Chapitre 2: The Test

Fujitora stood frozen, the weight of Giyu's words and the wooden sword pressing down on him like a physical burden. He looked from the crude weapon to the impassive face of the Water Hashira, a wave of helplessness washing over him.

"I...I don't know how to fight," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. Shame burned in his chest, hot and suffocating.

Giyu's expression remained unchanged, his dark eyes boring into Fujitora, making him feel like a butterfly pinned under glass. "Then you will learn," Giyu stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Or you will die. Those are the only options in this world."

Fujitora swallowed, his throat dry. He knew Giyu wasn't exaggerating. This wasn't his world, not really. This wasn't some game or a show he could simply switch off. This was life and death, demons and swords, and he was woefully unprepared.

"But...why?" Fujitora asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Why are you doing this?"

Giyu took a step closer, his presence radiating an almost tangible aura of power. "You showed courage back there, standing up for what you believed in," Giyu said, his voice surprisingly neutral. "Foolish, reckless courage, perhaps. But courage nonetheless."

He held Fujitora's gaze, his expression unreadable. "I am curious," Giyu continued. "Curious to see if that spark of defiance is hiding any true potential. Or if it will simply burn out and turn to ash."

He gestured with the wooden sword in his hand. "Show me," he commanded. "Attack me. Let me see what you are capable of."

Fujitora's mind reeled. He had expected anger, punishment, maybe even a swift death. But this...this felt like a challenge. A test. And something in his gut, some primal instinct awakened by the danger of his situation, rose to meet it.

He gripped the wooden sword tighter, feeling the rough wood dig into his palms. He had no idea what he was doing, but he couldn't back down now. Not when something inside him, something he couldn't quite name, was screaming at him to fight.

He took a deep breath, trying to remember even a single thing from the countless hours he had spent watching anime fights. He closed his eyes, picturing Tanjiro's movements, the fluidity and power of the Water Breathing techniques.

Opening his eyes, he charged forward, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He swung the wooden sword with all his might, putting every ounce of his frustration and fear into the blow.

It was a wild, desperate attack, easily predictable. Giyu sidestepped it with an almost bored expression, his movements so swift they were almost a blur.

"Again," Giyu commanded, his voice sharp as he circled Fujitora. "And try not to disappoint me."

Fujitora gritted his teeth, frustration burning in his chest. He knew his first attack was pathetic, a flailing attempt at best. He had no grace, no technique, only raw, untrained instinct driving him forward.

He charged again, this time trying to mimic the fluidity he had seen in Tanjiro's movements. He swung the wooden sword, aiming for Giyu's legs, hoping to catch him off guard.

But Giyu was ready for him. He moved with an effortless grace, sidestepping Fujitora's attack and delivering a swift kick to his chest. The blow sent Fujitora sprawling onto his back, the air knocked out of his lungs.

He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, pain radiating through his chest. He had never felt so helpless, so utterly outmatched. Was this it? Was this how he would die, not in a blaze of glory, but as a pathetic, flailing mess in the snow?

"Get up," Giyu commanded, his voice echoing through the clearing. "Again."

Fujitora pushed himself up, his body protesting with every movement. He looked at Giyu, at the utter lack of effort in his stance, the cold fire in his eyes, and something inside him snapped.

It wasn't fair. He didn't ask for this, to be thrown into this world, to be judged by standards he could never hope to meet. He was just a normal guy, thrust into extraordinary circumstances, and he was tired of feeling powerless.

He charged again, this time not with any attempt at grace or technique, but with pure, unadulterated rage. He swung the wooden sword wildly, putting every ounce of his frustration, his fear, his anger into each blow.

He didn't care if he looked ridiculous, didn't care if he was outmatched. He was tired of being afraid. He would fight, even if it meant dying in the attempt.

To his surprise, Giyu didn't immediately counter. He simply deflected Fujitora's blows, his movements economical, almost bored. But beneath that indifference, Fujitora sensed something else. A flicker of interest, perhaps? Or maybe it was just amusement at his expense.

He didn't let it deter him. He pressed his attack, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to prove something, to himself if no one else. He swung, he kicked, he lunged, each movement fueled by raw emotion rather than skill.

And slowly, something began to change. His movements, while still unrefined, started to flow together. He began to anticipate Giyu's movements, his body reacting instinctively to the subtle shifts in the Hashira's stance.

He was still losing, of course. Giyu was toying with him, deflecting his attacks with minimal effort. But for the first time since this bizarre training session began, Fujitora felt a glimmer of hope.

He wasn't just flailing anymore. He was fighting.

As the minutes turned into what felt like hours, Fujitora found a strange rhythm within the chaos. He was still being outmatched, of course. Giyu moved like a force of nature, his movements a blur of water and steel. Every attack Fujitora threw was effortlessly deflected, every lunge countered with pinpoint accuracy.

Yet, with each exchange, Fujitora felt a sliver of improvement. His body, though exhausted and bruised, began to respond with a newfound agility. He started anticipating Giyu's movements, his raw instincts slowly shaping into something resembling technique.

He realized with a jolt that Giyu wasn't just fighting him, he was teaching him. The Hashira would deliberately leave an opening, only to exploit it a moment later, demonstrating a weakness in Fujitora's stance or a flaw in his attack. Each correction was delivered with a swift strike, a sharp reminder that this was no game.

The air grew heavy with exertion, their breaths forming white plumes in the frigid air. Fujitora's muscles screamed in protest, his lungs burned with each gasp for air. But he refused to give up. He had come too far, endured too much, to quit now.

Suddenly, as Fujitora stumbled back from a particularly forceful parry, his foot caught on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. He lost his balance, his vision tilting precariously as he braced himself for the inevitable fall.

But the impact never came. He felt a strong hand grip his arm, pulling him upright with surprising gentleness. He looked up to see Giyu staring down at him, his expression unreadable.

"You're improving," Giyu said, his voice devoid of its usual sharpness. It wasn't praise, not exactly, but it was the closest thing to encouragement Fujitora had received since arriving in this world.

He nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his chest. He knew he was nowhere near Giyu's level, not even close. But for the first time, he felt a flicker of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, he could survive in this dangerous new world.

Giyu released his arm, taking a step back. "Again," he commanded, his voice regaining its familiar steeliness. "Show me you're not just a bird with clipped wings, flapping uselessly in the snow."

Fujitora straightened, raising his wooden sword. He knew it was an insult, a challenge disguised as a taunt. But he also recognized the sliver of respect hidden beneath Giyu's harsh words.

He wasn't just a random boy anymore, a nuisance to be swatted aside. He was a student, albeit a clumsy and frustrating one, deemed worthy of the Hashira's attention. And he would prove himself worthy of that attention, even if it killed him.

He charged again, his heart pounding with a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. He didn't know what the future held, didn't know if he would survive the trials that awaited him. But for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt truly alive.