On a freezing night in the northwestern town, there wasn't a single soul to be seen on the streets.
A thin frost clung to the dead branches along the road.
And yet, at the udon stall that had survived at the mouth of the alley, steam still rose warmly from the table.
"Um… would you like another bowl?"
The stall owner held a wire strainer in his hand. In his eyes was gratitude—along with the stunned look of someone who had just witnessed the supernatural.
Because in front of Yoriichi, the empty bowls had been stacked into a wobbling little tower.
Twenty-three bowls.
"Yes, please. Sorry to trouble you."
Sitting perfectly upright on the bench, Yoriichi accepted the fresh bowl with both hands and nodded in thanks.
His movements were refined—almost elegant.
But the speed at which he ate was terrifying.
The piping-hot noodles hit his stomach and were immediately broken down and absorbed by this body at astonishing efficiency.
With every mouthful, the frail teenage frame—down to each cell—seemed to revive and cheer, greedily drinking in nourishment to fill the deficit left by the battle.
"This is… that's way too insane!"
The girl beside him looked as if she'd already forgotten the terror of the demon in the alley. Now she could only stare, slack-jawed, and ask hesitantly, "If you eat that much… won't your stomach explode?"
"It won't."
Yoriichi drained the last of the broth and set the bowl down gently. In those clear, translucent red eyes, a faint warmth flickered.
"To keep my grip on the sword steady at all times, my body must remain in its best condition. The yam udon was delicious. Thank you for the meal."
As he spoke, he reached into his pocket for coins—
But the owner lifted a hand at once to stop him. "No, no, please—don't pay! From now on, whenever you come, you can eat as much as you want. If it weren't for you, my daughter might already—"
He didn't finish.
Yoriichi's expression shifted, just slightly.
The gentle atmosphere around him vanished in an instant. He rose slowly, his hand settling on the hilt at his waist.
Seeing that, the girl faltered. "Wh-What are you—"
Before she could finish, Yoriichi's calm voice cut in, steady and absolute:
"Step behind me. No matter what happens next, do not leave a radius of three meters from me."
"Eh?"
She hadn't even processed his words when a nauseating, rancid gust swept in from the far end of the street.
Wooo—!!
A shriek of something tearing through the air ripped open the night's silence.
It was the scream of a heavy object spinning at high speed, grinding the air into a piercing whistle.
From the darkness, a dazzling temari ball shot forward like a cannon round, carrying monstrous force straight toward the stall!
If it hit—
Not only would the red-haired boy be pulverized, but the father and daughter behind him would be smashed into a slurry as well.
But Yoriichi didn't dodge.
He didn't even shift his feet.
In the final sliver of a second, just before the ball could touch the tip of his nose, a crimson arc flashed through the darkness.
There was no earthshaking impact.
The spinning ball was simply cut cleanly in half by his crimson blade.
What was truly horrifying was the cut surface—rather than regenerating like a demon's construct, it had turned black and carbonized, as if seared by an overbearing flame, belching a sharp, burnt smoke.
"Looks like the Demon Slayer Corps has produced quite the unbelievable newcomer this time."
A low, surprised voice drifted out from the shadows.
Yoriichi raised his head.
Two figures emerged, step by step, from the darkness.
One was a female demon in a kimono with six arms—Susamaru.
The other was a male demon with his eyes shut tight, an eyeball embedded in the center of his palm—Yahaba.
"M-Monsters…!!"
The girl let out a short, strangled scream. Fear nearly knocked her unconscious on the spot.
"Heeheehee… you actually cut my temari?"
Susamaru examined the boy, and a savage grin spread across her face. "So you're the brat the Lord told us to kill—the one wearing those earrings?"
Her six arms rolled and stretched, her posture practically quivering with anticipation for slaughter.
"Be careful, Susamaru."
Yahaba didn't smile. The eyeball in his palm spun, and his voice sank into a wary growl. "This kid's… wrong."
Susamaru froze, then snapped back with irritation. "Hah? What are you scared of? He's just a Demon Slayer brat. Even if he's talented, he's still just a rookie."
"You still don't see it?"
Yahaba stared at the two smoking halves of the temari ball on the ground, his tone turning grave. "Look at your ball…"
Susamaru narrowed her eyes.
As a demon with the potential to rise among the Twelve Kizuki, her temari wasn't ordinary—it was a special weapon formed from her own blood, flesh, and bone. Even if severed, it should have been able to restore itself in the blink of an eye with a simple surge of demon power.
But now…
The cut surfaces were an eerie, charred black, as if some tyrannical force had burned away its vitality entirely.
More than that—
It couldn't regenerate at all.
"Can't… regenerate…?"
Susamaru's pupils tightened. Her gaze snapped to the crimson Nichirin blade in Yoriichi's hand.
Was it because of that sword?
"Hmph. I don't care what kind of trick it is—if we smash him to paste, it won't matter!"
Gathering herself, the malice on Susamaru's face sharpened. "Together. Crush him into meat mush and bring him back!"
The moment her words fell, all six arms moved at once. Five more ornate temari balls manifested in her hands, blasting toward Yoriichi from every direction—no blind spots, no gaps.
Facing the onslaught, Yoriichi drew his blade—slowly, calmly.
And from the back, Yahaba's lips curled upward.
So what if the boy had a troublesome weapon?
He was still a rookie of the Demon Slayer Corps—far too inexperienced.
Yahaba slammed both hands downward.
To ordinary eyes, nothing changed.
But in the air, dozens of red arrows had already appeared, twisting space itself as they formed a dense net, all locking onto the boy's body.
This was Yahaba's Blood Demon Art—
Crimson Cleansing Arrows.
In the past, he and Susamaru had used this combination to devastating effect, nearly unstoppable.
Because no one ever noticed the invisible arrows.
Once a human stepped into his domain, the enforced vector force would snap limbs and leave them helpless—livestock awaiting slaughter.
'With your blood, we'll purchase the supreme glory of ascending into the Twelve Kizuki!'
A cruel smile spread across Yahaba's face as the dozens of arrows fired at once.
At the same time, Susamaru's storm of temari sealed every route of escape.
As the unseen arrows neared the hem of the boy's clothes, Yahaba's grin widened to its limit.
…Won.
No human could dodge the Crimson Cleansing Arrows at this distance.
Truthfully, the boy probably hadn't even realized they existed—
And then, in the instant Yahaba believed victory was inevitable—
"Haa…"
Yoriichi exhaled softly, a thin stream of white breath.
In his eyes, the world had already changed.
The rhythm of all things slowed and turned transparent—Susamaru's minute muscle contractions, Yahaba's invisible arrow trajectories—everything became as clear as a painting held still in time.
His thumb nudged the guard.
In the next heartbeat, his body vanished.
In those pristine, unclouded eyes, Yahaba's intangible red arrows became solid footholds—like steps laid out in the air.
Yoriichi flowed along their force and turned them into his own propulsion.
"This bastard… he's stepping on my arrows?!"
Yahaba's heart kicked into a frantic gallop. He tried to retreat—
But the next second, like a strand of sunlight you could never grasp, Yoriichi was already in front of him.
Susamaru and Yahaba couldn't even catch the path of his movement. Their vision blurred—and a spiraling vortex of flame erupted in the dim alley like a sudden sunrise.
Breath of the Sun — Sixth Form: Scorching Bones, Blazing Sun.
The strike was too fast.
Too hot.
Too absolute.
Shhk—!!
Two demon heads flew into the air almost simultaneously.
Only when their vision began to spin did Susamaru and Yahaba realize—this wasn't just decapitation.
Under the crimson aftershock of that blade, their bodies were disintegrating like paper caught in a furnace, rapidly turning to ash.
"N-No… impossible…"
Yahaba's head hit the ground and rolled. With his last remaining hand, the eyeball in his palm still stared at the boy with despair and disbelief.
"The Lord… the Lord won't let you go…"
Yoriichi sheathed his sword calmly.
He ignored the bodies as they crumbled and walked straight to Yahaba's severed head.
Then he crouched.
Those dark red eyes settled, unmoving, on the eyeball embedded in Yahaba's palm.
Through that eye, it was as if he looked past blood and connection—straight to the source.
To the one hiding in the Infinity Castle, peering through a servant's vision to spy on this place.
In air so still it felt frozen solid, Yoriichi spoke at last.
"Muzan Kibutsuji—"
In the Infinity Castle, Muzan's body stiffened. His plum-red pupils contracted violently.
On the freezing night in the northwestern town, Yoriichi stared into that eyeball, and his voice—perfectly calm—detonated like thunder beside the Demon King's ear across dimensions.
"You're watching, aren't you?"
-------
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