiful, terrifying—culminating in a final, decisive blow. The demon collapsed, its scream fading into the wind, leaving only the eerie silence of a frozen village behind.
Panting, hands slick with cold sweat, Félix lowered his blades, feeling the chill seep through his gloves. The weight of the encounter pressed against him—not just the physical exertion, but the realization of responsibility. Every life I take leaves a mark, he reminded himself, echoing the lesson Giyu had imparted. The child stepped forward cautiously, eyes wide with awe and fear. Félix gave a faint smile, wiping his blades clean against the snow, and knelt to meet the child's gaze. "You're safe now," he said quietly, voice steady. "No harm will come to you while I stand."
Tanjiro approached slowly, observing with quiet intensity. "Your control has improved remarkably," he said, eyes meeting Félix's. "But remember—the strongest techniques are only as effective as the mind that wields them. Never let precision overshadow awareness. Each demon, each situation, is different. Adaptability is as important as strength."
Félix absorbed the words, letting them anchor him. He felt the pull of the wider world—the mountains beyond, the forests filled with hidden threats, the unseen Lunes observing from the shadows. Each encounter, each lesson, was a thread weaving into the greater tapestry of his journey. He would grow, he would learn, and he would face the challenges to come. But the first steps—clumsy, bloody, and terrifying—had been taken, and they had been victorious.
As the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the village, Félix sheathed his katanas with deliberate care, each motion a ritual of respect, reflection, and preparation. The Ice Blade hummed faintly, a silent promise of the power yet to be mastered. Tanjiro lingered, offering advice, encouragement, and subtle guidance, but the moment of training had passed. The child, reassured, ran toward the village outskirts under Tanjiro's watchful eye, and Félix remained standing, absorbing the cold, crisp air, feeling the stirrings of determination solidifying within him.
He knew now, more than ever, that the path of a Demon Slayer was solitary, demanding, and often merciless. Yet, within the frost, within the dance of blades and breath, he had glimpsed a clarity—a hint of the mastery he sought, the life he was forging with every strike. The Ice Breathing technique, though young in his hands, sang with potential, resonating through his body, through his mind, and through the cold morning that now bathed the village in light.
Félix took a final deep breath, the sharp air filling his lungs, and began walking toward the treeline where Tanjiro stood. Each day will test me further. Each demon will teach me more. And I will endure. The first chapter of training had ended, but the journey—the shaping of a slayer, the mastery of the Ice Blade, and the trials ahead—had only just begun. Every step forward was both promise and warning, ice and fire entwined in the endless pursuit of purpose.