The wind swept across the training grounds, stirring dust and petals alike. Morning light glinted off Yoriichi's blade as he stood alone, shirt damp with sweat, breath steady—measured. Focused.
He had been coming here every day. Ever since the letter. Ever since her.
With each strike, he tried to cut away the helplessness. With every breath, he tried to remember her face—not in blood, but in light.
And something within him was awakening.
His feet moved in a rhythm foreign to others, but natural to him. His blade carved arcs through the air that shimmered with heat. His chest rose and fell in harmony with the world around him. And then—
A flash.
The first form emerged.
"Sun Breathing: Flame Halo Dance."
It scorched the training pole to splinters. The other slayers had stopped sparring. Even Kazuyoshi dropped his stone-weighted training boulder.
"What... was that?" whispered Yusuke, eyes wide.
Yoriichi stepped back, blinking. "I… don't know," he replied honestly.
But he kept going.
His body moved on instinct. Form after form came—fluid, explosive, elegant, terrifying. It wasn't just power. It was something divine.
Dance of the Fire Wheel
Solar Flash Thrust
Blazing Mirage
Flame-Linked Vortex
Radiant Finish
Twilight Fade
Each one born from pain. Each one a tribute to the sun's purity, its ability to both burn and nurture.
Michikatsu, watching from a distance, gritted his teeth. Sweat rolled down his cheek—not from the heat, but from the rising storm within.
Yoriichi collapsed to one knee, panting, blade glowing faintly.
And in that moment, the others knew:
Something ancient had returned to the world—
The Breath of the Sun.
But for Yoriichi, it was never about power.
It was about never letting another Uta happen again.