Without even bothering to wash up, Shinjuro stumbled outside, his beard messy, his eyes tired, heading straight to find Marume.
But it didn't go the way he hoped.
After a long, awkward conversation full of polite excuses, the owner finally said it straight, Shinjuro could eat, sleep, and use the training grounds freely, but if he wanted to drink, he'd have to buy the alcohol himself. No exceptions.
Shinjuro had nothing to say. What could he even argue? This wasn't a bar. It was a Dojo Hall. And Marume wasn't some servant who owed him favors—he was already doing more than enough.
So Shinjuro bit his tongue, stuffed down the frustration, and walked off empty-handed.
He thought about just buying it himself, but that was easier said than done. He didn't bring much money this time, and honestly, the cheap stuff made him feel sick. He tried sipping a few leftover drops from one of the old bottles lying around, but it only made him more irritable.
"Damn old man," he grumbled, talking about Marume. "Trying to starve me from my booze…"
But he couldn't actually do anything. Not really. He was still the Flame Hashira. There was a line even he wouldn't cross.
Still, the whole situation just made everything worse. His wife was gone. The drink was gone. His pride was gone. He hadn't achieved anything. For a moment, he even thought about leaving—just packing up and going home.
But then he remembered why he came in the first place.
He didn't come here to teach some brat how to swing a sword. He came here for Senjuro. To give his youngest son a better shot at something. A place to grow stronger. He wouldn't have even thought about it back then but this at least gave him an excuse.
And, well… it was kind of working.
Senjuro was still quiet, still careful, but Shinjuro could see the change. The boy smiled more. Talked more. Trained harder. He even had a few friends now among the other apprentices.
Even though he hadn't progressed much in swordsmanship yet, his moves were smoother. Less stiff. He was becoming a real swordsman.
Thinking about that made Shinjuro calm down a little. It reminded him that he couldn't leave just yet. But he still needed his drink.
Which meant… there was only one option.
That night, when Senjuro brought dinner like usual, Shinjuro met him at the door—sitting upright for once.
"Senjuro. I've got a message for that brat."
Senjuro blinked. "...Itsuki?"
"Who else"
Senjuro hesitated. He remembered how Itsuki had been driven out last time for barely anything. It made his stomach twist a little. But he nodded anyway.
"What should I tell him?"
"Tell him from now on, if he brings good alcohol, I'll answer three questions. That's the deal."
Senjuro blinked again.
So that's why he was sitting straight today. He ran out of booze.
"Just make sure not to embarrass the Rengoku name when you pass it on!"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
He left right away. Over the past few days, hanging out with Itsuki had made him a little more lively.
He found Itsuki where he expected—at the dining hall, face stuffed with food as usual.
"Itsuki-senpai! Good news!"
Itsuki turned around with sushi still puffing out his cheeks looking like a squirrel.
"My dad… he's willing to teach you again!"
Itsuki swallowed and said "Huh? Really? That old drunk gave in already?"
Itsuki blinked, then smirked. "Let me guess—he ran out?"
"Well, maybe. But hey, I didn't get around to selling the good stuff just yet alright thanks senjuro."
The next day at noon, Itsuki came back. Ten jars of fine sake strapped to his back.
"Master! I missed you so much these past few days!"
Shinjuro opened the door and nearly gagged at the sight of him.
"I told you not to call me Master."
"Too bad! Here I am anyway."
Itsuki shuffled inside, hauling the jars like they were treasure.
Shinjuro's eye twitched. He wanted to punch him… and also take one of those jars.
"Alright, whatever. Call me what you want. Come in."
"Yes, Master!"
"Let's get one thing straight. Helping you with First Form counts as one. That leaves two questions."
"But I already got First Form down. I'm here for Second Form."
"…Tch."
The brat really had talent—and an annoying face.
"Fine. Ask your damn questions."
Five minutes later, Shinjuro had already answered one and showed him the Second Form: Rising Scorching Sun.
"That's one left. Make it count."
Instead of asking, Itsuki tossed him a jar.
"Master, wet your throat first. I gotta think."
Shinjuro sighed but took the jar anyway.
"Gulp, gulp…"
Fifteen minutes passed, and his cheeks were turning red.
"Master, still thirsty? Here, have another."
"Hmph."
He took it without question. But halfway through drinking, something felt off.
"Wait a second… what are you up to, brat?"
Itsuki just smiled innocently. "Snacks, Master. You want any snacks?"
A few minutes later, Shinjuro was sitting cross-legged, sipping sake, eating crunchy beans, and quietly enjoying himself.
"Quit drinking, huh?" he mumbled. "What a joke."
Itsuki watched from the side, a small grin creeping onto his face.
"Master, I've got another question."
"Seriously? You don't even understand that? Listen carefully. When using Second Form—"
"I get it now. One more -----."
"…Hmph. Finally, a good question. Alright, listen up—"
"Master, you're so smart. Here, another jar!"
Shinjuro grumbled but grabbed it anyway. Itsuki refilled his cup with a straight face.
And so, the second round of their strange little teacher-student deal began—one jar at a time, question at a time.