Mount Momo, as its name suggests, was covered with peach trees as far as the eye could see. (T/N: Momo means Peach.)
It was late autumn, unfortunately not the season to see the brilliant, blazing peach blossoms or the sky filled with pink haze, nor to taste the plump, juicy peaches Zenitsu often spoke of.
Taka walked alone on the winding mountain path, fallen leaves rustling softly beneath his feet.
Originally, with good intentions, he had wanted to invite Zenitsu to come to Mount Momo with him to consult Jigoro. It would also have given him a chance to rest for a couple of days.
But that boy seemed to have some shadow over returning to Mount Momo. He preferred to stay at the estate and undergo the intensive training rather than come.
Arriving at a clearing on the mountainside, this was the location of the Thunder Breathing dojo.
Completely different from the large-scale training ground at Hayama with its many disciples, before him stood only a simple wooden hut.
In front of the hut was a meticulously leveled sandpit. Several thick wooden stakes were driven deep into the ground, their surfaces covered with dense, varied sword scars of different depths.
Not far away stood a huge, old tree that appeared to have been struck by lightning, its entire trunk charred black.
'So this was the Mount Momo dojo? It looked quite peaceful. Suited to my tastes.'
"Hey! You there, kid! What are you lurking around for, sneaking a peek like a thief?!"
A vigorous shout, so loud it made Taka's ears ring, came from behind him.
Immediately after, a short figure rushed over in a flurry.
He wore a yellowish-brown kimono. His wooden prosthetic leg tapped out a rapid, forceful rhythm on the ground.
His face, covered in wrinkles and scars, wore a mischievous, childlike grin. His slightly cloudy eyes looked Taka up and down. "This is private property. No peaches for sale, and no accepting apprentices!"
Taka quietly observed this former Rumble Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, sensing the flow of energy within him.
'This old man had concealed all the energy in his body to the utmost. If not for his sharp, lightning-like breathing rhythm, one would almost mistake him for a harmless old man.'
"I am Taka of the Demon Slayer Corps. Pleased to meet you." Taka bowed slightly.
"Oh? So you're the Storm Hashira the crows mentioned, coming to train?" Jigoro's small eyes narrowed. He hobbled closer on his wooden staff, his gaze sweeping back and forth over the sword at Taka's waist and the brand-new haori.
"I thought a Hashira capable of slaying an Upper Moon demon would have to be a sturdy fellow like Himejima. Never expected you to be just a kid."
He chuckled oddly, but it also sounded like a muttered complaint to himself: "Tch... First the Mist Hashira, then the Serpent Hashira. Why are all the young kids these days so strong at such a young age.... When will our Zenitsu ever become a Hashira..."
"Senpai?"
Startled out of his muttering by Taka, Jigoro let out an embarrassed snort, turned, and asked curiously: "So what is there to train here? You already have your own Breathing Style and fighting style. Aren't you afraid of biting off more than you can chew?"
He cautioned Taka earnestly: "You need to understand, power and techniques aren't always better the more you have. Sometimes, even if you only know one or two moves, if you practice them to the peak, they can be unstoppable killing moves!"
Jigoro believed this deeply.
"I understand. I only want to reference the characteristics of Thunder Breathing, ultimately to forge my own path."
Taka answered directly and succinctly: "Also, I want to restore Sun Breathing."
Jigoro had already heard about this from Oyakata-sama in a letter. Although he found it somewhat unbelievable, he had already prepared himself mentally.
He re-evaluated Taka. He noticed that this boy had extremely pure eyes, without the impetuosity of someone who had achieved fame early. They held a deep calm.
He had seen this kind of look in many people, but few could, like Taka, maintain this inquisitive patience even after becoming a Hashira.
But he still wanted to test this young man's character a little more.
This eccentric old man chuckled mischievously and pointed his wooden staff at a patch of long-abandoned wasteland behind the dojo.
"Late autumn. Before the first snow falls, I need to turn all the soil over there, ready to plant medicinal herbs next spring."
"You, go turn that soil over."
'What medicinal herbs? That was clearly just barren land? This excuse was obviously made up on the spot.'
Taka looked at the barren slope, then at the old man's back.
"Alright."
He took off his haori and Tonan, picked up a hoe by the dojo, and walked towards the cold slope.
Over the next three days, Jigoro truly seemed to treat Taka as free labor.
He moved a rattan chair to sit by the slope, cradling a chipped, coarse ceramic bowl in his arms. While sipping steaming hot brown rice porridge, he directed Taka with gestures and comments.
"Hey hey! Kid! Are you butchering a pig? That swing was way too heavy! The soil needs to be turned loose but not scattered. You're just splitting the ground in half!"
"Too slow! The essence of Thunder Breathing lies in an instant! At that speed, before you could even draw your sword, the demon would have already plucked all your hair out!"
"Oh dear, young people nowadays are as weak as if they were made of paper. Back in my day training on Mount Momo, this kind of work only took me five minutes.... Ah, that crybaby, though useless, his talent for hard work is far better than this blockhead of yours!"
Whenever he mentioned that crybaby, a trace of tenderness and a faint pride would flash across Jigoro's wrinkled face.
'So what if he only knew the First Form? Didn't he still help the Hashira kill an Upper Moon? Zenitsu would definitely amount to something.'
Taka didn't let these taunts make him impatient or irritable.
He began to realize that Jigoro's mockery was merely meant to shake his resolve, and this so-called soil turning, under his direction, had also transformed into a kind of sword form training.
Under Jigoro's guidance, he compressed his physical strength to the limit, then exploded it in an instant through his legs and arms.
If this technique was mastered, combined with a burst of Reiatsu in battle, it could achieve the effect of instantly killing an enemy.
By the evening of the third day, the originally barren slope had become smooth and loose.
"Old man, the soil is turned."
Jigoro slowly walked over and opened the dojo door. He stomped his prosthetic leg on the ground, showing no intention of inspecting it.
"Just barely passable. Come inside. Don't stand there airing out. If you catch a cold, I'll have to waste medicine on you."
Inside the dojo, the firewood in the hearth crackled.
Jigoro sat cross-legged opposite Taka. His expression became extremely serious… the bearing of a former grand master.
"Listen carefully, Taka… Thunder Breathing is different from other Breathing Styles. It pursues ultimate burst, a cruel squeezing of the body's limits. Besides that, you also need to have the resolve and courage to draw your sword and charge, no matter how powerful the enemy you face!"
"Therefore, swordsmen of Thunder Breathing tend to get injured or lose limbs more easily. They trade their lives for an instant of brilliance."
He picked up a fire poker and drew a straight line in the hearth.
"Among my disciples, there was once a very talented one.... Unfortunately, he could never understand this point. He could never draw the straightest line, and thus could never master the First Form." Jigoro's voice deepened. A flicker of distress passed through his eyes.
"As for the other one...." Jigoro's tone softened considerably, carrying the satisfaction of one who had found a treasure. "Although he only knows the First Form, crying and saying he can't do it, wanting to run away every day."
"But I know he worked very hard to practice the First Form to a level that even I admire."
"That child's name is Zenitsu. He will definitely become a better Rumble Hashira than me...."
"Now, watch closely."
As Taka listened quietly, Jigoro suddenly drew his blade.
In that instant, Taka felt as if the air before him had been cut.
There's no flashy sword form. A flash of golden light, surpassing the limits of naked eye perception, shot before him!
Shing!
A straight sword aura, crossing a distance of three meters, precisely sliced through a wooden block on the opposite side of the hearth.
"This is the First Form: Thunderclap and Flash."
Jigoro sheathed his sword in one fluid motion: "It is the foundation of all Thunder Breathing, and also its endpoint. If you can comprehend this strike, your understanding of lightning will be complete."