The forest rang with the sound of swords cutting through the air, each slash synchronized with the sharp, steady rhythm of trained breathing. Yuta stood among the other recruits, sweat clinging to his brow, chest heaving as he tried to mimic their flow.
"Inhale," barked the instructor. "Expand your lungs—let the breath fuel your body. Exhale—release with precision. Again!"
The others moved in unison, their strikes crisp, their footwork steady. Yuta's blade, however, faltered. His breath caught halfway through the form, leaving his swing sluggish and unbalanced.
"You're forcing it, outsider," muttered one of the boys beside him, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. "If you can't even breathe right, you'll never keep up."
Yuta clenched his jaw, lowering his katana. He had faced curses that could warp reality, spirits that shrieked hatred into his very soul—yet here, among these demon slayers-in-training, he felt small. Weak.
Rika drifted near, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the morning light. "You don't need them, Yuta," she whispered, her voice raw with devotion. "You're strong enough already."
But Yuta shook his head. "No, Rika… this is their world. If I can't fight like them, I'll never be more than an outsider."
Days bled into nights, and the training only grew harsher. Wooden swords slammed against his guard, leaving his arms numb. The relentless drills carved blisters into his palms. Each time he tried to follow the forms, his cursed energy surged, disrupting the rhythm of his breath. It was like trying to fit fire into a stream—it resisted, it fought back.
More than once, he collapsed in the dirt, gasping for air while the others sneered.
"He'll never last," someone whispered. "That thing beside him is doing all the work anyway."
Rika's eyes burned at the insult, her form bristling with rage. But Yuta forced her back, his hand trembling as he whispered, "Not yet… please."
It was Jiro who finally stepped in. One evening, he found Yuta sitting alone by the river, his blade resting across his knees. The silver-haired slayer watched quietly before speaking.
"You're trying to force your power into our form," Jiro said. "That's why you fail. The breathing is not about domination—it's about harmony."
Yuta looked up, sweat and dirt staining his face. 'Harmony? With cursed energy? It doesn't… it doesn't work that way. My power only destroys.' (these are his thoughts)
"Then you must learn to make it flow." Jiro knelt beside him, dipping a hand into the river. The current swirled around his fingers, unbroken. "Water does not resist. It carries, it adapts. If you wish to master Water Breathing, you must let your energy flow with your breath, not against it."
Yuta stared at the river, the reflection of the moon rippling across its surface. Flow… not resist. It was so different from the control and suppression Gojo had drilled into him. But maybe… maybe it was what he needed.
The next morning, Yuta tried again. He inhaled, letting the air fill not just his lungs but his entire being. He exhaled, allowing his cursed energy to move with the breath instead of crashing against it. For the first time, his swing cut cleanly through the air, sharp and fluid.
The other recruits stopped, watching in silence. The boy who had mocked him earlier frowned, his arrogance faltering as Yuta's movements grew more precise with each attempt.
Not perfect—his body still trembled, his cursed energy still rippled too violently—but progress.
By the end of the day, he collapsed again, but this time not from failure—from effort. A few of the others offered small nods of acknowledgment, the faintest cracks in their distrust.
Rika hovered protectively above him, her voice softer than usual. "You did it, Yuta. They're starting to see you."
Yuta smiled faintly, despite the ache in his body. "Not yet. But soon."
That night, as the recruits lay in silence, Yuta overheard them whispering.
"…he's different, but… maybe he's not useless after all."
"…did you see that strike? He almost matched the form."
"…still don't trust that thing with him. But… he's trying."
For the first time since arriving in this world, Yuta felt the faint spark of belonging. Not acceptance, not yet. But the beginning of something he thought he'd lost forever.
A place to fight. A place to protect.
And as he closed his eyes, he vowed he would master their breathing, not just to survive—but to prove that even a cursed child could stand among demon slayers.