The dawn of the seventh day broke over the Southern Pass with a solemn, gray light.
The air was thick with the sulfur of the hot stream and the heavy, ragged breathing of seven young men. This was the final day. The week of "hell training" under Yoriichi Tsugikuni was coming to an end.
Usually, trainees would be relieved to escape the wooden stick and the grueling stances. But today, the atmosphere was different. There was no complaining. There was no slacking. The Jia Lie and Ao Ba disciples were pushing themselves harder than they ever had in their lives.
They held their Horse Stances deep in the gravel, their legs shaking violently, sweat pouring into their eyes. They refused to wipe it away. They refused to break form.
They knew that after today, the "Boss" would no longer be there to correct them.
Yoriichi stood by the water's edge, his back to them. He was not holding the wooden stick today.
He was focused on his own internal battle.
"Breath of the Sun... circulate."
He tried, for the hundredth time that morning, to draw the solar flame out of his core and coat his skin. He visualized the heat, the light, the destructive power that could burn a demon to ash.
He felt the warmth. It flooded his meridians, soothing his muscles and sharpening his senses. But it refused to manifest externally.
"It is stuck as usual," Yoriichi sighed internally, exhaling a puff of steam.
He let the breath go. He accepted the limitation. If he couldn't burn, he would crush.
He looked at the stream. The water flowed rapidly, churning over the rocks.
"My hands have healed. My bones are denser. Let us test the limit of the vessel."
He widened his stance. He didn't use Dou Qi. He didn't use the Sun Breathing's explosive step. He relied purely on the kinetic chain he had been refining—the Iron Fist.
He drew his right arm back. The muscles in his back coiled like steel cables.
Snap.
He punched.
He didn't aim at a rock. He aimed at the air directly above the water surface.
BOOM!
The sound was deafening, like a thunderclap striking the valley floor.
The air in front of his fist was compressed so violently that it became a solid wall of pressure. This shockwave slammed into the surface of the stream.
WHOOSH!
The water didn't just splash. It was gouged out.
A trench of water, twenty-five meters long and three meters wide, was blasted open as if an invisible giant had dragged a finger through the river. The displaced water rose up in two massive walls of spray, creating a momentary tunnel of air in the middle of the stream.
The force of the punch carried the "hurricane" of air pressure all the way to the opposite bank, stripping the bark off a pine tree.
The seven disciples forgot their stances. They fell onto their butts, staring with jaws unhinged.
"Monster..." Jia Lie Ao whispered, his face pale. "Now, it's... twenty-five meters? With just a punch? No Dou Qi?"
"If that hit a person..." another disciple shuddered, rubbing his chest. "There wouldn't be a body left. Just a red mist."
They looked at each other, a collective chill running down their spines. They realized, more than ever, that their decision to submit to this "Young Master" was the smartest thing they had ever done. They reassured themselves repeatedly: Never. Ever. Fool around with him again.
Yoriichi stood up straight, shaking his hand to loosen the wrist. The water crashed back down, filling the trench, frothing and bubbling in agitation.
He turned to the group.
The sun had climbed higher. The training session was over.
"Stand up," Yoriichi said calmly.
The seven scrambled to their feet, forming a neat line. They looked at him with eyes full of reverence and a hint of sadness.
Yoriichi walked up to them. He looked at each of them—Jia Lie Ao, the Ao Ba boys, the other Jia Lie disciples. Their postures were straighter. Their breathing was deeper. They were no longer the slouching bullies he had met a week ago.
"The foundation is laid," Yoriichi spoke, his voice carrying the weight of a teacher. "The basic Total Concentration Breathing I taught you is a seed. It expands the capacity of your vessels."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"If you continue to practice this every morning... if you do not become lazy... the bottleneck of the Da Dou Shi rank will not exist for you."
Gasp.
The boys' eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Da Dou Shi? The Grandmaster rank?
In Wu Tan City, a Da Dou Shi was a titan. The Clan Heads were Da Dou Shis. To reach that level meant becoming a ruler of the city. For these branch disciples and side-characters, that rank was a distant dream, a heaven they never thought they could touch.
"B-boss..." Jia Lie Ao stuttered, his voice trembling with emotion. "You mean it? We... we can reach that level?"
"The path is open," Yoriichi nodded. "Whether you walk it is up to you."
The group cheered. Some high-fived; others just clenched their fists, imagining the glory.
"However," Yoriichi's voice cut through the celebration like a blade.
The temperature in the clearing dropped. Yoriichi's expression became deadly serious.
"Do not try to spread this basic form to anyone," Yoriichi warned. "Not your fathers. Not your brothers. Not your closest friends."
He stepped closer to Jia Lie Ao, staring into his eyes.
"This technique manipulates the pressure of the blood and the expansion of the lungs. I taught you because I was here to monitor your pulse. I corrected your rhythm instantly when it faltered."
"If you try to teach it," Yoriichi continued, his voice low and grim, "you will kill them. Without the perfect rhythm, the lungs will rupture like overfilled balloons. The veins in the brain will burst. You will not be giving them power; you will be giving them a seizure and a painful death."
He wasn't lying. The Breathing Styles of the Demon Slayer Corps were incredibly dangerous for the untrained. Even this diluted version required precise control.
"I will not be responsible for the corpses," Yoriichi finished. "Do you understand?"
A cold sweat broke out on the boys' backs. The image of their loved ones dying because of their arrogance sobered them instantly.
"WE UNDERSTAND!" they shouted in unison, terrified.
"Boss, don't worry!" Jia Lie Ao thumped his chest. "This secret dies with us! We won't breathe a word. If anyone asks, we just say we trained hard!"
"We swear it!" the others echoed.
Yoriichi looked into their eyes. He used his heightened perception to scan for deceit—irregular heartbeats, shifting pupils, the scent of a lie.
He found none. They were terrified and loyal.
"Good," Yoriichi nodded.
He looked at the sky, then back at them.
"Lastly," Yoriichi said, his tone softening. "Try to live peacefully. Cooperate with each other."
The boys blinked. This was unexpected. Their clans were rivals.
"A war may be the only solution to dominate," Yoriichi said, his mind drifting back to the Sengoku period, to the endless fields of dead samurai. "But not when the stakes are our humanity. We are beings with consciousness. We are not demons who eat their own kind."
"The Xiao, the Jia Lie, the Ao Ba... you are all neighbors. If you fight, you bleed. If you trade, you grow. Adapt socially. Be better than your fathers."
The teenagers stood in silence. They were young, hot-blooded, and raised to hate. But hearing this from the strongest person they knew—a person who could crush them but chose to teach them—struck a chord.
Most of them got emotional. They held back tears. They realized that Yoriichi wasn't just teaching them how to fight; he was teaching them how to be men.
"We will sure, Boss," an Ao Ba disciple sniffed, wiping his nose. "We will try."
"Thank you, Master Ning," Jia Lie Ao said, dropping the 'Boss' for a more respectful title.
Then, without prompting, Jia Lie Ao stepped forward. He reached into his robe and pulled out a heavy jade box and a pouch.
"Tribute," Jia Lie Ao said, bowing and presenting it with both hands. "It is not payment. It is... thanks. This is a High Tier 1 Congeal Flame Pill, I stole from my dad's stash. And 500 more gold coins."
The others followed suit. They lined up, presenting their offerings.
"Boss, take my dagger! It's Tier 1 Cold Iron!"
"Boss, I have these herbs!"
"Boss, take this silver!"
It was a chaotic pile of wealth and weapons. In the martial world, this was Guru Dakshina—the offering to the teacher.
Yoriichi looked at the items. He didn't push them away. He knew that refusing would insult their resolve. And practically... he needed assets. Creating the Sun Blade would consume gold like water.
"I accept your will," Yoriichi said simply.
He gathered the items.
"Go now," Yoriichi said, waving his hand. "Walk your path."
The seven disciples bowed one last time, deep and long. Then, they turned and walked away down the forest path. They walked differently now. They walked with purpose.
Yoriichi watched them go until they disappeared into the trees.
"Hope these young ones survive the harshness and brutality of this land," Yoriichi thought, a sigh escaping his lips. "They are wolves now, but the world is full of tigers."
He turned back to his pile of tribute.
He organized it quickly. The gold went into one pouch. The pills into another.
He walked back to his infirmary, his mind shifting gears. The teacher was gone; the craftsman and merchant remained.
Inside his room, he opened a wooden chest. Inside lay the fruits of his labor from the Smithing Hall over the past few days.
A Tier 1 Wind Sword (the first prototype). A heavy Broadsaber (made from leftover iron). A pair of daggers (refined from the scraps).
They were simple weapons, but they bore the mark of Yoriichi's hammering—dense, sharp, and perfectly balanced.
He changed his dirty training robe to an expensive one as it was the only piece available. He then packed the items into a large cloth bag along with the tribute items he didn't need.
He lifted the bag. It clinked heavily. To a normal person, it would be a burden. To Yoriichi, it felt lighter than a feather.
"The Miteer Auction House," Yoriichi whispered.
He needed money. He needed materials. And he needed to see what the wider world had to offer.
He threw the bag over his shoulder, adjusted his red robe, and walked out of the infirmary. His destination was the heart of Wu Tan City's commerce, a place of shadows, gold, and perhaps... a shadow of a certain alchemist he had sensed before.