Gojo recalled from memory that when using Limitless, the true Gojo Satoru allowed air—specifically, only the air close to his body—to pass through the barrier so he could breathe. The Limitless had the capacity to accept or reject the entry of certain objects entirely at the user's will. That's the key, he realized. Control.
And that was exactly what Gojo planned to achieve. He needed to master the Limitless to the point where only air could reach him, preventing suffocation. Until he achieved that level of control, he wouldn't even dream of touching the advanced techniques—Blue, let alone Red or Purple. Those were still far beyond his reach.
With renewed determination, Gojo focused on the invisible space surrounding him. He tried to lessen the intensity of the Limitless barrier, adjusting its density just enough to let the smallest air particles slip through. Yet, the moment he made the attempt, the entire barrier flickered—and vanished completely. The field collapsed, leaving him unprotected.
He gritted his teeth, refusing to give up. With calm precision, he reactivated the Limitless, feeling the distortion of space form around his body once again. Then, once more, he tried to fine-tune it. But it failed. Again and again, the barrier either broke apart or sealed itself off completely. Still, every failure sharpened his control a little more. It's not a total loss, he thought, panting slightly. Even if I can't let air in yet, I'm starting to feel how the flow of space bends.
Half an hour passed. His head began to throb, his vision blurring from overusing the Six Eyes. The strain was intense—every nerve behind his eyes burned, and his body trembled from exhaustion. His stamina was almost gone, drained completely from the repeated activation of Limitless. Finally, Gojo let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He reached for the blindfold and tied it back around his face, cutting off the overwhelming perception of the world.
Completely drained, he sank to the floor where he'd been training, his back resting against the wall. For nearly half an hour, he didn't move—just sat there, breathing steadily as his body recovered. When his strength returned, at least a little, he dragged himself to the kitchen and began preparing dinner.
As usual, it was simple—rice and meat. The aroma filled the small home as he ate quietly, his body still aching but his mind steady. Once finished, he cleaned up and went straight to bed. Within half an hour, Gojo drifted into sleep again, his blindfold still covering his eyes.
The routine Gojo followed on that first day soon became his daily pattern. Every morning, every meal, every hour of training—he repeated it with near mechanical precision. Each day was an exact copy of the last, and yet, with every repetition, he could feel the difference. His strength was steadily rising, his movements growing sharper, his body adjusting to the constant strain. His swordsmanship, too, became smoother and more refined, the once-clumsy motions evolving into something disciplined and deliberate.
By the fifth day, Gojo could flawlessly replicate every movement of Yamashiro's basic sword forms. Each swing, step, and turn carried perfect balance and rhythm. It was clear—Gojo had completely mastered the fundamentals of swordsmanship. But he didn't announce it to anyone at the dojo.
Yamashiro, who had been quietly observing him from a distance, had already predicted that Gojo would master the basics within ten days of joining. If that happened, he would set a record for the fastest mastery in the dojo's history. The previous record belonged to a swordsman who had taken two months—and that same man now held a high-ranking position in the Frost Kingdom's army. It was something worth boasting about.
But Gojo didn't care for fame or recognition. Fame attracts eyes—and eyes bring trouble, he thought. If he wanted attention, he could easily have declared his mastery on the fifth day and astonished everyone. Instead, he chose patience.
From that point on, Gojo began refining the basics into something of his own. He didn't seek overwhelming power. His path was one of precision and speed—cutting exactly where and when it mattered, wasting no motion, no strength. His sword would not crush; it would pierce through with flawless timing. Every night, behind the blindfold, his focus sharpened as he repeated the same forms again and again, adjusting his stance by a fraction, perfecting the flow.
One evening, curious about Yamashiro's estimation, he had casually asked, "How long do you think it'll take me to master the basics?" Yamashiro had smiled faintly, replying, "Ten days, if you keep going like this."
Gojo remembered that number clearly. Ten days, he thought. Fine. Then on the tenth day, I'll show them. Once he proved his mastery, he'd finally be eligible to spar against other disciples—a step that would sharpen not only his technique but also his combat instincts. And that, more than any record or praise, was exactly what he needed.
On the tenth day, Gojo approached Yamashiro with calm confidence. "Yamashiro," he said evenly, his blindfold still covering his eyes, "I've reached mastery in basic swordsmanship. I believe I'm ready for your test."
Yamashiro raised an eyebrow, momentarily caught off guard. So my guess was right after all, he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Very well," he said aloud. "Follow me to the training field. We'll see if your words hold true."
Gojo silently followed. The two of them walked across the quiet courtyard until they reached the open training field. The sun hung high above, light glinting faintly off the wooden swords stacked nearby. Gojo already had his own weapon in hand. He stepped forward, feet sliding into a stable stance, and lifted his sword. "I'm ready," he said. "You can begin whenever you wish."
Yamashiro nodded, folding his arms behind his back. Then, in a firm, commanding tone, he began to call out, "Horizontal slash! Upward slash! Downward slash! Diagonal left! Diagonal right! Upward diagonal! Downward diagonal! Horizontal again!"
Each order came sharp and quick, like the crack of a whip. Gojo responded with perfect precision. His movements flowed together seamlessly—each stance blending into the next with fluid grace. His wooden blade cut through the air with clean, controlled swishes, every strike measured, balanced, and exact. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion.
As Yamashiro watched, his expression slowly changed. What he was seeing wasn't just mastery—it was refinement beyond his own. The precision, the timing, even the subtle control of footwork—it all surpassed his expectations. He's already outpaced me in the basics, Yamashiro realized, a quiet shock settling in his chest. But he didn't voice it. Praising him too early might make the boy complacent.
When the final stance ended, Yamashiro gave a curt nod. "You've mastered the basic swordsmanship. Congratulations," he said, his tone steady but warm. "From today onward, you're eligible to challenge the other disciples in friendly spars. It's time you hone your combat skills."
Gojo, who had been waiting precisely for this moment, lowered his sword slightly and nodded. "Then it would be good," he said calmly, "if you could provide me—or suggest—an opponent."
"Of course," Yamashiro replied, his smile faint but approving. "Come with me back to the dojo. This field is for practice—the sparring is done inside."
Gojo gave a short nod and followed his teacher once again, the wooden sword still in hand, his steps quiet and steady beneath the dimming afternoon light.
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