Under the pale moonlight, Michikatsu Tsugikuni stood in the center of the training ground, drenched in sweat. His blade trembled slightly—not from fatigue, but frustration.
He had tried, again and again, to match the rhythm of Yoriichi's Sun Breathing. The stances. The control. The purity of movement. But each attempt only reminded him of how wide the gap truly was.
"Why… Why can't I reach him?"
Yoriichi had never boasted. Never sought recognition. And yet, every warrior, every commander, every eye… they saw Yoriichi as the pinnacle.
Even the demons whispered of a man in red with movements like the dawn itself.
Michikatsu gritted his teeth.
He began to adjust his breathing. Force it into a new shape. He remembered how the moonlight glimmered cold and distant. How his heart, in contrast to Yoriichi's warmth, felt colder… more desperate.
He abandoned the warmth of the sun.
And forged something else.
That night, Michikatsu's sword danced under the silver sky. Wide arcs. Slow curves. Flickering strikes, like phases of the moon.
Each movement was elegant, yet eerie. Graceful, yet distant.
It was the opposite of his brother's—calculated rather than instinctual, severing rather than illuminating.
"This is mine," he whispered, "not his. Never his."
And from that quiet fury, Moon Breathing was born.
When Yoriichi saw it the next day, he smiled faintly. "Your path is different," he said. "But it's yours, brother."
But that smile… that calm acceptance… only dug deeper into Michikatsu's heart.
"You still look down on me," Michikatsu thought. "Even now…"
Thus, though they stood side by side, the distance between the brothers had never been greater.