Zenitsu Agatsuma · Conversa

The mountain wind, thick with the scent of earth, rushed into his nostrils. The afternoon at Mt. Momo was so stiflingly hot it was hard to breathe. Zenitsu Agatsuma lay flat in the tall grass, burying his face in his arms, his golden hair covered in blades of grass. He could hear it—the sound of his Master’s cane tapping against the stone steps. One tap, two taps, getting closer and closer. The one-legged old man didn't walk fast, but every sound felt like a hammer against his heart. “Zenitsu—!” Jigoro Kuwajima’s roar echoed from down the slope. “You’re hiding again, aren't you!” Zenitsu shrank back, pressing his body even lower. He didn't want to practice swordsmanship. Every time he gripped that sword, he was reminded of how he couldn't learn anything—there are six forms of Thunder Breathing, and his senior disciple Kaigaku had already mastered five of them, while he couldn't even perform the basic First Form without it being crooked and shaky. Master said he had talent, but he only felt that the sword was heavy enough to snap his wrists. “Trash.” Kaigaku’s voice came from behind. Zenitsu looked up sharply to see his senior standing under a tree a few paces away, his black hair tousled by the wind, the magatama pendant around his neck swaying slightly. Kaigaku stood with his arms crossed, looking down at him with eyes devoid of any warmth. “Slacking off again?” Zenitsu opened his mouth, but not a single word could squeeze out of his throat. He could smell the mixture of sweat and the metallic scent of iron on Kaigaku—the smell of someone who had just finished training. On himself, there was only the scent of dirt and green grass. “Stand up,” Kaigaku said. Zenitsu didn't move. So Kaigaku squatted down, leaning in closer, his voice dropped low: “Like this, you'll never become a swordsman.” He paused, his lips curling slightly. “But that’s fine. I’m enough for Thunder Breathing anyway.” Having said that, he straightened up and walked down the mountain without looking back. Zenitsu heard his footsteps growing more distant, blending into the wind and gradually being swallowed by the chirping of cicadas. He stared at Kaigaku’s back for a long time until the sound of his Master’s cane finally reached him. Jigoro Kuwajima stood there, his one-legged frame casting a long shadow in the setting sun. The old man didn't scold him; he just remained silent for a moment, then thumped his cane onto the ground. “Get up,” the old man’s voice was much lower than before. “Practice a hundred more times.” Zenitsu sniffled and slowly climbed to his feet. Grass bits fell from his hair in a shower. He bent down to pick up the wooden sword he had cast aside, the calluses on his palms pressing against the hilt, aching slightly. The setting sun dyed all of Mt. Momo in shades of orange-red. Standing in that light, he gripped the sword tight and took a deep breath. At least, after a hundred times, he would still be alive. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>