Chapter 4: Mist, Muscle, and Memory
The days blurred together.
Every morning, Tanjiro awoke before the sun. He rolled out of bed with aching limbs, scarfed down a rice ball, and met the cold with resolve. His daily opponent? The same boulder.
He had named it Shirōmaru. Out of respect.
"You're stubborn," he grunted, pushing his shoulder into the rock. "But I'm more stubborn."
Some days, it moved an inch. Some days, he collapsed halfway. On one occasion, it rolled downhill, nearly flattening him.
"Training is going well," Urokodaki said dryly from the porch, sipping tea. "You only screamed twice today."
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When not boulder-wrestling, Tanjiro trained his reflexes, balance, and speed.
He ran across wooden planks suspended by ropes. He dodged traps rigged with bamboo spears and swinging logs. One night, he found himself hanging upside down by a foot from a tree, blinking at a squirrel that dropped a nut on his head.
"I deserved that," he muttered.
Urokodaki never complimented. But he always watched.
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One Morning, Weeks In…
Tanjiro stood in the misty clearing, catching his breath after sprinting laps up the mountain.
Urokodaki approached with something wrapped in cloth. He handed it over.
"A real sword?" Tanjiro asked, unwrapping it slowly.
"No. A practice katana. Oak-wood. Weighted to simulate a Nichirin blade. Try not to impale yourself."
Tanjiro bowed. "Thank you."
Urokodaki pointed at a nearby tree.
"Strike it."
Tanjiro nodded, drew the sword, and focused. Total Concentration—Water Breathing, First Form…
Nothing came out. He exhaled shakily.
"…I'll get there."
"You will," Urokodaki said.
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That Night…
Tanjiro sat by the stream, cooling his sore feet. Fireflies danced across the water. He closed his eyes and thought of his family.
Nezuko, arguing with Takeo over dumplings. Hanako braiding Shigeru's hair. His mother, humming while stirring soup.
He clenched his fists.
"I won't let them die this time."
The future was still in motion. He'd tipped the scales. Now he had to keep them from falling.
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Mini-Scene: "Inosuke Discovers Spoons"
Somewhere in a nearby town, Inosuke sat in a diner.
He stared down at a spoon.
"…What is this curved weapon?" he growled.
The waiter blinked. "That's a spoon, sir."
"I WILL USE IT TO EAT MY ENEMIES."
"No. It's for soup—"
Inosuke plunged it into his mouth like a sword. The spoon bent. He screamed. The soup spilled. A child across the room clapped.
Zenitsu, hiding behind a potted plant, sighed. "Why do I even go out with him?"
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Back on Mount Sagiri…
The next day brought a new challenge: sword drills.
Urokodaki stood with a wooden blade in hand. "Attack me."
Tanjiro blinked. "Really?"
"Yes. Try not to cry when I win."
Tanjiro rushed in, swinging. Urokodaki parried easily, countering with a sweep that sent Tanjiro flying face-first into a pile of snow.
"Again."
They repeated this for hours. Every failed strike sharpened Tanjiro's reflexes. Every knockdown steeled his resolve.
By sundown, Urokodaki lowered his blade.
"You're improving."
Tanjiro's jaw dropped. "Wait—was that… praise?"
"…You imagined it."
But beneath the mask, the former Hashira smiled slightly.
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That night, Tanjiro fell asleep with sore muscles, a bruised ego, and a hopeful heart.
He dreamed of his siblings cheering from the forest, his mother waving from the porch.
He would keep that dream alive.
No matter how hard the mountain tried to break him.
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