Before long, the two arrived at a small wooden cabin perched on the mountaintop. Cold Cry was surprised to realize that the old man carrying him was far from ordinary.
He himself weighed over a hundred pounds, yet the old man had carried him up hundreds of stone steps while chatting and laughing the entire way.
Even after reaching the summit, the old man showed no signs of fatigue. His breathing remained steady, his pace unchanged. Even a strong, healthy young man would struggle to achieve such composure—let alone someone well past fifty.
Though shocked, Cold Cry felt a quiet sense of relief. It seemed he had truly found the right person.
By the time they arrived, night had already fallen.
The old man set him down, stepped into the cabin, and fumbled briefly before lighting an oil lamp. A warm glow pushed back the darkness, revealing a simple, almost barren room.
Cold Cry glanced around. The furnishings were crude—just a table, a few stools, and basic necessities. Nothing more.
Without ceremony, the old man opened a cupboard, brought out some flatbread and roasted rabbit meat—crispy on the outside, tender within—and placed them on the table. He poured a cup of water and set it in front of Cold Cry.
"It's late," the old man said gruffly. "Eat first. I'll treat your wounds after, then you'll rest."
Under the dim light, Cold Cry finally got a clear look at him.
The man wore a faded gray robe, his white hair unkempt. Deep wrinkles lined his face, and a long scar ran across his right cheek. Aside from his unusually sharp, piercing eyes, he looked like any other elderly mountain hermit.
"Are you my cultivator… Aoe Yanrobei?"
"Hmph. 'Cultivator,' is it?" the old man scoffed. "Just like Kochou said—rude and full of yourself. If she hadn't personally come up this mountain to beg me, I wouldn't take in a brat like you even if you grovelled."
So she really went that far…
Since he had confirmed the man's identity, Cold Cry said nothing more and focused on eating.
After a full day of walking—and a battle with a demon—his body was running on empty.
"For someone who uses a derivative of Water Breathing," the old man muttered, "to come here asking to learn from a Stone Breathing user… how absurd. Aside from that monk, Gyomei Himejima, no one's come here in years. Hmph. I hear he's a Hashira now… at least he turned out decent."
Cold Cry continued eating without responding.
Annoyed, Aoe Yanrobei flicked his chopsticks against Cold Cry's head.
"Oi! Are you deaf? When an elder speaks, you answer! No wonder Kochou said you lack manners."
Cold Cry winced, glaring up at him. "If you want to talk, then talk. Why hit me? And why would I care about winning that woman's favor?"
After a brief pause, he added more calmly, "Can someone who uses Water Breathing not learn Stone Breathing?"
The old man snorted, though a hint of approval flickered in his eyes.
"It's not that simple," he said, picking up a piece of meat. "The problem lies with the Demon Slayer Corps' structure itself. All Breathing Styles originate from one source."
Cold Cry nodded slightly. He already knew this much.
"The progenitor of all Breathing Styles is Yoriichi Tsugikuni, the creator of Sun Breathing. It was his techniques that allowed humanity to stand against demons and laid the foundation for the Demon Slayer Corps."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"After his death, Sun Breathing was lost. What remains today are its derivatives—the Five Main Breathing Styles: Water, Flame, Wind, Stone, and Thunder. From these, countless other styles have branched out."
Aoe Yanrobei glanced at him, slightly surprised, but said nothing.
Cold Cry continued, "Since they all originate from the same source, their end goal should be the same. Breathing Techniques are merely methods to enhance the body—raising physical performance temporarily."
He lifted his gaze.
"The reason trainees are assigned to cultivators of the same style is probably just to make learning easier… and to build foundational combat skills."
Aoe Yanrobei slowly nodded. "That's about right."
Encouraged, Cold Cry continued while eating.
"If Breathing is only a support, then true combat depends on physical conditioning, skill, and experience. You're known for producing exceptional fighters… which means your training methods must go beyond Breathing alone."
He met the old man's eyes directly.
"That's why I came to you."
Aoe Yanrobei froze for a moment.
…This brat…
He's not just arrogant—he sees straight to the core of things.
"Hmph," the old man grumbled, looking away. "No wonder girls don't like you."
This time, he had no comeback.
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
---
After dinner, Aoe Yanrobei had Cold Cry sit on a low stool and brought over a basin of hot water.
Carefully, he began removing the bandages.
But the moment he saw the boy's body—stitched together with black thread like a patched rag—his breath caught. His hands trembled slightly.
It had been years since he'd seen injuries this severe.
For a boy barely seventeen to still be alive in this condition… it was nothing short of a miracle.
Kochou had mentioned the severity of his injuries, asking him to come down the mountain to meet the boy. He had dismissed it at the time, assuming it was an exaggeration.
Clearly… he had been wrong.
To fight a demon in such a state—and survive long enough to be rescued—
The boy's willpower was monstrous.
"What's wrong, old man?" Cold Cry muttered weakly, forcing a smirk. "Don't tell me… you're scared?"
"Hmph. You're half-dead and still talking nonsense."
Suppressing his shock, Aoe Yanrobei carefully cleaned the wounds, applied herbal medicine, and rewrapped the bandages with practiced precision.
Once finished, he carried the basin of bloodied water outside.
When he returned, he extinguished the lamp.
"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Darkness filled the room, broken only by faint moonlight spilling through the window.
From the inner room came a brief rustling sound—then silence.
Everything grew still.
Lying on the bedding, surrounded by the faint scent of herbs, Cold Cry found it hard to believe he was still alive.
Slowly, he pulled a pendant from beneath his bandages.
Under the moonlight, it shimmered with a soft blue glow.
A surge of emotion welled up within him.
Tears slid silently down the corners of his eyes.
…Sister.
Wait for me.
I will come for you.