Jeffrey Castillo
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FG Chapter 31: Enhancement
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 10:21:13 +0000 UTCMinamino Hirotomo was an ordinary man—one speck of dust among billions. Aside from his family, no one would have cared. Now there was one more—Roy.
Clutching the copper coin, Roy walked the lonely depths of Mt. Sagiri and, on his panel, assigned Minamino’s “life energy” to Physique.
[Notice…]
[Physique: 10.55 → 11.55]
“Sss… sss…”
Heat streamed off the crown of his head.
Stumbling through the snow behind him, Tanjiro looked up—and gaped: for a heartbeat Roy seemed to swell a size. He rubbed his eyes and looked again—Roy had “shrunk” back, as if the earlier swelling was just the foolish otōto seeing things.
Weird… am I just groggy from not sleeping?
He quickened a few steps to the front, peered closely, and saw Roy’s brows knotted, still not free of the shadow of Minamino’s passing. “You okay, Nii-san?”
Should he say he was okay?
Not really. He hurt like hell. Even walking was draining him dry.
An instant boost to physique hits the body directly—cells divide faster; bone density tightens; vessels thicken; muscle fibers tear and regrow… A “growth” that should unfold subtly over a year or two—or five or six for a normal person—Roy had forced through in a single breath.
The price—
He had to lean on a cedar and rest a moment.
“Here, water.” Tanjiro tipped the canteen to Roy’s lips. The pain dulled a little. Roy patted his back, checked the sky, and pushed deeper into Mt. Sagiri.
Mt. Sagiri is known for year-round fog. In winter, snow hammers down, temperatures drop below zero, even ice fog appears.
Tanjiro’s nose was cherry red. He flicked ice off his bangs. Who would choose to live somewhere this bitterly cold? At least put your house at the foot of the mountain like Minamino. It’d be kinder.
“Nii-san, would anyone really live here?
“The sun never reaches these slopes. Not a green sprout in sight. It’s colder than home.”
At home there was no fog; their cabin faced the sun on a bright slope—daylight wasn’t so bad…
“Hardship makes greatness,” Roy said, tossing him a head-scratcher while his gaze slid to a birch ahead-right.
On its branches stood two figures, one big, one small. Pretty eyes glinted behind fox masks…
A little surprising.
“Hey, Sabito—do you think he saw us?” the girl asked. She wore a floral kimono, bare-legged in the off-season, a fox mask cocked on her head—about eleven or twelve. Roy’s glance made her freeze.
“No one can see us unless we go to them,” the boy said—fifteen or sixteen, white haori over a hex-patterned green-yellow-orange haori, long pink hair on his shoulders, a scar on one corner of his fox mask.
“Right. Even Urokodaki-sensei can’t see us.”
At her teacher’s name, the girl drooped. More than once she’d sat right by him—watching him eat, sleep, carve, daydream—hoping one day he’d respond. But—
no matter how she lingered or called, he never noticed.
Maybe this life would always be like that…
“He won’t,” the boy said gently, patting her head. “Have faith in Master, Makomo. Look—someone still comes to learn.”
“But Master won’t take any more…” Makomo hugged her knees; her green eyes dimmed. “He’s heartsick…
“He can’t stand seeing people die because of him anymore…
“That monster’s eaten so many he’s getting worse and worse…
“Even you—”
“Yeah. Even I couldn’t beat him,” the boy finished softly, watching Roy and Tanjiro pass beneath the birch.
In a blink, the two flickered away into Mt. Sagiri.
Roy’s ear twitched; his sun earrings swayed. Without them noticing, he filed their words away.
The purest souls make the truest sound.
He hitched his basket higher and yanked Tanjiro upright— the fool had stepped in a drift and nearly twisted an ankle.
Deeper in, the view opened; through the dense fog a shaft of morning light lanced down—onto…
an old man on a stump, carving alone.
A tengu mask hid his face. Mallet and chisel in hand—tok, tok, tok—chips flew. Noise behind him didn’t draw even a glance.
Only in the world of craft could he plug the cracks in a heart split by grief.
“Nii-san, someone’s there.”
“I see.”
Roy stopped Tanjiro from barging in.
He shrugged off the basket, pulled the hoe, cleared a patch, and built a fire.
The canteen was dry; Tanjiro had given Roy a sip earlier. He scooped snow into the pot and hung it over the flames with a stick. Soon it burbled.
“Why don’t they go in?” the girl’s voice came again—she sat with her back to the old man, chin in hands, eyes full of curiosity for Roy and Tanjiro. The scar-masked boy stood beside her, and from the treeline more masked figures gathered—faces blurred: some watching the old man carve, some dozing in a doorway, one snatching at a sparrow as it flitted past. One, bolder, sauntered toward the brothers, circling—
Roy’s casual glance swept over him. The boy jolted back, heels skittering—nearly toppled into the fire.
“Ha! Knock it off, Shinsuke—you really think anyone can see ghosts?”
“Who’s knocking anything off!” Shinsuke scrambled up, waved a hand in front of Roy’s face—no reaction, Roy calmly peeling a dumpling—then exhaled, spun, and leapt at the friend who’d teased him. “Fukuda, you jerk—I’m gonna rip that mouth of yours!”
