Chapter 153: Respective Growth
"A place for the heart to belong..."
Akira repeated the words in a low, murmuring voice. A fleeting spark of realization brushed against the edges of his consciousness, yet it slipped through his fingers before he could fully grasp it.
"Yes. From what I observe, it appears you have not yet found a sanctuary where your spirit can rest completely. A place that most ordinary people would simply call a home."
Gyomei offered a slow, deliberate nod, the heavy prayer beads in his massive hands clacking softly together.
Akira frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "How could that be? Everyone residing at the Butterfly Mansion, and my Master back on the mountain—I view every single one of them as my family. Isn't home supposed to be wherever your family is?"
Gyomei did not immediately refute the younger slayer's words. He merely tilted his head, his sightless eyes seeming to pierce right through Akira's defenses.
"I do not doubt that the residents of the Butterfly Mansion and Mr. Kuwajima are individuals you would gladly risk your life to protect. In your heart, you hold them as cherished and irreplaceable. However... uniquely, you do not view them as people you can lean upon."
The Stone Hashira's deep voice carried a steady, grounding weight. "Between true family members, the bond should not solely consist of a protector and the protected. It requires mutual reliance. A shared weight. You constantly strive to shoulder every ounce of danger and hardship entirely on your own, desperately trying to construct a perfectly stable, isolated little world for those you care about. Because of this heavy burden, your desire to accumulate strength has warped into an obsession. It is only because your mental fortitude is exceptionally mature that this drive hasn't devolved into outright fanaticism."
Gyomei paused, letting the quiet mountain breeze rustle the trees around them. "But regardless of the calm facade you present to the world, your heart is devoid of peace. That is a fact. In your mind, you are the unyielding pillar supporting everyone around you, and you gladly allow them to rely on you. Yet, you have never once considered viewing them as a harbor where you can retreat when you are battered and exhausted—a place to truly relax your body and mind."
"Perhaps, ever since the very first night you encountered a demon, your soul has never known true tranquility. To 'see' the world with your heart, you first require a heart that is completely still. Only then can you truly experience the flow of the world, integrate your being into it, and finally, perceive it with absolute clarity."
"Your current bottleneck in reaching the Transparent World likely stems directly from this inner turmoil."
Gyomei let out a soft breath, his massive shoulders lowering slightly. "Of course, this is merely my personal observation. I can only offer speculation regarding the root of your stagnation. Take my words as a reference. How you choose to walk the path ahead is a journey you must grope through, test, and ultimately decide for yourself."
Gyomei fell silent, leaving Akira standing rooted to the dirt, alone with his churning thoughts.
Although Akira wasn't entirely certain if the invisible wall trapping his progress truly originated from this emotional disconnect, he knew Gyomei's assessment carried a heavy, obvious truth. Ever since that fateful night he first crossed paths with a demon, and from the exact moment the memories of his past life had flooded his mind, true peace had been a foreign concept.
There were certainly fleeting moments of quiet joy. Sitting under Jigoro's strict but caring tutelage, or sharing warm, lingering afternoons with Kanae and the others. In those brief pockets of time, his mind felt at ease. But the instant the shadow of the demons crept back into his thoughts, that fragile tranquility shattered into dust.
Within the entire Demon Slayer Corps, no one understood the sheer, suffocating terror of the Upper Ranks better than Akira. No one knew just how impossibly difficult it would be to sever the head of Kibutsuji Muzan.
As long as the Demon King drew breath, and as long as his monstrous subordinates prowled the night, Akira and the women he loved could be dragged into a bloodbath at any given second.
Jigoro had poured his heart and soul into raising him. Exceptional, beautiful girls like Makomo and Kanae had willingly opened their hearts, accepting each other just to stand by his side, tying their futures to his own.
Akira wanted to shield them from the cruelty of this era. He wanted them to live out their lives basking in sunlight and peace. In his mind, offering them an absolute, impenetrable sanctuary was the only way he could ever be worthy of their deep affection.
Driven by that desperate need, he had forced his body and mind through a meat grinder of extreme growth. In less than four short years, he had transformed from a frail, malnourished orphan into a warrior capable of surviving a brutal clash with Upper Rank Three.
Now, he stood just a hair's breadth away from stepping into the world of the Transparent World.
His progression was terrifyingly fast—so fast that Kanae and Makomo could no longer keep pace, and so fast that across the entire Demon Slayer Corps, perhaps only Gyomei possessed the sheer power to fight alongside him without becoming a liability.
But Akira knew it wasn't enough. It was nowhere near enough.
Even if he managed to shatter this bottleneck and master the Transparent World, he would only be equipped to handle Akaza. Looming above were the monstrous presences of Doma and Kokushibo. And above them all sat the invincible, immortal Demon King.
It was precisely because he understood this impossible disparity in power that Akira had never once attempted to search for the Blue Spider Lily.
He knew Kamado Kie held the secret to where the mythical flower bloomed. He knew that plucking it would instantly draw Muzan out from the shadows. But without the overwhelming strength required to rival the Demon King, or the absolute certainty of stalling him until the sun crested the horizon, baiting Muzan would only serve to hand him the perfect opportunity to slaughter the entire Demon Slayer Corps in one night.
As these heavy thoughts crashed through his mind like violent waves, Akira intentionally allowed himself to feel the raw, gnawing unease he usually kept buried deep within his chest. Beneath the seemingly placid surface of his mental lake, dark undercurrents were churning violently.
"Phew..."
Akira exhaled a long, measured breath. He forced the surging anxieties back down into the depths, commanding the surface of his mind to return to a glassy calm.
This calm was, of course, temporary and fabricated, but it would have to suffice. Now was not the time for him to seek a cozy harbor for his heart.
He hadn't forgotten his primary reason for visiting the Stone Hashira's training grounds. He was here to forge his body. Since the gateway to the Transparent World remained locked to him for now, he would simply hammer his physical foundation until it was indestructible. Even though mundane physical conditioning yielded agonizingly slow results at his current level, by inches was infinitely better than standing still.
"Thank you."
"Namu Amida Butsu. You are most welcome."
Offering a respectful nod, Akira turned and walked toward his designated training area with practiced familiarity. The massive set of equipment he had used during his last limit-breaking session rested exactly where he had left it.
He stared at the colossal boulder meant for his routine, then shifted his gaze toward the even more absurdly gigantic rock Gyomei had been casually pushing moments prior. Akira couldn't help but click his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
He recalled the agonizing finale of his previous visit. In a burst of stubborn pride, he had attempted to complete a full set of exercises using Gyomei's personal standards, and the effort had nearly pushed him right to the edge of blacking out. The equipment resting before him was the very same set.
Although Akira's physical density had increased slightly since that day, and his control over his muscular output had sharpened while chasing the Transparent World, he still couldn't fathom using this monstrous weight for daily repetitions.
Yet, the boulder the Stone Hashira currently used for his morning warm-ups was a full size larger than before.
However, since Gyomei had successfully crossed into the Transparent World, it likely meant the giant's physical vessel had finally struck its absolute ceiling. From this point onward, Gyomei could only refine his internal techniques. At least in this specific regard, the Stone Hashira remained bound by the laws of human biology—muscle and bone could not be tempered infinitely.
Shaking his head to clear the lingering distractions, Akira gripped the rough stone and began his grueling regimen.
Mount Momoyama.
"Aaaah!"
Halfway up the mist-shrouded slopes of the mountain, a sharp, terrified scream shattered the quiet woods. A young boy, whose childish features were just beginning to sharpen into youth, collapsed onto the dirt. He clutched his bruised arm, fat tears welling up and shimmering at the corners of his eyes.
It was Zenitsu.
"You can't even react to a sluggish sneak attack of this level, and you still have the nerve to say you want to fight alongside your Senior Brother?"
Jigoro stepped out from the dense foliage, his wooden cane tapping against the earth. He looked down at the sniveling boy with an impassive expression. After a quick, practiced glance confirmed the strike had only left a superficial welt, the old man's tone grew harsh and biting.
"Your Senior Brother was even younger than you when he stood in this exact clearing! Yet from the very first day to the last, he never allowed me to land a single solid hit on him. With your current pathetic reaction time, you still dream of catching up to him?"
"I will definitely do it!"
At the mere mention of Akira, the image of the older boy he admired from the very bottom of his soul flashed through Zenitsu's mind. He instantly jerked his head up, shouting his response at the top of his lungs even as he furiously scrubbed the tears from his dirty cheeks.
It wasn't out of some arrogant desire to compete. In Zenitsu's mind, Akira was a towering, invincible figure. He simply believed that he couldn't afford to be a stain on his Senior Brother's reputation. He refused to disappoint Akira, and he refused to disappoint Jigoro—the only two people in this massive, terrifying world who had ever truly cared whether he lived or died.
Scrambling up from the dirt, Zenitsu wiped his nose on his sleeve, gripped his wooden sword with trembling hands, and threw himself back into the day's brutal exercises.
Jigoro watched the boy's retreating back, a deep, hidden warmth softening the edges of his weathered eyes. A deep sense of gratification swelled in his chest. However, that fleeting softness was quickly buried beneath a mask of strict discipline. With a sudden blur of motion, the old former Hashira vanished back into the shadowy canopy of the woods, silently waiting for the perfect angle to launch yet another ruthless ambush.
Several months prior, shortly after turning thirteen, Zenitsu had gathered every ounce of his meager courage to approach Jigoro, practically begging the old man to teach him the Breathing Techniques.
Zenitsu's logic had been incredibly straightforward. Since Akira had begun his training in the blade at the age of twelve, Zenitsu felt that as the younger brother figure, it was his absolute duty to follow closely in those exact footsteps. Starting a year later was simply a byproduct of his own crippling lack of self-confidence.
Given Akira's unmatched success, Jigoro hadn't immediately tried to chase Zenitsu away or crush his spirit, unlike the harsh trials he had initially subjected Akira to., Zenitsu was slightly older, his body a bit more developed.
But reality proved to be far crueler than Zenitsu's naive expectations. Learning a Breathing Technique was nothing like the heroic tales he had imagined.
From the grueling, bone-breaking physical conditioning, to the endless, mind-numbing repetition of fundamental sword swings, and finally the agonizing process of forcing oxygen into his bloodstream—every single step felt like scaling a sheer cliff face with bare hands.
What frustrated the boy to the point of despair was his complete inability to grasp any technique beyond the First Form.
Jigoro's demonstrations were always crisp, precise, and easy to follow. Zenitsu could mimic the physical footwork and the arc of the blade perfectly. But the very second he attempted to synchronize those movements with the roaring rhythm of Thunder Breathing, his posture would collapse. The forms would lose their shape, failing to generate even a fraction of their intended power.
Yet, in a bizarre twist of fate, Zenitsu had managed to comprehend the First Form—the very technique Jigoro found most difficult to properly demonstrate—entirely on his own. He hadn't even taken much longer to grasp its core concept than Akira had.
Jigoro was completely stumped by this bizarre developmental block. Even Akira, who had specifically carved out time from his busy patrol schedule to return to Momoyama and inspect the boy's progress, found himself entirely helpless to fix it.
Talent, as it turned out, was the most unreasonable and unpredictable force in the world.
However, sandwiched between the stern encouragement of his Master and the gentle, unwavering support of his Senior Brother, Zenitsu managed to scrape his shattered confidence off the floor.
He took their advice to heart, completely abandoning his obsessive attempts to force the other forms. Instead, he poured every drop of his blood, sweat, and tears into the singular practice and refinement of the First Form.
After all, the First Form was the absolute bedrock of Thunder Breathing. Even the devastating, god-like custom techniques Akira had forged with his own hands—Dragon's Glide and Divine Punishment—were entirely rooted in the explosive mechanics of the First Form.
Because of this, a quiet, stubborn seed took root deep within Zenitsu's cowardly heart. He swore that he would use this single, solitary strike as his foundation to forge his own path.
Bolstered by the constant guidance from Jigoro and Akira, and shaped by their subtle, positive influence over the past few years, a deep change had occurred within the boy. While Zenitsu would still whine, cry, and scream about dying during every single training session, beneath that loud, pathetic exterior lay a core of unbreakable resilience. He always dragged his bruised body back to his feet, doing his absolute best to complete every impossible task laid before him.
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