After Fujita lost, he still stood straight despite the weight of defeat pressing on his chest. Though unwilling, he bowed respectfully, saluting Gojo before bending to pick up his fallen wooden sword. His movements were stiff but dignified.
Gojo tilted his head slightly and said, "Will you spar with me again?"
Fujita blinked in surprise. His grip on the sword tightened as confusion flashed across his face. He had already been defeated twice—why would Gojo ask for another match?
Sensing his hesitation, Gojo spoke again, his tone calm but sincere. "You must be feeling unwilling after losing to me. You can try again if you want. To be honest, I also want to improve my swordsmanship. I made a few mistakes during our second spar. I could have ended it within three moves, but it took me more than that. So I'm also… unwilling." He paused for a breath before continuing. "I'm sorry if my words sound offensive, but that's how I feel. I want to defeat you as quickly as possible. Only then will I move on to an opponent stronger than you."
A faint murmur spread among the students watching. Gojo's words were blunt—humiliating even—but his honesty was undeniable. Fujita's pride ached, yet beneath that sting was a strange sense of respect. He's not mocking me, he realized. He's just driven… completely focused.
"Very well," Fujita said quietly, adjusting his stance once again. "Let's continue."
And so they did. Gojo and Fujita fought three more rounds. The wooden swords struck and clashed, their rhythm echoing sharply through the dojo. With each round, the blindfolded boy's movements grew sharper, cleaner, more fluid—his footwork more precise, his strikes more decisive.
By the third round, Gojo ended the match within two moves—swift and absolute. The dojo fell silent. Every student could see it clearly now: Gojo's swordsmanship had evolved astonishingly in such a short time. The difference between his first battle with Fujita and his last was like night and day. His growth was not gradual—it was explosive.
After the final bout, Gojo lowered his sword and exhaled softly. Without saying much, he bowed to Fujita, then turned toward Yamashiro. "I need to talk to you about something important, if you have time."
Yamashiro nodded, curiosity flickering across his face. Together, they stepped out of the dojo and walked toward the training field. The air outside was cooler, carrying a faint scent of wood and dust. Few people were around, and they chose a quiet corner where their voices wouldn't reach anyone else.
Once they stopped, Gojo spoke in his usual calm tone. "From tomorrow onward, I plan to come to the dojo only for physical exercises. I won't be practicing swordsmanship with the other disciples anymore."
Yamashiro frowned slightly, confused. "What exactly happened? Today's fights were fruitful for you, weren't they? Battles like that will only refine your swordsmanship even more."
Gojo nodded. "You're absolutely right. Today's matches helped me refine my technique. And yes, from time to time I'll need combat practice with real opponents to test my swordsmanship. But…" He paused, tilting his head slightly, his blindfold concealing his eyes. "You must have noticed how quickly my swordsmanship progresses. That's what worries me. I don't want to attract attention from anyone. I came to this village to live quietly, away from eyes that might take an interest in me."
He folded his arms, speaking with measured calm. "When the Marine captain who saved me asked where I wanted to go, I requested a place where I could live peacefully—hunt, survive, and train at my own pace. That's why I came here. I've already learned the basics of swordsmanship from you and found the direction I want to pursue. From here on, I'll train on my own. But occasionally, when I need to test my progress, I'll come here to spar—with you only."
Gojo bowed slightly. "That's my request. I don't want to fight the others anymore. If you're willing, I can pay the full month's fee for just that privilege—to spar with you alone."
Yamashiro looked at the blindfolded boy standing before him, calm yet utterly resolute. The wind rustled softly between them, carrying the faint scent of pine and dust as silence stretched across the empty field.
"If you're comfortable, then we can spar here in the dojo," Gojo continued, his tone calm but firm. "If not, we can do it elsewhere. But it can only be you. And if one day I manage to defeat you, then my next challenge will be Master Kishimoto. Of course, that day is still far from now—but you understand what I mean."
Yamashiro's expression grew thoughtful. He understood perfectly well what Gojo was implying. Today, many had witnessed the boy's rapid improvement—an almost unbelievable leap in skill that unfolded within just five rounds of battle. Some might dismiss it as an exceptional day, a moment when mind and body aligned perfectly, allowing one's swordsmanship to soar. But if Gojo continued to display such growth publicly, whispers would soon spread. His name would echo across the village, then into nearby towns, and eventually reach the ears of those in the Frauce Kingdom's higher ranks—attention Gojo clearly wanted to avoid.
After a quiet moment, Yamashiro looked at him and said, "I can't make a decision on this matter myself. If you only wish to come for physical exercises and you're willing to pay the monthly dojo fee, then that's entirely up to you. No one here has the right to force you to train or to interfere with your routine. You may practice—or not practice—as you wish. That's how this dojo operates. But if you wish to pay that same fee specifically to spar only with me or with Master Kishimoto, then I'll need to ask his permission first."
Gojo nodded silently, his blindfold shifting slightly as he inclined his head. "That's fine. I'll wait."
Yamashiro gave a curt nod in return and left the training ground. Gojo remained still, standing quietly under the shade of a wooden pillar. The faint sound of practice swords clashing in the distance carried on the wind, blending with the occasional call of a bird. It's better this way, he thought. The less attention I draw, the longer I can stay unnoticed.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, Yamashiro returned, his expression softened by a faint smile. "Your request has been approved by Master Kishimoto," he announced.
Gojo bowed slightly. "Thank you. I'm truly grateful for this."
Gojo knew exactly what he was asking for, and it wasn't charity. Every swordsman wanted to test his edge, not serve as another's grindstone. But that was what he needed Yamashiro to be—a measure, a mirror, a rival he could use to sharpen himself. It was a bold thing to ask of a veteran, even a little insolent, but fairness mattered. He'd offered one month's full payment for each bout, with the promise to raise it once his own means allowed.
To others in the dojo, his refusal to spar with anyone else might have looked like arrogance. But Gojo knew better—it was practicality. With the clarity of the Six Eyes, no ordinary student could press him enough to improve. Only Yamashiro's sheer physical power could keep their matches from tipping too quickly in his favor. In technique, though… he felt the balance shifting. If we fought ten times, he thought, I'd win at least four.
And if he ever used his Devil Fruit powers, there would be no contest at all. Yamashiro wouldn't stand a chance.
With the matter settled and his request approved, Gojo turned toward the exit. His steps were steady, his blindfolded face serene. The late afternoon light filtered through the open doors of the dojo, casting long shadows across the wooden floor as Gojo silently walked away, heading back home.
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