After demonstrating all the basic stances, Yamashiro transitioned smoothly into a continuous flow of movements—vertical slashes followed by sharp thrusts, then horizontal sweeps and clean diagonal cuts. His rhythm was steady, the sound of the wooden blade slicing through the air echoing crisply across the field. The sequence shifted unpredictably, showing how each motion could be linked and rearranged in countless ways. This was the essence of what Yamashiro had explained earlier: Gojo had to reach a level where, at a single command, he could switch fluidly between stances and strikes without hesitation.
When Yamashiro finally stopped, he exhaled lightly and said, "That's the best demonstration of my basic swordsmanship. I'm still far from my master, Kishimoto—his basics are on another level entirely—but this is the limit of my own refinement, as you requested."
He lowered his sword slightly and continued, "Now then, let me guide you through some of the basic stances."
But before he could start, Gojo quietly tied the blindfold back over his eyes. "No need," he said calmly. "Just watch and tell me where I make mistakes."
The firmness in Gojo's tone made Yamashiro frown. For a moment, he felt a flicker of irritation—thinking the boy was being arrogant, believing he could grasp swordsmanship so quickly. Still, he folded his arms and observed silently.
Gojo inhaled deeply and raised his wooden sword. His first stance was clumsy—his footing uneven, his grip stiff—but then, little by little, his body began to adjust. Each movement refined itself, his posture aligning closer to the ideal with every breath. Within moments, the improvement was visible.
Yamashiro's eyes widened. He's fixing his own mistakes… as he moves?
Gojo took a step forward and swung horizontally. The first strike was weak, just a wooden stick slicing through air without rhythm or intent. The next, however, carried better control—his wrists loosened, his timing cleaner. He repeated the motion again and again, each repetition smoother than the last. Then he transitioned to diagonal, vertical, and stabbing motions—every sequence evolving at an alarming pace.
With his blindfold on, Gojo was recalling every tiny detail he had seen earlier through his Six Eyes: the shift of Yamashiro's weight, the twitch of a forearm muscle before a swing, the rotation of hips that gave each strike power. Every misalignment he felt, he corrected immediately.
Yamashiro could only stand frozen, his mouth slightly open. He had seen gifted students before, but never someone improving this fast—not faking mistakes, not repeating lessons memorized, but truly understanding and adapting in real time. At this rate, he thought, he'll master the basics within a week… maybe even sooner. This boy is a pure genius.
Without wasting another moment, Yamashiro decided. "You can continue practicing here," he said quickly, voice slightly unsteady. "I have… other matters to attend to." Then he turned and sprinted away.
Gojo didn't even look up. He simply kept practicing—his wooden sword cutting through the air in steady, fluid arcs, each motion sharper than the last.
Meanwhile, Yamashiro ran straight toward the main hall, his breath uneven from urgency. Inside, Master Kishimoto was in the middle of his own training, executing the same calm, deliberate stances that Yamashiro had just demonstrated. The older man's movements were serene yet filled with power.
Kishimoto stopped mid-motion when he noticed Yamashiro's hurried entrance. A faint frown appeared on his face as he lowered his sword. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you so flustered?"
Yamashiro stood before Kishimoto, still trying to steady his breath. He took a deep inhale, gathering his thoughts, and began recounting everything that had just unfolded at the training ground—the way Gojo had picked up a wooden sword, his clumsy first swings transforming into refined movements with astonishing speed.
Kishimoto listened quietly, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his tone sceptical. "Are you sure about what you saw? Perhaps that boy already learned the basics somewhere else. Maybe he's just pretending to be a prodigy to gain favour. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried that."
Yamashiro shook his head firmly. "I thought that at first, Master. I truly did. But I paid close attention to his every movement. The first stance he took was unsteady—clearly unfamiliar. The second looked like he'd been training for a few days. And the third…" He paused, still recalling the memory vividly. "By the third, it was as if he had been practicing for a week or more. Each swing refined itself in real time. His control, his footwork, even the flow of his breathing improved between each repetition. I've trained enough students to know when someone's faking, and that boy wasn't. I'm convinced—he's a genuine genius. That's why I came to inform you immediately."
Kishimoto turned toward the door, ready to follow, but then stopped. "Wait," he said sharply. "Did you show him all the basic forms yourself?"
"Yes," Yamashiro replied. "He specifically asked me to demonstrate the basics at my best level. I thought it was an odd request, but I complied. After I finished, he told me not to guide him further—just to watch and correct his mistakes if needed. Then he started training entirely on his own."
Kishimoto fell silent, his gaze distant and thoughtful. After a long pause, he said, almost to himself, "Leave him be for now. That child truly is a genius. It's not surprising he's learning so quickly."
Yamashiro blinked in confusion. "Wait—just a moment ago, you were doubtful, and now you're certain he's a genius? I don't understand, Master."
Kishimoto turned his eyes back to him, a faint smile touching his lips. "You wouldn't understand even if I explained it in detail," he said quietly. "That boy has awakened something I couldn't master myself during my years on the Grand Line."
Yamashiro furrowed his brow. "What do you mean? What kind of thing?"
Kishimoto's gaze hardened slightly. "It's called Haki. Think of it as an advanced combat technique—one that only the most elite warriors of the world can use. I believe that boy possesses it naturally. Few are born with such a gift, especially something like: Observation Haki. It heightens perception beyond normal human limits, allowing one to sense movements, emotions, even intent."
Yamashiro's eyes widened. "Then… he was using that while training?"
"Most likely," Kishimoto said with a slow nod. "He might not even be aware of it himself. When you demonstrated your swordsmanship, he must have observed not with his eyes, but with that heightened sense—absorbing every motion, every shift in your stance. Normally, it shouldn't be possible to learn so fast, but with Haki… perhaps this is its true potential."
He looked toward the training field through the open shoji doors, where the faint sound of wood striking air still echoed. "A child born with such power," Kishimoto murmured, "is destined to walk a path far beyond ours."
Kishimoto was right—at least to a certain extent. With Observation Haki, a person could indeed grasp swordsmanship far faster than ordinary students. Yet even then, they required a master's constant guidance to refine their form and understanding. Gojo, however, was different. He had gone beyond imitation, straight to the core essence of Yamashiro's swordsmanship, replicating and internalizing it after only a few moments of observation and few hours of practice.
While Kishimoto and Yamashiro continued their discussion, Gojo remained in the training field. The soft whoosh of his wooden sword slicing through the air echoed steadily, his movements smooth, deliberate, and precise. Each strike built upon the last, his rhythm unwavering. His blindfold remained in place, yet he struck with the accuracy of one who could see every line and curve of the world around him.
Soon, other students began to arrive. Some paused at the entrance, surprised to see someone already training with such intensity. Others, the more disciplined ones, merely nodded in quiet acknowledgment and went about their warm-ups. Gojo paid no attention. His focus was absolute—each swing bringing a subtle improvement, each stance tightening into form.
After nearly an hour, he finally lowered his sword and exhaled deeply, his breathing controlled but heavy. Instead of resting completely, he began running laps around the open training ground, the sound of his footsteps beating rhythmically against the dirt. He wasn't doing it for stamina alone—he wanted to push his body to exhaustion. Once I'm tired enough, I'll eat and see if my recovery theory holds true, he thought, remembering his deduction from the previous day. If food really speeds up my recovery, my training efficiency will skyrocket.
After running several rounds, he shifted to the dojo's strength training area, where basic wooden and metal equipment stood neatly arranged. They reminded him faintly of gym machines from his past life on Earth. Without hesitation, he began his routine—pushes, lifts, and resistance work to build power and endurance. The faint creak of the equipment and his steady breathing filled the quiet dojo grounds.
By the time he finished, four hours had passed, and the sun had climbed high overhead. Sweat trickled from beneath his blindfold, his shirt clinging to his skin. Despite the fatigue, there was a calm satisfaction in his expression.
Approaching Yamashiro, Gojo asked, "Can I take this wooden sword with me? Don't worry, I'll bring it back tomorrow."
Yamashiro regarded him for a moment, still amazed by the boy's dedication, and finally nodded. "Alright," he said. "You can take it."
Gojo gave a brief nod in return, gripping the wooden sword firmly before turning toward the path home, his silent determination carrying him forward.
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