"Going home… so another year's passed…"
Urokodaki's hand paused over the pickled radish. He looked out the window—snow falling year after year, as if nothing changed and yet everything had. After a beat, he said, "Alright."
Gurururu… The porridge on the stove steamed the lid right off; the old man fumbled it and scalded his hand.
"Master." Makomo trotted over, puffed her cheeks and blew on the burn—then a broader hand replaced hers, callused from long years on the hilt.
Roy lifted the lid and cut the flame in one smooth motion, smiling. "Master, let me.
"You always look after me—leave this bit to me."
The porridge was done; a little more radish, a few slices of last night's boar shank—simple enough. Urokodaki nodded without a word, left the kitchen, and sat by the brazier. Makomo knelt beside him, face dim.
"Rōichirō's going home. Master will be alone at New Year again."
"What can you do? It's been this way for years." Shinsuke had a lump on his forehead—pain shot through his teeth when he touched it. Fukuda was worse, face swollen to a pig's head—the price of mocking someone's height.
"Look at it this way: once Rōichirō takes our revenge, next year no one will be around Master."
"If you can't say anything nice, shut up!" Fukuda saw Makomo's head droop, eyes going dark. He tried to speak but his lips were sausages; he sighed instead. Being strong enough to remain in this world by force of will was luck already; you shouldn't ask too much more.
"But I… I want to…" Makomo bit her lip, eyes filling, and unconsciously leaned into Urokodaki. In a flash a blade slid between, easing her back.
"Cool it." Sabito held his katana, gaze stern. "Master's soul burns too hot. Get close, you get scorched."
Scorched? So that's why Sabito could pull Tanjiro into his space, but nothing worked on Urokodaki.
From the kitchen Roy sliced the radish and watched with a sidelong glance. He understood what Sabito and Makomo lacked—a bridge of Nen with the living.
He didn't mind being the bridge—he'd done it for Minamino. He checked the calendar in his head and set it for the night before he went home.
A reunion night. A night for joy. For wholeness.
Makomo mastered herself and shifted half a body's width away. Sabito sheathed his sword, sighing inside—at a loss for comfort—when:
"Porridge's up~"
Roy brought breakfast and broke the gloom.
Makomo sniffled—back to her little glutton self. Roy teased her, waving the boar meat under her nose. She licked her lips; her dim eyes lit again.
Outside, heavy snow. Inside, steam curled.
As if nothing had happened—and as if everything had. After eating, Roy washed up, took the practice blade, and left to train.
When he was gone, Urokodaki quietly went to the bed, reached under the pillow and quilts, and pulled out a sock. He tucked some coins into a little pouch with a fox face.
"Heh… that boy's lucky. What's Master doing… getting his New Year's gift ready?" Shinsuke grumbled, staring jealously as he tied the pouch close—his tooth ached again, maybe from Fukuda's punch.
"Hey—did Master ever give you lucky money?" Makomo poked Sabito. The fox-masked boy stiffened and shook his head.
He and Giyu had been adopted. Lucky money? They'd never seen a coin—food, clothes, everything came from Master. They hardly had the face to ask for money.
Makomo cheered up, eyes curving to crescents. "Secret— I got some~"
"That's because you're a girl."
"I don't care. I know I have it and you don't—that's enough."
Sabito feigned helplessness and followed Roy out toward the woods. At least Makomo was smiling. That was enough.
He gripped his sword—and vanished into the snow.
"Forty-seven thousand… forty-nine… fifty thousand… fifty-one…"
One thousand more a day—that was Roy's floor.
[Notice: Swordsmanship +53]
He backhanded a cut past Sabito's ear into a cypress behind. Crack—
A cypress two men couldn't encircle split clean along its axis.
The edge—its bite and precision—drew the eye. Sabito's fighting spirit flared; his hand fell to his hilt, then he forced it back down…
Roy exhaled, sheathed, pretending not to see. That night he returned, ate simply, and lay down.
Night deepened—sleep took him.
He returned to Kukuroo by deep sleep. The soft chime of the clock—4 a.m. Another day.
He ran, then ate while Gotoh briefed:
"Poison resistance still. One more thing—master orders dinner from your hand tonight."
Which master? There were many. Roy glanced up.
Gotoh's months-old beard was finally a bristle. "Maha."
Craving something different, no doubt. "Got it," Roy said. He named two dishes: Chicken Stew with Mushrooms and Smashed Cucumber.
Gotoh noted it down, cleared the dishes, and left.
Roy took Yubashiri and headed for the hall: poison drills, Sun Breathing, then down to the basement to grind Ren. This time—1:43. Not much progress.
Is it really, as Grandpa Zigg said, time's job from here?
Heavy-hearted, he left the chamber. The airtight door boomed shut. He drew a long breath, thinking of Gon and Killua under Wing and Bisky, and wandered the halls, lost in thought—until he stopped.
A dried, wiry silhouette stood with hands behind his back at a window. Roy remembered: he was supposed to cook tonight.
"Eight already. Where's my food?" Speak of the devil. Maha turned his head.
Roy smiled sheepishly. "I'll go now."
"Forget it…" Maha waved lazily and looked back out. The moon was high—fine night. Moonlight made fine food.
Roy tiptoed past. "Old man hasn't eaten and you want to eat?" Maha said without turning. "Get over here and stand with me."
"…Yes." Roy returned and stood at his side.
"What do you see?" the old man pointed to the willow.
"A willow."
"And?"
"Willow twigs."
Maha's eyes bulged. "I mean up there."
Roy focused—used Gyo. "A bird's nest."
"Oh, so you do know it's a nest."
"I'm not stupid."
"You're an idiot." Side-eye. "Even nestlings know to cheep—beg the big bird to feed them.
"Why don't you?"
Roy frowned.
"Do you know what Silva hates most about you?"
"What?"
"That self-righteous, naive belief that you can do everything by yourself."
"You're too willful, Roy.
"And too arrogant."
Maha looked out as the big bird returned with worms—caught the rim with its claws—and stuffed the loudest chick full. "Because you insist on doing everything yourself, never leaning on anyone, Silva feels unneeded.
"And when a father feels unneeded, anger grows."
A cold wind stirred the boy's bangs and the willow twigs together.
Roy listened, memories flipping—ever since the panel and his second life, he'd believed he could stand alone. Study, grind—if he could avoid asking for help, he did. As for going to Silva—he could count the times on one hand. Recently—once: opening the nodes—and even then through Gotoh.
He'd been too "independent." Independence into aloofness; aloofness into arrogance—eventually no one else mattered.
He looked—at the only chick that didn't open its beak. The others pushed it from the nest. Plop. It hit the ground—dead before it had even seen the world.
"Do you understand now?" Maha asked softly after a while.
Roy drew a deep breath, bowed. "Thank you, Great-Grandfather."
The old man looked away and grunted. "Scram."
Roy rose—and instead of heading back to his room, turned upstairs.
Tap… tap… Under the lights his figure was already taking on an adult's frame.
He rounded the corner and was gone.
In the dim corner, shadow rippled. Zeno poked his head out, then strolled to Maha's side. "Grandfather—you've always had the touch. A few words and the boy's set."
"If we do nothing, this house will go to ruin." Maha snorted. "Squat."
"…" What did I do?
"Grandfather, let's be reasonable…"
"Squat."
"…Yes." Zeno tucked his head and squatted. A knuckle cracked against his skull; Maha snarled, "I am reason.
"Your grandson? My grandson? You've forgotten how the top teaches the bottom?
"Kill kill kill—can't move your bowels without killing, can you?
"Try me again and I'll crack your head with a stick!"
Crude Enhancer brute… Zeno groaned inside. How had it come to a house full of stubborn mules?
This one won't bow; that one won't either. Besides wheeling out the patriarch—what else was there?
At least it worked. He endured the verbal beating, then patted the old man's back and soothed his breath…
Cartoons chirped again; the rocker creaked. Maha enjoyed the massage and hummed, "Hungry. When the kid gets back—tell him to cook.
"The old man wants a fresh bite tonight!"
"…"
Stubborn to the end.
…
Night deepened.
Climbing the stone stairs from the first floor to the second, Roy had never felt a single flight drag so long—long enough to feel like Heaven's Ladder.
Lights burned along the walls, stretching his shadow. Step by step he rose, reached the landing, and stood before a bedroom—unshowy but old and dignified.
Through the crack, a glow.
He lifted his hand—held it in midair—took a breath. No more hesitation, no more wandering. He knocked.
Tok… tok… tok…
Cre-eak—
The door opened.
A tall figure filled the frame. Silver hair to the waist. He looked down, blocking the light.
Silva's face was blank. "What is it?"
Roy met his eyes. "I have business."
"What business?"
"Learning."
"Why should I teach you?"
"Because you're my father. You should teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"Teach me how to beat you," Roy said, earnest. "We could start with Ren."
Silva stared a long moment—then a laugh bubbled up, low and suppressed—"heh-heh-heh… hahahah—"
Kikyo stirred on the bed. "Who is it, Silva?"
He stepped out and stood shoulder to shoulder with the boy. His big hand clamped Roy's shoulder. "From today on—whatever you want to learn, I'll teach it. I'll stand right here—no hiding, no dodging—and I'll wait for you to put me down."