Although their faces were not clearly visible, whether it was their physique or the contours of their faces, the two men possessed a striking resemblance. They looked like brothers bound by blood. From Natsunishi's perspective, the only differences were their hairstyles and clothing.
The black-haired youth in purple moved with a sword style that was sharp and nearly flawless. Even Natsunishi, who had undergone a thousand refinements, could find no fault in it. He moved like a precision surgical instrument—cool, calm, and efficient.
The black-haired youth in dark red, meanwhile, was the same individual who had previously assisted the first generation of Hashira in deriving the five basic breathing styles. Compared to "Little Purple," his swordsmanship seemed more like a creation of nature itself. Natsunishi pondered for a moment before finding an apt description:
Sunlight.
Like the lazy warmth of a winter afternoon, it was inclusive and natural, pouring itself into the cruel moonlight carved out by the youth in purple. While it was difficult to judge whose swordsmanship was technically superior, judging by their bearing as they exchanged blows, Natsunishi's intuition told him that "Little Red" held the upper hand.
They were clearly engaged in a discussion about breathing styles, yet at some point, Little Purple's aura seemed to shift. He locked onto Little Red with absolute focus. What started as practice swings gradually took on an aggressive, sharp edge, as if he were competing or testing his limits. Even as a spectator, Natsunishi could hear the silent words carried by the wind of the purple youth's blade:
"How is this move? Can it... surpass you?"
Across from him, Little Red acted as if he were completely oblivious to the other's emotions. He was entirely immersed in the rhythm of their "dance." Facing increasingly dangerous sword forms, he simply parried and adjusted with natural ease. On one hand, he guided the other to exert force more fluidly; on the other, he shared the joy found within his own blade.
His aura remained as clear as ever, like the warm sun under a clear sky or the vastness where the sea meets the horizon. In terms of attitude, Little Red was visibly more patient and gentle toward Little Purple than he had been with the previous five swordsmen.
The purple youth, however, did not seem to appreciate the gesture. Not only did he resist practicing the breathing method exactly as taught, but he repeatedly launched fierce attacks with his sword techniques, attempting to gain the advantage. Yet, Little Red neutralized them all with effortless movements.
Are they actual brothers?
Natsunishi began to doubt his previous assessment. It felt more like that "twisted" feeling of being worried for a brother's hardships while simultaneously being resentful of his success. No, it seemed even more complex than that. Moreover, the gap between the two became increasingly apparent as they fought. Every strike from Little Purple was like a desperate climb toward a summit, while Little Red seemed to be opening a garden gate, inviting the other to stroll with him.
Natsunishi mused. This sense of disparity was likely part of what made Little Purple so furious.
But ultimately, Little Purple succeeded in cultivating his own breathing style. Even though he was loath to do so, he never mastered the other's specific breathing method. Instead, through their practice sessions, his own style gradually branched off. Little Purple's sword momentum transformed under extreme pressure and resentment; a cold, elegant, and tragic mood—steeped in obsession—was born. It bloomed in the night like frigid moonlight.
Moon Breathing.
The name flashed through Natsunishi's mind. It was powerful. Even without seeing specific data, one could sense that it was a breathing style on the same level as the five foundational branches. Perhaps due to a lack of control at the moment of the style's birth, or perhaps because Little Purple had grown arrogant, the sword form he swung suddenly became incredibly dangerous.
First Form: Dark Moon, Evening Palace.
It had crossed the line of a practice duel. Furthermore, he was wielding a sharpened Nichirin Sword.
However, in the next second, the cold moonlight was quietly enveloped and melted by the warm sunlight. Little Red easily neutralized the attack. Rather than being angry, he showed sincere, heartfelt joy for the other for creating a new breathing style. This left the purple-clad youth silent for a moment. In the end, he merely darkened his expression, gave a cold snort, and was the first to depart.
The vision receded like a tide.
Natsunishi snapped back to reality, finding himself still sitting in the same spot, though fine beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead. Those final strikes from both of them were incredibly powerful! Although Little Purple seemed to be a considerable distance behind Little Red, it didn't mean he was weak. Forget the current Natsunishi—even if one compared him to a powerhouse like Juro with a 450+ energy level, Juro would likely fall short of Little Purple. Natsunishi still had that much discernment.
The cutscene couldn't be watched again, but Natsunishi noticed a new system notification pop up.
[Special CG Completed]
[Gained Special Concept: Essence of the Primordial Breathing Style]
[This item cannot be used directly. It can be invested as a material during the comprehension of breathing styles to significantly improve the quality and completion of the created style.]
The hidden rewards were coming one after another. This felt good.
As the night grew thick in a certain part of Tokyo, a frail young girl was running for her life through an unnamed alleyway.
Nobuko had gone to a nearby pharmacy to "acquire" some Western medicine that had just arrived in Tokyo for her bedridden friend. Before dawn, warehouse guards were usually at their most lax. As long as too many expensive herbs didn't go missing, the loss of a small amount wouldn't be noticed immediately.
That was Nobuko's plan, but she never expected to run into a legendary "monster" on this trip. While navigating the backstreets, she caught sight of a strange man hunched over, devouring a human body. Even without seeing the specific details in the dark, the thick scent of blood and the sickening sound of flesh being chewed made her turn and flee without hesitation. This was the instinct she had honed after years of surviving on the streets: avoid danger at all costs to stay alive.
The demon seemed to have noticed her. He casually threw a small, hard object that struck her in the center of her back. Nobuko stumbled but continued to run. It hurt, but she could still move. The moment she burst out of the alley, she collided with several pedestrians.
"Watch where you're going!"
"I'm sorry! Run!"
The man who had been knocked to the ground grumbled as he grabbed his companion's hand to stand up. Anyone would be annoyed at being knocked over by a sudden ruffian of a girl in the middle of the night, especially with a friend watching. He was bound to be teased for this.
But then he realized that the hand he was holding—his companion's hand—felt strange. It was twitching, as if he were having a seizure.
"Kenta, did you drink too much? You can't even hold your hand steady—"
He looked up. His companion was still standing in front of him, frozen in a posture of reaching out to help. But his companion's head was being gripped tightly by a massive, deformed, grey-blue hand protruding from the shadows of the alley. Rough fingers covered almost the entire face. His companion's head had already been twisted and crushed out of shape, and only the limbs were still twitching unconsciously.
"AAAAAHHH!"
When his companion's brain matter and scalp splattered into his open mouth, the man finally let out a blood-curdling scream and scrambled backward in a desperate attempt to flee.
"My dinner was interrupted..." the demon muttered impatiently.
His left arm transformed into a black-and-red whip of flesh, which violently plunged into the corpse's mouth to dissolve and consume it. He then tossed the shriveled remains aside like trash.
"Ordinary meat again. Tastes like nothing."
He looked up at the man who had already run a distance away, and then vanished from the spot.
The man, terrified out of his wits, bolted through the streets. As he rounded a corner, he slammed unexpectedly into a hard "wall."
Pain! When did a wall get built here?!
Clutching his nose, the man looked up. What met his eyes was the demon's muscular, bulging chest and the un-wiped blood at the corners of its mouth. Bits of his companion's flesh still clung to its teeth.
The man's legs turned to jelly, and he collapsed to the ground. This monster... wasn't it behind me?! When did it... get around to the front?!
"Let's see how your meat tastes."
The demon reached out its hand.
A moment later, it wiped the remnants of flesh from its lips. Its gaze drifted into the distance.
That woman... she's managed to run this far?
In the next second, its figure vanished again, as if it had never existed.
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