The wind and snow still howled, but that suffocating pressure was gone.
Yoriichi slowly lowered the rusted axe in his hands.
He turned around and looked at his family huddled in the corner.
No blood.
No cold bodies.
None of the deathly silence he had regretted for four hundred years.
Only ragged breathing—and several pairs of tear-filled eyes, still trembling from shock.
"Ta… Tanjirō?" his mother, Kie, called out in a quivering voice, testing the name as if she didn't dare believe it.
In those crystalline, see-through eyes of his, the usual indifference faded, replaced by a softness and peace that had never been there before.
He looked at her and said quietly, "It's okay now, Mom."
The next moment, Kie could no longer hold herself back. She threw herself at him and hugged him tight. Then the whole family collapsed together by the shattered doorway, clinging to one another and sobbing aloud.
Feeling the warmth of bodies pressed against him—feeling hearts beating, alive and present—his eyelids lowered.
…So this is what it feels like, to protect them.
This time… he hadn't been too late.
After a long while, Yoriichi slowly loosened his embrace and lifted his gaze to the small house that held all of their memories.
The door was broken, the wall collapsed. Deep, horrifying fissures still scarred the floor where that man had fled—while the wind and snow poured mercilessly into the room through every hole.
"Looks like… we'll have to move," he said softly, an edge of apology in his voice.
Kie wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. She gently stroked his cheek—her voice still shaking, yet filled with the relief of survival.
"It's all right, Tanjirō. As long as everyone's safe… as long as we're together… it doesn't matter where we go…"
"Grrr…"
A suppressed, bestial growl abruptly cut through her warmth.
Kie's body stiffened. She turned toward the sound.
Her pupils contracted violently in terror.
Nezuko—who had been lying in the corner—had somehow staggered back to her feet.
Veins bulged grotesquely across her body. Her once-clear pink eyes had narrowed into slitted pupils, fangs protruding as she fixed her gaze on the closest source of blood—
her mother.
"Ne… Nezuko?" Kie whispered, disbelief choking her voice. "What's wrong with you?!"
The only answer was a savage roar, hungry for flesh.
"RAAAH!!"
Nezuko, her reason gone, kicked off the ground like a starving beast—claws outstretched—launching straight at Kie!
She was too close!
Just as those claws were about to reach Kie—
"Water Breathing: Second Form—Water Wheel!"
A circular torrent of razor-cold water tore in through the blizzard with a shriek of air!
Clang!
A blue figure descended like a specter, blade perfectly intercepting Nezuko's claws.
It was the Water Hashira—Giyu Tomioka.
Holding his sword in one hand, standing with his back to the stunned Kie and the children, he barked coldly:
"Take your family and go. Leave this to me!"
Before the words had even finished, Giyu flicked his wrist—an explosive force throwing Nezuko back several meters.
She hit the ground and lunged again, but a newborn demon had no form, no discipline. In front of a Hashira, her openings were glaring. In just two exchanges, Giyu read every movement. His eyes sharpened; his blade turned—
straight for the demon's neck.
"It's over."
He said it to himself, and his sword came down with absolute killing intent.
Clang—!
A harsh metallic collision detonated in the air.
Giyu's pupils tightened.
His blade stopped mid-swing.
Blocking it was something utterly ordinary—an axe used for splitting firewood, even rusted in places.
And gripping that axe was a boy with a dark red mark on his forehead.
"You can't hurt her."
The boy held the axe in one hand, bracing Giyu's strike steadily, his deep, calm eyes meeting the Water Hashira's.
"She's my sister."
Giyu's gaze shifted, surprise flickering for the briefest moment.
The boy looked slender—almost fragile—but the way he received the blow, the way he dispersed the force, was that of a seasoned swordsman. He had taken Giyu's strike with ease, using perfect redirection.
Even so, Giyu's face remained cold as stone.
"Move. Didn't you see what she just did? Your sister has become a man-eating demon."
"She hasn't eaten anyone." Yoriichi did not yield an inch. "And I won't let her."
Seeing there would be no persuasion, Giyu stopped arguing.
To prevent the demon from harming anyone, he had to remove this boy first.
He pulled his blade back, shifting his stance in an instant—preparing to knock the boy unconscious with the back of his sword, then finish the demon.
As Giyu set his posture, a sigh drifted through the wind and snow.
"…Sorry."
The boy's voice was so light it seemed ready to melt into the blizzard.
"But I can't let you hurt my family."
In that moment, Giyu sensed something wrong.
Heat.
A wave of heat burst outward from the boy like a shock ring.
Giyu stared in disbelief as the snow under the boy's feet—and even the ice within several meters—melted in an instant.
Steam surged up, blurring the boy's silhouette.
Yoriichi slowly raised the rusted hatchet.
At almost the same time, Giyu's heart jolted. Every nerve in his body screamed—a top-tier swordsman's instinctive alarm before absolute danger.
His muscles tightened. His eyes locked onto the boy. His mind raced:
Left? Right? A thrust from the front?
He prepared for every possible angle.
And then—
his pupils shrank to pinpoints.
There was no angle.
Or rather… every angle.
A terrifying pressure of sword intent—like a blade made of air itself—appeared from all directions at once, crashing down on him.
Impossible!
Too fast—
so fast it surpassed what the retina could capture, so fast even thought couldn't keep up.
Giyu didn't even see whether the boy had swung.
His vision simply fell into darkness.
Thud.
The Water Hashira, Giyu Tomioka, dropped straight into the melted snow-water without a sound—completely unconscious.
On the other side, with the obstacle gone, Nezuko roared again and threw herself at Yoriichi, claws bared.
Yoriichi didn't turn his head. He only shifted slightly, flipped the hatchet in his hand, and tapped the wooden handle lightly against the back of Nezuko's neck.
Knock.
The force was measured perfectly. The feral light drained from Nezuko's eyes. Her body went slack, collapsing into her brother's arms.
The wind and snow rose again.
Yoriichi lowered his gaze to the hand gripping the hatchet—trembling faintly—and a trace of helplessness crossed his eyes.
That burst of speed had dropped the swordsman, but it had also pushed this untrained child's body to its limit. His muscles were crying out in protest.
He clenched and unclenched his fist, murmuring under his breath:
"Because it's still a child's body… I'm nowhere near strong enough yet."
…
The cold wind screamed. Heavy snow churned.
Deep within Mount Kumotori, a shadow tore through the forest like a panicked beast—snow exploding behind it, trees snapping and collapsing in its wake.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
He looked wretched beyond belief. His immaculate suit had been shredded by branches; his carefully groomed hair hung in disarray, plastered to his forehead by cold sweat.
Fear.
Pure, extreme fear still surged through his veins—his seven hearts slamming madly against his ribcage.
"My lord?"
A puzzled voice sounded ahead.
Beneath a windbreak rock halfway up the mountain, Upper Rank Three—Akaza—stood with arms folded, having waited there for some time.
He had been ordered to accompany Muzan once the "trivial matter" was finished—yet what he saw now was an unthinkable sight:
Muzan… shaken.
Akaza's golden eyes flashed with astonishment.
He had never seen his master like this.
In his mind, Muzan was always elegant, cruel, untouchably supreme. Even centuries ago, facing encirclement by the Demon Slayers, he had never shown panic like this.
"Muzan-sama… what—"
Akaza stepped forward on instinct, about to ask what had happened.
Had he encountered a Hashira? No—no matter how many Hashira gathered, they could never drive Muzan to this state.
Before Akaza could react, a cold, violently trembling hand clamped onto his shoulder.
The grip was so strong it even hurt Upper Rank Three. Nails dug deep into flesh—like a drowning man seizing the only thing within reach.
Akaza looked up in shock, meeting Muzan's eyes—
eyes filled with fear.
"My lord…?"
A storm rose in Akaza's chest. What in the world could make the ruler of the night look like this?
Before he could speak again, Muzan's voice came out unmistakably shaking:
"Run… Run. Get me out of here!"
"It's him… He's back!"
-------
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