Ryōsuke's entire body trembled.
Urokodaki's words struck him like a bolt of lightning, cleaving apart the fog that had long clouded his heart.
He had been obsessively maintaining the state of his breathing, treating it as a technique that required deliberate control.
In doing so, he'd separated mind from body during sleep—creating resistance instead of harmony.
What he needed wasn't control.
It was fusion.
Breathing had to become the most fundamental rhythm of life itself.
"Instinct… instinct!"
Ryōsuke murmured to himself as the confusion in his eyes faded, replaced by sudden clarity.
Urokodaki nodded slightly, said no more, and his figure quietly melted back into the darkness.
Ryōsuke closed his eyes again.
This time, he didn't try to regulate his breathing or preserve any particular rhythm.
He let go of all fixation.
He allowed his body and mind to fully relax, simply feeling the natural flow of each breath as it moved through his nose, chest, and lower abdomen—raw, unforced, and alive.
The breath was soundless.
Like a breeze through a mountain ravine.
Like a spring flowing beneath the earth.
Unrestrained.
Yet endlessly sustained.
His consciousness gradually blurred, sinking into darkness.
This time—there was no struggle.
No sudden awakening.
Long, even breaths rose and fell in the silent room, circulating around Ryōsuke, steady and whole.
When the first ray of dawn pierced the window, Ryōsuke slowly opened his eyes.
There was no familiar heaviness.
No lingering haze.
Instead, an unprecedented clarity filled his body.
His limbs felt light—almost weightless—brimming with vitality.
Like a deep lake or a vast ocean:
calm on the surface, turbulent beneath.
He subconsciously clenched his fist.
The immense energy stored within him responded instantly, surging through his body without the slightest delay.
No deliberate guidance.
No forced focus.
The power of his breathing now moved as naturally as his own hands and feet—completely fused into every fiber of his being.
After months of steady practice—
Total Concentration: Constant.
He had done it.
The barrier that had plagued him for so long dissolved effortlessly under Urokodaki's guidance and his own realization.
In the courtyard, Urokodaki Sakonji stood quietly in the thin morning mist, his back to the cabin.
He didn't turn around.
"Breath steady as the abyss… perfectly rounded, endlessly flowing…"
After a brief pause, his voice carried clear approval.
"Indeed. Very perceptive."
Ryōsuke rolled out the door.
Sabito was already training with Giyu, the sound of blades cutting air ringing sharply through the forest.
"Ryōsuke!"
Sabito was the first to notice him. Sensing the change in Ryōsuke's presence, his eyes lit up.
"Y-you did it, didn't you?! You mastered Constant?!"
Ryōsuke nodded, gratitude sincere.
"Thanks to Urokodaki-sensei's guidance."
Sabito's excitement quickly turned into mock frustration.
"Tch… looks like catching up to you anytime soon is impossible."
"That's not true."
Ryōsuke stepped forward and patted his shoulder.
"You two have better talent than me. It's only a matter of time. Once you find the key point, you'll advance faster than I ever did."
Before his words fully settled, Makomo came jogging over.
"Ryōsuke, your letter!"
Ryōsuke's heart jumped—and somewhere far below, something clenched instinctively.
…Don't tell me Rengoku Shinjurō is still chasing me?
But when he saw the familiar Momoyama seal on the corner of the envelope, he finally relaxed.
He opened it.
Inside was Rika's neat, delicate handwriting, rambling gently about everyday life back home.
Grandpa's new herbal tea was unbearably bitter.
Shōta overdid it in training again and twisted his wrist fighting the practice post.
The peaches behind the mountain were almost ripe…
Between the lines was a girl's careful, quiet longing.
At the end of the letter—clearly erased and rewritten several times—a crooked line stood out:
"…The medicine is on the second shelf of Rika's cabinet. Don't die somewhere outside."
Hakishō… you little brat.
Ryōsuke held the letter, feeling as if warmth lingered in the paper itself.
Yamagata's demons.
The quiet cultivation on Mount Sagiri.
Without realizing it, months had passed since he'd left Momoyama.
During that time, he'd done little besides train and take missions—mostly low- and mid-level demons, nothing particularly difficult.
After all, high-ranking demons weren't roadside cabbages.
Most of the time, it was just these experience-delivering "little buns."
Thinking back now, that whole granny misunderstanding had probably faded with time.
A strong sense of homesickness welled up inside him.
Now that he'd mastered Constant, it was time to go back.
When he formally thanked Urokodaki and took his leave, Moriyama happened to be away on a new mission.
On the path down the mountain, however, Ryōsuke ran into Murata, sitting by a small stream.
During Ryōsuke's stay on Mount Sagiri, they hadn't interacted much—Murata was usually glued to Moriyama.
"Murata?" Ryōsuke called.
Murata jumped, then turned around. Upon seeing Ryōsuke, his already gloomy face drooped even further.
"Ah… Ryōsuke-san. Training's been… sigh. I feel like I haven't improved at all."
"What's wrong?"
Ryōsuke looked at his miserable expression and almost laughed.
What could possibly trouble the future Legend of the Clean Uniform this much?
"You're the guy who walks out of the Infinity Castle battle with only a slightly dirty hem, you know."
"The Final Selection's only a few months away."
Murata frowned anxiously.
"At my current level… will I really make it out alive?"
He crouched down, unconsciously tugging at grass, a gloomy drizzle practically forming over his head.
Ryōsuke couldn't hold back.
"Hey. Murata."
Murata looked up blankly.
"Trust me."
Ryōsuke's gaze turned oddly profound.
"You're absolutely going to become the Demon Slayer Corps' cleanest living legend."
"Final Selection? Child's play."
"Do your best—I believe in your slightly-dirty-hem future."
With that, Ryōsuke turned and left, not bothering to explain further, while Murata stood there even more confused.
Driven by longing for home, Ryōsuke infused Thunder Breathing into his sprint, his figure becoming a streak of light and shadow.
Night deepened.
Just as Momoyama came into view—
A thick stench of blood slammed into his senses.
Ryōsuke's eyes sharpened.
He instantly suppressed his presence and shot off in the direction of the scent.
Oh?
So I've been gone too long?
Looks like these little buns have gotten bold—daring to show themselves on Momoyama's turf.
In a forested ravine ahead, the scene was brutal.
Three women and one man were cornered by a ferocious demon shaped like a massive wolf.
Its grey body was drenched in blood and saliva, foul stench pouring from its fangs.
With a sweep of its thick arm, it easily knocked aside incoming kunai.
Explosions rang out.
When the smoke cleared, its wounds were already healing—visibly, rapidly.
The three women sheltered behind it were frightened but not panicked.
The man standing at the very front was impossible to miss.
Sixteen or seventeen at most—
towering, powerfully built, with long silver-white hair tied in a high ponytail.
A gem-studded headband rested across his forehead, strange red markings painted across his face.
"Hinatsuru! Makio! Suma! Fall back!"
"This thing's wrong!"
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