Silence.
Dead, heavy silence.
Ryousuke didn't know whether to be angry or laugh. He knew exactly what Giyu was trying to say: "Your swordsmanship is so exquisite it surpasses my understanding; I couldn't find a way to break it. You're amazing!" But coming out of Giyu's mouth, it sounded like he was accusing Ryousuke of winning by a fluke.
"Hahahahahaha—!!"
Sabito clutched his stomach, doubling over. "Gi—Giyu... next time, it's probably better if you just... don't think at all."
Giyu's small head was filled with a large amount of confusion.
Everyone is laughing...
That means I said the right thing this time.
I definitely wasn't disliked.
Giyu mentally gave himself a thumbs-up.
"Giyu!" Makomo stomped her foot, her face turning mock-stern as she pointed a finger at his nose. "I hate you the most!"
Giyu froze as if a bolt of white lightning had pierced his brain. He turned his head slowly, his expression more serious than ever.
"No." His tone was ironclad, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. "I am not hated."
"..."
Faced with that deadpan, utterly sincere rebuttal, Makomo lost all her momentum. Ryousuke and Moriyama watched from the side, their shoulders shaking violently as they fought a desperate, losing battle against their own laughter.
Makomo let out a long, weary sigh, deciding to let her one-track-mind senior off the hook for now. She turned to Ryousuke, her face instantly brightening into a sunny smile as she gave a polite bow.
"Hello, Yasui-san! I'm Makomo! One of Master Urokodaki's disciples!"
Ryousuke composed himself and returned the nod warmly. "Hello, Makomo. I'm Yasui Ryousuke."
Makomo then remembered her mission and turned to the boys. "Master is waiting for you in the house."
Sabito and Giyu immediately straightened up. Ryousuke and Moriyama exchanged a look and followed them toward the shack.
The wooden house at Mt. Sagiri was simple and spotless, smelling faintly of cedar and medicinal herbs. Pushing open the sliding door, they found Sakonji Urokodaki kneeling by a low table, focused on pouring tea. He wore his iconic red Tengu mask, hiding any expression.
Hearing footsteps, Urokodaki looked up. His gaze bypassed his own disciples and landed squarely on Ryousuke.
"You..." His voice was deep and steady. "Are the Yasui Ryousuke from Momoyama?"
Ryousuke bowed slightly. "Yes, Master Urokodaki. I am Ryousuke, disciple of Jigoro Kuwajima."
"Gramps—I mean, Master Jigoro—is always concerned about you. He says the mist of Mt. Sagiri is good for the soul, and he hopes you're looking after your health." Ryousuke paused, adding a bit of social padding: "I was passing through on a mission, and Moriyama was kind enough to invite me to stay."
Urokodaki's hand paused mid-pour. He let out a soft, dry chuckle.
"Jigoro is concerned?" He set the teapot down and pushed a cup of clear tea toward Ryousuke. "That doesn't sound like that hot-tempered old man at all. It sounds more like polite words you've invented on his behalf."
Ryousuke smiled candidly, not denying it. "Nothing gets past you, Master. It's my interpretation of his feelings. He doesn't say it out loud, but he remembers the bond between Mt. Sagiri and Momoyama."
"Mmm," Urokodaki hummed. He turned to the waiting Sabito and Giyu. "How was the flow of power against the boulders today? Have you found the balance between the flexibility of the stream and the sharpness of the strike?"
Sabito immediately bowed, giving a detailed report on his progress and the obstacles he hit. Giyu was brief, adding only a few key technical points. Urokodaki listened intently, offering sharp, targeted advice.
Watching them, Ryousuke noted the difference in teaching. Where Jigoro emphasized explosive power and pushing the body to its breaking point like a lightning strike, Urokodaki focused on long-form breathing, continuous force, and sensing the environment. It was like a mountain stream—seemingly soft, but possessing an unyielding, relentless power.
As the lessons concluded and the boys went back to their chores, the room fell quiet. Ryousuke set down his cup and spoke up.
"Master Urokodaki, the atmosphere here is very different from Momoyama. If it wouldn't be an imposition, I'd like to stay for a while to refine my own breathing style."
Urokodaki looked up. "It is a simple life here. If you don't mind the austerity, you are welcome to stay."
"Thank you, Master!"
In the days that followed, Ryousuke integrated into the grueling yet peaceful rhythm of Mt. Sagiri. He didn't neglect his Thunder Breathing, practicing his explosive dashes on the misty cliffs. A man can't just be explosive; he needs to be durable!
The rest of his time was dedicated to Total Concentration: Constant.
With his liver no longer failing, the physical burden was gone, and his progress was twice as fast. At night, he would sit cross-legged in front of the shack, trying to carry the breathing rhythm into his sleep.
This was the hardest part. The moment the mind relaxes or falls into deep sleep, the rhythm breaks. Several times, Ryousuke woke up gasping because his breath had shifted back to normal.
"Still not working..." Late one night, Ryousuke woke up from another failure and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
The sliding door opened softly. Urokodaki walked in without a sound and sat on a cushion opposite him.
"Agitated?"
Ryousuke sighed. "Forgive me, Master. The moment I fall asleep, my body loses control. Trying to force it feels like my instincts are fighting against me."
"Fighting against you?" Urokodaki shook his head. "You have the wrong perspective, Ryousuke."
Ryousuke looked up, confused.
"Breathing isn't a technique you impose on your body," Urokodaki explained softly. "It is your body's instinct. Like a heartbeat. Like the flow of blood. Constant is not about how hard you work to maintain it while awake; it is about making it so natural that it becomes a part of your very existence."
He leaned forward slightly. "When you are awake, it is the antenna through which you perceive the world. When you sleep, it is the bed in which your life flows. You do not drive the breath. You are the breath."