A soft murmur drifted through the air.
Staring at the familiar scene before him, Yoriichi's eyes brimmed with nostalgia.
He had once been a member of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Roughly four hundred years ago, in the Warring States era, a man named Yoriichi Tsugikuni lost his wife to a demon—only to encounter a Demon Slayer swordsman by chance.
Before Yoriichi joined, the Corps' fighters relied on ordinary swordsmanship, throwing themselves into battle with brute strength. The casualties were horrific.
After that, Yoriichi taught his comrades Total Concentration Breathing.
Since no one could master Sun Breathing, he tailored his instruction to each person's physique, guiding them to develop the five foundational styles: Water, Flame, Wind, Stone, and Thunder.
But later, because he failed to kill Muzan—because he spared a demon woman… Tamayo—and because his own older brother betrayed the Corps in pursuit of power and became a demon…
The Corps demanded that Yoriichi commit seppuku to atone. The head of the Ubuyashiki family at the time stopped it, choosing instead to expel Yoriichi from the Corps.
Now, after all these centuries, he stepped into this place again under the name "Tanjiro." What he felt was not agitation—only reflection and longing.
Everyone he once knew was gone. Only this place remained, unchanged.
Just as Yoriichi was immersed in those thoughts, a savage, frenzied presence—like a hurricane erupting from flat ground—suddenly tore apart the courtyard's calm.
"What… is that?!"
The Kakushi member who had only just set Yoriichi down—who hadn't even had a moment to catch his breath—froze as the terrifying killing intent crashed over him. He whipped his head around.
At the same time, Shinobu Kocho's smile faded a fraction. She turned slightly, her gaze deep and knowing as it settled on the shadows beneath the corridor.
She knew that aura all too well.
It belonged to the most volatile of the Hashira—also the one whose hatred of demons burned the fiercest.
Wind.
"Hey. Tomioka. Kocho."
A hoarse, oppressive voice rang out.
A figure stepped out of the corridor's darkness—covered in scars, eyes vicious, presence bristling with violence.
His uniform hung open, revealing a body hard with muscle. Those bloodshot eyes were locked on the wooden box strapped to Yoriichi's back, his tone low and poisonous.
"Are you two out of your minds? Bringing that filthy thing into the Master's estate."
There was not a trace of restraint in his words—only fury.
The Wind Hashira, Sanemi Shinazugawa.
Giyu Tomioka frowned. "This was the Master's decision. We're simply following orders… you—"
He didn't get to finish.
Sanemi erupted. "A demon is a demon! Any Corps member who protects a demon is a traitor who violates the rules—every last one should die!"
"If you don't want to die, then get out of my way!"
The instant the words fell, a gale exploded.
Shinobu's pupils contracted. Her hand went to her blade. "Sanemi—stop!"
But it was too late.
Sanemi moved with terrifying speed. Among the nine Hashira, his explosiveness ranked near the very top.
Wind Breathing, First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter!
He became a tornado skimming the ground. In the Kakushi member's terrified scream, the Nichirin Blade shrieked through the air—its point aimed straight at the wooden box on Yoriichi's back.
There was no mercy in that strike.
In Shinobu and Giyu's eyes, the attack was lightning-fast, packed with absolute intent to kill.
And yet—
To Yoriichi Tsugikuni, time seemed to slow to an entirely different pace.
That ferocious thrust played out like a slow-motion replay.
He saw the contraction of the young man's leg muscles. He saw the path of blood surging through veins—he even saw how far the ribs expanded after the intake of breath.
"So this power… is Wind Breathing?"
A long-forgotten tenderness flickered in Yoriichi's heart.
"It has presence," he thought. "But the killing intent is too heavy."
"Rage makes the muscles tense before they should—your movements stiffen. Your swing is too wide. It gains destructive force, but it exposes far too many openings."
Still, though it was immature, the blazing desire to cut down demons was real.
A spirited child.
But Yoriichi could not allow him to harm Nezuko.
With that, Yoriichi moved.
In the very moment Shinobu's blade slid out barely an inch, and as Giyu started to step forward—
Clang—!
A clear metallic tremor rang through the courtyard—crisp, yet not harsh.
There was no earthshaking collision. The violent pressure born of Wind Breathing stopped dead, as if severed in an instant.
Silence fell like a shroud.
Sanemi's eyes went wide, disbelief etched into every line of his face as he stared.
His Nichirin Blade had halted—only three inches from the wooden box.
It could not advance another hair.
Because a hand—steady, calm—was gripping the flat of his blade.
"Wh… what…?"
After a heartbeat of shock, veins bulged at Sanemi's temple. He wrenched with both arms, trying to rip the sword free.
It didn't budge.
"This is a well-forged blade," Yoriichi said, studying the young man's rage with grave sincerity. "But a swordsman's weapon exists to slay demons and protect the weak."
"It should never be pointed at a comrade—much less at a defenseless girl inside a box."
As his words ended, Yoriichi flicked a finger lightly.
Hum—!
A force that seemed gentle—yet utterly irresistible—surged along the blade.
The sword vibrated. Sanemi felt his arms shake violently, his footing collapsing as his center of gravity was torn away. He stumbled back several steps.
"You—bastard!!!"
Planting his blade to steady himself, Sanemi's pride and fury ignited what remained of his reason.
He roared, every muscle in his body tightening—his mark seeming as if it might surface at any moment.
And then—
From deep within the estate, a voice—frail to the point of seeming breakable—floated out.
"Enough, Sanemi… I asked him to come."
The voice carried a strange, quiet power. In an instant, it soothed the courtyard's turbulence, smothering the killing intent as if pressing it into the earth.
Sanemi's whole body went rigid. He turned toward the source.
The fury on his face vanished, replaced by absolute reverence. He dropped to one knee.
At the same time, Shinobu Kocho and Giyu Tomioka also knelt, heads bowed low.
"Master!"
Supported by his two white-haired daughters, a man who looked painfully weak emerged from the shadows, step by unsteady step.
Purple curse-like markings covered his face. His eyes were blind. His body looked as though a single gust might topple him.
And yet this fragile man commanded the deepest respect of every swordsman in the Corps.
The head of the Demon Slayer Corps…
Kagaya Ubuyashiki.
-------
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