The year-end festival was approaching. Wind and snow fell more heavily with each passing day. Mount Sagiri's thick fog permeated the air, wetting Roy's hair and condensing into a layer of frost.
Without the gravel training's weight, Roy restarted his ten thousand basic swings. The blade in his hand felt light as nothing—as if it had become an extension of his arm. He swung freely, the blade responding to his will as naturally as his fingers.
Master Sakonji Urokodaki stood silently behind him, watching.
Ten meters ahead stood a wooden stake tied with hemp rope.
The youth closed both eyes and adjusted his breathing. Feet separated, using his body as the central axis, he fixed his stance. Then he opened his eyes, gripped the blade with both hands, raised it forward, and swung down with his first slash of the day.
One slash. Two slashes. A hundred slashes. A thousand slashes. Ten thousand slashes. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. Thirty-five thousand. Roy pushed past his previous limit, feeling his body heat up. His stamina remained sufficient. He simply tore off his scarf and continued swinging.
Thirty-six thousand. Thirty-seven thousand. Thirty-eight thousand. Forty thousand.
"I've lost count! How is he still going?" Makomo pouted, her big eyes spinning in confusion.
On the tall birch tree, Sabito watched silently. Below stood the equally silent Sakonji Urokodaki.
Forty thousand. Forty-two thousand. Forty-seven thousand. Forty-nine thousand. Fifty thousand!
In that moment, the youth's eyes narrowed. His hand, waist, and feet moved in perfect synchronization. He stepped forward and delivered a final slash.
The blade wind tore through the air with a piercing shriek, forming a crescent-shaped arc. One stroke cleanly severed the wooden stake ten meters away.
The stake broke into two pieces and crashed to the ground. The surrounding area fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Only the youth's rough gasps stirred through the wind and snow.
"Eiichiro..." Shinsuke had been lying down, but he instantly sat upright. Despite mental preparation, knowing Roy would break through his limits after gravel training, perhaps reaching a shocking forty thousand slashes, he still underestimated him.
"I'm numb," Fukuda said, standing beside Shinsuke, looking down at Roy from above, his voice self-mocking. "From now on, if someone tells me Eiichiro cut down even the Demon King himself, I won't be surprised. He's simply not human!"
Ten meters of sword aura in one slash.
"The remarkable part is, Eiichiro hasn't even learned breathing techniques yet!" Makomo finally didn't need to count. Dizzy and confused, she supported herself on Sabito. Sabito, like a wooden stake, had received the full impact of Roy's slash. His conviction was split in two.
Silence blanketed Mount Sagiri. Water Pillar. That was Giyu's ceiling. But Eiichiro... Eiichiro hadn't even begun to approach his limit.
Sabito gazed at Roy's back, nearly imagining what kind of terrifying scene such a monster would create once sent down the mountain to face demons.
"Eiichiro," Sakonji Urokodaki's shoulders were dusted with snow. His voice beneath the tengu mask sounded hoarse. "You can begin the next stage of training."
Roy sheathed his blade, expelled a long plume of white breath, and shook his head.
"No. I must practice more." His voice was calm. A smile crossed his face, revealing white teeth. He matched Netero's hundred thousand daily punches. Roy simply could not throw fewer than one hundred thousand slashes in a day. There was no logic to accepting less.
"When I truly reach my limit, I'll tell Master."
"You... ho ho ho." Sakonji Urokodaki's shoulders shook with laughter. It grew louder until he raised his head to look at the sky. Sunlight broke through the fog, casting down a rare ray that seemed to pierce the gloom covering everyone's hearts. Evil demons stood no chance.
"Good." The old man turned, gratified. Tonight, he decided to add pig's knuckles to the meal.
[Notification: Swordsmanship +40]
[Swordsmanship: Lv2(996/1000)→Lv3(36/10000)]
The bell chimed at 4 o'clock.
Kukuroo Mountain. Butler villa, third floor, eastern room.
Kastro opened his eyes as usual, lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. More than two months had passed since I arrived at the Zoldyck estate. He'd transformed from a "completely hopeless novice" into someone who "understood a bit." He'd finally grasped the true weight of carrying the 'Zoldyck' name.
A hundred-kilogram bulletproof vest worn around the clock. Weighted shoes. A twenty-kilogram water glass. Doors requiring five hundred kilograms of force to open. This wasn't a butler's office—it was his training ground, gravity training at ten times normal intensity.
When Kastro first arrived, he'd wanted to curse everyone. But remembering that all apprentice butlers faced the same trials on their path to becoming official butlers, he'd settled down. The enthusiastic Zebro had reassured him after successfully pushing open the first trial gate. The youth took a deep breath, cut his long hair, and accepted his new reality.
Not for anything else. Just to someday land a punch on that hateful glasses man's face. To prove he could do it too.
That man was Gotoh.
At 4:05 AM, Kastro climbed from bed and started morning practice. From 4:00 to 4:30 was the only time he could freely control each day. He spent it running to the trial gate, throwing tiger bite fists, then chatting idly with Zebro to maintain what little remained of his sense of security.
Inside the Zoldyck gates, danger lurked around every corner. A casually jumping dog released wind pressure strong enough to knock him over. Hearing Mike's roar sent shivers down his spine.
"Ho ho, you'll get used to it," Zebro smiled, handing him water. The old man was warm-hearted—originally the one who'd helped Gon's group. After two months of contact, he'd come to appreciate this diligent young man. Clear butler material.
"Thank you." Kastro finished his punching drills and raised the water to his mouth. Suddenly, familiar footsteps approached. He looked up to see a youth with short, jet-black hair running down the mountain. The young man hurried over and bowed. "Good morning."
Last night, after finishing blade practice, Roy had eaten stewed pig's knuckles with Sakonji Urokodaki and slept comfortably. He'd passed through the cognitive world and returned to reality. He didn't linger in bed—instead, he washed up immediately for his morning run. Five kilometers later, he arrived without a bead of sweat.
Roy removed his hat and nodded respectfully to Zebro, then smiled at Kastro. "Still getting used to it?"
Kastro stood at attention. "Rest assured, young master. I can hold on."
Roy patted his shoulder. "Good." He approached the trial gate and stood before it.
Zebro wondered if he should open it. He hadn't seen Gotoh yet, so he rolled up his sleeves.
Roy simply looked up at the fourth trial gate and pressed his hand against the stone.
Zebro stopped. Kastro sensed something and turned to look.
A tremendous rumble shattered the silence. The thirty-two-ton gate swung wide open. Roy stood bathed in morning glow, brushing dust from his hands with effortless ease.