With food tempting him and the killing intent Rokuya kept unleashing forcing him on, Zenitsu could only get up again and again.
The seventh day.
The training grew harder. Rokuya not only set traps around the grounds but also stepped in himself as an "obstacle." He held a sharpened wooden stick, and whenever Zenitsu charged in a straight line, he lashed out mercilessly.
"Too slow! Not enough curve! Are you trying to tickle me?!"
"Aaah! Help! I'm going to die! I really am!" Zenitsu wailed as he frantically squeezed out every last scrap of his potential on the brink of death.
Gradually, Rokuya discovered something astonishing.
Although Zenitsu was always yelling when awake, his movements clumsy and full of openings, once he was pushed to his limits or frightened into unconsciousness, his body's instinctive reaction speed and control over his muscles were practically perfect!
The evening of the tenth day.
The setting sun was blood-red, staining all of Mount Momoyama a deep crimson.
Covered in mud, Zenitsu stood in the center of the training grounds, panting heavily. The skin between his thumbs and forefingers had split from the impacts, and blood dripped down his wooden sword onto the ground. He did not even have the strength to cry anymore.
Rokuya stood twenty meters directly ahead of him, gripping the hilt of the Shura Blade. Behind him stood a wooden post tied with a red cord.
"This is your last chance today." Rokuya's voice was level yet oppressive. "Use what you've learned over these ten days to cut through the post behind me. If you run into me or miss your cut, not only will you get no dinner tonight, I'll hang you upside down over the cliff and let the cold wind blow on you all night."
Zenitsu's body shuddered