Yoriichi sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of Urokudaki's new home, glancing around the humble yet familiar surroundings. Though the structure bore similarities to the one on Mount Sagiri, the absence of snow and the distant smell of pine made it feel distinctly foreign. After he recounted his battle with the morphed demon, Urokudaki had taken a moment to explain something new about the nature of demons. "There are several kinds of demons," Urokudaki had said, his voice calm but serious. "The demons who use a special spell or ability called the Blood Demon Art possess supernatural abilities. These demons can be especially dangerous, as their powers vary widely and often defy logic." He paused, studying Yoriichi. "You may have to fight those demons from now on." Yoriichi nodded silently, absorbing the information. "Even so," Urokudaki added, his tone softening, "I believe you should be fine." The unexpected compliment caught Yoriichi off guard. His surprise almost showed on his normally stoic face, but he quickly masked it. "Thank you," he replied quietly, bowing his head slightly in respect. A thought struck him, and his gaze drifted to the corner of the room where a large, sturdy box sat. Inside, his brother, Michikatsu, rested in his demon state, the only refuge for him during the day. "What about Michikatsu?" Yoriichi asked hesitantly, his voice softer now. "Do you think that it could be a Blood Demon Art that keeps him from eating people?" Urokudaki turned to the box as well, his expression thoughtful. "He does have a Blood Demon Art, I am certain of it. However, I do not know its nature. That said, I do not believe it is what prevents him from feeding. It is more so his immense willpower that restrains him." Though Urokudaki did not mean it that way Yoriichi felt a pang of guilt at his own words. Doubting Michikatsu's willpower, even for a moment, seemed unjust. He lowered his eyes, silently chastising himself. He knew how fiercely his brother had always fought against his inner struggles, and that strength of will was perhaps Michikatsu's most defining trait. He imagined that if Michikatsu were awake and had heard the conversation, it would have angered him. The thought only deepened Yoriichi's guilt, and he resolved to be more mindful of his brother's efforts. Quietly, Yoriichi turned back to Urokudaki. "I hope I can help him somehow," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. Urokudaki placed a hand on Yoriichi's shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "You have a kind heart, Yoriichi. That may be the key to helping him one day."
The morning sunlight streamed into the room as Yoriichi opened the door to the unexpected visitor. A man stood there, his appearance unusual and almost whimsical. His sunflower-patterned haori was vibrant, and his woven hat adorned with hanging floral wind chimes jingled faintly in the breeze. Beneath the hat, a mask obscured his face, adding an air of mystery. "My name is Haganezuka," the man said bluntly, he had a deep voice although his tone showed a sign of something else, as though he wasn't as serious as Yoriichi initially thought. "I have forged Yoriichi Tsugikuni's sword, and I am here to deliver it." Yoriichi inclined his head politely. "I am Yoriichi Tsugikuni. Please, come inside." But Haganezuka ignored the invitation and sat down on the porch. Without hesitation, he began unwrapping a long, cloth-bound object. "This is the Nichirin sword, and I have forged it," he declared, holding the blade reverently. "The materials come from the mountain closest to the sun, Scarlet Crimson Iron Sand and Scarlet Crimson Ore. These materials produce steel that absorbs sunlight." He gestured dramatically toward the sky, as though summoning the sun itself. As Haganezuka launched into an elaborate explanation of the forging process, Yoriichi listened attentively but finally interjected, asking him to step inside to continue. The smith suddenly stood, leaning uncomfortably close to Yoriichi. "Hey, you're a child of brightness, aren't you?" Haganezuka exclaimed, pointing at Yoriichi's reddish hair. "Now that's what I call lucky!"
"What do you mean?"
"Your hair and eyes," Haganezuka explained, his tone animated. "When a kid like you is born with those traits, especially to a family that works with fire, it's a cause for celebration!" Yoriichi's mind flickered briefly to his own family. Celebration was never a word he associated with his upbringing. His father had despised him for his differences, until he proved his skill with a sword. The memory was far from pleasant. "Is that right?" Yoriichi responded flatly, hiding his emotions. Haganezuka nodded. "There's a good chance your sword will turn red, or… black." His voice dropped to a near whisper at the mention of black, as though the word itself were cursed. Urokudaki, who was suddenly standing nearby, confirmed, "Yes. It's rare, but it happens." They entered the home and the moment came for Yoriichi to hold the sword. As he accepted the weapon, still sheathed, he could feel its exceptional craftsmanship. The weight and balance were perfect. "Come on, open it," Haganezuka urged, his impatience palpable. The two men sat in front of it with Uta watching intently from behind. Hagenazuka had discarded his hat and was sitting with his legs crossed in front of Yoriichi. Yoriichi began to draw the blade. It shimmered in the sunlight as it emerged, but no change occurred at first. Then, from the hilt upward, a deep black hue began to spread across the blade, creeping like ink until it engulfed the entire weapon. Yoriichi stared at the blade, captivated by its beauty. But he noticed the expressions on the two men before him. Though they both wore marks he was, as always, able to see through it. Haganezuka let out an audible sigh, followed by visible trembling, although Yoriichi did not know if it was from fear or something else. "So, it is black," Urokudaki said evenly. "I assume this is bad?" Yoriichi asked, his tone calm but curious. "It's not inherently bad," Urokudaki replied. "But it is considered unlucky, based on what we know." Before he could elaborate, Haganezuka erupted in frustration. "And here I thought I'd get to see a bright red sword!" He charged toward Yoriichi, only to be stopped by Urokudaki raising a hand. Hagenazuka was clearly frustrated, but seeing the seriousness emanating from Urokudaki he settled down. "The bearers of the black blade are often called the Hunted Hunters," Urokudaki explained. "While Demon Slayers are the hunters of demons, those with black blades often find themselves being hunted instead. It's as though fate itself marks them for the most dangerous paths." Yoriichi pondered these words. Why would the colour of his blade carry such a curse? He had many questions, but his thoughts were interrupted by a loud squawk outside. "Yoriichi Tsugikuni!" the crow called, its voice clear and commanding. "Here are your orders! Make your way to a town north from here! Young girls have been disappearing! Yoriichi Tsugikuni, ensure you are prepared for your first assignment as a Demon Slayer!" Yoriichi's heart stirred. His first mission. Finally, he could fulfil his purpose and protect the innocent from the horrors of demons. "My first assignment…" he murmured, his determination evident in his eyes. "I will not fail."
The morning sunlight cast a warm glow over the room as Yoriichi sat in front of Urokudaki, listening intently. The older man regarded him with a mix of pride and concern, knowing Yoriichi's journey with the Demon Slayer Corps was just beginning. "Now that you are starting out," Urokudaki began, his voice steady, "there are a few things I need to explain to you." His gaze fell briefly to Yoriichi's uniform. The young swordsman now wore a red haori over the standard demon slayer attire, the same haori he always wore. "That uniform is not ordinary," Urokudaki continued. "It is made from a special fibre. It is breathable and lightweight, yet it repels moisture and is highly resistant to burning. Most importantly, it is strong enough to withstand the claws and fangs of lower-level demons. It will serve you well." Yoriichi looked down at the uniform and nodded silently, his thoughts briefly drifting to Michikatsu. His brother wore something similar beneath the purple-and-black hexagonal-patterned nagagi kimono he favoured. But unlike the standard uniform, Michikatsu's attire had evolved, with black umanori-styled hakama giving him a regal, almost menacing appearance. Urokudaki's voice brought Yoriichi back to the present. "However, let it be known, the black blade you bear carries a history of misfortune. Those who wield it rarely live long in this line of work." Yoriichi's calm expression didn't falter. "I cannot speak for my future, but I will succeed. I will save my brother and turn him back into a human." Urokudaki's gaze softened. "Yes, you are right. I have faith you will make that happen." Yoriichi nodded, resolute. It wasn't just about his brother, although that was important, it was about eradicating the demons that plagued the world, ensuring no one else would suffer as they had. "One more thing," Urokudaki said, turning to lift a familiar wooden box. He placed it carefully in front of Yoriichi. "This box," he explained, "is for your brother to reside in during the day. It is crafted from an incredibly light wood called cloud mist pine, and I have coated it with rock lacquer to strengthen it further. He is inside it now." Yoriichi bowed deeply, taking the box with reverence. "Thank you very much." Even with Michikatsu inside, the box was remarkably light. Yoriichi secured it to his back, adjusting the straps to ensure it rested comfortably. Uta suddenly ran toward him, tears streaming down her face as she clung to him. "It's okay, Uta," he said softly, resting a reassuring hand on her head. "We will meet again." She nodded, unable to speak through her sobs. Urokudaki had promised to take her to a safe place, one where she could live without fear. Yoriichi was told he would cross paths with her again, though the timing was uncertain. As Yoriichi stepped outside, Urokudaki followed. The old man watched as his student walked away, his red haori fluttering gently in the breeze. Yoriichi turned back one last time, offering a rare, warm smile and a large wave. Urokudaki felt a tear escape his eye, but he steadied himself. Nothing could harm Yoriichi, not as long as his brother was by his side. Despite Michikatsu's outward hostility, Urokudaki had seen the flickers of love the elder twin still harboured for his younger brother. Though there was a one sided rift growing between them. Yoriichi would have to find the reason behind it and fix it. That bond, if it remained unbroken, would be their greatest strength.
Michikatsu sat cramped within the box strapped to his younger brother's back, his jaw clenched with frustration. The humiliation of his predicament gnawed at him. The box, though sturdy, well-crafted, and surprisingly comfortable, had become a bitter reminder of his fall from grace. It was his home now, and that was what infuriated him most. How pathetic do you have to be to call a box home? he thought, his eyes narrowing in the dark. The bitterness surged, but Michikatsu knew better than to wallow in self-pity. Self-pity, after all, would solve nothing. With a resigned sigh, he drew his sword. The blade, an extension of his own body and demonic essence, was far from perfect. It was forged in haste, a creation born of necessity rather than refinement. He had noticed its faults when fighting Lower Moon 4. The katana's core was mostly bone, with flesh wrapping around it like a sheath. Eyes dotted the blade, a grotesque yet fascinating feature he hadn't intended to include. He'd come to discover that these eyes were linked to his own, granting him additional vision through the weapon, a strange but invaluable advantage. Still, the flaws of the blade gnawed at him. The weapon's composition was uneven, and its balance was just slightly off. Michikatsu had always valued precision, and now, confined in this cursed box, he had time to contemplate its improvement. He remembered reading once about the enamel coating human teeth, said to be the hardest substance in the human body. Perhaps his demonic transformation had enhanced that strength even further. The idea intrigued him. Running a claw over one of his sharp fangs, he decided to incorporate this material into his blade's design Michikatsu worked methodically, his eyes shut as he focused on manipulating the sword's structure. He coated the exterior with a fine layer of demonic enamel, creating a gleaming surface that enhanced its durability. He reinforced the internal framework with denser bone, ensuring the blade could withstand greater strain As he refined the sword's composition, he turned his attention to its design. The handle, he realized, was slightly too short, making it uncomfortable for prolonged use. He expanded it, lengthening the hilt for better grip. The blade itself was thicker than necessary, so he slimmed it down, improving its aerodynamics without compromising its strength. When the modifications were complete, Michikatsu examined his work with satisfaction. The katana now exuded an aura of menace, its wicked edge gleaming faintly even in the box's dim interior. The additional structural changes made the weapon feel lighter yet more lethal, perfectly balanced for his fighting style A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Better," he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers around the hilt. Michikatsu exhaled deeply, feeling the familiar pull of his demonic power as he willed his blade into its second form. The transformation was both mesmerizing and inconvenient. The blade extended dramatically, its length now greater than before, with three smaller, jagged blades jutting from the main edge. This monstrous weapon was far too large for the confines of the box, forcing him to shrink both himself and the sword further just to fit. His body compressed unnaturally, his clothes tightening around him like a suffocating cocoon. As he studied the sword, irritation rippled through him. Muscle memory had betrayed him. Without thinking, he had transformed the weapon into its old second form, carrying forward none of the improvements he had painstakingly crafted. The proportions were wrong, the balance flawed. It was as if all his meticulous work had been undone by a thoughtless flicker of instinct. Growling in frustration, Michikatsu focused intently. He held the sword firmly and began again, channeling his energy to reshape it. This time, he willed the blade to transform with the correct proportions, the longer, sleeker, and reinforced with hardened enamel and denser bone he had added. The three protruding blades now melded seamlessly with the main blade, creating a weapon that was both terrifying and elegant. Once satisfied with the new second form, Michikatsu transformed the sword back into its first form, only to realize, to his mounting frustration, that he had reverted to the old design yet again. His hands clenched tightly around the hilt as he cursed his own stupidity. The habit of transforming the weapon into its flawed forms was deeply ingrained, a reflex honed through his battles and training sessions. Changing that instinct would require relentless effort. "Focus," he muttered through gritted teeth, forcing himself to calm his frustration. He closed his eyes and envisioned the improved first form, the precise balance, the proper proportions, the razor-sharp edge. Slowly, he transformed the blade again, molding it into the desired shape with painstaking care. This time, it held the improved design. Michikatsu repeated the process over and over, transforming the sword between its first and second forms. Each time, he forced himself to reshape the blade deliberately, ignoring the muscle memory that tempted him to revert to the old versions. At first, it was excruciating, each mistake felt like a personal failure. But gradually, the process became smoother. His body began to remember the new forms, the improved versions of his weapon becoming second nature. Time slipped away as he worked. He lost track of how many times he had transformed the blade, but eventually, it happened without conscious effort. The improved versions emerged every time, as natural as breathing. Michikatsu allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction, gazing at his weapon with quiet pride.
Yoriichi arrived at the foot of a bridge, gazing at the town beyond. The day was bright and serene, a deceptive calm masking the turmoil that had drawn him here. The town was vast compared to the rural villages Yoriichi had known, its streets bustling with life. A small port dotted with boats and fishermen stood at the river's edge, adding to the illusion of peace. As Yoriichi crossed the bridge, his sharp senses caught the tension beneath the surface. Amidst the lively chatter, his attention fell on a young man walking unsteadily in the middle of the road. The man's face was hollow, his eyes glazed over with pain. Whispers rippled through the townsfolk nearby, their voices filled with a mix of pity and unease. "There's Kazumi… poor soul, he hasn't been the same," one voice murmured. "He was there when Satoko disappeared," another added. Yoriichi stopped, his ears catching the whispers clearly. His eyes followed Kazumi's aimless steps, each word deepening his suspicion. "Night after night, it happens," someone muttered. "Another girl vanishes. It's terrifying." That was all Yoriichi needed to hear. He turned and walked briskly toward the young man. "Mr. Kazumi!" he called out gently but firmly. Kazumi stopped in his tracks, startled by the sudden address. He turned to Yoriichi with a mix of confusion and weariness. "Who… who are you?" Yoriichi offered a small bow. "My name is Yoriichi. I'm investigating the disappearances. Please, if you don't mind, I would like to hear what you saw." Kazumi hesitated, his face a mixture of fear and despair, but Yoriichi's calm presence seemed to ease him. After a moment, Kazumi led him to a secluded part of town. "This is where it happened," Kazumi said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Satoko was right here… and then… she was gone." Yoriichi knelt, scanning the area with sharp eyes. His brother stirred faintly within the box strapped to his back, sensing the lingering demonic aura. Yoriichi's gaze fixed on faint scratches in the dirt and an unnatural scent lingering in the air. "I believe you," he said firmly, his tone carrying conviction. He straightened and began to pace, his enhanced senses piecing together fragments of the scene. Kazumi watched in silence, unsure of what to say as Yoriichi's intense focus settled on the path leading deeper into the town. As the day wore on, Yoriichi spoke with others in the town, gathering fragments of information. The pattern became clear: the demon targeted young women, striking after nightfall. Through his investigation, he identified the likely next victim, a girl who lived near the town center. When night fell, Yoriichi stationed himself outside the girl's home. Kazumi, unable to contain his worry, had joined him. "You're really going to keep watch all night?" Kazumi asked hesitantly. "Yes," Yoriichi replied without hesitation, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "It only moves under the cover of darkness." Kazumi sighed, his concern evident. "You've been at this all day. Shouldn't you rest? What if it doesn't come tonight?" Yoriichi didn't answer immediately, his piercing gaze fixed on the house. Then, his senses screamed a warning. The faint hum of demonic energy spiked, and Yoriichi's eyes snapped upward to see that the girl was gone. Yoriichi dashed forward in a blur of motion. Kazumi, startled by Yoriichi's speed, could only watch as he disappeared into the shadows. Yoriichi followed the faint trail, his heightened perception guiding him to a strange fissure in the ground. The air around it reeked of malevolence. Drawing his blade, he stabbed it into the fissure, and a dark, ink-like substance exploded upward, forming a puddle that quickly expanded into a shimmering black lake. Peering into the unnatural water, Yoriichi's sharp eyes spotted the girl floating within, unharmed but unconscious. Without hesitation, he plunged his hand into the lake and pulled her free. As he cradled her, a grotesque hand emerged from the inky depths.
The demon's body followed, a grotesque, morphed figure emerging from the abyss. Its pale skin glistened under the moonlight, a sickly sheen that contrasted with its long blue hair. Violet streaks ran along the sides of its face, secured by golden separators that gave the appearance of a twisted crown. Its claw-like nails scraped audibly against the stone ground, and its forehead veins pulsed grotesquely, overtaking where eyebrows should have been. Three jagged horns jutted forward, framing its furious red eyes, devoid of pupils but brimming with malice. Yoriichi handed the girl to Kazumi, his voice steady yet commanding. "Stay close." His sharp eyes tracked the demon as it began grinding its teeth, the sound clawing at his senses like nails on stone. This was no foe for negotiation, no chance for understanding or redemption. It was an enemy that demanded swift elimination. In an instant, Yoriichi surged forward, his movement blindingly fast. The demon, caught off guard, scrambled to retreat into the swirling ink of its swamp. Yoriichi's blade struck true, severing the top of the demon's head cleanly. Flesh and bone scattered, yet Yoriichi knew it wasn't enough. The demon's regenerative powers would quickly undo the damage. The swamp closed again, leaving no trace of the demon's retreat. Yoriichi's piercing gaze swept across the area, searching for even the smallest sign. Then, he saw it, a tiny droplet of the ink-like substance forming beneath him, expanding into a larger puddle. Within its swirling depths, he caught the movement of three figures emerging. Before the puddle could fully form, Yoriichi propelled himself into the air with a burst of explosive energy, flipping backward in a graceful arc. The demons lunged for him, their hands clawing at the space he'd just vacated. "Sun Breathing, Second Form: Clear Blue Sky!" Yoriichi's voice rang out as his body twisted midair. His blade glinted in the dim light as it carved through the demons in a flawless 360-degree slash. Arms were severed from torsos, and blood sprayed in dark arcs against the ground. But he had missed their necks by a fraction, and the demons shrieked in agony before retreating once again into the swamp. Yoriichi landed, his stance firm, his blade steady. His mind raced, calculating his next move. Then, two of the demons reappeared, one of them, the one with two horns. It's voice a guttural snarl it spoke, "Bastard! She will go stale. Move aside and let us feed you little brat! The girl is 16 the more time you waste the more she loses flavour." It spoke? Perhaps it wasn't as stupid as Yoriichi thought. But, its words hadn't done anything to help it's soon to be dire case. Yoriichi darted forward, his speed like a flash of lightning. The demon's eyes widened in terror, its pale complexion turning ashen. But just as Yoriichi was about to strike, he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Another demon had appeared, this one dangerously close to Kazumi and the girl. Damn it, Yoriichi cursed internally. How could I have let this happen? He hesitated, weighing his options. Turning to face the threat would cost him precious seconds, leaving Kazumi vulnerable. And even if he could reach the demon would be too close to Kazumi and the girl and he could harm them both if he miscalculated. Time slowed as Yoriichi's mind scrambled for a solution. Suddenly, the box on his back shifted. The faint creak of its lid opening sent a ripple of unease through him.
All the demons froze. The air grew heavy, thick with an overwhelming presence that even Yoriichi felt in his core. He steadied his breathing, but the sensation was unmistakable, it was Michikatsu, and yet it felt disturbingly similar to the suffocating aura Yoriichi had encountered that night at his family's home. That dreadful, inescapable presence of Muzan Kibutsuji. Yoriichi turned sharply, his hand tightening on his blade. His eyes locked on the demon near Kazumi, now pinned to the wall by a grotesque, sinewy sword. The demon writhed, its claws scratching futilely at the air as blood poured down the wall in torrents. Michikatsu stood before it, his expression cold and detached. Slowly, he extended his hand toward the top of the demon's head. What followed was a sight so horrific it rooted Yoriichi in place. The demon's body convulsed violently as it was drawn into Michikatsu's outstretched hand. Blood and viscera sprayed in every direction, the demon's flesh tearing apart as it was consumed, piece by agonizing piece. The sound was sickening, wet and guttural, as though the demon was being unraveled from existence itself. This was nothing like what Urokodaki had described of his assimilation of the Lower Moon 4. This was raw, violent, and terrifying. With the demon gone, Michikatsu withdrew his blade from the wall, now slick with blood, and sheathed it in one fluid motion. He turned, his eyes briefly meeting Yoriichi's, though no words were exchanged. Then, without warning, he vanished, leaving only a faint ripple in the air. Yoriichi felt the familiar weight settle in his box once more. The scene left everyone shaken, even Yoriichi. But he couldn't afford to linger in shock, not with the other demons still alive and dangerous. Without hesitation, he charged forward, his body a blur of speed and precision. The demons swung their arms wildly in defense, their claws slicing through the air. It was futile. Yoriichi leapt towards them, twisting mid-air with a graceful spiraling motion. "Sun Breathing, Fourth Form: Burning Bones, Summer Sun." Yoriichi, with a singular spiraling slash, severed both demons' arms and cleanly decapitated one of them. The headless body fell to the ground, disintegrating into ash as it hit the earth. The remaining demon was slammed against a nearby wall, trembling as its severed stumps oozed black blood. Yoriichi approached, his blade steady and glowing with residual heat. "You're going to tell me everything you know about Muzan Kibutsuji," Yoriichi demanded, his voice cold and commanding. The demon's red eyes widened in terror, its body shaking uncontrollably. "I-I can't," it stammered, its voice breaking. "I can't tell you! I can't!" Yoriichi pressed the edge of his blade to the demon's neck, the sharp steel drawing a thin line of blood. "Speak!" he ordered, his voice rising in fury. The demon screamed, its voice a shrill cry of desperation. "I can't tell you, I can't tell you, I can't-" Its words dissolved into a frantic babble as it tried to pull away, its body twisting in fear. It attempted to flee, but Yoriichi was faster. In one swift motion, his blade cleaved through the demon's neck, silencing it instantly. Its head hit the ground, rolling lifelessly before disintegrating into ash alongside its body. Sheathing his sword, Yoriichi exhaled deeply, frustration flickering across his usually calm face. The demon had been terrified, utterly incapable of speaking, and now, Yoriichi was no closer to the answers he sought.
Yoriichi approached Kazumi cautiously, the weight of the encounter still heavy on his shoulders. He could hear the muffled rustling within the box strapped to his back. Pausing, he set it down and unlatched the lid. As soon as it opened, a bundle of cloth flew out, striking him squarely in the face. He stumbled slightly, catching the object before it hit the ground. It was a small pouch, and from its folds spilled several delicate hairpins. Yoriichi blinked, momentarily taken aback. Inside the box, Michikatsu shifted, his actions deliberate as he shut the lid firmly from within. Yoriichi sighed inwardly, inspecting the hairpins now resting in his hand. That was unnecessary, he thought, brushing his fingers over the intricate designs. Were these from the girls? Had Michikatsu retrieved them from the demon? His mind raced with possibilities, but the ache in his heart warned him of the truth. If one of these belonged to Satoko, they might be the only proof of what had transpired here. As painful as it would be, Kazumi deserved to know. He carefully secured the box back onto his shoulders and walked towards Kazumi, who sat slumped on the ground with the rescued girl leaning wearily against the wall beside him. Kneeling down, Yoriichi extended the hairpins in his hand. "Kazumi," he said softly, "do you recognize any of these?" Kazumi's gaze flickered to the hairpins, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and dread. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on a delicate red ribbon among them. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling freely down his cheeks. "That… that's Satoko's," he choked out, his trembling hand pointing to the ribbon. Yoriichi's chest tightened at the sight of Kazumi's grief. For a brief moment, he was at a loss for words, the weight of his own guilt pressing against him. Finally, he asked gently, "Are you all right?" Kazumi wiped at his tears with his sleeve, though it did little to stem the flow. "I've lost my fiancée," he said bitterly, his voice hollow. "How could I possibly be alright?" Yoriichi regarded him silently for a moment before speaking, his tone steady and filled with quiet resolve. "Mr. Kazumi, no matter how many people you've lost, you have no choice but to keep living." The words, though said with kindness, struck a nerve in Kazumi. He surged forward, grabbing the strap of Yoriichi's box with trembling hands. "What do you know about it?!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "A kid like you? What could you possibly understand?" Yoriichi didn't react, his calm demeanor unshaken. Gently, he took Kazumi's hand and pried it from the strap, his touch firm but not harsh. Looking into Kazumi's tear-streaked face, Yoriichi offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I'll be on my way now," he said simply. He stood and turned, his steps deliberate as he began to walk away. Kazumi, realizing the cruelty of his words, called out after him. "Wait!" His voice broke with desperation. "I'm sorry! That was an awful thing to say! Please forgive me, I'm so sorry!" Yoriichi stopped, glancing over his shoulder as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon. His face softened, and for the first time, a wide, genuine smile broke across his usually stoic expression. "I'm leaving that woman in your hands," he said, his voice carrying warmth and trust. Kazumi straightened, wiping his face with renewed determination. "All right!" he called back, his voice firm despite the lingering sorrow. Yoriichi nodded once before continuing on, his figure growing smaller as he walked toward the rising sun.
Sitting within the cramped confines of the box, Michikatsu allowed himself a rare moment of amusement. That was funny, he thought, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his usually impassive face. The memory of Yoriichi's startled expression as the cloth, with its sharp, pointy hairpins, hit him square in the face replayed in his mind. The younger brother, always so composed, flustered for a fleeting moment. Hilarious. Still, Michikatsu's amusement faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a simmering irritation. He leaned back against the wooden walls of the box, his thoughts drifting to the scene that had just unfolded. Yoriichi, ever the perfectionist, had dispatched the demons with his usual display of flawless technique and radiant flair. It was impressive, undeniably so, but also… excessive. Michikatsu let out a soft sigh, his fingers drumming idly against the sheath of his blade. Does he have to jump and spin around like that? he thought, half-annoyed, half-envious. It wasn't the fight itself that had bothered him. No, it was the fact that Yoriichi's dramatic movements had jolted him awake from his meditative state, a place where he trained endlessly within the depths of his mind. The inconsiderate timing grated on him, but Michikatsu knew that wasn't the real source of his frustration. I'm bored, he admitted to himself. The truth was simple: the demons he encountered were weak, pitiful creatures barely worth his attention. The violence he'd unleashed while absorbing the last one had been intentional, a self-indulgent display to break the monotony. The blood, the screams, the visceral chaos, it had been satisfying for a moment, but fleeting. He needed more. A stronger foe. A true challenge. Something, or someone, to remind him of the thrill of battle, of purpose. Outside the box, Michikatsu could hear the muffled voice of Yoriichi's crow cawing something about Asakusa. His ears perked up at the mention of the place, a district within the capital. Asakusa… he mused, his mind wandering to the possibilities. A bustling place like that could easily be teeming with demons. Powerful ones, perhaps. The thought sparked a glimmer of interest within him, his boredom momentarily forgotten. Finally, something worth my time, Michikatsu thought, a faint smirk returning to his lips as he settled back into the shadows of the box. For now, he would wait. But the prospect of Asakusa loomed ahead, promising new opportunities, and, with any luck, a worthy adversary.
As Yoriichi stepped into Asakusa, he was struck by a wave of awe and disorientation. The city stretched before him, a sea of glittering lights and towering buildings that seemed to pierce the heavens. The streets buzzed with life, packed with people moving with purpose and energy. It was a stark contrast to the quiet countryside he knew. His eyes darted around, taking in the sights, colorful billboards, mechanical contraptions, and the chatter of hundreds of voices overlapping into an incomprehensible hum. He had heard tales of cities like this from his brother, but experiencing it firsthand was overwhelming. Each step he took seemed heavier, as if the very atmosphere of the place pressed down on him. He stumbled through the throngs of people, his breathing quickening. Yoriichi's usual calm faltered, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer volume of movement and noise. He needed space. He pushed his way through the bustling streets, weaving into narrow alleyways, bumping into strangers who muttered annoyed apologies or glared at him. He didn't stop. His heart pounded as he finally reached the outskirts of the city, where the noise began to fade, replaced by the muffled rustling of trees and the occasional distant hum of machinery. At last, he spotted a small food stall nestled against the edge of the city, dimly lit but inviting. Yoriichi approached and sat down on a wooden bench, letting out a steadying breath. The stall owner gave him a curious glance, and Yoriichi realized how out of place he must have looked, a man in traditional attire amidst the modern world. He cleared his throat. "A bowl of udon, with yam grated over the top, please," he said softly. The owner nodded and turned to his work, the clinking of utensils a soothing contrast to the chaos Yoriichi had just fled. As he waited, the unease began to creep in. A malevolent presence stabbed through his senses, sharp and cold, like a blade pressing against his soul. His grip tightened on the box strapped to his back. For once, he knew the source of the unease was not Michikatsu. This presence was fleeting, but its intensity lingered, leaving him on edge. He placed the box gently onto the bench in front of him and stood, scanning the area. There was nothing. The darkness beyond the food stall remained still. No movement, no figures lurking in the shadows. Perhaps it was his nerves, frayed by the city's overwhelming energy. He sat back down as the owner slid a steaming bowl of udon in front of him. Yoriichi gave a small nod of thanks and tried to focus on eating, though the gnawing sense of wrongness refused to fade. Then, he felt it again. A presence nearby. Different from the one before. It lacked the oppressive weight of pure evil but was unmistakably unnatural. Yoriichi's hand paused over his bowl. He looked up, scanning the dim surroundings, and his eyes landed on a figure standing in the distance. A boy. Pale and unnervingly still, the boy's slitted lavender eyes seemed to glow faintly under the dim light. His short hair, neatly styled, shaded vertically from mint green to black, caught Yoriichi's attention. The boy's clothing was pristine: a button-up collared shirt beneath an all-white iromuji-haori and dark blue Seigo-Sendeihira styled hakama pants. His otherworldly presence made it clear, he wasn't human. Yoriichi set his bowl down with deliberate calm, his gaze sharpening. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready but not yet drawn. "Who are you?" Yoriichi's voice was steady, but the air around him was tense, his body poised to react in an instant. The boy didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head, his slitted eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though studying Yoriichi with an emotionless curiosity. The silence stretched, the world seeming to hold its breath as the moment hung between them.
Tamayo and Yushiro sat quietly within their hidden sanctuary, the stillness between them charged with an unspoken tension. Moments ago, they had both felt it, a presence that sent ripples through the air like the faint tremors of an impending earthquake. Tamayo's hands rested lightly on her lap, but her mind churned with thoughts as sharp and precise as the scalpel she often wielded. The presence had carried the unmistakable weight of Muzan Kibutsuji. That in itself was not unusual; Muzan was an omnipresent force to those who knew his essence, moving as he pleased with no regard for anything or anyone. Nobody had ever and probably would ever challenge him, even that demon slayer from many centuries ago could not defeat him. His power was like a shadow cast over the world, eternal and inescapable. But this time, it wasn't Muzan who had captured their attention. No, this presence was different. Tamayo's brow furrowed slightly as she considered what she had felt, a demon, undeniably powerful, its aura rivaling the Upper Moons. But it wasn't just the strength that unnerved her; it was something far more perplexing. This demon had been concealing its presence, and more importantly, it had been concealing itself from Muzan. It was a nearly inconceivable notion. The strongest demons were those who carried the largest shares of Muzan's blood, and with that came his unparalleled control. To defy him was unthinkable. To successfully evade his influence? Impossible. Yet the presence they had felt hinted at just that, a demon strong enough to rival Muzan's elite, yet untouched by his control. Could it be a mistake? Tamayo thought, her mind racing. Had Muzan created this demon inadvertently, granting power to the wrong person? Or had something else entirely occurred, something beyond her understanding? Whatever the truth, Tamayo knew one thing: she could not allow this opportunity to slip away. "Yushiro," she said, her voice calm but resolute. Yushiro immediately turned toward her, his devotion evident in the way his eyes lit up at the sound of her voice. "Yes, Lady Tamayo?"
"You must find that demon."
There was no hesitation. Yushiro stood in an instant, determination etched into his expression. "Of course, Lady Tamayo," he said, bowing his head before darting toward the door. Tamayo watched him go, her heart heavy with a mix of apprehension and hope. Yushiro was reliable, his loyalty and skill beyond question. She trusted him implicitly, but even so, she could not dismiss the risks. A demon of such strength, if hostile, could easily overpower him. Yet she could not leave herself. Her sanctuary held patients who depended on her care, and she could not abandon them, not even for this. She sighed softly, her gaze drifting to the faint flicker of a candle on the table. For centuries, she had fought to unravel the mysteries of Muzan's blood, to find a way to undo the curse that bound them all. If this demon truly existed outside of Muzan's control, it could hold answers she had long sought. As the door closed behind Yushiro, Tamayo whispered to herself, "I will not let this chance slip through my fingers." The silence returned, heavy with anticipation, as she turned back to her patient. But her thoughts lingered on the presence, a spark of something unfamiliar stirring within her, a fragile, cautious hope.
"My name is Yushiro," the boy said, his voice calm but deliberate. His lavender eyes bore into Yoriichi, unsettling in their intensity. "You carry a demon with you." Yoriichi stiffened, his hand instinctively brushing against the strap of the box on his back. His thoughts raced. How does he know about Michikatsu? Yushiro's presence was already strange, and now this. His suspicions that the boy was a demon grew stronger. "How do you know this?" Yoriichi asked, his voice steady but edged with caution. "I can feel him," Yushiro replied simply. His tone was matter-of-fact, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "But that does not matter. My master, Lady Tamayo, has sent me to bring him to her. You may come as well." Lady Tamayo? Yoriichi thought, his brow furrowing. Why would they want Michikatsu? Was this a trap? Could they mean to harm him? "Why should we go with you?" Yoriichi asked, his voice firm. He needed answers before making any decisions. Yushiro met his gaze without flinching. "I am a demon," he admitted, "but I am not under the Demon King's control. Lady Tamayo can help your friend." Yoriichi blinked, his usually calm composure cracking for a moment. A demon not under Muzan's control? That seemed impossible. Even Michikatsu struggled with the threads of Muzan's will, his own immense power barely keeping him from being consumed. Could what Yushiro was saying be true? And if so, how? Yushiro continued, his voice unwavering. "Lady Tamayo has freed herself from Muzan's curse, and she has dedicated her life to fighting against him. If your friend truly wishes to be free, she can help him." Yoriichi's grip on his sword tightened. This could be a trick, a ploy by Muzan to lure them into a trap. But Yushiro didn't seem dangerous, and his demeanor lacked the malice Yoriichi associated with demons. Still, he knew better than to trust appearances. He glanced back at the box on his back, feeling the faint stirrings of Michikatsu's presence within. Could this Lady Tamayo truly help him? Yoriichi's mind warred with itself, his caution urging him to refuse, his curiosity and compassion compelling him to go. Finally, his decision was made. He took a deep breath and nodded. "I will go with you," he said, his voice steady. Yushiro inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Very well. Follow me." As they began to walk, Yoriichi couldn't shake the unease in his chest. He would keep his guard up, but a small part of him clung to the hope that this encounter might lead to the answers he had been searching for.
The journey to Lady Tamayo's residence was uneventful. Yushiro barely spoke, his disinterest evident, and Yoriichi remained lost in his thoughts, too preoccupied to initiate conversation. The silence stretched between them until they reached a seemingly dead end, a blank stone wall in a narrow alley. Yoriichi stopped, his confusion apparent. "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice steady but questioning. Yushiro shot him a look of irritation, as though the question itself was beneath him. "Follow me," he said curtly. Without further explanation, Yushiro walked toward the wall and, to Yoriichi's astonishment, passed through it as though it weren't there. For a moment, Yoriichi hesitated. He had faced countless demons and unexplainable phenomena, but something about stepping into the unknown always carried a sliver of apprehension. Afraid the wall might seal itself shut, he quickly followed, running through, and colliding directly into Yushiro. "Get off me!" Yushiro snapped, shoving Yoriichi back with a scowl. Yoriichi took a step back, muttering a quiet apology as his eyes adjusted to the sight before him. Beyond the wall lay a serene courtyard, its vibrant greenery and soft lantern light at odds with the bustling city outside. At the center stood a modest but elegant house, its structure radiating an unspoken warmth. Yushiro huffed and began walking again, his annoyance palpable. As they neared the house, he turned to Yoriichi, his expression sharp. "Listen carefully," he said, leaning in closer. "Make sure you don't offend the lady in any way. I couldn't care less what happens to you, but I brought you here because she insisted." Yoriichi held his gaze, his calm demeanor unshaken by Yushiro's hostility. Without waiting for a response, Yushiro turned sharply and opened the door, his demeanor shifting instantly. "I have returned, my lady," Yushiro announced, his tone reverent. "I'm glad you made it," came a gentle voice. Yoriichi stepped inside, his gaze falling on the speaker. She was a young woman with an air of grace, her long dark brown hair neatly braided and secured with a floral hairpin. Her large, gentle purple eyes reflected both wisdom and kindness. She wore a dark purple hōmongi kimono adorned with subtle floral patterns, and over it, a white doctor's robe. Beside her lay a human patient, resting peacefully. "My name is Yoriichi," he said, though he already knew the answer to the question he asked. "And who are you?" The woman turned to him, her expression serene. "My name is Tamayo," she replied, her voice soft but firm. "As you may have guessed, I am a demon like your companion. But I am also a doctor." Yoriichi's gaze shifted to the patient lying beside her. "Is it hard treating humans?" he asked, his voice curious but cautious. Before Tamayo could respond, Yushiro bristled, stepping forward with clenched fists. "Is that what you think?" he said angrily, striking Yoriichi in the chest from the side. The blow landed solidly, but Yoriichi barely moved, his tall and lean frame unmoving like a rooted tree. He looked down at Yushiro, his calm eyes meeting Yushiro's momentary shock. Recovering quickly, Yushiro glared up at him. "Do you think she has to choke back her own drool when treating humans? That she's some mindless beast struggling to control herself like the rest of us?"
"Yushiro," Tamayo said firmly, her voice cutting through his anger. "There is no need for violence." At her words, Yushiro stepped back, his head bowing slightly in shame. Tamayo continued, her voice gentle but resolute. "It is not difficult to treat humans. My body's physiology has changed considerably over time, and I have freed myself from Muzan Kibutsuji's curse." Yoriichi's breath caught at her words. The idea of escaping Muzan's control seemed impossible. "How?" he asked, the single word laden with hope and disbelief. Tamayo didn't answer immediately. Instead, she stood and gestured toward another room. "Come with me," she said simply, her tone inviting and gentle. Yoriichi followed without hesitation, the faint stirring of Michikatsu's presence in the box on his back a constant reminder of why he was here. If what Tamayo claimed was true, perhaps there was hope for his brother after all.
Yoriichi stepped into the new room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The space was somber, a stark contrast to the bright, welcoming atmosphere of the previous room. There was a stillness here, the air heavy with unspoken truths. Tamayo gestured for him to sit, and he did so silently, his expression calm but watchful. Once they were settled, Tamayo spoke, her voice even and measured. "We demons only need to survive on a small amount of human blood," she began, as though anticipating his unease. "Blood?" Yoriichi's voice was sharp, appalled by the implication. Tamayo nodded, her expression calm. "I understand if you find it distasteful, but I obtain it ethically. I buy blood from those in poverty, under the guise of using it for medical transfusions. I take only what I need, never enough to harm anyone." She glanced at Yushiro, who stood nearby with his arms crossed. "Yushiro consumes even less than I do," she continued. "I turned him into a demon, after all." Yoriichi's brows furrowed. "You turned him into a demon?" he asked, his disbelief evident. "I thought only the Demon King could do that."
"As far as anyone knows, that is true," Tamayo replied. "And it is largely accurate. It took me over two centuries of research and experimentation to replicate the process, and even then, I've only succeeded once, when I turned Yushiro." Two hundred years? Yoriichi's thoughts raced. Just how old was she? He asked the question without hesitation, his voice calm but curious. "How old are you, Miss Tamayo?" Yushiro bristled, his composure breaking. "How dare you speak to Lady Tamayo like that!" he growled, launching himself at Yoriichi. He struck him squarely in the chest, only to find himself rebounding as though he had struck that same immovable stone from before. Yushiro stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. "What are you?" he muttered under his breath, retreating to his original position. Tamayo glanced at Yushiro, her brow furrowing slightly. For the first time, her serene expression gave way to mild confusion, but she quickly returned her focus to Yoriichi. "I apologize for his outburst," she said, her voice steady once more. "Let me clarify. Creating more demons is not one of my goals. I only do so in exceptional circumstances, when someone is terminally ill or gravely injured and will not survive otherwise. Even then, I always ask if they truly wish to continue living as a demon." Her words carried a weight that resonated deeply with Yoriichi. He nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering as he considered his next question.
"Miss Tamayo," he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with cautious hope. "Is it possible to turn demons back into humans?" Tamayo sat in silence for a moment, her gaze fixed on the floor as though weighing her words carefully. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "Yes, it is." Yoriichi's calm composure shattered for the first time. His eyes widened, and hope bloomed across his face, unmistakable in its intensity. "Tell me how," he said, his voice almost pleading. Tamayo's expression faltered, and she quickly raised a hand in a gesture of caution. "I don't know how," she admitted. The hope in Yoriichi's face vanished, replaced once more by his composed and calm mask. Tamayo's gaze softened, and she continued with earnestness. "But I know there is a way. There must be. I promise, I will find it. My work is dedicated to discovering such a treatment." She hesitated, then added, "And toward that end, I would like to ask for your help." Yoriichi remained silent, but the faintest flicker of hope returned to his eyes, carefully concealed beneath his stoic demeanor. "In order to develop a cure," Tamayo explained, "I need to study the blood of demons, several different demons. Which means I have two requests for you." She leaned forward slightly. "First, I need your permission to study your companion's blood. And second, I require additional samples from demons closely tied to Kibutsuji himself." Yoriichi nodded without hesitation, his resolve unshaken. "Perhaps now I could meet your companion?" Tamayo asked gently. Yoriichi corrected her softly, his tone steady. "My brother." He knelt and removed the wooden box from his back, placing it carefully beside him. "Michikatsu," he called, his voice low and as soothing as possible. The box remained silent. Yoriichi hesitated before reaching to open the lid, but as soon as he did, a powerful force knocked him backward. The lid slammed shut, the motion swift and violent. Yoriichi stood, brushing himself off, and turned to Tamayo with an apologetic expression. "I suppose not," he said, his voice tinged with regret. Tamayo offered him a kind smile. "No matter," she said. "Perhaps another time." She straightened and continued, "Let me elaborate on my second request. I am referring to demons with powers similar to Kibutsuji's." Yoriichi's mind turned to Urokodaki's teachings, and his expression sharpened. "A Blood Demon Art," he said. Tamayo looked momentarily surprised, but then she nodded. "Yes, exactly. Extracting blood from such demons won't be easy. They are stronger, more dangerous than the others. Can you accept these requests?" Without hesitation, Yoriichi responded, "Yes, I do." Suddenly, the air grew heavy, oppressive. Yoriichi felt it, the distinct, malevolent presence of a true demon. No, not one, two. The tension in the room thickened as Yoriichi rose to his feet, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword as both Tamayo and Yushiro sat confused. The stillness was shattered by the sound of rushing air as two balls burst through the wall of Tamayo's sanctuary. They tore through the room in a destructive flurry, bouncing violently and reducing furniture to splinters. Yoriichi moved instinctively, positioning himself between Tamayo and the chaos as the balls whizzed past him, then flew back out of the ruined wall. In the clearing beyond, the balls came to rest in the hands of a demon.
The female demon twirled like a child, laughter bubbling from her lips as though the destruction was nothing but a game. Her pale skin glowed faintly under the moonlight filtering through the shattered wall, and her bright yellow eyes, with cat-like slits and eerie white horizontal lines, gleamed with mischief. Her black hair, tipped with orange, was styled into neat bangs, framing her sharp features. She wore a pair of long silver earrings and an orange kimono that matched the fiery ends of her hair, a black haori draped loosely over her shoulders. Behind her stood another figure, a man of average build with pale, gray-tinted skin. His short black hair lay flat against his head, and though his eyes remained shut, they seemed redundant. On the palms of his hands were eyes, each marked with a red upward-pointing arrow in the irises, their sclera glowing with an ominous dark green light. His plain olive-green kimono and dark gray haori bore a single strip of green down each arm, and a massive necklace of large blue pearls rested heavily around his neck. The male demon's expression was unreadable as he turned to his companion. "Have you decided how we'll kill them, Susamaru?"
"Ruthlessly," she replied with glee, flinging two temari balls toward the group. Yoriichi moved to intercept them, his blade flashing as he aimed to deflect the projectiles. But the balls moved erratically, twisting and pivoting in mid-air in ways that defied logic. They ricocheted wildly around the room, smashing through walls and furniture. Yushiro shielded Tamayo instinctively, and one of the balls meant for Tamayo struck Yushiro squarely in the head. His skull disintegrated on impact, his headless body collapsing into Tamayo's arms. Yoriichi froze, his mind reeling. He's a demon, he can't die that easily, can he? Susamru's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "We're looking for a demon, but it can't be you two." Her sneer deepened as she glanced at Tamayo and Yushiro. "You're too weak." She turned to Yoriichi, her grin widening. "And you… you're a Demon Slayer." "That's right," Yoriichi replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil around him. In an instant, he lunged toward her, his blade aimed for her neck. But just as his sword was about to connect, an invisible force flung him aside. "Oh… you're quite strong," she said, her grin widening into something maniacal. "This will be fun!" With a flourish, she shrugged off her kimono and haori, revealing a small black sarashi that wrapped around her chest and upper abdomen. Her muscles tensed as two additional pairs of arms burst from her sides. The transformation made her body appear more grotesque, her frame noticeably more powerful. "You should feel honored," she declared, her voice giddy with excitement. "You're a victim of the Twelve Moons!" Yoriichi's eyes narrowed, as he remembered Urokudaki's words on the demon Michikatsu fought. "You're no moon. You don't have the mark in your eye." The demon threw her head back and laughed. "Who cares? This is too much fun!" She spread her arms wide, six temari balls materializing in her hands. "Now let the game continue, it won't stop until you're all dead!" She hurled the balls with ferocious speed. Yoriichi deflected the first two with ease, but the remaining four twisted mid-air, curving at impossible angles. He realized the same invisible force was at play, the one that flung him earlier. As he dodged and blocked, he focused his senses, trying to discern the source. Suddenly, he was flung forward again. Turning, he caught sight of the male demon, his hand extended. He's the one moving me, and the balls. Yoriichi focused his eyes, he could always see into the transparent world, perhaps if he focused he would be able to see the force that was moving him. And as he jumped back to where Tamayo and Yushiro were, his thoughts were given value. Yushiro's half-regrown head twitched as he spoke, his voice rasping. "Idiot Demon Slayer, look at the arrows, they'll show you where everything's going. Dodge the arrows." Yoriichi frowned. "Arrows?" He concentrated, and then he saw them, glowing red arrows trailing from the male demon's palms, guiding the temari balls and influencing the battlefield. Yushiro murmured, "Of course he can't see them. He's not a demon." But Yoriichi paid no mind. With his newfound awareness, he charged toward the Arrow Demon, determined to eliminate the greater threat. Susamaru intercepted him, throwing herself into his path. Her three of her arms each hurled balls in quick succession. "Sun Breathing, Third Form: Raging Sun!" Yoriichi's blade flashed as he deflected each ball with two horizontal arcs, his movements precise and fluid. He leaped into the air, flipping behind Susamaru. "Sun Breathing, Tenth Form: Fire Wheel!" His vertical slash cut through her from her head to her neck. She staggered, her regeneration slowed by his powerful breathing style. Seizing the moment, Yoriichi sprinted toward the Arrow Demon, weaving through a barrage of arrows. "Stay away from me, you filthy Slayer!" the demon hissed. An arrow he hadn't seen slammed into him, sending him tumbling back. Gritting his teeth, Yoriichi steadied himself. This will take more than brute force. "Blood Demon Art: Scent of Illusory Blood, Visual Dream." Tamayo's voice rang out as a wall of swirling, flowery patterns enclosed the Susamaru. She stood nearby, blood dripping from a self-inflicted cut on her forearm. "Go, Yoriichi!" she commanded. "We'll handle this one, take out the Arrow Creating Demon!" Yoriichi nodded at her words and burst through the layer of flowers with a sudden surge of speed, his determination unwavering.
He dashed toward the Arrow Demon, catching him off guard, or so he thought. As Yoriichi's blade arced toward the demon's neck, he felt a sudden pull at his feet. The force yanked him backward, causing his strike to miss entirely. He hit the ground hard, but Yoriichi was quick to recover, springing back to his feet before the demon could capitalize on his momentary vulnerability. Still, the demon retaliated, launching an arrow in his direction. Yoriichi raised his sword instinctively, bracing for impact. The arrow struck with incredible force, flinging him backward despite his efforts. As he soared through the air, Yoriichi's sharp eyes caught something crucial: the demon seemed incapable of following up on his attack immediately. A plan began to form in Yoriichi's mind, perhaps if he could block and endure the arrows, he could force his way through to the demon. With renewed determination, Yoriichi charged once more, weaving and deflecting the relentless barrage of arrows. His movements were fluid and precise, a deadly dance of evasion and counterattacks. The fear on the Arrow Demon's face was unmistakable as Yoriichi closed the distance. This time, his blade found its mark. Yoriichi's sword connected with the demon's neck, the strike clean and unrelenting. But as he drove his blade deeper, Yoriichi's sharp senses picked up movement behind him. Tamayo and a now fully regenerated Yushiro were in trouble, their struggle evident as Susamaru launched her deadly attacks. For a fleeting moment, Yoriichi hesitated. Should he finish off the Arrow Demon or abandon the kill to save them? His mind wrestled with the choice, they were demons and would heal, he reasoned, though the logic felt hollow. Gritting his teeth, he committed to his strike, trusting in Tamayo and Yushiro's resilience. As luck would have it, his gamble paid off. The Arrow Demon's head fell from its shoulders just as a blur of black and purple burst into the room. The air shifted with the arrival of an overwhelming presence, and in a flurry of motion, the incoming temari balls were deflected with effortless precision. The ground shook as dust billowed into the air, obscuring the scene momentarily. When it settled, the majestic and imposing form of Michikatsu stood revealed, his flesh-like blade glinting off the moonlight.
Michikatsu stood tall, his presence suffocating as all six of his eyes fixed unrelentingly on the demon before him. Susamaru shrank under his gaze, her bravado dissolving into terror. Was this the demon Lord Muzan had sent her to find? Or, no, could he have summoned an Upper Moon here? she thought frantically. The idea was absurd, yet the sheer weight of his aura made her question everything. Unlike the Demon Slayer she'd fought earlier, this being exuded raw, oppressive power. Desperate to gather herself, Susamaru leapt backward, her instincts screaming at her to prepare for an attack. But then it hit her, Yahaba. Where was he? She risked a glance toward where he should have been. It was a mistake. In the split second she looked away, Michikatsu closed the distance. He moved like a shadow, silent and swift, and with two devastating strikes, all six of her arms were severed at the elbows. The air around each cut rippled with waves of crescent-shaped blades, tearing up her flesh even as she fell. Her regeneration faltered, sluggish in the face of the strange power emanating from his blade. A Breathing Style? From a demon? she thought, horrified. That's ridiculous. Susamaru forced herself to regenerate, her new arms sprouting as she leapt back, flinging her temari balls in desperation. But Michikatsu deflected them with ease, his movements calculated and ruthless. He had observed her technique from the safety of his box, and now, without Yahaba to support her, she was far easier prey. To Susamaru, his speed was unreal, it seemed as if he had teleported right in front of her. Raising his sword with eerie calm, Michikatsu whispered, "Moon Breathing, Second Form: Pearl Flower Moongazing." Three crescent-shaped slashes tore through the air, each one unleashing a flurry of crescent moon blades. The attack shredded Susamaru, her body falling to pieces before her head was severed cleanly. Her remains crumpled to the floor, her strength and defiance rendered meaningless. For all her boasting, she was just another weak, pathetic demon. "Pathetic," Michikatsu muttered, his voice cold as he turned to face his brother. But just as he began to walk away, a faint, childlike voice reached his ears. "Temari... Temari..." He stopped, turning back to see the demon's mutilated body weakly reaching for her ball. Her words faltered, but the plea was unmistakable. A child? Could she have been turned into a demon as a child? For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Michikatsu felt a pang in his heart, an emotion foreign and unwelcome. He didn't know her story, nor did he care to. But still, he knelt, using his sword to push the ball toward her hand. Her voice quieted as she finally died, and Michikatsu rose, certain that he had done the right thing. He turned his attention back to his brother. Yoriichi had already sheathed his sword and was walking toward Tamayo and the boy, what was his name? Michikatsu didn't bother to remember. As he approached, Tamayo straightened herself, her expression calm despite the obvious unease his presence instilled. "Are you Michikatsu?" she asked, her voice firm despite her trembling hands. He didn't respond. Speaking now would reveal to Yoriichi what he had hidden for so long: that he could talk. The silence only deepened the tension, and Yushiro, shaking off his initial fear, stepped forward in indignation. "Answer her," Yushiro demanded, raising his hand as if to strike Michikatsu. It was a foolish mistake. Michikatsu moved in an instant, faster than any of them could comprehend. Yoriichi alone saw the moment his brother's blade flashed, severing Yushiro's hand cleanly at the wrist. Blood sprayed from the wound, and Yushiro stumbled back, his defiance replaced with terror. His hand began to regenerate slowly, but the message was clear. Yoriichi rushed forward, bowing deeply as he apologized on his brother's behalf. But Tamayo and Yushiro, still reeling from the weight of Michikatsu's oppressive presence, barely heard him. Tamayo's thoughts raced, her instincts screaming at her to tread carefully. She had felt a gaze like this once before, that of Muzan Kibutsuji himself. Though Michikatsu's aura was not as dark or malevolent, it was no less overwhelming. One thing was certain: this was not someone to provoke.
Tamayo composed herself, her calm demeanor returning as she glanced toward Yushiro, who had wisely decided not to pursue the matter further, begrudgingly accepting Yoriichi's apologies. "I am sorry if Yushiro has offended your brother," she said with a measured tone. "No, it is quite fine. Michikatsu's reaction, however, was entirely inappropriate," Yoriichi replied, his voice firm as his stern gaze shifted toward his brother. Michikatsu met Yoriichi's glare with cold indifference, his expression unreadable but unyielding. Breaking the tension, Tamayo ventured, "Although this may not be the best time, could I have your brother's blood?" Yoriichi turned to Michikatsu, whose silence persisted. Instead, he raised his arm in Tamayo's direction, offering his assent without a word. "I'll take that as a yes," she said, slightly relieved. She swiftly drew Michikatsu's blood with a syringe, her hands steady despite the palpable tension in the air. As the sun began to rise, its golden rays filtering through the trees, they all retreated into the sanctuary. Michikatsu returned to his box without a sound, his presence fading into the shadows. "It is time for me to leave," Yoriichi announced, his tone carrying the quiet certainty of someone bound by duty. "My Kasugai Crow is no doubt nearby, eager to deliver my next mission." Tamayo inclined her head respectfully, and even Yushiro, despite his earlier indignation, managed a subdued farewell. "Farewell, Yoriichi," Tamayo said, her voice soft yet filled with unspoken gratitude. As Yoriichi stepped beyond the safety of Tamayo's sanctuary, the familiar sound of wings flapping drew his gaze upward. His crow circled above before swooping low, its shrill voice cutting through the morning air. "Go south! Southeast! South! Southeast!" it cawed, the repetition as grating as ever. Yoriichi paid the bird's incessant chatter no mind, his resolve unshaken. He moved forward, the path stretching endlessly before him. He would hunt down every demon and uncover all he could about Muzan Kibutsuji. The war was far from over.