Watching three teenagers try to blow up ceramic gourds with their lungs was arguably the most ridiculous thing I had witnessed since my transmigration.
I sat on the edge of the shaded wooden porch of the Butterfly Mansion, a massive bowl of heavily salted rice in my lap, watching the circus unfold in the sunlit courtyard.
“Total Concentration: Constant.” That was the goal.
The Insect Hashira’s rehabilitation program was essentially a torture camp designed to force the body to maintain the magical breathing techniques twenty-four hours a day, even while asleep.
To me, it looked like a fantastic way to give yourself a synchronized aneurysm.
“I CAN’T DO IT!” Zenitsu shrieked, throwing his ceramic gourd onto the grass.
He fell to his knees, clutching his incredibly yellow hair.
“My lungs are going to explode!
Aoi keeps hitting me with bamboo sticks!
Kanao keeps splashing me with that disgusting medicinal water!
This isn’t training, it’s an execution!
I want to go home!” “Stop whining, Monitsu!” bellowed a voice that sounded like it belonged to a rabid animal.
Charging across the courtyard was a boy wearing no shirt, baggy hakama pants, and a hollowed-out boar’s head as a mask.
Hashibira Inosuke.
He was dual-wielding two jagged, chipped Nichirin swords, swinging them wildly at the air.
He possessed an absurd amount of raw, feral flexibility, but his footwork was a chaotic mess of wasted momentum.
“I am the King of the Mountains!” Inosuke roared, grabbing his own ceramic gourd and blowing into it so hard the veins on his neck bulged against the rim of the boar mask.
The gourd groaned, squeaked, and then popped with a pathetic crackle.
“Ha!
See that, Kentaro?!
I destroyed it!” “That’s amazing, Inosuke!” Tanjiro gasped from a few feet away.
The protagonist was currently doing one-handed push-ups with three massive boulders strapped to his back, his face bright red as he forced air through his teeth in a continuous, rhythmic hiss.
“But the goal is to blow into it until it explodes from the air pressure, not crush it with your hands!” Inosuke froze, looking down at the crushed shards of pottery in his fists.
“I MEANT TO DO THAT!
FIGHT ME!” I took another bite of rice, chewing mechanically.
If this were the East Blue, I would have dragged all three of them to the bottom of the ocean, tied anvils to their ankles, and told them to swim up.
That was how you built lung capacity.
But this world operated on its own bizarre set of magical, elemental rules.
They were unlocking physical parameters by oxidizing their blood, while I was sitting on the sidelines, completely locked out of the magic system.
I set my empty bowl down and picked up my shotgun.
I couldn’t blow up gourds.
But I could practice my quick-draw.
I cracked the barrels open, ejecting two empty brass shells, and seamlessly loaded two live ones from my bandolier in a smooth, blurred motion.
Shuck-clack.
The heavy, metallic sound cut through the noise of the courtyard.
Inosuke’s boar head snapped in my direction.
Even without seeing his eyes, I could feel the aggressive, hyper-competitive radar locking onto me.
“You!” Inosuke pointed a jagged sword at me.
“Half-hawk!
You’ve been sitting there all week, cleaning that weird metal stick and eating all the meat!
You fought the Hand Demon with Kentaro!
That means you’re strong!
Fight me!” Zenitsu stopped crying and peaked out from between his fingers.
“Don’t do it, Inosuke!
He has a gun!
He blew a hole in a demon lord!
He’s not a normal swordsman, he’s a maniac!” “I don’t care about a stupid metal tube!” Inosuke yelled, lowering his center of gravity.
He charged.
He was fast.
I’ll give the feral kid that.
He moved like a four-legged beast, completely ignoring traditional stances, aiming a low, sweeping cross-slash at my shins.
I didn’t draw my sword.
I didn’t stand up.
I just shifted my weight backward, letting my legs swing up.
Inosuke’s blades whistled through the empty space where my shins had been a fraction of a second before.
As he passed under me, carried entirely by his own reckless momentum, I brought the heavy oak stock of my shotgun down in a sharp, precise tap right between his shoulder blades.
It wasn’t a heavy hit, but it targeted the exact nexus of his center of gravity.
Inosuke face-planted into the dirt, sliding three feet before coming to a halt.
“You rely too much on forward momentum, bacon,” I said deadpan, returning my feet to the porch.
“If your opponent doesn’t block, you have no way to arrest your own charge.
Work on your brakes.” Inosuke scrambled to his feet, dirt covering his boar snout, practically vibrating with rage.
“I WAS JUST WARMING UP!
I’LL BITE YOUR ANKLES OFF!” “Inosuke, leave him alone!” Tanjiro called out, dropping the boulders and jogging over, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He looked at me, offering a tired but earnest smile.
“Sorry about him, Genya.
But you’re right.
Your efficiency of movement is incredible.
I’ve been trying to visualize your footwork during my constant breathing exercises.” “Don’t copy me,” I grunted, standing up and sliding the shotgun into its hip holster.
“My style is built for this specific body’s limitations.
You have the magic air.
Use it.” [Notice: The Will of the World approves of this minor protagonist-mentor interaction.
No purge protocols initiated.] I ignored the invisible System prompt.
Over the last two weeks, I had managed to strike a fragile equilibrium with the Will of the World.
As long as I didn’t actively try to derail Tanjiro’s growth or openly declare war on the Hashira, the universe tolerated my existence.
“Genya!” A harsh, grating squawk interrupted the afternoon training.
A massive Kasugai crow plummeted from the sky, landing heavily on the porch railing next to me.
“Caw!
Roronoa Genya!
Your recovery period is over!
Caw!” the crow shrieked, aggressively flapping its wings.
“Mission!
Head East!
A mountain village reports a sudden spike in disappearances!
Suspected Demon activity!
Go!
Go!” I reached out and flicked the crow right on the beak.
It squawked indignantly and hopped backward.
“Keep your voice down, dinner,” I muttered.
I turned and walked back into the ward to gather my meager belongings.
There wasn’t much to pack.
Four extra boxes of sunlight-absorbing buckshot, a whetstone, a few fresh bandages, and my dark purple Slayer uniform.
I tied the moss-green katana securely to my left hip and checked the bandolier across my chest.
When I walked back out to the courtyard, the three of them had stopped training entirely.
Tanjiro stood by the gate, his hands resting on his hips.
Zenitsu was hiding behind him, looking terrified at the mere mention of a demon mission.
Inosuke was currently headbutting a tree out of sheer frustration.
“You’re leaving?” Tanjiro asked.
“Demons don’t wait for you to finish your breathing exercises, Kamado,” I said, walking past him toward the heavy wooden gates of the Butterfly Mansion.
“Be careful out there, Genya,” Tanjiro said, his voice completely devoid of the usual bravado most Slayers forced themselves to project.
It was just genuine, annoying empathy.
“The demons are getting stronger.
I can smell the shift in the air.” I stopped at the gate.
I didn’t look back at him.
“Let them get stronger,” I replied, resting my left hand on the green hilt of my sword.
“It just means I don’t have to hold back.” I walked out of the estate and turned East.
The path to the Resurrection Protocol was paved with ash, and my Iron Stomach was finally hungry again.