[What… is that smell? It's so pungent, but strangely familiar…]
Tanjiro groggily crawled out from under the blankets and looked toward the entrance.
[Ah, right. I've smelled this on Hiru and Yoriichi before. That's right—Hiru even said something about it… What was it again?]
BOOM—!
The deafening crash instantly blew away Tanjiro's drowsiness. Almost on instinct, he grabbed the Nichirin Blade resting above his futon and stepped in front of his family, focusing intently on the entrance.
The noise jolted everyone else awake as well. Takeo scrambled up, pulling his younger siblings behind him, though he was still half-asleep.
"What? What's going on? An earthquake?"
"Takeo! Take Mom and everyone to the inner room!"
"Huh? But—"
"Move, now!"
"Y-Yes!" Takeo grabbed one child in each hand. "Hanako, Shigeru, come with me."
"But big brother—"
"Hanako, listen." Kie lifted the youngest, Rokuta, into her arms and looked at Tanjiro with deep concern. She knew that staying here would only distract him further. "We're going inside."
When Tanjiro saw the man in the suit—and caught that aggressive stench flooding his nose—Hiru's words finally came back to him.
[You must remember this invasive smell. If you ever encounter it, avoid it at all costs… because something filthy is there.]
[So what does 'filthy' actually mean? Who is this man? Why did he come to our house?]
Tanjiro's pupils constricted as he stared at the intruder, inching toward the door of the inner room.
[My legs still aren't in good shape. I can only defend right now.]
Yet the man Tanjiro was guarding against didn't look at him or his family at first. His gaze settled instead on the half-burned wisteria incense at the entrance.
"Hmph… The presence is still nearby. So these medicines really did come from that annoying doll."
"Leave immediately! If you don't, I'll be forced to attack you! Breaking into someone's home in the middle of the night is completely unacceptable!"
Muzan finally deigned to look at the boy in front of him. He was about to speak further, but his expression suddenly darkened when he noticed the paper earrings swaying beside the boy's ears.
In that moment, Tanjiro felt as though he'd been plunged into the depths of the sea. An overwhelming pressure crushed down on him. His body began to tremble uncontrollably, and his fingers stiffened so badly that he couldn't even draw his Nichirin Blade.
[What's… wrong with me? My body won't move—it's terrified… No, I can't let this happen. Mom and my siblings are right behind me. Move! Tanjiro! You're the eldest son! You promised Father you'd protect everyone! Move! Draw your sword!]
But no matter how desperately he shouted in his heart, the instinctive fear held him fast. Even breathing became difficult, and the lack of oxygen slowly muddled his thoughts.
Muzan paid no attention to the frozen Tanjiro. His plum-red eyes slowly swept across the house, finally stopping on the memorial portrait of Tanjuro. Staring at the sickly yet gently smiling man in the photograph, an irrepressible disgust welled up inside him.
"Tsugikuni Yoriichi…
"So those disgusting techniques of yours really were passed down, in ways even I couldn't have imagined. I should almost be moved by that spirit of yours—clinging on like a disease embedded in the bone… And yet, one after another, why do you all insist on getting in my way?"
Just as Muzan reached out to destroy the nauseating black-and-white photograph, a brilliant red flame flared without warning, slashing across his arm. The photograph vanished from before him.
Muzan lowered his gaze to the wound on the back of his hand. It was only a shallow cut, barely breaking the skin, yet a faint burning pain spread from it. His plum-colored eyes slowly turned toward Tanjiro.
"…Sun Breathing?"
Tanjiro clutched the photo frame, gasping for air. The crushing pressure still felt like the depths of the sea, but his body had stopped shaking.
"I don't know! My father taught me! And—destroying things others treasure and disrespecting the dead are wrong! Apologize!"
"Learned from your father?" Muzan slowly turned his head, his gaze never leaving Tanjiro. "…The Demon Slayer Corps?"
"Father did know people from the Demon Slayer Corps!" Tanjiro carefully pressed the photo frame to his chest and raised his Nichirin Blade toward Muzan. "But I don't want to talk about this with you anymore! Apologize to my family!"
"I see. Then that strike from the other day must have been done by this dead man…"
Muzan sneered.
"What a foolish thing. He probably burned out his own life for that attack, didn't he? Giving everything for a baseless possibility… After all this time, the Demon Slayer Corps is still just as stupid."
Muzan's plum-red eyes brimmed with malice as he looked at Tanjiro, his voice carrying an unhidden excitement and pleasure.
"In that case, once I kill you all, that revolting Sun Breathing will disappear completely."
Tanjiro didn't even see what happened. His body was suddenly sent flying, smashing through the wooden wall and crashing into the pile of firewood outside. Before he could get back up, another invisible attack struck him and flung him away again.
Muzan stepped leisurely through the broken wall and scattered logs, approaching Tanjiro as he struggled to rise.
"Ha… How weak. To inherit such a powerful Breathing Style and yet fail to draw out even a tenth of its former strength… That annoying Tsugikuni Yoriichi probably never imagined things would turn out like this, did he?"
[He knows Yoriichi…? Inherited? What is he talking about?]
Tanjiro forced himself upright. The dark night and the blood running down his forehead blurred his vision, but the sharp, invasive stench pouring off Muzan clearly marked his position.
[Breathe, Tanjiro. Steady your breathing. Just like Father and Yoriichi taught you—use your breath to its absolute limit! You can do it. You can! No matter what, you can't let this guy get anywhere near Mom or Takeo and the others!]
"Hiss—"
Tanjiro exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and focusing all of his attention on his sense of smell.
Unnoticed by him, as white breath spilled from his mouth, the scar on his forehead began to be overtaken by deep crimson markings—like flames.