Pain.
It wasn't a feeling anymore. It was a clock.
Every pulse in my left side marked a second. Every sharp stab in my lung marked a minute.
I was lying on the futon. The ceiling was dark, stained by years of indoor fires. I stared at a single knot in the wood. It looked like an eye. It was watching me rot.
I had been in this bed for three days. Maybe four. My muscles were beginning to atrophy. I could feel them shrinking, losing the density I had spent years building through slaughter and survival.
If I stayed here, I was a corpse. A warm corpse, but a corpse nonetheless.
I shifted my weight.
Crack.
The sound of my own ribs grinding together echoed in the small room. It was a dry, sickening noise. Like two pieces of slate rubbing against each other.
I choked back a scream. My jaw clamped shut so hard my teeth ached.
"Don't move," a voice said.
It was the mother. Kie. She was kneeling by the hearth, stirring a pot of thin, greyish broth. She didn't look up. She didn't have to. She could hear my bones moving from across the room.
"I need to stand," I rasped. My voice was a wreck.
"You need to heal," she countered. "Tanjiro says your lungs are barely holding. If you stand, the pressure will tear the bandages."
"I don't care about the bandages."
I ignored her. I jammed my right elbow into the floor. It was my good side. I used it as a pivot.
I pushed.
The world tilted. My vision went from grey to white. A roar started in my ears, the sound of my own blood rushing to my head.
I didn't stop.
I forced my torso upward. One inch. Two inches.
The pain in my left side wasn't just a sting. It was a physical barrier. It felt like a serrated knife was being twisted in the gap between my fifth and sixth ribs.
I reached the forty-five-degree mark. My breath was coming in short, pathetic hitches.
Haa. Haa. Haa.
"Stop," Kie said. She was standing now. She looked worried, but she didn't move to help me. She knew. If I couldn't do this myself, I was already dead.
I reached the ninety-degree mark. I was sitting up.
I sat there for five minutes, just trying not to vomit. The cold air of the hut felt like ice water on my skin. I was drenched in sweat.
I looked at the corner of the room.
Kū-on.
My sword was leaning against the wall. It looked like a piece of junk. The scabbard was scarred. The hilt-wrap was frayed and stained with my own dried blood.
I needed it.
I crawled. I didn't walk—I couldn't. I rolled off the futon and hit the floorboards. The impact sent a jolt of agony through my chest that nearly blacked me out.
I dragged myself forward. My fingers clawed at the wood.
One foot. Two feet.
I reached the sword. My hand closed around the hilt.
It was heavy. Too heavy.
A week ago, this blade felt like an extension of my arm. Now, it felt like a lead pipe. My forearm muscles spasmed just from the effort of gripping it.
I used the sword as a crutch. I dug the end of the scabbard into the floor and hauled myself up.
My legs were shaking. My quadriceps felt like they were made of wet paper. My hamstrings were tight, ready to snap.
I stood.
I was vertical. I was shaking like a leaf in a gale, but I was standing.
"Takeo," Kie called out.
The younger boy appeared in the doorway. He looked at me, then at the sword. He looked terrified.
"Help him," Kie said.
"I don't need help," I growled.
I took a step.
My left leg didn't obey. It dragged. I lost my balance.
I slammed into the wall. The sound was loud. The pain was worse. I felt a warm sensation on my side.
The bandages were soaking through. I was bleeding again.
"You're a fool," a new voice said.
Tanjiro was standing in the entrance. He was carrying a fresh load of charcoal. He looked exhausted, his face covered in black dust, but his eyes were clear.
He walked over and dropped the crate. He didn't come to catch me. He just watched me struggle against the wall.
"You're fighting the world," Tanjiro said. "That's why you're bleeding."
"I'm trying to move," I spat.
"No. You're trying to force the air. Look at your chest. You're gasping."
I looked down. My chest was heaving. Every breath was a frantic, shallow grab for oxygen.
"That breathing is for dying," Tanjiro said. He stepped closer. He didn't look like a kid anymore. He looked like a teacher. "My father showed me. When the load is heavy, you don't gasp. You don't fight the weight. You find the rhythm."
He put a hand on my right shoulder.
"Inhale. Through the nose. Slow. Don't use your chest. Use your stomach."
I tried. I pushed my belly out.
Argh.
The rib shifted. I doubled over, clutching the sword.
"Again," Tanjiro commanded. "Softly. Don't fight the pain. Let the pain be there. Just move the air around it."
I closed my eyes. I tried to forget about the blood. I tried to forget about the notched blade.
I focused on the air.
In.
I felt the oxygen enter. It felt cold. It hit the back of my throat and slid down.
Hold.
I counted to three. My heart was slamming against my ribs.
Out.
I let the air go.
My muscles relaxed. Not a lot, but enough. The shaking in my legs subsided by a fraction.
"Now, step," Tanjiro said.
I moved my left foot. I didn't drag it. I lifted it, timed with the exhalation.
It worked.
I took a step. Then another.
I made it to the center of the room. I was still in pain, but it was a controlled pain. It was a data point, not a wall.
"The sword," Tanjiro said, pointing to Kū-on. "It's too heavy for your arms. But your arms aren't what carry a sword. Your breath does."
I looked at him like he was crazy. "It's steel, kid. Not air."
"If you breathe right, the blood flows better. If the blood flows better, the muscles don't tire. If the muscles don't tire, the steel is light."
He picked up a heavy log of firewood.
"Carry this," he said, handing it to me.
"I have a sword."
"You have a piece of rusted iron. Carry the wood. If you can't carry fuel to keep my siblings warm, you don't deserve to carry a weapon."
I took the log.
It was rough. The bark bit into my palms. It was heavy, maybe ten pounds. In my current state, it might as well have been an anchor.
I held it to my chest.
Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step.
I walked in a circle. Around the hearth. Around the table.
Kie watched me. Takeo watched me.
I was a former soldier, a man who had killed demons and men alike, walking in circles in a mountain hut carrying a piece of cedar.
It was humiliating.
But with every lap, the heat in my gut grew. The "rhythm" was starting to click. I wasn't fighting the log. I was balancing it against my center of gravity. I was using the air to brace my spine.
I did fifty laps.
By the end, my bandages were red, but my head was clear.
I put the log down. I didn't drop it. I placed it.
"Again tomorrow," Tanjiro said, heading back to the charcoal crate.
I didn't answer. I went back to the corner and sat down. I kept the sword across my lap.
I closed my eyes.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
I wasn't a warrior yet. But I was no longer a corpse.
I was friction. And I was going to burn my way back to the top.