As Yoriichi stood on the cold, windswept mountain, the final gourd shattered in his hands with a sharp, satisfying sound. His breath formed faint clouds in the crisp air as he observed his body with newfound clarity. His frame felt sturdier, his lungs expanded with ease, and his movements carried a distinct strength he hadn't felt before.
"Perhaps now, you may be ready for the breathing style," Urokudaki said, pulling out the worn book he always carried with reverence.
"I cannot help you with this," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "I have not learned this breathing style, nor can I perform the complex movements required for its forms. But," Urokudaki continued, his tone firm, "if you master this, you could easily rival the Hashira."
The mention of the Hashira, the pinnacle of Demon Slayer strength, made Yoriichi pause. Urokudaki handed him the book, and Yoriichi accepted it with a slight bow.
"Thank you, Urokudaki sir." Urokudaki waved him off brusquely.
"Now go and practice. I have other things to tend to." Yoriichi opened the book, its pages filled with elegant diagrams and precise instructions. At the level of the Hashira? The thought lingered as he flipped through the manual, finding the first form.
"Sun Breathing, First Form: Dance," he read aloud. The simplicity of the name surprised him. He recalled his brother's poetic yet elaborate naming conventions for his techniques and found himself amused. Yet, as his eyes scanned the detailed instructions and the illustrations of the movement, he realised its simplicity belied its power. He stood firm, gripping his sword. Taking a deep breath, Yoriichi positioned himself according to the diagram. With a controlled exhalation, he executed a downward vertical slash in a smooth, arcing motion. A strange warmth surged through him with the cut, a power that felt both foreign and instinctive. He paused, reflecting. Strong, but not perfect. I have much to learn. He turned the page, eager to progress.
"Second Form: Clear Blue Sky," he read. This one was far more intricate, the diagram depicting a man spinning with perfect balance, twisting his torso to deliver a 360 slash. Yoriichi studied the detailed explanation, feeling a tinge of apprehension at the complexity. He stood again, mimicking the stance shown. He initiated the spin but stumbled, his movement clumsy and disjointed. Frustrated but undeterred, he sat back down and reread the instructions. He longed for a demonstration, a live example of how the body should flow in harmony with the blade. Unlike people, whom his gaze could pierce through and see every single movement from muscle fibre to bone, the static diagrams left much to interpretation. Rising once more, he exhaled deeply, grounding himself. This time, his movements were smoother but still far from mastery. The mountain air grew colder as the sun began its descent, but Yoriichi remained, unwavering in his resolve. With each attempt, he grew closer to unlocking the secrets of the technique, step by painstaking step.

Michikatsu focused intently on the deer in the distance, his altered vision revealing a wealth of detail that he was still learning to appreciate. As Yoriichi had explained when he was younger, his eyes allowed him to see the intricate workings of a living body, blood coursing through veins, muscles tensing before movement, and even the faint pulse of the creature's heartbeat. Michikatsu now had the same abilities, he didn't know how but he had to assume it was courtesy of his focus upon that demon he saw and his six eyes. It was a gift of unparalleled precision, but also a curse of overwhelming intensity. He had learned to suppress the ability to see through objects, but one of his six eyes would always falter, peering past surfaces and forcing the others to follow suit. This relentless intrusion made the world seem both intimate and alien. As Michikatsu tracked the deer, his stomach churned, a sharp reminder of his cursed existence. He could not consume normal food. Only demons or humans could satiate the gnawing hunger that clawed at him.* With a bitter sigh, he turned away from the creature and made his way back to the clearing where he trained. Practice was his only reprieve from the relentless craving, a fragile balance that he maintained through sheer willpower. His thoughts turned to his breathing style as he unsheathed his altered katana. Recently, he had developed his Eighth Form, a technique he considered a masterpiece. The long-ranged attack unleashed a massive curved slash that left a trail of crescent moon blades in its wake. It was devastatingly effective, and he had honed it further by mastering the ability to alter his sword's size mid-strike, adjusting its range and power with precision. But Michikatsu wasn't content to stop there. For his Ninth Form, he envisioned a close-ranged technique, a flurry of rapid slashes in different directions, each strike unpredictably altering the size of his blade to confound his opponent. It was a concept as elegant as it was brutal, and Michikatsu immersed himself in its creation, testing various combinations of speed, angles, and power. Yet, as he practised, the hunger within him surged, a constant and gnawing distraction. Urokudaki's warnings echoed in his mind, but he dismissed them, telling himself he still had control. For now. As he swung his blade, pushing the new form to its limits, a familiar voice interrupted his focus.
"Another form?" Urokudaki's calm yet stern tone carried across the clearing.
"Yes," Michikatsu replied without pausing his movement. The older man crossed his arms. "Why do you progress so quickly from one form to the next? Shouldn't you master each form before moving on?"
Urokudaki's words weren't wrong, this approach would be more logical. Yet Michikatsu had his reasons, and he wasn't shy about sharing them.
"I find it... more entertaining this way. My plan is to create ten forms while I'm here. Once they're complete, I'll focus on mastering them."
"How many forms do you intend to create?" Urokudaki's gaze narrowed, curiosity mingling with disapproval. Michikatsu hadn't given it much thought.
"As many as I need. Certainly more than just ten." With that, he returned to his training, the hunger in his gut now matched by an insatiable drive to create, destroy, and refine.

After eating his breakfast, Yoriichi went outside to continue his training. Yoriichi was still practising his forms, he had realised how much more difficult this was then normal swordsmanship. He had also noticed in each form there was a sort of flow as each time he performed a form right after another it seemed as though they could be one He flowed through the 4 forms he had learnt so far, Sun Breathing First Form: Dance, he performed the powerful slash and then immediately spun and twisted his body performing, Second Form: Clear Blue Sky. Third Form: Raging Sun, he unleashes two consecutive horizontal arcing slashes around themselves, it could be used well for defence. Flowing quickly into the Fourth Form: Burning Bones, Summer Sun, he performs a singular slash utilising a spiralling motion which extends in front of himself. He had begun to notice the difficulty in performing these techniques, he had known that he was decently fit, but he hadn't expected the difficulty in performing each of the moves. He turned and noticed Urokudaki standing and watching him.
"You seem to be struggling," Urokudaki said. "Might I offer some advice."
"Yeah I could use it." Yoriichi found his lack of progress amazing, sure it was frustrating, but he liked a challenge and he wanted as much help as he could get to complete said challenge.
"Read through the entire book first, perhaps it will give you a solution to your problem." that was vague, he thought, but it didn't matter at least it was something. "Thank you Urokudaki s-" He left, well it didn't matter anyway. He returned to the book and began flipping through the pages. As he saw the various techniques near the end he came up on a technique that was not a part of the breathing style.
"Recovery breathing?" He read aloud, the book illustrated and explained a technique that could be used to remove the pain and fatigue of using sun breathing multiple times. He remembered that at some point Urokudaki had told him that there was a technique to heal faster in combat. Recovery breathing seemed to be similar to total concentration breathing, but it focused on steading your breathing to reduce fatigue and reduce the effect of damaged muscles. He practised Recovery breathing and mastered it with relative ease. Using recovery breathing he found that it was much easier to perform forms one after another.

Michikatsu trained relentlessly, his frustration mounting as he struggled to perfect his crescent moon blades. He had a vision for them, not static or predictable, but erratic in size, direction, and speed. He wanted their movement to embody chaos, making them harder to anticipate and even harder to counter. With each swing of his altered katana, he tried to force his vision into reality, but the blades resisted his intent. They moved with precision, adhering too closely to his unspoken commands.
"What is going on?" he muttered in frustration. In theory, his idea was sound, but execution proved to be a different beast. He realised he might be impatient, but he couldn't shake the feeling of time pressing against him. His goal was to create and refine three additional forms beyond the seven he had already completed, pushing his limits further. For hours, he drilled his forms, progressing through the first eight before moving to his latest creation: Moon Breathing, Ninth Form: Waning Moon Swaths. This form was a flurry of curved slashes performed in close proximity, each one leaving a trail of crescent moon blades in its wake. Michikatsu wielded his flesh blade with masterful control, altering its size and shape between and during each swing. Yet despite his efforts, inefficiencies plagued his movements. Each time he corrected one flaw, another seemed to emerge.
"You seem to be struggling," Urokudaki's calm voice cut through the air. Michikatsu froze mid-swing, startled. When did he show up? he thought. He prided himself on his awareness, a skill honed by his six eyes and his see-through ability, yet Urokudaki's presence had eluded him. Perhaps he needed to train his perception further.
"No," Michikatsu replied quickly, hiding his frustration.
"There are just some simple errors. I will rectify them soon enough." It was a lie, but his pride wouldn't let him admit he needed help.
"Okay, continue then," Urokudaki said, his tone neutral as he turned to leave. Michikatsu hesitated. As much as his pride baulked at the idea, he couldn't deny that Urokudaki's insights had always been invaluable.
"Wait," he called out reluctantly. "Perhaps I could use some help."
Urokudaki turned back, a faint smile playing on his lips through his mask. "You innovate well and strike powerfully, but you are stubborn in your movements. Stiffness comes from trying to control too much. Let your techniques be free. Loosen your grip, your mind, and your control over your abilities. Let them flow naturally."
The words puzzled Michikatsu. How could loosening control lead to mastery? He didn't fully understand, but he decided to try. After all, Urokudaki's advice had never led him astray. As the elder departed, Michikatsu focused on applying the guidance. He swung his katana in a downward arc, this time giving only minimal instruction to the crescent moon blades. To his surprise, they moved more erratically, just as he had envisioned. They weren't perfect, far from it, but the improvement was undeniable. A faint smirk crossed his lips as he continued to refine his control, or lack thereof. He understood now that perfection wasn't just about force or precision. It was about balance, about knowing when to hold on and when to let go. To become the greatest, Michikatsu thought, one must have perfect technique. And perfect technique meant embracing both discipline and freedom.

Yoriichi crouched silently among the trees, his heart steady but his mind racing as he watched Michikatsu. His brother's presence had become a rarity, and the sight before him was both mesmerising and deeply unsettling. Michikatsu stood in the clearing, his sword, a grotesque, flesh-like blade riddled with unblinking eyes, clenched tightly in his hand. Each swing of the weapon was a display of raw power and precision, crescent-shaped blades spiralling through the air in a symphony of destruction. It was breathtaking, a testament to Michikatsu's strength and skill, yet it bore a dark, unnatural beauty. Yoriichi remained frozen, torn between admiration and sorrow. Suddenly, Michikatsu stopped mid-swing. His head snapped toward Yoriichi's hiding spot, his six eyes narrowing in irritation. Yoriichi's breath hitched. How did he see me? Before he could even think of a response, Michikatsu turned and disappeared, vanishing in a blur of speed. Yoriichi stared at the empty clearing, his heart heavy with the same unanswered questions. Why does he avoid me? The rift between them was a wound that refused to heal, and it ached deeply. He didn't know why the rift was there as well; it had suddenly leaned against a nearby tree, his thoughts spiralling. Michikatsu wasn't the same boy he had been before that fateful day. The day everything had changed. Yoriichi closed his eyes and let the memories flood back, though they never truly left him. The screams, the fire, the blood, his family gone in an instant. And Michikatsu, his once-proud brother, twisted into something else. Something that neither of them could fully understand. Yoriichi clenched his fists, the bark of the tree rough against his back. He thought of his friends, his new family, Uta, Urokodaki, and still Michikatsu, though their bond now felt fragile. Uta's face came to his mind, her bright smile and obsidian black eyes that seemed to hold the entire world within them. Her kindness, her unyielding warmth, it was a light he clung to, especially now. His time here was drawing to a close; Urokodaki had said as much. But Yoriichi resolved to make the most of the days he had left. He would grow stronger, hone his skills, and protect the people who still mattered to him. He let out a soft sigh, gazing at the sky through the gaps in the trees. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson. As Yoriichi sat there, the ache in his heart remained, but so too did his determination. He would protect what was left. For the ones he loved. For Michikatsu, if he could.

Michikatsu's hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, a constant and maddening presence that threatened to overwhelm his sanity. It wasn't the kind of hunger that could kill him, but rather the kind that could drive him to lose all reason, to abandon all restraint and give in to the monstrous urges within him. His chest tightened as he recalled the fleeting thought he had the other day, how Yoriichi's friend might taste. He had dismissed it quickly, disgusted with himself, but the memory lingered, a haunting reminder of how far he had fallen. How pathetic have I become? he thought bitterly, but then his lips curled into a dry, humourless sneer. Not much meat on her anyway. The thought was cold, calculated, and yet even he couldn't entirely stomach it. His gaze hardened as he shook the feeling away. When the faint presence of a demon brushed against his senses, it barely registered. Too distant, too faint. He resolved to conserve his strength instead, sleeping more often to keep the gnawing hunger at bay. Yet sleep brought no peace. Even in rest, his mind was a battlefield, torn between rage and regret. His brother's image loomed large, unbidden. Yoriichi. That fool, Michikatsu thought, the hatred bubbling up again like poison in his veins. Always trying to talk to me, as though he hasn't already taken everything from me. Yoriichi had stolen the life Michikatsu believed was destined for him and then discarded it like it meant nothing, leaving Michikatsu with the scraps. He clenched his fists, anger surging within him. But beneath the storm, there was a nagging whisper. A feeling he couldn't fully dismiss. Was I unfair? He shook his head violently, banishing the thought. No, he deserves my hatred. Yet the whisper lingered, its presence impossible to ignore. In an effort to distract himself, Michikatsu turned to a technique Urokodaki had taught him, waking up while asleep.** A skill that allowed him to remain conscious within his dreams, using them as an extension of his training. The steps had been gruelling to master, but in his desperation to continue honing his abilities, he had persevered. When you sleep, try to dream, Urokodaki's voice echoed in his memory. And when you dream, test reality. Look for signs, focus your mind. Keep your body asleep, but your consciousness awake. Michikatsu closed his eyes and began the process, his breathing slow and deliberate. When he drifted into sleep, his sword materialised in his hand, and he stood in a void of endless possibility. He moved through his forms with methodical precision, each swing an attempt to root out inefficiencies. He practised, corrected, and repeated, his mind consumed with the pursuit of perfection. But then, something tugged at the edges of his awareness. A faint sensation, distant yet undeniable. It pulled him out of his dreamlike state, and he opened his eyes, his senses now fully alert. The demon he had sensed earlier was drawing closer. Its presence was more defined now, a dark and ominous aura moving toward the western town below the mountain. A faint, cold smile crept across Michikatsu's face. His hunger flared, and his fingers tightened around his sword. Whatever its intentions were, they didn't matter. What mattered was that it would feed his insatiable hunger, and for making him wait, he would make sure the creature suffered.

Yoriichi knew that his time here would be coming to an end, he would soon have to go to final selection. He had his stuff packed and was ready to go, when Urokudaki stopped him

Yoriichi knew that his time here would be coming to an end, he would soon have to go to final selection. He had his stuff packed and was ready to go, when Urokudaki stopped him "Remember your training, though final selection doesn't have much danger I have a feeling something may go wrong." Urokudaki paused. "The reason I didn't want you going to the final selection, is because I didn't want any more children dying. I intended to make you slice through a large boulder, but now I know you could do that easily."
Yoriichi listened intently to Urokudaki's words, feeling the weight of his master's emotions. The older man's voice, though steady, carried an undertone of deep concern, and his words about the final selection echoed in Yoriichi's mind. The memory of the many children who never returned from the trial lingered between them like a sombre ghost. Yoriichi felt a pang of guilt knowing his resolve had caused his mentor such worry. Yet, his heart was steadfast. "I promise, I will return," Yoriichi said with quiet determination, his deep voice steady but filled with the warmth of reassurance. Urokudaki stepped forward unexpectedly, pulling Yoriichi into a firm embrace. Yoriichi stiffened at first, caught off guard, but he quickly softened, allowing himself to be held. He could feel the tremble in Urokudaki's shoulders, the unspoken grief of someone who had seen too many young lives lost. "Come back alive," Urokudaki whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "This old man, your friend, and your brother are waiting for you." Yoriichi's breath caught in his throat. He had always considered Urokudaki a stern but kind mentor. Yet in this moment, he saw the depth of his master's care—a care that went beyond mere training and into something familial. When Urokudaki finally stepped back, he held out a mask—a fox mask with intricate red and white patterns. Its design was elegant, yet there was something protective and enduring about it, as if it had seen countless trials of its own. "This mask will help protect you from danger," Urokudaki said. "Take it." Yoriichi accepted it with reverence, running his fingers along its smooth surface. The mask, though simple, felt significant, as if it carried with it the hopes and prayers of those who had worn it before. The colours of the mask matched his hanafuda earrings, a small but comforting detail that tied it to his identity. With the mask secured at his side and his brother's old sword in hand, Yoriichi turned toward the path ahead. The road to Mount Fujikasane was long, and the trial awaiting him was perilous. Yet, he walked forward with unwavering resolve, his heart set on his promise. As he disappeared down the road, Urokudaki stood silently, watching until Yoriichi was out of sight. "Stay safe, child," he murmured to himself, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Come back to us."

Took me some time for these two new chapters. Exams got me locked in, and that includes English exams. So I tried stuffing some language features in these two chapters (and beyond).

*A trait shared by only Kokushibo (Michikatsu) and Muzan is that they could absorb other demons.
**He is lucid dreaming.