Time passed.
And I trained relentlessly — every day, every hour.
I didn't rest even when I could.
The two borrowed katanas were always with me.
Old, dull, but still... different.
And every morning, before touching them, I would put on my mask, the one with the calm expression carved into the wood.
It had become a silent ritual.
Maybe childish — but it made me feel happy.
The memories of Urokodaki giving it to me, and me wearing it throughout my training, left an impression… like it was a part of me.
---
One afternoon before sunset, after cutting down all the bamboo on the south side of the house, I sat down with my hands resting on my knees, breathing deeply.
Urokodaki stood not far away, arms crossed.
We stayed silent for a while.
Then, he spoke:
— "You're twelve now..."
— "It's a shame someone so young is already part of this."
I looked at him, waiting for more.
But he didn't seem sad. Or angry.
He was just an old man who had seen too many names turn to ash.
— "But at the same time," he continued, walking toward me,
— "you never cried. Never complained.
Never asked for rest. Never lied to yourself."
He knelt in front of me, looking into my eyes through his mask.
— "You may be young… but you're ready."
A cold breeze blew through the pines, and for a moment, the air felt lighter.
— "What comes next isn't training.
It's not a lesson.
It's death."
He didn't speak harshly. He wasn't trying to scare me.
It was simply the truth.
— "You'll go to Mount Fujikasane in three days.
The Final Selection lasts seven nights.
Many don't return.
But if you survive, you'll be a demon slayer.
You've been my best student so far — the only one who, instead of learning the Water Breathing, created something new, without anyone's help.
I'm proud of you, Fubuki."
---
In the following days, he spent more time watching me than teaching.
It was like he was checking to see if what he had planted in me was finally blooming.
In the mornings, we climbed the mountain trail together.
In the afternoons, I trained the forms of the Breath of Snow against logs, bamboo, and the wind.
At night, he would step away.
And I, alone, practiced.
I whispered the names like mantras.
Recreated every movement.
Adjusted angles.
Cut out unnecessary gestures.
Did everything I could so that my swords weren't just weapons — but a part of me.
On the eve of my departure, Urokodaki called me.
— "Tomorrow, you'll leave at dawn."
He placed on the table a set of black clothes — simple, reinforced at the shoulders and forearms.
And a haori, nearly the same shade as my hair, decorated with snowflake patterns.
— "Take your swords. Take your mask.
Take what you've learned and come back alive."
I nodded slightly.
And after hesitating for a moment, I said:
— "Thank you… for everything."
Urokodaki didn't answer right away.
— "Don't thank me yet," he replied, turning away.
— "Thank me when you come back."
---
That final night, I couldn't sleep.
I held my old swords and sat under the porch, wearing the mask on my face, watching the snowflakes fall slowly.
It was funny.
Even after everything I'd been through, after all the effort… there was still a small flicker of fear.
But maybe that's what kept me human.
Not courage.
Not strength.
But the awareness that I could die.
And still choose to go anyway.