"Another failure…"
Gekkou muttered to himself faintly, his broken and battered body resting on the slick, cold roof tiles of the estate.
The boy sat there for what felt like hours as the moonlight shined down on his messy and slightly matted black hair, the result of days of constant training without rest.
Clack!
Gekkou slammed his hand into the finely aged tiles with a powerful anger that echoed throughout the trees.
How—how come it never changes, no matter how hard I try? Damn it! How many hours, how many tears, how much blood must I give to beat him?!
Gekkou thought to himself as he looked at his bloodied hand, which he had instinctively slammed into the roofing. His juvenile outburst had only worsened his already severe injuries.
The boy quickly wiped the blood from his knuckles with his slightly tattered black haori. His white cotton undershirt was stained with a tinge of red from his wounds.
It was the beginning of the Taishō era—a time of cultural clashing and shifting modernization throughout Japan—though that was a trivial concern to the fifteen-year-old boy named Gekkou.
Just ten months ago, he had begun vigorous training under the guidance of a man known as Kurokawa—or at least, that was his surname.
In fact, Gekkou didn't even know his master's full name, though that, too, felt trivial. Truly, he was just grateful to the old man for taking in a wretch like him into his estate.
He was what the Demon Slayer Corps called a cultivator—a person whose duty it was to train future soldiers for the never-ending war between humans and demons.
Gekkou contemplated to himself at the notion—the idea that someone like him, who had lived a meager existence as a hiyatoi, had found such good fortune.
Yet for all his favor with the gods, what had he done with it? To be trained by a member of the second-highest rank of the Demon Slayer's —a Kinoe—and still, he couldn't achieve the simplest tasks.
He couldn't even best his fellow apprentice of Thunder Breathing in a spar.
Takeshi…
It was always an utter humiliation—every step, every move he executed flawlessly.
Gekkou sat there, letting the midnight breeze cool his sore muscles as he thought of every loss, every time Takeshi had looked down on him.
Takeshi had only started his training a few months before him, and yet he was in an entirely different league.
Every time Gekkou made progress, Takeshi would already be far beyond his sight.
Like a putrid insect looking up at a mountainside that felt impossible to climb.
"Damn it!" roared Gekkou into the night, the clouds seeming to part from the ferocity of his shout.
Gekkou continued staring into the darkness before deciding to turn in for the night and head to his room.
His serpentine eyes were heavy with eyebags, giving the illusion of illness from days of insomnia.
Finally, the boy slumped down onto the worn-out tatami mat that filled his meager room.
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Gekkou awoke as the morning sun seeped through the window of his cramped, dingy room, his droopy eyes opening with annoyance at the intrusion of the light.
He sat in dissatisfaction as he recalled the night before—he had barely slept more than a couple of hours at most, his mind still hazy from lack of rest.
I should start today's training… maybe that'll get my body to wake up, Gekkou thought to himself halfheartedly, though he knew that was unlikely to happen.
He got up and meticulously made his tatami mat, making sure every groove was perfect before putting on his clothes for the day.
They were nothing special—just a simple pair of old black hakama pants and a cotton shirt, overlaid with his torn haori, which matched his pale skin and gray eyes.
Gekkou looked at himself. His frail, pale body looked sickly from lack of rest and constant overexertion.
Even after all these months of living in prosperity, my body still reflects my past, Gekkou chagrined to himself.
He hated how he looked—it reminded him of the boy he used to be: a wretched street urchin who lived off nothing but begging and scraps.
The thought of people looking down on him and giving him things out of pity made him sick.
Gekkou let that thought linger throughout the day as he trained his body, honing it in every way he could.
He started with short bursts of Concentration Breathing and sword techniques before shifting to body training in the evening.
Each swing he took, each breath he drew, he did so with the single-mindedness of a wild animal.
He wouldn't stop until he had proven himself better—better than everyone and anyone.
And after a few days of recovery and training, it was finally time for Gekkou to prove himself in another duel.
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Takeshi opened the thin shoji that vigorously attempted to block out the cool winds of the Aki season.
The boy had spent the morning out in the elements, so he cherished the warmth that the old wooden interior of the building provided.
It was a rather beautiful sparring area, with a large open space that allowed for free movement and repositioning—something he enjoyed using to his advantage when practicing breathing techniques and swordplay.
But today was a special occasion. The master would be home for the duel between himself and Gekkou.
Takeshi smirked at the thought of destroying Gekkou. Normally, he was merciful to his fellow apprentice—but not today. Not with the master watching.
This was his chance to impress Master Kurokawa and potentially receive his blessing to take part in the next Final Selection.
It was a monumental goal he strove toward. To become a Demon Slayer before even finishing a year of training was a feat few could boast.
But that was the kind of feat he needed if he ever hoped to achieve the rank of Hashira. It was the only goal he had worked toward ever since that day.
Takeshi gritted his teeth at the memory—the day he failed to protect his family.
He was the man of the house. He was the one meant to protect his mother and sister. That was the one, simple, measly task his father had given him before his passing.
And yet he had failed. How could he look his father in the eye in the afterlife after such disgrace?
That was why he trained. So he could die a warrior's death. And maybe—just maybe—he could bring honor back to his name.
Takeshi's muscular arms pulsed with veins as his anger boiled over—before he finally calmed himself with deep, meditative breaths.
I need to be focused before the duel. If I want to truly impress the master, I must show him I can be rational and not falter to my emotions.
Minutes passed as Takeshi practiced his form, warming up for the battle. Normally, a friendly spar between two apprentices would be fought with wooden bokken, to avoid visible injuries.
But Master Kurokawa was far firmer in his teachings than most other cultivators. He had Takeshi and Gekkou use their real training swords to duel.
It forced the boys to remain focused and alert during each spar, as there was a real risk of injury—and it prepared them for fighting under real pressure.
The swords they wielded had been gifts from their master, awarded to them after they mastered their stances and Concentration Breathing.
They were old Nichirin blades—relics from Master Kurokawa's younger years. A true gift, and one Takeshi was deeply honored to receive.
But just as Takeshi was thinking about his blade, Gekkou finally arrived—his meek frame and long, wiry black hair a sharp contrast to Takeshi's short brown hair and muscular, tanned physique.
"Late as usual, Gekkou," Takeshi said in a harsh tone, swinging his blade as its yellow edge shimmered in the light that pierced through the shoji.
Gekkou simply grunted at the boy's words before walking to the other side of the dojo, beginning to prepare in silence.
His blade was much older than Takeshi's—has he had received it second, only after finally mastering Concentration Breathing, which had taken him far longer.
This went on for a while longer, until finally the master arrived.
His old body was wrapped in a brown kimono, hiding the lean physique earned through many years of battle.
His hair was gray and thinning at the top, and his eyes—sharp and narrow like a cat's—were dark brown and unreadable. Every wrinkle on his face told the story of a battle long past.
Both boys bowed at once when they saw the master enter the room. It was the first time either of them had seen him in over a month.
"You may raise your heads," was all the man said, his rough voice edged with authority as he sat down.
With that, both boys stood straight and moved to their positions on opposite ends of the room, readying their blades.
No words needed to be spoken—it was understood that the duel was about to begin. The master loathed wasted time.
"When I say begin, you may move. Understood?"
"Yes, Master!" both boys responded firmly.
Moments passed.
Both boys readied their stances. Gekkou shifted slightly, a faint tremble in his frame, while Takeshi stood unmoving and firm.
Seconds—moments that felt like hours—dragged on as both boys remained locked in and focused, each of their minds consumed by a single shared goal:
To impress the master.
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"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life."
John 3:16
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