Chapter 46: The Special Training Ends
After lunch, Akira and Makomo sat facing each other across a small, low table. A neat row of six empty teacups rested on its polished surface.
"The reaction training is simple," Akira began, his voice calm and even. "Do you see this row of cups? I will pick one up at any time. Your job is to press it down before I can lift it completely from the table."
He gestured to the cups. "To make it a little easier, I'll only use one hand. If you succeed ten times in a row, you pass. If you fail... for every ten cumulative failures, you get a flick on the forehead."
The exercise was a direct replica of a training method he remembered from the original story, with one key change. The punishment had been altered from spilling medicated tea to a simple flick. After all, it was winter; getting soaked repeatedly could easily lead to a cold.
"Are the rules clear?" he asked.
"Crystal clear. Bring it on." Makomo nodded, her expression serious. She prided herself on her natural agility and nimble movements, and she was quite confident in her reaction speed.
Unfortunately, reality was about to deliver a harsh slap to that confidence.
Akira didn't move in a straight line. His hand would drift towards one cup, and just as Makomo committed to intercepting it, his fingers would suddenly feint, his wrist twisting in an impossible curve to snatch a different cup entirely. The motion was fluid, unpredictable, and utterly frustrating.
This continued until, in what felt like no time at all, she had accumulated ten failures.
"Stick your head out," Akira said, ignoring the adorable, pleading look in her eyes. He simply held one hand poised, a single finger bent and ready.
"Ugh..." Makomo squeezed her eyes shut in resignation and tilted her head forward.
Thwack!
The sound was crisp and sharp, a clear indicator of a solid hit. A good, sturdy head, Akira mused silently.
"Ouch, ouch..." Makomo rubbed her forehead, glaring at him with a mixture of pain and indignation.
"We agreed on this beforehand," Akira reminded her gently. "If you don't want to be flicked, you need to concentrate. Here, a slow reaction just means a sore forehead. On the battlefield, the cost of being slow is far, far greater."
"I know that... Hmph! Again!"
With renewed vigor, Makomo threw herself back into the training.
A few minutes later, she was once again groaning and rubbing the same spot on her forehead.
"It must be red by now," she muttered, pouting. "He doesn't even know how to go easy... No, I demand an additional rule! If I successfully pass the training, I get to flick you back for every single one of these!"
"Alright," Akira agreed instantly.
"Uh..."
His easy acceptance left Makomo at a loss for words. Was she being unreasonable? He was, after all, helping her train. She risked a glance at him, but saw no impatience or disgust in his eyes—only that same deep calm, now tinged with a gentleness few others ever saw.
"Alright, let's continue," Akira's soft voice pulled her back to the present.
From his perspective, a few playful flicks were nothing. If this simple game could sharpen her senses and reduce the chance of her being injured or killed in the future, he would let her flick him a hundred times.
"Okay."
Another few minutes passed.
Thwack!
"Ow! Again!"
...
The one-hour reaction training concluded with Makomo having earned a grand total of six flicks to her forehead. As this type of exercise shouldn't be overdone, they moved on to the next phase: physical conditioning.
The content was simple enough: long-distance running, frog jumps, push-ups, sit-ups, and other basic exercises. The only difference was a slight increase in intensity.
Makomo's definition of "slight" and Akira's, however, were worlds apart.
For example, when she was doing push-ups, Akira gently placed Kanao on her back. While Makomo strained to complete each repetition, Akira would sit beside them, patiently teaching Kanao how to speak.
For the long-distance running and frog jumps, he personally tied a pair of custom-made sandbags to her calves, adding a significant amount of weight to her every movement.
The different exercises were performed in rotation, with only short breaks in between. By the time dinner was served that evening, Makomo was so exhausted she had to lean on Kanae's shoulder just to stay upright.
This, however, gave Shinobu the long-awaited opportunity to take charge of feeding Kanao.
That evening, Kanao was once again nestled in Akira's arms as they ate. Shinobu sat beside them, eagerly spooning food into the little girl's mouth. Kanao's cheeks were stuffed even fuller than the night before, puffed out like a chipmunk's, until Akira finally couldn't watch anymore and gently stopped Shinobu's enthusiastic efforts.
When it was time for bed, Kanae, whose daily duties were relatively lighter, volunteered to supervise Makomo's breathing practice.
Under Akira's watchful eye, Makomo first demonstrated the state of maintaining Water Breathing: Total Concentration. After ensuring Kanae had memorized the rhythm and form, Makomo trudged back to her room to collapse into sleep, and Akira departed for his nightly patrol with his mind at ease.
Perhaps because she was so thoroughly exhausted from the day's training, Makomo's breathing broke nearly ten times that night. Each time, Kanae would gently wake her, and she would re-establish the pattern before drifting off again. Towards the end, Kanae almost couldn't bear to call out to her, seeing how deeply she slept. But remembering Makomo's own persistence and Akira's instructions, she dutifully roused her each time she noticed a clear change in her breathing.
...
Half a month passed in this grueling but steady routine.
The only noteworthy development involved Kanao. The little girl had become a bit too attached to Akira.
On her first night at the Butterfly Mansion, the Kochou sisters had slept with her, keeping her safely between them, and all was well. But ever since Kanae began supervising Makomo's nightly training, Kanao would quietly slip out of bed after Shinobu had fallen asleep. Then, on silent feet, she would sneak into Akira's room and burrow into the familiar, warm embrace she had come to associate with safety.
Akira, for his part, was so drained from training Makomo all day and patrolling for half the night that he slept soundly, completely unaware of the small child curled up on his chest.
It wasn't until the next morning, when Shinobu's frantic search for Kanao woke him, that he realized something was pressing down on him. Before his mind could even clear, the door slid open to reveal a very concerned Shinobu.
If Akira hadn't habitually slept fully clothed and Kanao's own clothes weren't perfectly intact, he wouldn't have known how to begin explaining the situation.
Afterward, Akira tried to persuade Kanao to stay in her own bed, but it had no effect. Shinobu alone couldn't keep an eye on the determined girl all night, so in the end, they could only let it be. She was still young and didn't understand anything, so no harm would come of it. They reasoned that once Makomo's training was over, Kanae and Shinobu together would surely be able to keep her contained.
And so, half a month slipped by, and Makomo's special training finally came to a successful conclusion.
Though she had complained endlessly about Akira's methods during those weeks, she never once slacked off. In fact, Akira's primary concern was never whether her training was adequate, but whether she would injure herself by pushing too hard. To counteract the strain, he had specially requested that Mr. and Mrs. Takemoto, the mansion's cooks, prepare nourishing medicinal cuisine for her every day.
The results were obvious. Her physical fitness, reaction speed, swordsmanship, and Breathing Technique had all improved dramatically. By Akira's estimation, Makomo's skill now rivaled that of most Kanoe-ranked slayers.
His unique insight had been indispensable to her rapid progress. He could see the flaws in her form, the hitches in her breathing, and the subtle inefficiencies in her movements, allowing him to correct them with pinpoint precision. Now, it was difficult to see the shadow of Urokodaki Sakonji in her swordsmanship. She had successfully made the forms of Water Breathing truly her own. The next steps in her growth—refining her skills through actual combat and developing new, flexible combinations of her existing techniques—were things Akira could no longer teach her.
Therefore, the special training officially concluded after Makomo, with a triumphant grin, landed three consecutive flicks on Akira's forehead.
"Is your head made of iron? My fingers hurt from flicking it," she grumbled, rubbing her stinging fingertips.
"It's natural. What can I do?" Akira smiled and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
His smile softened as he looked at her, his expression turning serious. "Alright. For your future missions, remember to protect yourself above all else. I hope the next time I see you here, it's because you've made time to visit, not because you've been brought back injured."
"Yes," she promised, her voice firm. "I will."
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