After Gojo's motive for coming to town had been fulfilled, he immediately started to leave. Martha tried to stop him, offering some evening snacks, but Gojo declined resolutely. He didn't want to keep eating for free in someone else's place again and again. His self-esteem was strong—perhaps far stronger than most children his age.
After leaving the town, he made his way back home. The sky was dimming into dusk, streaks of orange fading behind the trees. There was still a little time before dinner, so he decided to do his regular exercises—push-ups, jumps, squats, and other routines to strengthen his body. Without wasting a moment, he began. The rhythmic sound of his movement filled the quiet house as sweat slowly dampened the cloth around his eyes. He continued for almost an hour until fatigue finally crept in, his breathing rough but steady. It was good fatigue—the kind that promised growth after proper rest. The more tired I feel, the stronger I'll become tomorrow, he thought.
Once done with his training, Gojo prepared his dinner. He kept it simple—rice and meat seasoned just right—and ate with quiet satisfaction. When finished, he lay down to sleep. Yet, once again, his heightened perception of the surroundings kept his mind alert. Every faint rustle and shift of air brushed against his awareness like ripples in a pond. But Gojo took it as another challenge. He was determined to master his body and mind—to sleep when he wished, and remain awake when he didn't.
He began focusing on dulling that over-sharp perception, willing his senses to calm. Yesterday, it had taken him two full hours to fall asleep. Tonight, he drifted off after just one and a half. A small but clear victory—proof that his control was improving.
Gojo woke early the next morning, unlike the previous day. After washing up and completing his usual routine, he made himself a hearty breakfast. Once finished, he set off resolutely for the sword dojo. Today would be his first day as an actual student.
When he arrived, the courtyard was quiet; only a few children had shown up this early. The wooden floor of the dojo gleamed faintly under the morning light. Gojo approached Yamashiro, the man who would teach him swordsmanship.
Yamashiro glanced at him and said, "You came quite early today."
Gojo nodded. "Yes, I came early because I need to train hard."
Yamashiro studied the boy for a moment. He didn't understand why Gojo was so driven to grow stronger so quickly, but he respected that resolve. Finally, he nodded and said, "Alright. Follow me."
Yamashiro led Gojo to an open field filled with wooden dummies, each marked and worn from the strikes of countless trainees. This was where the younger students honed their basics. From the rack, Yamashiro picked up two wooden swords—one for himself and one for Gojo.
"Watch carefully," Yamashiro said as he handed the practice sword to him. "First, you must master the fundamental movements of the sword—your stance, horizontal slashing, vertical slashing, diagonal slashing, and stabbing. Once these are ingrained into your body, you'll train in footwork—learning to connect these movements smoothly in any order I call. Only when you can respond instinctively will you be considered to have mastered the basics of swordsmanship."
Gojo nodded silently, his expression calm beneath the blindfold.
Then Yamashiro gestured toward his face and asked, "Will you be able to see properly with that blindfold on? Won't it get in your way?"
Gojo's lips curved faintly. "You don't need to worry. Once you start demonstrating, I'll remove it and watch closely. It's just that keeping my eyes open causes me pain, so I usually keep them covered."
Yamashiro frowned slightly, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "If you keep your eyes closed, how exactly do you move so naturally? I've seen your movements—they're not those of someone who can't see."
Gojo tilted his head slightly, his tone steady. "My perception is very high. I can feel the movements of everything around me—the air, the people, even the smallest shifts nearby. In a sense, I can still see, even with my eyes covered."
Yamashiro nodded slowly, still processing that revelation.
Gojo then added, "I have one request, though. When I remove the blindfold, I'd like you to perform your basic stances and slashes with full mastery—not as if you're teaching a beginner, but as if you're demonstrating the essence of your swordsmanship. If I can see it clearly, I'll have something to aim for."
Though Gojo said this with humility, his true intent was different. With his Six Eyes open, he was certain that every subtle shift in Yamashiro's muscles, every angle of his sword, would reveal itself to him in exquisite detail. With that insight, mastering the basics would not take him long.
Yamashiro found the request fair and nodded. "Very well," he said, stepping into the open space. "Watch carefully."
Gojo untied the blindfold and lifted it away, revealing a pair of dazzling sky-blue eyes. Even under the soft morning light, they gleamed like polished gems. For a moment, Yamashiro froze—staring, utterly mesmerized by the brilliance of those eyes.
Gojo, unfazed, spoke in an even voice. "Please, Yamashiro… begin demonstrating the basics of swordsmanship."
Yamashiro blinked and finally snapped out of his daze, scratching the back of his head in mild embarrassment. Clearing his throat, he took a step forward and adjusted his grip on the wooden sword. Then, without hesitation, he began to perform the fundamental stances and slashes—each movement flowing with practiced precision, his form sharp and confident.
The difference between a novice's strike and a master's was like night and day. Even a simple horizontal slash, when executed by Yamashiro, carried weight, rhythm, and intent. His every motion seemed to carve through the air with quiet authority.
Gojo stood still, his Six Eyes perception painting the scene with perfect clarity. He could see the faint contraction of Yamashiro's muscles, the minute shifts in his balance, and the subtle adjustments in his breathing that preceded each strike. The air trembled softly with every swing, and Gojo's mind absorbed every trace of movement like a sponge.
So this is the level of a true swordsman, he thought, concentrating deeply. Every motion is deliberate—no waste, no hesitation.
Yamashiro's transitions from stance to stance—horizontal, vertical, diagonal, and thrusting—were seamless, his body shifting like a stream flowing around invisible obstacles. Gojo observed the rhythm, the tension, and the release of each motion, committing them to memory.
For him, this was not just practice; it was analysis on a level few could comprehend. With each passing moment, Gojo was breaking down the mechanics of mastery itself, preparing to replicate and surpass it in his own way.
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