"I want to become stronger!"
Taito's sudden declaration caught Yoriichi off guard. Before Yoriichi could respond, Taito unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to him.
"Mifune-sama recently drove off Hanzo of the Salamander at the border of the Land of Iron. He was severely injured and has been sent back for treatment."
"…And?" Yoriichi asked. "What does that have to do with you?"
Taito shook his head.
"This is what I wanted to tell you. Because of Mifune-sama's victory, Hanzo has ordered the Ame ninja to withdraw from the Land of Iron."
So that was it.
No wonder the harassment had gradually decreased. Hanzo must have suffered a major setback and decided to pull back his limited forces to deal with Konoha instead.
"That's good news," Yoriichi said calmly. "If the Ame ninja withdraw, we can finally head back."
The moment he said that, Taito's expression twisted in frustration.
"That's the problem! The daimyo and the higher-ups refuse to let us withdraw. They've ordered the samurai to pursue the Ame ninja instead!"
He clenched his fists.
"Those damned politicians… they don't understand how terrifying shinobi really are!"
And he was right.
Taito had long lost the pride and confidence he once held. After witnessing true ninja battles, he understood all too well—samurai alone could not match them.
To be honest, without Yoriichi, it would've been impossible for their small group—barely a dozen warriors from Matsuo—to defend such a critical trade route.
During this time, Yoshitoki and Hirota Seichi had also begun noticing Yoriichi's abnormal strength. Their attention naturally gravitated toward him. Yoshitoki had even tried to ask Taito about Yoriichi's sword style more than once.
Taito had brushed him off every time.
What a joke. I haven't even learned it myself yet, and you want my kohai's technique? Have some shame.
Finally, Taito blurted it out.
"I want you to teach me your swordsmanship—the kind that produces flames."
He stared nervously at Yoriichi.
In samurai culture, openly demanding another's sword art was deeply disrespectful. One could become a student, or even slaughter a household to seize a technique—but to demand it freely, under the banner of duty or righteousness?
That was shameless.
"…Sorry. That was rude."
Taito exhaled deeply and turned to leave.
"You can."
He froze.
Slowly, he turned around in disbelief, staring at the young boy's calm face.
For a moment, he thought he had misheard.
When Yoriichi lowered his head in thought, Taito had assumed he was preparing a refusal.
In truth, Yoriichi was simply considering which branch of Breathing would suit him best.
Fragments of memory surfaced in his mind.
...
"My technique isn't really swordsmanship," Yoriichi said quietly. "It's called Breathing."
"Breathing?"
Yoriichi stood and walked out of the tent. Taito followed closely behind.
They moved deep into the forest, far from the camp. Yoriichi had already checked the area—no Ame ninja patrols, no samurai nearby. It was isolated enough.
He had considered teaching Breathing to other samurai.
But some—like the bloodthirsty ronin Kitō—were dangerous. If such men learned Breathing, it would spell disaster for civilians.
At only five years old, Yoriichi already understood the relationship between nobles and warriors.
Two ruling classes, standing together atop the masses.
Farmers and laborers bore the weight of the nation.
That was how the world worked.
"Breathing strengthens the lungs and heart," Yoriichi explained.
"It allows the blood to absorb large amounts of oxygen in a short time, pushing the body far beyond its limits—granting power comparable to demons."
"Wait—demons?" Taito asked, startled.
Yoriichi hesitated.
There were no demons in this world.
"…Creatures like people," he said slowly, "monsters from legends. Similar to the man-eating spirits in old Land of Iron folklore."
Taito swallowed.
"You can think of Breathing as something like a kekkei genkai," Yoriichi continued.
"Except it belongs to samurai."
He swung his blade.
Sparks flew.
A thick tree was cleanly split in half.
Taito's pupils shrank.
Yes—this was the power he sought.
"What I use is called Sun Breathing," Yoriichi said calmly. "It's the origin of all Breathing styles."
He didn't demonstrate it. There was no need—Taito had already seen enough over the past year.
Taito had once tried to spar with Yoriichi, hoping to learn the technique.
He failed completely.
Even in the world of Demon Slayers, not everyone could master Breathing. Most swordsmen only learned one or two forms. Even among the major styles—Flame, Water, Wind, Stone, Thunder—selection was brutal.
Some, like Zenitsu, mastered only a single technique… yet refined it to perfection.
"From Sun Breathing come the Five Primary Breaths," Yoriichi explained.
"They align with the five chakra natures. Beyond that, further variations can be derived—but only so far."
"These five are already the most refined forms. Anything beyond them risks losing their essence."
Styles like Mist, Love, or Sound were merely personal adaptations—optimized, not improved.
"You can't refine perfection."
He turned to Taito.
"What's your chakra nature?"
Daido stiffened.
'How did he know?'
"…Wind," he admitted reluctantly. "But I haven't betrayed Mifune-sama. I just wanted to grow stronger—to better serve him."
Yoriichi nodded.
He believed him.
The world was changing.
Thirty years ago, war was constant. Survival itself was uncertain.
Now, wars happened between nations—large, devastating, but followed by long periods of peace.
Technology advanced.
Food storage. Transportation. Industry.
Only the Land of Iron refused to change—clinging stubbornly to old ways.
Taito's eyes burned with resolve.
He wanted to change that.
He wanted to build a nation where samurai could stand proudly again.
And this time—
Yoriichi intended to help him do it.
~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~
250 Powerstones – Bonus
500 Powerstones – Bonus
Add to library and drop powerstones thanks!