Continuing his descent, Asukazen spotted another tripwire, this one connected to a swinging log, its rough bark studded with rusty nails.
Asukazen: (In his mind) Another one?
He reacted instinctively, leaping back just as the log swung down, its trajectory aimed directly at his head. He ducked, his heart pounding against his ribs, the log grazing his shoulder, leaving a searing pain in its wake.
Further down the path, he noticed a pressure plate concealed beneath a thin layer of dirt, its edges barely discernible. He had learned his lesson. He wasn't falling for that again. He sidestepped it cautiously, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees, the undergrowth, searching for any sign of the trap's trigger mechanism.
A moment later, a series of arrows erupted from the ground, their shafts whistling through the air, narrowly missing his chest as he leaped to the side, his reflexes pushing him to his limits. Adrenaline surged through him, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was getting better at this, his instincts sharpening, his body adapting to the constant threat of sudden attacks.
After two grueling hours, he reached the outskirts of the nearby town, a cluster of wooden buildings nestled in a valley, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. He had navigated the treacherous mountain path, he had survived Jigoro Kuwajima's insane obstacle course, but he had not emerged unscathed. His body bore the marks of his struggles – bruises, scrapes, aching muscles, the throbbing pain in his shoulder.
He took a step forward, intending to find a place to rest, to catch his breath, to wipe the sweat that stung his eyes. As his foot landed on a seemingly innocuous patch of ground, he heard a series of clicks and whirs behind him, the telltale sounds of mechanisms springing to life. He whirled around, his eyes widening in disbelief as he watched the traps he had so painstakingly bypassed reactivating one by one in a domino effect.
Asukazen: That crazy old man...
Frustration, exhaustion, and a burning anger towards the retired Hashira who had subjected him to this insane ordeal threatened to overwhelm him. For a fleeting moment, he considered turning back, confronting Jigoro, demanding an explanation for this insanity. But the thought of facing those traps again, of enduring another round of that agonizing obstacle course, made his body ache in protest.
With a sigh of resignation, he lowered himself to the ground, wincing as his injured shoulder throbbed.
Strange Chirithy: Congratulations! You managed to survive your teacher's attempts to murder you.
Turning his head, his gaze shifted on the Dream Eater perched on a nearby wall.
Asukazen: I didn't ask for your commentary.
Strange Chirithy: But watching you struggle, seeing you fail... It's simply too entertaining to pass up.
Asukazen: I have no desire to return to that mountain. But it seems I have no choice, if I want to learn more about this Breathing technique.
Strange Chirithy: Don't fret. I'm sure your journey back up the mountain will be just as entertaining as your descent.
Reaching into his pockets, his fingers brushed against the small purse Rengoku had given him before sending him off on this perilous undertaking. He opened it, counting the coins within. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to purchase a few necessities. The thought of food, of water, of something to ease the gnawing hunger in his stomach, was a welcome distraction from his deadly predicament.
Strange Chirithy: Why bother with those paltry coins? Just use your Keyblade. Take what you want.
Asukazen: I don't need to resort to such methods.
He could easily use his Keyblade to unlock doors, of course, to manipulate objects, to acquire whatever he needed without resorting to conventional means. And yet.
Strange Chirithy: Such a stubborn one, aren't we? Suit yourself.
Asukazen: It's not about nobility. It's about the fact that I won't rely on that power. Not anymore.
Strange Chirithy: You really are difficult, aren't you? Refusing to use your Keyblade, even when your life is on the line. It's almost... admirable. But also utterly foolish. Don't you realize... Don't you feel...
It trailed off as unsease crossed its features. It sensed something within Asukazen, something beyond the fear, the anger, the self-loathing. A deep, abiding bitterness, a simmering resentment that seemed to emanate deep within Asukazen, but from something attached to him, something intertwined with his very being.
Asukazen: I've seen enough death, enough destruction. I won't contribute to it anymore. Not in battle, not for personal gain, not for anything. I don't want this so called gift. I don't need it.
The Strange Chirithy tilted its head, its expression thoughtful, its tone shifting from mockery to something akin to curiosity.
Strange Chirithy: So, you'd rather be... powerless? Human? A mere child?
Asukazen: Yes. I would gladly relinquish these powers to anyone who wanted them. Anything to be rid of this burden.
Strange Chirithy: You are an interesting fool. Rejecting the very gifts that make you... special.
Asukazen: Being 'special' hasn't done me any favors.
Asukazen stood, tucking the purse of coins into his pocket. He walked into the town, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings, taking in the traditional Japanese architecture, the people going about their daily lives, the sights and sounds of a world that seemed both alien and strangely familiar. He realized he had been transported not only to a different world, but also to a different time—somewhere between the years 1912 and 1926, a period known as the Taisho era.
His immediate priority was to procure supplies – food, water, anything that would sustain him during his time away from the Sanctuary. He browsed the market stalls, the small shops lining the narrow streets, carefully selecting items that would meet his needs, his movements efficient, his expression guarded. The Strange Chirithy followed at a distance, its mocking commentary a constant presence in his mind.
Strange Chirithy: (In its mind) He insists on rejecting his gifts, that idiot doesn't realize that in doing so, he's a walking target. He's going to be torn to pieces if he doesn't change his attitude.
It watched as Asukazen purchased supplies, his movements precise, his interactions with the townspeople curt, his expression a mask of aloof indifference. It observed the way he navigated the bustling marketplace, his senses alert, his hand never straying far from his sword, his entire being radiating an aura of quiet, controlled power.
Strange Chirithy: What a fascinating fool. He'd rather be stripped of his abilities than utilize them. I've encountered all kinds of Keyblade wielders, but this one... He's in a league of his own. And to refer to his own Keyblades as 'parasites'... The audacity.
His actions were a performance, a tragicomedy playing out on the world's stage. It couldn't help but be amused by the sheer absurdity of it all – the stubborn refusal to embrace his potential, the insistence on relying on his own limited abilities, the misguided belief that he could somehow escape his own nature, his own destiny.
Strange Chirithy: (In its mind) It's almost comical, the way he clings to his delusions. He's like a petulant child trying to avoid the inevitable. If only he knew... His little charade won't save him from what's coming. The Heartless? No. He'll wish it were just the Heartless. He has no idea who he's making enemies of.
Strange Chirithy: (In its mind) He's useless. He hasn't truly embraced the darkness in so long. The negativity within him would be bland, unrefined. No satisfaction there. He's a dead end. But perhaps in this world... Yes, there. I might find the flavors I crave. The Heartless will emerge eventually. And their darkness... It will be exquisite. It's only a matter of time.
At the same time, Asukazen found himself drawn to a food stall, its aroma a tantalizing blend of savory and sweet. He ordered a plate of takoyaki, the steaming hot octopus balls a welcome respite from the arduous trek down the mountain.
He savored each bite, the rich flavors momentarily erasing the tension that had been coiling in his gut, the lingering fear of Jigoro's traps fading into the background noise of the bustling marketplace.
Strange Chirithy: (In its mind) Such a fascinating specimen, this one. A perfect blend of hypocrisy and idiocy. No wonder I can't help but follow him, to revel in his absurdity. He wears his self-inflicted suffering like a badge of honor, yet he indulges in simple pleasures with such abandon.
Strange Chirithy: (in its mind) Hypocrisy in its purest form. A walking paradox. A spectacle worthy of both mockery and observation. I wonder how long it will be before the cages break open? Before the lions devour their cowardly tamer?
Later, as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the town, Asukazen found himself retracing his steps, heading back towards the looming silhouette of the mountain, towards Jigoro's sanctuary.
Strange Chirithy: (In its mind) He's utterly clueless. No instinct for danger. He relies on that aura of his to sense living beings. But inanimate objects... He's blind to their threat. Each step he takes is a gamble, a roll of the dice.
Asukazen: (In his mind) This training... It's insane. It's as if Jigoro is trying to kill his students. How could anyone survive this? Even with my years of training in the military, I barely made it through. I'm not... I'm no ordinary human. And yet, I struggled. How are they supposed to succeed?
He couldn't comprehend the logic behind such a perilous course, the sheer brutality of Jigoro's methods. It was a unlike the training he had received within Daybreak Town, a world away from the carefully controlled spars and simulations that had prepared him for battle against the Heartless.
Asukazen: (In his mind) If Blizzard and Ephemer are enduring this same training... What kind of... What kind of agony are they facing? Is this brutality the norm for all of these teachers? Does it... Does it actually help? Is this what it takes to master this power?
Strange Chirithy: Quite the obstacle course, isn't it? Far more entertaining than anything those Foretellers could dream up.
Reaching the top of the mountain. Jigoro stood there, waiting, his expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity. He hadn't expected the boy to return so soon, with daylight still clinging to the horizon.
Jigoro: You're back already? I... I had anticipated it would take you longer, considering the... obstacles. And you brought supplies?
Asukazen met the old man's gaze, his own tinged with confusion.
Asukazen: I... I wasn't aware you expected me to be... gone longer.
Jigoro's expression softened slightly. He could see the exhaustion on the boy's face, the subtle tremors in his limbs.
Jigoro: You returned... unharmed, and with provisions. You've proven yourself more capable than I initially surmised. Well done.
Asukazen: What was the point of... of that obstacle course? It seemed excessive. Were you... Were you trying to kill me?
Jigoro considered the question for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Jigoro: It was designed to hone your instincts, your reactions. Many demons possess incredible speed, inhuman reflexes. This training is meant to cultivate those same attributes within my students.
Asukazen: (raised eyebrow) You're saying a human can... can counter the speed of a demon, with the right training?
Jigoro: (nodding) A student who has completed their training, who has survived the Final Selection, possesses skills and speed that rival even the most formidable of lower demons. Total Concentration Breathing is a gift from Mother Nature, granting them extraordinary abilities.
Asukazen: As if I could believe such a thing...
Jigoro: Believe it or not, it represents the pinnacle of potential. It's not magic, it's not supernatural. It is simply the way things are. The human body, when pushed to its limits is capable of extraordinary feats.
His gaze lingered on Asukazen, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He sensed something unusual about the boy, an intangible presence that seemed to cling to him.
Jigoro: I sense something around you, boy. As if you're being watched over.
Asukazen's eyebrows shot up, his expression momentarily betraying his surprise. He quickly recovered, adopting his usual mask of indifference.
Asukazen: Excuse me?
Jigoro: The souls of the departed can linger, especially those burdened by regret, by unfinished business.
He shrugged as he avoided the old man's gaze.
Asukazen: Don't know. I've never seen a ghost.
Jigoro: Perhaps you're right. I haven't slept in days. I've been working through the night, setting those traps. My mind is playing tricks on me. I need to rest.
He turned and walked away, leaving Asukazen alone in the fading light.
Asukazen: (In his mind) This is getting out of hand. What if he sees that Chirithy? What if he mistakes it for a ghost? How am I supposed to explain that?
He sighed, leaning against a nearby wall, his body weary, his mind racing. He couldn't help but compare the two Chirithys – his own, supportive and caring, and this strange, mocking creature that seemed to revel in his discomfort.
Asukazen: (In his mind) I just hope this place doesn't descend into chaos because of that... that thing.
He entered his small dwelling, the bag of supplies in hand. His gaze fell on the traditional Japanese bedding laid out on the floor, the futon neatly arranged, the pillows plump and inviting. He remembered seeing people sitting in a unique pose, their knees tucked beneath them, their bodies resting on their heels.
He had always found it intriguing, wondering how they could maintain that position for any length of time without experiencing excruciating discomfort. Curiosity piqued, he decided to give it a try.
Slowly, tentatively, he lowered himself to the floor, arranging his legs beneath him, his shins pressed against the tatami mats. It was awkward, unfamiliar, but not as uncomfortable as he had anticipated.
Asukazen: Huh? I did it! It's... It's not that bad.
Strange Chirithy: Look at you, trying to learn the basics like a toddler. You'll probably break all your bones at this rate.
Asukazen remained focused on his newfound accomplishment however, the small sense of satisfaction that came from mastering a new skill, however trivial it might seem. The taunts couldn't diminish his pride, his quiet celebration of a small victory.
Asukazen: In the country I was born in, this is how people sit. It's... common courtesy.
Strange Chirithy: (mocking) You think you're so clever. 'Country,' huh? I'm pretty sure you mean 'world.' But hey, who am I to judge? Keep on pretending you're from some mysterious 'country.'
Hours passed, the silence of the Sanctuary punctuated only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. A sharp rap on the door startled Asukazen from his contemplation.
Jigoro Kuwajima stood at the threshold, his weathered face etched with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Come with me, boy.
Asukazen nodded, his curiosity piqued, and followed the old Hashira out of the small dwelling, into the heart of the Sanctuary.
They stopped before a clearing, the afternoon sun filtering through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Jigoro turned to face Asukazen, his gaze sharp, assessing.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Remove your shirt, boy. Let me see your physique.
Asukazen hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his features. He wasn't accustomed to such a request, to revealing his body to a stranger. But he knew he had no choice but to comply.
With a sigh of resignation, he pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it onto the ground. Jigoro's eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight of the boy's physique – surprisingly well-defined muscles, a lean, toned torso, arms that spoke of countless hours of rigorous training. He had expected a boy of thirteen, perhaps fourteen at most, to be gangly, awkward, lacking in physical development instead.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Where did you acquire these muscles, boy?
Asukazen: Hard work.
He kept his response brief as he averted his gaze. He didn't want to delve into the details of his life, of the rigorous training he had undergone, of the battles he had fought, of the worlds he had seen.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Interesting. It appears I won't need to instruct you on developing strength. We can proceed to the next phase.
He gestured towards a massive boulder that loomed nearby, its surface rough and uneven, its sheer size intimidating. It stood at least three meters tall, a monolith of unyielding stone. Jigoro Kuwajima handed Asukazen an iron sword, its weight surprisingly heavy in his hand.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Slice this boulder, boy.
Asukazen's eyebrows furrowed. He studied the boulder, its imposing bulk, its unyielding solidity. He had never attempted such a feat before. His training as a Keyblade wielder had focused on agility, on speed, on wielding magic, not on brute strength.
Asukazen: Should I use all my strength?
Jigoro Kuwajima nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Yes. Let me see what you're capable of.
Asukazen took a deep breath, gripping the iron sword tightly. Beneath the apprehension, a thrill of excitement coursed through him. He was eager to test his limits, to see if he could overcome and prove his worth to this old man.
He charged at the boulder, his feet pounding against the earth, his muscles coiled with power. He swung the sword with all his might, its blade whistling through the air, and slammed it into the stone.
A resounding crack echoed through the clearing, followed by a deafening roar as the upper portion of the boulder sheared away, tumbling to the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces.
Jigoro Kuwajima stared at the bisected boulder, his eyes wide with astonishment. Only those who had mastered Total Concentration Breathing, who had honed their bodies to the peak of human potential, could achieve such a feat. And yet, here was this boy, this outsiderwho claimed to have no experience with swords, performing a task that even seasoned Demon Slayers struggled with.
Jigoro Kuwajima: You... You sliced the boulder!
He stepped closer, examining the cut, his gaze lingering on the rough, uneven edges, the slight imperfections that marred the otherwise clean slice.
Jigoro Kuwajima: You succeeded, but your technique is... unorthodox. It's as if you wielded the sword as a blunt instrument, not as a blade. That accounts for the irregularities in the cut.
Asukazen: I'm... I'm not accustomed to swords. I've used a different kind of weapon my whole life.
Jigoro Kuwajima: I see. If you master Total Concentration Breathing, if you learn a Breathing Style, you might... you might stand a chance against an Upper Moon.
Asukazen: An Upper... Moon?
Jigoro Kuwajima: The demons known as Upper Moons are the most formidable adversaries the Demon Slayer Corps faces. They are the elite, They are beyond anything you can imagine. They can lay waste to entire towns in the blink of an eye. They are... unimaginably strong. They have proven to be too much, even for the Hashira.
He paused, his gaze growing distant, his voice taking on a somber tone.
Jigoro Kuwajima: They are the apex predators of this world. Lower Moons are formidable in their own right, capable of causing widespread devastation. But the Upper Moons... They are nightmares made flesh.
Asukazen listened, his expression growing more serious with every word. The details Jigoro revealed painted a chilling picture of the demons' power, their destructive potential. The thought of a single demon being capable of obliterating an entire town in a matter of seconds was horrifying.
Jigoro Kuwajima: The Upper Moons. Each one possessing power beyond comprehension. The Hashiras, the most elite of our Demon Slayer Corps, have faced them, and they have suffered greatly. For over a century, not a single Upper Moon has been slain. They remain, nightmarish entities lurking in the shadows, orchestrating death and destruction.
He paused again, his gaze drifting to the horizon, as if searching for ghosts amongst the trees. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp, a breath of wind through dry bones.
Jigoro Kuwajima: I faced one when I was younger. Far stronger than I am now. Upper Moon Three.. A monster cloaked in faux-pleasantries, always smiling.
40 Years Ago.
Crimson stained the snow, a warrior's blood painting grotesque flowers across the pristine white. Jigoro watched in silent horror as Upper Moon Six, flicked his fan, sending a spray of gore arcing through the air.
His comrade, a burly man named Kohei, lay in two pieces on the ground, his torso still contorting in the death throes as his lower half already started to freeze over.
Doma: Oh my. (Doma sighed with a gentle murmur) It seems I got a little carried away. No matter. More fun for me, I suppose.
Jigoro didn't scream. He didn't rage. He drew his katana, the polished steel gleaming even in the fading light, and charged.
Jigoro: Thunder Breathing! First Form: Thunderclap and Flash!
He moved like a lightning strike, a motion that left a crackling afterimage in its wake. One moment he was a sword's length away, the next he was upon Doma, blade whistling towards the demon's exposed neck.
Yet to his credit, Doma didn't seem surprised. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, and he leaned back, barely avoiding the lethal arc of Jigoro's katana.
Doma: My, my! (Doma chuckled as his fans snapped open, each one a delicate work of art) You're fast. Almost too fast to see.
He swung his arms, and a blast of icy wind slammed into Jigoro, sending him hurtling backward, his body encased in a thin layer of frost.
Jigoro landed as he rolled on the ground, and was on his feet again before the ice could fully claim him. He poured every ounce of his strength, every bit of his training, into the next attack.
He became a whirlwind of lightning the next second, his blade flashing like summer lightning across a storm-wracked sky. Each strike was aimed at a vital point, aimed at ending Doma's life in a single, decisive blow.
But Doma was too fast, too strong. He moved with an almost bored grace, his fans deflecting each blow with pinpoint accuracy. Each parry sent a shockwave of icy energy rippling outward, turning the very air around them into a weapon.
Doma: Impressive. (Doma commented with a widened smile) I haven't seen speed like this in... oh, who can even remember? You're almost making this... interesting.
He spread his arms wide, and the temperature plummeted.
Doma: How about this? Freezing Lotus!
Ice erupted from the ground, sharp, jagged shards that spiraled towards Jigoro danced back with lightning speed. Barely avoiding being impaled, but the cold was relentless, seeping into his bones, slowing his movements.
He had to end this quickly. He couldn't afford to let Doma dictate the pace of the fight. He had to be faster, more precise, more ruthless.
Lunging again as the air cracked with energy as he unleashed a blindingly fast series of attacks in a syomphony of speed, hoping that each strike aimed, would overwhelmed Doma's defenses.
For a moment, he thought he had him. He saw a flicker of surprise in Doma's eyes, a tightening of his lips. But then, with a sigh, Doma simply disappeared.
Doma: You are good. (a voice gently whispered in his ear) I'll give you that. But you're still just a mortal, bound by flesh and bone.
Doma reappeared behind him, his fan already moving. Jigoro barely had time to register the danger before the fan slammed into his back, sending him crashing to the ground, the breath knocked from his lungs.
He tried to rise, to fight back, but the cold was seeping deeper now, numbing his limbs, stealing his strength.
Doma: Don't worry. (Doma chuckled, leaning down) It'll be over soon.
Jigoro looked down and saw, with a detached sense of horror, that his left leg was encased in ice, the frost spreading up his thigh with terrifying speed. He could feel it, the cold burrowing into his flesh, crystallizing his blood, turning his very being into something brittle, fragile.
Doma: People always say that losing a limb is like losing a part of yourself. (Doma mused) But you're about to find out that it's so much worse than that. It's like losing... everything.
And then, with a casual crunch of his left hand, the block of ice detached itself, and sent Jigoro's leg flying, a grotesque projectile that landed with a sickening thud in the snow, blood blooming across the pristine white like a macabre flower.
A scream ripped from Jigoro's throat, a raw, primal sound of agony and despair. The pain was blinding, all-consuming, a searing white-hot agony that threatened to shatter his sanity. He thrashed on the ground, his vision blurring, his remaining hand clutching at the stump of his leg as if trying to force it back together.
Doma: That looks... unpleasant. But then, pain is a part of life, wouldn't you agree?
He took a step closer.
Doma: You fought well, for a human. Much better than your friends. (he stated as his gaze sweeped over the frozen corpses scattered around them like fallen statues) But in the end, it was all for naught.
Jigoro wanted to scream again, to rage against the injustice of it all, but his voice was a strangled gasp, his body wracked with pain and cold.
Doma leaned down, his face close enough for Jigoro to smell the faint scent of blood and decay that clung to him.
Doma: Tell me, little one. What do you think awaits you on the other side? Do you believe in a heaven? A hell? Or is it just... oblivion?
Jigoro felt his vision dimming, his body growing numb. He was dying. He could feel the lifeblood draining from him, seeping into the snow, staining it a gruesome crimson.
Jigoro: It doesn't matter, in the end! Death... comes for us all, sooner or later. The only difference is how we choose to face it...!
Doma: Then you should have seen it coming. (Doma whispered in Jigoro's ear) Such speed, such ferocity. But even lightning fades. It flashes bright and then it's gone. And when it's gone, all that's left is... the scent of ozone.
He raised his right hand as his fingers tipped with a faint, icy glow.
Doma: Sleep now, little one. Your fight is over.
But as Doma prepared to deliver the final blow, a faint glow appeared on the horizon. It started slowly, a subtle lightening of the sky, but it grew rapidly, pushing back the darkness, heralding the dawn.
Doma dropping away his hand from Jigoro's throat. He glanced back at the approaching sunrise.
Doma: How... inconvenient. (he muttered)
He turned his back to Jigoro.
Doma: Consider yourself lucky, little one. It seems the sun has chosen to intervene.
With a final, disdainful glance at the approaching dawn, Doma vanished, melting into the shadows like snow under a scorching sun.
Jigoro lay there as his blood stained the snow, the first rays of dawn painting the sky in hues of red and gold. He had survived. Barely. But the memory of that night... the faces of his fallen comrades, the chilling laughter of Doma.
Back to the Present.
He shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory.
Jigoro: I barely escaped with my life that night. I was the only one who lived. But the memory of that night... the faces of my comrades... it lives within me still.
Asukazen: Do... Do these Upper Moons come from the darkness? Are they connected to the Heartless?
Jigoro frowned as his brow furrowed in confusion.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Darkness? Heartless? I don't understand.
Asukazen quickly realized his mistake. These demons, these Moons, were not connected to the same dark forces.
Jigoro Kuwajima: I see what you mean. Yes, all demons, including the Upper Moons, originate from a single source – Kibutsuji Muzan. He is the progenitor of all demons, the embodiment of evil. He's lived for hundreds of years, a being devoid of compassion, of pity, of any regard for human life. He walks this earth even now. No one who has encountered him has lived to tell the tale.
Asukazen: It's... It's hard to believe all of this has been going on for so long... for hundreds of years...
Jigoro Kuwajima nodded somberly.
Jigoro Kuwajima: The Demon Slayer Corps has stood against these creatures for centuries. An unending struggle. Muzan, the root of this plague, has evaded us for just as long. A phantom, appearing only to unleash unimaginable cruelty, leaving death in his wake. It was during those ancient times that the Breathing Techniques were first forged, honed over generations to combat this threat.
Jigoro: Nichirin Ore... that discovery was pivotal. Not because of any mystical properties, but practicality. These ores, they resonate with the very essence of our techniques. A Nichirin blade is an amplifier, its composition enhancing the resonance a wielder has with their chosen Breathing Style.
Asukazen: But the flames... I saw it myself. Rengoku... fire erupted from his mouth... his sword blazed...
Jigoro: (a curt nod) You saw correctly. But there is no magic in it, boy. Nichirin blades merely focuses the strength already present. The energy harnessed during Breathing Techniques... the flames, the rushing water, the very air that crackles with thunder... it all originates from within.
Jigoro: From pushing the human body to its absolute limit, from tapping into a wellspring of power most believe to be beyond our grasp. Your lungs, typically used for the mundane act of breathing, can be transformed into a weapon of unimaginable power when empowered by Total Concentration Breathing. Nichirin Ore, through some quirk of its existence, resonates with that power, amplifying it, giving it a physical form.
He paused, his gaze holding Asukazen's.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Demons, unlike humans, do not require lungs to survive. They exist by different means. But humans... humans possess the potential to weaponize their own respiratory system. The lungs become a conduit for power, a vessel through which we can channel the energy of that resonance. This is the essence of Total Concentration Breathing – using the body's inherent capabilities to overcome the demonic threat.
Asukazen stared at the old man, his mind grappling with this new information, this concept that was so foreign, so unlike anything he had ever encountered before.
Asukazen: I... I had no idea... The idea that the body's own functions can be transformed into a weapon... It's incredible.
Jigoro Kuwajima: I will impart to you the Six Forms of Thunder Breathing, along with the theory and reasoning behind each technique. Given your current abilities, you should be able to learn the fundamentals swiftly. Once that is done, we will commence with Total Concentration Breathing
He paused, his gaze piercing through Asukazen as if measuring his resolve.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Ordinarily, this training would take months to even begin to scratch the surface. However, if you dedicate yourself fully, I believe you can attain a considerable grasp of these techniques within a month.
Asukazen absorbed the information, his expression betraying no hint of the turmoil brewing within. The prospect of mastering this new fighting style, of blending it with his own unique abilities as a Keyblade wielder, sparked a flicker of morbid curiosity within him. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but perhaps... perhaps this was the edge he needed to finally break free from the suffocating grip.
Asukazen: (murmuring to himself) Perhaps by weaving these techniques into my magic, into my own style... maybe I can actually become something more than a broken tool. But I can't afford to get ahead of myself. Not yet.
Asukazen: I will strive to learn these techniques within the allotted time.
Jigoro Kuwajima's expression remained fixed, scrutinizing Asukazen's reply for any trace of doubt or hesitation.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Do not misunderstand me, boy. This is not merely about acquiring skill, about amassing techniques like trinkets in a collection. This... this is about the will to fight, to stand as a shield against the encroaching darkness. To protect humanity from the horrors that stalk the night. Tell me, Asukazen... do you possess such a will?
Asukazen met the old man's gaze, his expression unchanging, yet the silence that stretched between them spoke volumes.
Asukazen: Yes.
For a long moment, Jigoro Kuwajima simply stared at him. Then, a ghost of a nod, a subtle shift in his posture that suggested a grudging acceptance.
Jigoro: Very well. Let us begin.
Days bled into nights as Asukazen subjected himself to Jigoro Kuwajima's relentless training. Each sunrise heralded a fresh wave of exhaustion, of aching muscles and bruised flesh, as he pushed his body and mind to their absolute limits. The initial stages of the training focused on the first forms of Thunder Breathing, each one a demanding test of both physical prowess and mental acuity.
Day 1: First Form – Thunderclap and Flash.
Asukazen stood opposite Jigoro Kuwajima, the cool morning air heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. He drew his katana, its polished surface reflecting his own emotionless visage, and mimicked the stance Jigoro had demonstrated moments before. With a burst of speed, he lunged forward, attempting to replicate the blistering speed, the raw power of the Thunderclap and Flash.
The result, however, was a pale imitation, his movements lacking the fluid grace, the lethal precision of the true technique. Jigoro sidestepped effortlessly, his aged hand closing around Asukazen's wrist before the boy even registered his presence.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Your movements lack focus, boy. You move like a willow in the wind – all flash, no substance. Focus on the draw, the strike, the sheath. It should flow like water, swift and decisive. Again.
Day 3: Second Form – Rice Spirit.
The Second Form proved to be a frustrating hurdle for Asukazen to overcome. Jigoro Kuwajima moved like a phantom, a whirlwind of lightning-fast slashes that left afterimages in their wake. Asukazen tried to replicate the movements, to imbue his own strikes with the same deadly energy, but the result was... ordinary. Simply slashing, devoid of the signature arched energy arcs that defined the Thunder Breathing style.
He practiced relentlessly, his movements becoming sharper, more precise, yet the essence of the technique remained elusive. The connection between his physical movements and the Total Concentration Breathing that Jigoro described remained frustratingly out of reach.
Day 6: Third Form – Thunder Swarm.
The Third Form, Thunder Swarm, demanded an almost preternatural level of spatial awareness, of coordinating one's movements with an opponent's every twitch, every tell. Jigoro Kuwajima moved with an almost predatory grace, his body a blur as he weaved through a series of imaginary attacks, his blade a flickering arc of lethal energy.
Asukazen followed suit, his strikes growing more fluid, more instinctive, yet they lacked the overwhelming pressure, the crackling energy that marked the true Thunder Swarm. Jigoro Kuwajima watched him intently, his gaze sharp as he identified the flaw in the boy's execution.
Jigoro Kuwajima: Your mind is elsewhere! To truly master Thunder Breathing, you must become one with the technique. Breathe it, embody it, let it flow through you like a current.
Day 9: Fourth Form – Distant Thunder.
By the time they reached the Fourth Form, Distant Thunder, a creeping frustration had begun to gnaw at Asukazen's composure. Jigoro Kuwajima conjured a ball of pure electrical energy at his fingertips, his face a mask of serene concentration as he unleashed a barrage of lightning bolts that crackled through the air, leaving scorching trails in their wake.
Asukazen attempted to replicate the technique, mimicking the hand gestures, focusing his will, but the result was... nothing. Or at least, nothing more than a mundane swing of his iron sword. The frustration welled up within him, hot and acidic, as he realized the truth.
He still hadn't grasped the fundamental principle of Total Concentration Breathing. Without it, these techniques were little more than parlor tricks, impressive to behold but ultimately useless against the true horrors that awaited him in the night.
Day 12: Fifth Form – Heat Lightning.
The Fifth Form, Heat Lightning, proved to be another exercise in frustration. Jigoro demonstrated the technique with an almost casual grace as he unleashed a single, devastating upward slash. A surge of electrical energy erupted from the tip of his blade, crackling like a living thing as it arced through the air.
Asukazen mimicked the movements, his own iron sword feeling impossibly heavy in his hands. He swung upwards, pouring all his strength into the motion, yet the result was... underwhelming. A gust of wind, a faint shimmer in the air, but nothing remotely resembling the raw power of Jigoro's Heat Lightning.
Again and again, he repeated the motion, his muscles screaming in protest, his breath catching in his throat, but the result remained the same.
Day 15: Sixth Form – Rumble and Flash.
The following days brought no respite, no easing of the relentless pressure. Each form they tackled presented a new obstacle that tested Asukazen's limits. He learned to differentiate between Heat Lightning, a singular, devastating upward slash w laced with crackling energy, and Rumble and Flash, a relentless assault of long-ranged lightning strikes that could overwhelm an opponent from afar.
And yet, despite the hours of practice, the countless repetitions, the essence of Thunder Breathing remained tantalizingly out of reach. He was like a sculptor presented with the finest marble, the sharpest tools, yet lacking the vision, the artistry to shape it into something truly remarkable.
Through it all, Jigoro Kuwajima remained a constant presence: a stern yet patient teacher, pushing Asukazen further than he thought possible, demanding nothing less than his absolute best.
It was at dusk on the fifteenth day, the sky a bruised canvas of orange and purple hues, that Jigoro Kuwajima finally addressed the unspoken tension that had settled between them.
Jigoro Kuwajima: You have done well to memorize the forms. But memorization is but the first step. Tomorrow, we will commence the next stage of your training – the mastery of Total Concentration Breathing.
Asukazen met his gaze, though a flicker of unease danced in the depths of his eyes. He had known, on some level, that this training would not be easy.
Jigoro: Be warned, this will not be a pleasant experience. You will be pushing your body, your very essence, to the brink of collapse. Your lungs, those organs that sustain you, that grant you life... you will learn to wield them as weapons.
Asukazen: I understand.
Jigoro: And believe me when I tell you this, It will hurt. In fact... It will be agony.
Darkness fell, and soon the night had arrived. The moonlight filled the skies. Asukazen laid in his futon, tossing and turning. He could not sleep, plagued with strange dreams and strange visions.
The spotlight illuminated the clown in his green and gray motley, his painted smile stretched wide, his every movement a grotesque caricature designed to elicit laughter from the roaring audience. He juggled gaudy, mismatched balls, tripped over his own ridiculously oversized shoes, and pulled a seemingly endless stream of handkerchiefs from his sleeve, each gag met with a wave of uproarious applause.
But beneath the exaggerated mirth, a current of tension ran through his performance, a frantic edge to his antics. His eyes darted nervously towards the darkened entrance to the lion cage, his painted grin flickering with unease.
The cage door stood ajar, a breach in the established boundaries. Only two lions occupied the space, bathed in the cool blue and warm gold glow of hidden stage lights. One a creature of midnight blue, its fur the color of a starless sky, the other a radiant gold, its coat shimmering like captured sunlight.
Their eyes, twin pools of predatory intensity, remained fixed on the clown, watching his every move with an unnerving focus. They weren't pacing, not roaring, not displaying any overt signs of aggression. Yet, in their gaze, a simmering resentment brewed, a cold disdain that cut through the raucous laughter of the crowd like a knife.
Ignoring the whispers from the audience suggesting he bring out the lions, the clown, blinded by his own denial, continued his routine. His laughter became increasingly strained as his movements turned more jerky and uncoordinated, his eyes constantly drawn to the looming shadows where the lions lay in wait. The crowd, misinterpreting his fear for comedic brilliance, roared with laughter, their amusement fueling his anxiety, urging him closer to the precipice of disaster.
Then, with a suddenness that stole the breath from the audience, the laughter ceased. The golden lion rose to its feet. The clown froze, his painted smile fracturing, his eyes widening with terror. He stumbled back, tripping over his own oversized shoes.
The blue lion followed suit, its movements mirroring its companion's, its presence amplifying the sense of inevitable doom that had descended upon the arena. The golden lion didn't charge, didn't roar. It simply walked towards the clown. The crowd, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, fell silent, their amusement replaced by a morbid, expectant hush.
Trapped and desperate, the clown's heart hammeried against his ribs, reached for the whip he once used to command these beasts. But his hand trembled, his courage crumbling in the face of their silent judgment. He saw no hunger in their eyes, no feral bloodlust, only a dispassionate disappointment.
And in that horrifying realization, the truth of his situation crashed down upon him. He had denied their existence, had dismissed their worths, had clung to the delusion of freedom long after it had slipped from his grasp.
The golden lion lunged, and his jaws clamped down on the clown's torso, crushing ribs, puncturing lungs, its teeth tearing through flesh and bone with sickening ease. The blue lion, mirroring its companion's attack, seized the clown's legs, its powerful jaws snapping bones, severing arteries, sending a spray of crimson blood arcing through the air.
The clown's scream was cut short as the lions ripped him apart, initially stunned into silence, the audience erupted in a wave of hysterical laughter, mistaking the gruesome spectacle for a daring new act, a shocking twist in the clown's performance.
They laughed as the lions tore the clown limb from limb, as his green and gray costume was stained crimson with his blood, as his painted smile was ripped from his face, leaving only a mangled, bloody ruin. They laughed because they didn't understand, because they couldn't comprehend the cowardice that unfolded before their eyes.