The air in the courtyard seemed to congeal.
With Ubuyashiki Kagaya's appearance, the Wind Hashira—who only moments ago had been bristling with killing intent, blades nearly drawn—now looked as meek as a child being scolded by an elder, head lowered in silence.
…He even softened his breathing.
To be precise, it wasn't just the Wind Hashira. The other Hashira were the same.
Rustle…
Soft footsteps sounded one after another from the shadows around the courtyard.
Now that the Master had arrived, the other "Hashira," who had been hidden and observing the situation, no longer simply watched. They stepped forward into view.
A blond young man in a flame-patterned haori, eyes bright and resolute.
A towering monk with palms pressed together, tears streaming down his face.
A swordsman with bandages wrapped around his face and mismatched eyes, a white snake coiled over his shoulders.
In addition, there was a pink-haired girl overflowing with energy, her figure full and lively.
And an empty-eyed boy, as well as a tall shinobi with flamboyant makeup.
The Demon Slayer Corps' strongest—nine swordsmen who bore the title of "Hashira"—had all gathered here.
Their expressions varied. One after another, their gazes fell on the boy standing at the center of the courtyard.
Among them, the pink-haired girl with green-tinted tips covered her cheeks, blushing. Her large eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.
"Wah… so it's this kid? Incredible—he actually suppressed Shinazugawa's blade with one hand."
"He looks so young, and he's even carrying a demon, but he's so calm…" Her eyes glittered like a lovestruck girl's as she nodded fervently. "Mm-hm! He's kind of handsome!"
—The Love Hashira, Mitsuri Kanroji.
But while she was still marveling, a cold, dark stare snapped onto the boy.
—The Serpent Hashira, Obanai Iguro.
He had keenly sensed the unusual emotional shift from the girl beside him.
"…Tch."
Hidden beneath his bandages, the corner of Iguro's mouth twisted in displeasure. The way he looked at the boy sharpened into hostility.
"Dragging a demon around and still showing off here… What an irritating little brat."
His tone dripped with annoyance.
Whatever their private thoughts, the instant they reached the corridor and faced their Master, they gathered themselves and swept all distractions away.
Swish.
All nine Hashira dropped to one knee in perfect unison before the frail man on the corridor.
"Master, may your health be well."
Their voices overlapped, heavy with absolute loyalty.
Among everyone present, only the invited guest—Yoriichi—did not kneel immediately.
It wasn't arrogance.
It was because the moment he saw that face, he couldn't help but feel dazed.
Ubuyashiki Kagaya—most of his face was now covered in purple, sickly markings. His eyes were blind, his skin so pale it seemed almost translucent.
There was no doubt about it: a dreadful curse that seeped into the marrow, one that made even breathing feel like burning through the last of one's life.
How tragic…
So even now, this family's curse still continued…?
Yoriichi let out a silent sigh.
Four hundred years ago, he had looked upon a dear friend tormented by illness in much the same way.
A man just as gentle, just as burdened by the clan's curse of short lifespans—yet determined to destroy Muzan at any cost.
Time flowed. Years turned.
His old friend had long since become dust, yet this cruel fate still clung to the Ubuyashiki line like a ghost.
"Are you… Tanjiro?"
Though Ubuyashiki could not see, his keen intuition caught the weight of that unique gaze.
He tilted his head slightly. His unfocused eyes aligned with Yoriichi's direction with uncanny accuracy, and a weak yet warm smile touched his lips.
"You seem like a very gentle child. That wild wind just now… you were the one who made it stop, weren't you?"
Yoriichi fell silent for a moment.
Then he bent and lowered himself to one knee.
He did not kneel because this man commanded the Corps, nor because of hierarchy or rank.
He knelt out of respect—for a bloodline whose obsession had never broken across a thousand years, an obsession that willingly burned itself to ash to eradicate demons.
"Yes."
His voice was calm, soft. "I'm sorry for disturbing your rest."
Ubuyashiki shook his head and smiled gently. "I am the one who invited you. If apologies are owed, then it is I who should apologize for failing to treat a guest properly."
As he spoke, his attention swept across the assembled Hashira.
"I trust that before coming here, you all learned—at least in part—the reason I summoned everyone today."
"I called you here because of this boy named Kamado Tanjiro, and the matter of his sister, who is a demon."
"Master—!"
The Flame Hashira, Kyojuro Rengoku, raised his head first, voice ringing like a bell.
"I understand your intent. I respect you deeply, but inviting a swordsman who travels with a demon to join the Demon Slayer Corps—such a thing is absolutely unacceptable!"
"No—more fundamentally, any demon should be beheaded at once, in accordance with our rules!"
"I flamboyantly agree!" The Sound Hashira, Tengen Uzui, touched his headpiece. "This is not flamboyant at all. Carrying a demon while hunting demons? It's a joke."
The other Hashira didn't speak up, but their posture made it clear: most of them opposed the idea.
Only Shinobu Kocho and Giyu Tomioka remained silent. Shinobu wore her usual smile, yet her gaze never left the boy. As for Tomioka… he had already seen swordsmanship that bordered on the divine. Naturally, he would welcome the boy's joining.
"Everyone, please calm yourselves."
Ubuyashiki lifted one finger to quiet them, his voice warm.
"Before we reach a verdict, I would like you to hear the contents of this letter. It was sent to me a few days ago by the Water Hashira, Tomioka Giyu."
At that name, many eyes slid toward the young man kneeling at the edge, wearing a half-and-half haori, set apart from everyone else.
Beside the Master, a white-haired girl unfolded the letter and began to read.
At first, the Hashira listened with scrutiny. But as the letter went on, the atmosphere in the courtyard changed—subtly, but unmistakably.
"…In the depths of a snowy mountain, I encountered a boy named Kamado Tanjiro. During our clash, I was struck down by an unknown sword technique and lost consciousness. The boy's swordsmanship was strange, deep, and highly refined. He also had a younger sister who had already become a demon, yet had not attacked any humans…"
At that point, the girl's voice halted.
And the courtyard fell into a brief, dead silence.
A few seconds later, Uzui raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Hey—seriously? That gloomy Tomioka got taken down? By some kid hauling a demon around?"
"Unbelievable!" Rengoku's eyes widened. "Tomioka doesn't talk much, but his skill is genuine… How could that be?!"
In the corner, Tomioka's face remained expressionless, as though they weren't discussing his defeat.
Only he—who had been there—knew the truth: there had been no "holding back" in that fight.
He had indeed been careless at first when he realized the opponent was a child… but judging from the boy's exchange with the Insect Hashira, even if Tomioka were given another chance, the result would be the same.
"Hah…"
A cold, mocking laugh cut through the discussion.
Sanemi Shinazugawa slowly rose to his feet. The scars that covered his body lifted and fell with his breath as he glared at Tomioka, fury boiling.
"Tomioka… what kind of joke do you think you're playing?!"
His voice was low—terrifyingly so—as he snarled,
"To protect this demon-carrying brat, you'd fabricate such an absurd lie? 'Taken down in one blow,' 'lost consciousness'… Are you saying we Hashira are worse than some snot-nosed kid?!"
To him, this was an insult to the title of "Hashira"—and a trampling of the belief he had bled for: to cut down demons.
To become the strongest swordsman, to slaughter the evil demons of this world, he had paid in endless sweat along the way.
Who among the Hashira wasn't the best of the best?
And Tomioka, even among them, ranked near the top.
If Tomioka admitted he was inferior to some kid, then all of them were being dragged down with him.
"Or what—has that demon bewitched you, rotted your brain, too?!"
Faced with the Wind Hashira's roar, Tomioka only lowered his head slightly, silent.
"A demon that doesn't eat people, and a kid who can take down the Water Hashira…"
Sanemi whipped around. His gaze locked onto Yoriichi in the center of the courtyard.
"In that case, I'll verify it myself!"
Clang!
The sound of a Nichirin blade being drawn rang through the courtyard.
But this time, Sanemi wasn't aiming for the wooden box.
Madness flashed in his bloodshot eyes. Gripping the blade in reverse, he slashed viciously toward his own left arm!
"If you're claiming this demon won't eat humans…"
Before everyone's eyes, Sanemi's mouth split into a savage grin.
"Then we'll test it with my blood. I don't believe there's a demon alive that can refuse the scent of 'marechi'!"
Yes… that was the Wind Hashira's plan.
He would use the most primitive, most direct method to shred the boy's claim and force out the demon's true nature from inside the box.
The blade cut through the air. In the instant before it touched skin—
啪.
A hand appeared out of nowhere between the blade and Sanemi's arm.
No one reacted.
It was simply too fast.
The moment Sanemi drew his sword, Yoriichi had already reached out and caught the blade's spine as it came down at full speed—
as casually as pinching a drifting cherry blossom petal.
Sanemi froze.
The edge hovered less than a millimeter from his skin.
"Wha…?!"
His expression twisted violently as he stared at the boy, shock and confusion in his eyes.
Shock—because he hadn't even seen the boy move.
Confusion—because he couldn't understand why the boy would stop him.
His "self-harm" had nothing to do with this kid.
That split-second reversal made everyone's breath stutter.
Even Shinobu Kocho—who had been smiling the whole time—parted her lips slightly, her eyes filled with disbelief.
Yoriichi released the blade. His clear, dark red eyes—transparent as still water—rested quietly on the Wind Hashira, who remained frozen in stunned bewilderment.
"The body is a gift from one's parents."
His voice was light, yet it carried through the entire courtyard.
"To harm such a precious body just to prove something… If your mother knew, she would be heartbroken."
Sanemi's pupils shrank sharply.
Boom!
That sympathy—spoken without malice, and almost with a sigh—struck like thunder in the Wind Hashira's mind.
It was only an offhand attempt to persuade, but for him, it pierced straight into his most sensitive nerve.
Mother—
The mother who had become a demon to protect her children…
and who had died by his own hand.
The one wound he never wanted to touch—raw, bloody, and buried deepest inside him.
"You… you bastard…"
His breathing grew ragged. Veins bulged at his temple. The hand gripping his sword trembled with rage as he snarled,
"What do you know…? A guy like you—dragging a demon around everywhere—what right do you have to talk about my mother?!"
"Wind Breathing, Eighth Form: Primary Gale Slash!"
His reason snapped.
Sanemi let out a beastlike roar, no longer caring about "verification," no longer caring that the Master stood before him.
He spun and erupted with every ounce of power in his body, unleashing a spiraling wind blade capable of tearing everything around it to pieces—slamming it down toward Yoriichi at point-blank range.
Too close… At this distance, dodging was impossible!
"Sanemi!!" Rengoku's face blanched as he surged to intervene—but it was already too late.
And yet—
Before that storm capable of grinding a man into mince—
Yoriichi lowered his eyelids slightly.
His hand rested on the worn Nichirin blade at his waist.
Inhale.
In that instant, every Hashira felt a strange illusion—
as though the surrounding air, the sunlight, even the flow of time itself, was being drawn into the boy's lungs.
Sun Breathing, First Form.
Dance.
Shing—!
A perfect, searing arc—like the rim of the sun—bloomed at the heart of the storm.
There was no violent explosion.
The moment the raging gale met that arc, it was shattered—instantly—by countless sword energies contained within it.
The light faded.
Yoriichi remained in a drawing stance. His blade was not fully unsheathed—only a short length of crimson steel glinted from the scabbard.
And Sanemi's Nichirin blade—once clenched tight in his hands—had already flown free, buried in the distant wall.
Clang!
The blade vibrated violently in the stone, humming.
Sanemi stood rigidly in place. A faint warmth spread across his neck.
A shallow red line—left by a passing blade aura.
Yoriichi calmly slid the exposed length of steel back into its sheath.
A soft click sounded in the dead-silent courtyard—absurdly loud.
He lifted his head, looking at the Wind Hashira, whose mind had gone completely blank, and spoke quietly.
"I told you."
"Your sword is full of malice, and your heart is in turmoil."
"A sword like that… cannot cut me."
-------
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