There are two deaths in a human life: the first when you stop breathing; the second… when the world forgets you.
Maha won't forget. Zeno won't forget. Silva won't forget. Now it's Roy's turn…
Great houses live by orderly succession.
Late at night, after telling Gotoh what to prep, Roy showered, changed into pajamas, and lay staring at the ceiling, combing his memory for anything about Grandpa Zigg. All he could clearly recall was that image of Zigg with Netero and Gourmet Hunter Linne first setting foot on the Dark Continent, watching a sky-high sandworm spear through the ground and roil the clouds.
It must have been quite a scene—just imagining it made him shiver with excitement.
Sh-sh… The night breeze lifted the corner of the curtain, showing the dense dark outside…
Roy knew this world is a nesting doll: a river flows from the Dark Continent, forming Lake Mobius; Mobius wraps the Six Continents; the Six Continents sustain billions—of whom less than ten percent are Nen users.
So, knowing there's always a sky beyond the sky, a world beyond this world—if he were Zigg, he too wouldn't resist the call to adventure.
He thought of that dream, rolled over, and closed his eyes.
He fell asleep late that night—
"Because he had things on his mind."
Snow: as usual, Roy entered Demon Slayer's world through sleep.
Without Urokodaki prompting, he lifted the basket himself—one full of gravel—and went into the deep forest to train.
Today, he'd fling fewer stones than yesterday.
Sabito could see it: the boy wasn't focused, not fully concentrated. It was the answer to Makomo's question—why Rōichirō wasn't "in state" today.
"Then does he still train?" Makomo asked.
"Of course.
"With the blade there's no room for moods—if you're happy, you train; if you're not, you train even harder. Train, and train, and the worries fade…"
Sabito glanced past Roy—under a nearby birch, Urokodaki in his tengu mask watched for a time, then turned back to the cabin and took up his chisel.
Just as Sabito thought—he didn't call a halt like last time to give Roy a day off. He carved masks in silence.
One cut—three stones fell. A hundred cuts—two stones. A thousand—one stone. At two thousand—no more stones fell. By the time Roy, sweating like rain, finished three rounds of "pseudo–ten-thousand swings," frost had crusted his brow.
[Notice: Swordsmanship +20]
[Sun Breathing: 83 → 87/100 (Novice)]
"Fuu~" Roy sheathed the blade; a "dragon" of vapor streamed from his nose.
Not a single stone left the basket—he carried it back along the path to the little cabin.
The oil lamp was lit; a hot pot simmered on the brazier. Master had sliced two plates of wild boar and laid out greens dug from the snow—simple and neat.
"Sit," he said.
Half a plate of meat went into the pot…
Steam billowed; soon the room was full of rich aroma.
Makomo squatted by the pot again, wide-eyed, swallowing back drool.
Roy set down the basket and blade, sat cross-legged, and let the food soothe him—his worries faded a shade.
"Fighting your father again?"
Before long the plates were empty and the greens nearly gone. Urokodaki ladled a bowl of broth and passed it over.
Roy sipped and shook his head. "No. I thought of my grandfather. I'll go pay my respects tomorrow."
"Your grandfather?"
"My great-grandfather."
"A long life, then."
Urokodaki poured himself a bowl. "Prepare the dishes he liked. If he drank, bring a bottle—not expensive; what he used to drink."
"I don't know what he liked…"
"You've never met?"
"He died before I was born."
Urokodaki: "…"
He was quiet for a very long time. With "life and death," even voices lower…
Too heavy. Makomo felt the air shift and murmured, "Master must be thinking of us. It hurts him…"
Sabito said nothing, eyes on the rafters. He too had regrets he couldn't voice.
Shinsuke and Fukuda, rare for them, fell quiet. Spirits circled, slowed, and curled into corners.
Roy saw it all, finished his broth, cleared the bowls, set the leftover soup outside to freeze. When he returned, Urokodaki had his hands behind his back at the window, gazing into the snow. Still facing out, he recited a string of names: "Rōichirō—remember them: Sabito, Makomo, Shinsuke, Fukuda, Watanabe, Shimizu…"
"Thirteen in all—your thirteen senpais."
The old man turned and said, earnestly, "I never believed they died. They've always been alive here." He tapped his chest.
"When a master grows 'old,' he'll go down to rejoin them.
"When that time comes—if they resent me, blame me, curse me, hit me—I'll take it."
Behind the tengu mask, the weathered face wore a gentle smile.
Roy listened in silence. Beside him came a sniffle—then louder—and finally it broke into sobbing.
"Master, I miss you so much!" Shinsuke and Fukuda cried.
Makomo wiped her eyes; the fox-masked boy's rims went red; he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The boy said nothing.
That night he lay on the warm bed—
I saw it all, Master, he thought. They didn't blame you…
He turned and tossed, the wind rattling the paper windows, and drifted off by the brazier.
That drop—
He left cognition and returned to the familiar bedroom.
The pendulum in the corner chimed a soft dong. He lay staring a few minutes, then washed and ran.
Past the castle, the butler villa, to the mountain gate—Hua Shidoulang was there, taking pointers from Zebro on form and force. Back at his room, a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums sat in the corridor by the door.
"Chrysanthemums mustn't cross the threshold—not auspicious," Gotoh said, pushing in the breakfast cart.
Roy hummed acknowledgment, ate, and listened to the day's plan—mind elsewhere.
"Master said if you've learned Zetsu, you should learn Ren. He seems to know someone pressed you with Ren at the Arena. He's ordered a follow-up test—still three lashes."
"How long is 'a while'?"
"He didn't say. Only…" Gotoh paused.
Roy forked beef, eyes cool.
"…only said, depends on his mood. If he's in a good mood, maybe he'll forget. If he's not…" The young butler adjusted his glasses, careful: "He'll lash you soon."