At dawn the next morning, when the sky was only just beginning to pale—
In the Butterfly Mansion's courtyard, the air still held the chill of early morning.
Shinobu stood in the shadow of the corridor, those violet eyes that always seemed to carry a smile now weighted with a quiet gravity.
Her gaze rested soundlessly on the boy in the center of the yard, practicing with a wooden sword.
There was no flashy sword aura, no ear-splitting crack of air being torn apart.
Yoriichi's movements were slow—unbelievably slow—each swing like he was tracing the sun's path across the heavens.
Yet Shinobu, a Hashira, could tell: within that seemingly languid motion was a kind of "perfection" that made the skin prickle with awe.
Not a tremor of wasted muscle. Breath and movement perfectly synchronized.
If anything, it didn't feel like he didn't understand Breathing Techniques at all. It felt more as though he had mastered every form—then distilled them all back down to something pure and simple.
So this was… the swordsmanship that had subdued Shinazugawa with a single move?
Shinobu murmured the thought to herself.
Ever since this boy joined the Demon Slayer Corps, she'd found her life shifting in subtle ways—without her even realizing.
For example… Kanao, last night.
She still couldn't quite believe it: this morning, that child had taken the initiative to say, "Good morning," to her.
The voice had been small, almost inaudible—but it was something that simply would not have happened before.
With that in mind, Shinobu drew a quiet breath, smoothed her expression into her trademark smile, and stepped out.
"Tanjiro-kun, you're up quite early."
Yoriichi's wooden sword paused midair. He eased the motion to a stop, turned to face her, and inclined his head. "Good morning, Lady Kocho."
"Just call me Miss Shinobu."
She walked up to him and looked up—he was notably taller than she was. Her tone stayed gentle, but the meaning beneath it was clear. "About what happened with Kanao last night… I know it's a little forward of me, but I still want to say thank you. That child… seems to have opened her heart, just a little."
"I didn't do anything," Yoriichi replied, as calm as ever. "Kanao is a pure-hearted child. She only needs to learn how to listen to her own voice."
Shinobu narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.
…That look again. That way of speaking.
He was only fifteen. Why did he talk like an old man who had lived for centuries?
"You really are modest."
She pressed down her doubts and changed the subject with practiced ease. "By the way, the Master holds you in very high regard. He sent word to the Swordsmith Village last night—immediately."
"A swordsmith?" Yoriichi echoed.
"Yes. After all, without a Nichirin Blade, you can't kill demons."
Shinobu raised one finger, smiling as she offered a warning. "The man assigned to forge your blade is… well, his temperament is a bit—unique. If I'm counting right, he should arrive any moment now. Please prepare yourself."
"Unique?" Yoriichi asked, puzzled.
And right then—
Ting-ling. Ting-ling…
An eerie sound of wind chimes drifted in from the direction of the front gate, accompanied by heavy footsteps.
Shinobu's smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Ah… he's even faster than I expected."
Yoriichi turned his head.
A man wearing a mask—its face like a flame—strode in at a brisk pace, dressed in a polka-dotted haori.
He didn't bow like an ordinary visitor. From far away, he'd already spotted Yoriichi, and the eyes behind the mask were locked onto him.
"You're Kamado Tanjiro?"
The man's voice was low, taut with restrained intensity, and in his hands he gripped a long, narrow bundle.
"Yes," Yoriichi answered politely.
"I'm Hotaru Haganezuka."
He marched right up, then suddenly leaned in close, looking Yoriichi up and down. "I heard it from the Master… You're the reckless idiot who dared to chop at demons with an axe even without a Nichirin Blade? And you're a 'Crimson Child,' too?"
Yoriichi blinked, about to explain—
When Haganezuka abruptly whipped a kitchen knife out from behind his back. His emotions detonated in an instant, and he started swinging it around like a tantruming child.
"Such a waste—utter madness! If you die out there, my sword will lose its owner before it's even been properly born! Do you have any idea I didn't sleep all night to finish this blade?! Huh?! If you dare break it, I'll kill you! I'll kill you for sure!!"
Faced with the sudden spectacle, Yoriichi simply shifted his body a little to the side—effortless, natural—avoiding the "kitchen-knife rampage" without even changing his expression.
"I'm truly sorry for troubling you," he said sincerely.
Shinobu, watching from the side, couldn't help lifting a hand to her forehead.
Of course it turned into this…
But then, in the very next moment, her attention was drawn to the bundle Haganezuka held.
"Alright, alright. That's enough of the farce."
After venting, Haganezuka thrust the bundle into Yoriichi's arms, his tone turning feverish with excitement. "Draw it! Let me see what color my blade becomes in the hands of a 'Crimson Child'!"
A Crimson Child…?
Yoriichi froze for a beat.
"We really have to start the explanation from here?"
Haganezuka jabbed a finger toward Yoriichi's face. "A 'Crimson Child' means someone like you—born with red hair and red eyes. In families like coal-sellers, or in the swordsmith trade, traits like that are considered auspicious. They say it brings enormous good fortune to the family."
As he spoke, it felt like the eyes behind the mask grew brighter. He patted the scabbard lightly.
"And Nichirin Blades are also called 'color-changing blades.' They're forged from a special ore that has absorbed the brilliance of sunlight. When you first grip it, the blade changes color based on the wielder's affinity."
"Giyu Tomioka, the Water Hashira—blue. Kyojuro Rengoku, the Flame Hashira—red. Thunder Breathing—golden yellow…"
Hearing this, Shinobu—who had been quietly observing—let her gaze drift back to Yoriichi.
"I have to admit… I'm curious."
She'd already seen his skill. But what he'd shown against the Wind Hashira yesterday went far beyond the boundaries of any established Breathing form.
Something that belonged neither to wind nor to water—something that even surpassed the very concept of "forms"…
So what, exactly, was the true color of this boy's soul?
Calm like water?
Or—like those eyes of his—fire?
Without realizing it, even Shinobu's ever-present social smile softened into a trace of anticipation.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the hand closing around the hilt.
"What color will his blade be?"
Under their breath-held stares, Haganezuka swallowed hard and urged him on:
"Go on—draw it! Let me witness the color of a Crimson Child!"
Yoriichi gave a small nod.
"My deepest thanks."
His fingers tightened. His breath flowed.
Kang—!
He slowly drew the Nichirin Blade from its sheath…
-------
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