There had been a small commotion, but the Butterfly Mansion's nights remained as peaceful and unhurried as ever. After being thoroughly lectured, Zenitsu gave up his hopeless fantasy.
It had only been an impulse—a child's momentary overreach. Once Shinobu and Inori left, he sat alone with a few rice balls and settled in to sleep.
He'd been unconscious for three days, so sleep was nowhere to be found. He thought for a long time.
Staying at the Butterfly Mansion: impossible.
Jii-chan would be heartbroken.
He wanted Jii-chan to be proud. He wanted to be the kind of man who could make him proud. He wanted to come back someday—after everything, after all the hardship—to stand with his head held high and tell others that his teacher was Jigoro Kuwajima, and watch Jii-chan's face light up with the pride of a teacher whose faith had been vindicated.
This time, when I go back, I'll really start training. I need to learn Thunder Breathing First Form: Thunderclap and Flash properly—I've been feeling like I'm almost there. With enough practice I can get it.
But then another thought surfaced. Another person's face.
His senior disciple brother, Kaigaku.
Kaigaku was older, better in every way—gifted, disciplined, everything Zenitsu wasn't. Zenitsu genuinely respected him, looked up to him as a model and a goal. But Kaigaku had made a hobby of bullying him, and was always urging Jii-chan to expel his useless junior.
The person Shinobu had mentioned—the disciple coming to collect him—that was almost certainly Kaigaku. Zenitsu could already imagine the mockery waiting for him on the road home. His spirit was fragile. The brutal training and a senior with no kindness in him—these were the two things standing between him and the Final Selection.
What was he supposed to do?
...
...
The following morning.
Inori rose early as usual, using the faint gray light of dawn to straighten the streamers of Nameless Monster, then pulled on the black kimono Kanae Kocho had given her. The routine had long since become habit—tedious at first, but unavoidable. Never mind whether others might take her for a yokai—she couldn't stand the indecent outfit herself, and there was every chance they'd mistake her for some kind of female deviant, an exhibitionist on the loose.
The night she'd first arrived, there had been no choice. But from here on—never again.
So no matter how much of a chore it was, Inori dressed properly every morning without fail.
Washed and tidied, hair gathered into a loose braid over one shoulder, she slid open the door and stepped out into the pale morning light. Around seven, by the look of the sky. The small courtyard before her glittered with clean early sun.
Someone was already there.
She wore a worn but carefully laundered training uniform—the wide sleeves rolled up high, pressed tight against her petite frame, making her look almost miniature in it. Her hair was up in a high ponytail. Her gaze was focused and steady.
Kanao.
She was running through sword swings. Raise the blade overhead, bring it down, raise it again—back and forth, an endless repetition that looked simple at a glance. But this was the drill that every swordsman had to commit to daily, year after year, without exception.
Watching Kanao's unbroken focus, a strange passage drifted through Inori's mind:
In his youth, Isshin Ashina was known to the world as the Sword Demon. He fought to the death every single day, hacking away like a man possessed—his mind revolving around only two questions: how to cut, and how to kill. It was in the depths of that obsession that a stroke of divine inspiration would have already been unleashed.
—Something from one of those Japanese-style games, I think. Anyway—never underestimate a simple sword swing.
"Kanao, do you want to come for breakfast?"
Inori stretched her arms and called out.
"..."
The girl paused just long enough to catch her breath. She glanced up, blinked those clear, expressive eyes—said nothing, and went back to swinging.
—"Inori-nee~ I... I want to practice a little longer~"
Oh? Such a diligent girl, Kanao-chan~
Inori smiled to herself, thoroughly enjoying the pleasant daydream.
She gazed at the girl absorbed in her training. A breeze carrying some nameless fragrance drifted across her face, and the small bamboo grove at the back of the yard swayed gently like water-grass. A perfect beginning to a beautiful day.
Through these weeks together she'd come to understand Kanao well enough. She was a girl of few words—would go silent before she'd bother to speak. But that wasn't coldness. Inori had noticed that Kanao used to practice out in the larger main courtyard, but had recently taken to training in this small yard right in front of Inori's quarters.
The intent was obvious enough. What other reason could there be?
Staying quiet suits her. Too many words ruins the mystique—like a certain someone who can't keep her mouth shut.
"I'll bring some by for you, then."
Still no answer—just the sword.
Inori was already humming a quick-tempo tune to herself as she headed for the courtyard gate, when she heard it—a sound so small a human being would have missed it entirely. Something like a foot shifting on stone. Behind that tree over there, something was lurking.
"Who's there?"
A sharp, flat challenge.
This annexe sat behind Kanae's and Shinobu's quarters. No Corps member had reason to wander this far, much less hide behind a tree lurking like some kind of peeping tom while a young girl practiced her sword.
"S-sorry!"
A familiar, instantly recognizable shade of amber-gold.
Zenitsu stepped out from behind the trunk, head down, clutching the hem of his shirt—still in his patient's white, a few stray leaves clinging to him. No telling how long he'd been standing there.
"Onee-san, I wasn't trying to spy... I just couldn't sleep and came out for a walk, but I got lost. Then I heard someone training and came to look."
As he explained, his eyes kept drifting toward Kanao.
"Sure. I believe you."
"Wandering at this hour, and you happen to end up right in front of my room—and you just happen to run into our little Kanao-chan mid-training~"
She was smiling, her tone held nothing sharp, and yet—for some reason Zenitsu's instincts were screaming. He liked Inori. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met. But being too close to her felt dangerous, and that ghost-prank was something he'd never forget as long as he lived.
"I—okay, fine, Inori-nee. I came out to look for more cute girls. But I swear I didn't know this was your room! If I'd known, I'd have gone all the way around!"
"?" Inori's pink brow furrowed slightly. "You say that like I'm some kind of ogre."
"No! That's not what I meant!" Zenitsu rushed to clarify. "The thing is, I stopped because she seemed so cute, but she..."
"She what?"
Inori's patience was thinning.
"She's been out here since before dawn and she's already swung that thing over three hundred times! How are her arms not dead?! I'd have given out after a hundred!"
He rubbed both arms with an expression of exaggerated agony, clearly reliving painful training memories.
—He thought back to certain very unpleasant mornings at practice.
He'd assumed the Butterfly Mansion was a purely medical facility, no real fighting strength to speak of. He hadn't expected to find a girl around his own age who could put in three hundred sword swings without a break.
"How is this girl so incredible?! I—I wish I could be as strong as her."