Ume felt all her remaining strength disappear when the door of the box closed before her face.
The quartet of timber walls converged upon her, imprisoning her like a rat trapped beneath a merciless shoe. The air felt unbearably thin, suffocating almost, as if the very walls conspired to steal her breath. Her fingernails raked across the grooves carved into the obstinate oak, dust and debris coating her nails. Beyond her wooden confines, the cacophony of muffled voices were closing in on her, shutting in a chorus of suffocation.
Cold sweat slicked her forehead, slipping down her temples like melting ice. Her breaths came in short, stuttering gasps, useless against the crushing pressure that bore down on her ribs. Her heartbeat slammed against her chest, hammering against the cage of bone as though it, too, was trying to escape. Every muscle locked, rigid, and straining, her body coiled tight in a fight she couldn't possibly win.
Something was wrong—terribly, irreversibly wrong. Weak.
No, wrong wasn't the right word. Weak wasn't the right word.
Weak was an insult to what she felt.
Ume was being drained—hollowed out from the inside, carved into something brittle and lifeless, like she was becoming part of the wood itself. Just moments ago, she had been whole. Functional. No different from any other demon. But now? Now she was wrong. Her limbs were leaden, her blood frozen. She couldn't even manage a flinch from the incessant juddering and jostling of the box every movement as the carrier sprinted with reckless abandon.
Her other hand clung tightly to the soft, warm fabric of her kimono as the fear throbbed through her, just enough to hurt. Holding onto something did nothing to lessen the fear, but somehow, it made her feel a tiny bit better. It reminded her of times when she was small, back in Riverbank—when the older kids gang up on her and smeared dirt or mud into her pale hair and laughed. She could still see Gyutaro's hunched figure lunging at them, his gangly arms shoving them back as his voice, sharp and rough, sent them scattering. Then, as he turned to her, gently wiping the grime from her cheeks, his hands warm despite the chill in the air. And she had squeezed his hand—small fingers curling tight around his, clinging to the calloused warmth as if it could shield her from everything.
Just like that one night she burned with a terrible fever, her frail body curled beneath the tattered futon as shivers racked her frame. The air inside their tiny home was damp, the wind slipping through the cracks, but Gyutaro had stayed beside her, his hand firm around hers. She barely remembered what he whispered—something about her being tough, about hanging on—but she remembered the scratchy fabric of his sleeve brushing against her cheek as he pressed a rare, fleeting kiss to her temple. And even through the fevered haze, even as her body ached, she had clung to his hand like a lifeline, unwilling to let go.
Ume's eyes snapped shut, her fists clenched tightly at her sides as she pressed her lips together, vivid red flashes pulsing behind her closed lids. She could not think of the past, she couldn't think of Gyutaro. She had already waded through that agony once; she didn't need the scabs torn open again.
Despite the turmoil raging in her heart, Ume was determined that she wasn't going to show any sign of weakness. She still hailed the position of the Upper Moon Six rank; she couldn't look weak, even if no one could see her.
However, her mutinous mind still retreated to locked-out memories of her brother—back to the time he was something more than evaporating ash. Little bits of memories here and there, like his presence, were still lingering about. How she and Gyutaro as humans, both huddled together inside in that tiny crumbling shack they call home, riding out the long days and nights off of fear and unease. How she always felt strong when she stood behind her scythe-wielding brother as they tread down the crime-riddled streets. How she always felt safe seeing him fend off her merciless bullies. How she always felt pride when Gyutaro's eyes sparkled at the sight of the little gifts she fashioned for him from scraps. How Gyutaro would teach her little skills he picked up, like how to mend clothes or sharpen a blade. How he would always give her a pretty kimono or two whenever he managed to save enough money, how he would always let her crawl into his futon whenever nightmares haunted her sleep.
It was always her and Gyutaro against the world in their old lives.
Even when they entered their new life of immorality, their bond was no different, they were still a powerful force to be reckoned with.
And even then, no matter how much stronger she had gotten, it would always be Gyutaro whom Ume looked up to for strength.
Human and demon alike, Gyutaro was always so strong, so irrevocably perfect in her eyes. Gyutaro was no doubt the superior Upper Six, and Ume couldn't deny that she would always rank below him. But unlike in the past, Ume knew that there was no way she could ever surpass him. She was naïve, cocky, and arrogant back then to even dream of it. After everything she had been through, she had grown to understand she never could—He was unlike her.
His strength... His unyielding determination even in the face of the direst circumstances... His commitment to her... his cruelty and brutality... his fantastic ability with his blood manipulation, his physical capabilities with weaponry, and his incredible intellect—putting aside his unsettling personality and looks, she honestly could not see any flaws in him.
He was always the strong one—the one who checked and bagged emotions at the door. When trouble arises, Gyutaro is always composed and prepared. He thought best and excelled during the chaotic moments with his dual scythes, ready to save her and sacrifice himself if needed. He was born to achieve incredible things in life. Destined even.
Ume admired him with all of her heart, and always wanted to be him—if he only saw her now.
Halfway through her endless reverie, Ume halted, her gaze sharpening as she took in the confines of the four wooden walls that enclosed her. Peering into the shadows, she reached out a quivering hand to the coarse texture of the wood. The first heat of dawn caressed the box, its warmth stinging into her fingertips. Outside, the world roused itself; she could hear the distant sounds of leaves waltzing in the wind, the rhythmic beat of boots crunching against gravel, and the distant murmur of the Sanyo canal's waters reached her ears…
Yoshiwara…feels so far away now…
Warm tears welled up in Ume's eyes, glistening and teetering on the edge of her lashes. Her hands trembled as she swiped them away, her breathing ragged. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, her body tensing with the effort to hold them back.
"Oniichan... I'm... getting... farther away from Oniichan…"
Ume's shoulders slumped, and she leaned her forehead against the wooden wall. Her fingers traced the rough edges of the splinters, but she barely felt the pricks anymore. Her body remained still, her only movement coming from the rhythmic judder and shudder of the box.
For a moment, Ume could hear her brother's chastising voice in her head, the stern lecture she would've received if he knew she was being reckless or just plain stupid, which was more frequent than Ume liked to admit.
If only he saw her stuck in this random body, helping the enemy; providing him medical aid, and even going as far as transporting him to his allies. And to further rub salt into the wound, now she was trapped in this claustrophobic, little prison in broad daylight. His head would've absolutely been spinning right now.
Hrrrghk…
Almost on cue to her jumbling thoughts, the grotesque, wet rattle splintered the silence, thick and suffocating in the cramped space. It slithered into her ears, viscous and gurgling, like blood bubbling in a ruined throat.
Ume stiffened.
Even though she could not see outside her little space, Ume didn't need to see the outside world to know the boy was right there—his presence practically sizzled against her senses. Blood dragged through his veins, sluggish and uneven, clinging to him like damp, feverish heat. But it was his breath that soured the air, thick and wet, rattling in his throat like something was caught there, refusing to move. Every sickly inhale, every labored exhale, pressed against the cramped walls of their prison, crawling under her skin.
He's alive.
Because of me…
Ugh.
Her nose scrunched, irritation coiling tight in her chest. Stupid. Saving him was so, so stupid. What had she even been thinking? That his pathetic kindness somehow made up for the fact that she was stuck here now? That it erased everything?
Her gaze snapped to him, sharp and seething, lips curling into a sneer. Pathetic. Miserable. This was his fault. And worse—she'd let it happen.
Ume despised kind people the way Gyutaro despised the happy ones. They were insidious, creeping into her heart like ivy through cracked stone, wrapping tight until she couldn't tell where they ended and she began. And just when she might have believed in them—just when she might have let them stay—they'd turn to ash in her hands.
The samurai's kindness had been a shimmering mirage, gone the moment he parted his lips. Her madam's kindness? A cruel joke, unraveling the second that same samurai tossed her a handful of coins to help burn her alive. And the men and women of Hanamachi, with their flowery words and extravagant gifts? They scattered like startled crows when she and Gyutaro lay bleeding in the snow.
The past carved its lessons deep, and Ume had learned them all.
A kind Tanjiro was far more dangerous than an unkind one and she couldn't afford to lower her guard. Not here. Not again.
"Hrr…"
Another wheezing gasp slithered through the suffocating darkness.
Ume's scowl deepened, her lips pulling taut with irritation. She tilted her head back, eyes tracing the invisible patterns on the ceiling of this wretched box, letting her mind paint a vivid image of his lifeless body, had she played her cards right.
She could see it. Should have seen it.
Blank, lifeless burgundy eyes. A shattered blade, glinting uselessly in the dirt. His haori, drenched in red, sagging over his motionless body like a burial shroud.
Another nameless, discarded Demon Slayer. Another corpse left to rot.
Her chest tightened.
The image should have pleased her. Should have filled her with the cold, bitter satisfaction of a fight won. But instead, it stuck, clawing at the edges of her mind, sinking in like a splinter she couldn't dig out.
Why?
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head violently, as if she could fling the thought away, but it refused to leave. A quiet, insidious thing, creeping into the cracks of her skull. It made no sense—she had watched humans die more times than she could count, had been the cause of their deaths, had relished the way their struggles faded into nothing.
So why did this image sting like an open wound?
Her breath hitched. A mistake. A lapse in judgment. This wasn't her.
It was this body. This miserable brat called Nezuko. This stupid, fragile body she was trapped in.
A sharp hiss tore through her teeth as she pressed her fingers against her temples, nails digging deep, leaving crescent-shaped imprints in her skin. Her shoulders twitched, breath unsteady, as though she were trying to shake something off—something clinging too tight, seeping too deep.
Her jaw clenched.
She was being stupid when she spared him. As always.
She stood to gain nothing by letting the scumbag who had torn her world apart live.
"I should…have just..left that brat to rot…and…"
But that thought came up short as another thought assaulted her mind like a rough kick to the head.
Was there even a point in fleeing?
Where could she possibly run to, wearing the skin of the enemy?
What value could she even offer to anyone, wrapped in this form?
Ume squinted in the darkness, staring at her small—almost child-like hands. Her flame-kissed stiletto nails, streaked with dried blood, caught the faint light. She traced one nail with her fingertip, the dried blood flaking off like fragile scabs, leaving dark smudges on her foreign skin.
"I can't picture anything, Big Brother…" Ume murmured, remembering Gyutaro's words.
What does she even have to be cherished for?
Her once-celebrated beauty that paved her path to the illustrious fame and fortune of an Oiran, was now a distant memory.
The vibrant tapestry of countless accomplishments she had once cherished no longer adorned her existence.
The once incredible status she and Gyutaro commanded as the fearsome Upper Moon Six had crumbled into insignificance, their formidable reign reduced to nothing.
And now even Gyutaro...
By all means, she was a failure. A failure to the Upper Moon hierarchy, a failure to her Master, a failure to her own race, a failure to herself, old and current. But the most unforgivable act of all she was a failure to her own brother.
"I can't picture anything, Big Brother…" Ume's whisper barely made it through the suffocating darkness. A sob clawed in her chest as she curled tighter, pressing her knees against her chest, feeling the hard edges of the box digging into her sides.
Her fist crashed down on the wooden floor with a dull thud. A sharp sting shot through her knuckles, but it was the thin, red line creeping down her wrist that caught her eye. The same wrist that brat had gripped. The cut glistened crimson under the darkness, the slow slide of blood tracing an unbroken path down her skin. A shiver coiled at the base of her spine.
"Oniichan…I just…want you here…" She choked back another sob, feeling more of her strength crumbling away like sand slipping through her fingers.
Then, her breath hitched as the memory of Gyutaro's descent into Hell suddenly seared through her mind. She could still see the ravenous flames devouring him, their fiery tongues licking around his flesh. The piercing cacophony of anguished screams of the damned, drowning out all sounds. Gyutaro didn't even resist his fate, he just walked over without showing a hint of emotion, not even a mere glance over his shoulder, willingly meeting his agonizing demise.
She reached out in the darkness, her fingers trembling and outstretched, but the distance between them felt insurmountable.
Gyutaro was slipping away, his form dissolving into the infernal abyss, swallowed by the ravenous flames of Hell. His silhouette blurred and darkened, merging with the shadows of the damned. The flames licked at his heels, dragging him deeper and deeper into the fiery maw, and she was powerless to pull him back from the brink…
Her bloodied fingers brushed against the box's wooden door, and the daylight's heat seeped through her skin, cascading warmth down her spine and settling deep within her bones. It felt as though the box itself was attempting to incinerate her courage.
I should give myself to the flames too. Ume thought and the thought was beginning to not sound less terrible to her. If she hurled herself out of this cramped hellhole and let her body disintegrate into ash under the sun's scorching light, her demise would be a final meaningful act. She would be killing two birds with one stone: ending her own loathsome existence and erasing this vile Accidental Demon for burning her. If she had to go, at least she'd take that brat with her. And most importantly, she would finally be reunited with her dear brother in the afterlife.
These dark, cynical thoughts churned inside her, pushing her to the brink of madness. Ume's entire body buzzed with an electrifying urge to burst out of the box and embrace the fiery end, but, just as she was about to leap, something held her back.
Gyutaro.
The thought struck before she could shove it away.
If she burned—so would his memory. Every ounce of suffering he endured, every wound he bore, every desperate, bloody struggle to shield her from a world that had always despised them—wasted. The life he had thrown away for her—erased.
No. He would never want that.
For a fleeting second, something twisted in her chest.
She could see it now—Gyutaro's face crumbling, his gaunt features drawn in quiet, aching sorrow. The way his bloodshot eyes would glisten, his mouth parting as if to call her name, only for the sound to die before it could leave his lips. The way his entire being would sink under the weight of her loss, his shoulders trembling, his hands clutching at nothing—because she was gone. Because he was alone.
"No." Ume suddenly said, her foreign voice breaking faintly. A long breath slipped past her lips, her shoulders rising, then sagging under an invisible weight.
"I…I can't...I don't want to throw you away," she whispered with harsh conviction, shaking her head to physically dislodge the dark, suffocating thoughts that clung to her mind. Ume hastily wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her dirty hand.
She sank deep into her seat, the weight of weakness threatening to suffocate her like an invisible shroud.
"I have to live…live and be cherished because it's…" Ume murmured, hugging her knees to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tears seeping through her lashes, her body trembling as she held on tighter. "It's Gyutaro's last wish…"
o o o —xπ{Ö}πx — o o o
A second. Ten seconds. A minute. A month. A year. Time unraveled into an endless, shapeless abyss, lost within the suffocating embrace of the box. The walls pressed in from all sides, a silent, watchful predator. The wood at her back was rough, each uneven grain biting into her skin, etching itself into her flesh as if trying to merge with her. Her limbs, locked in unnatural stillness, ached with a dull, throbbing protest, stiffened by neglect and swallowed whole by the cramped void.
Ume drew in a slow, measured breath. The air—thick with stillness—dragged over her tongue like old parchment, dry and lifeless, coated in the stale remnants of her own exhalations. It curled within her lungs like smoke, stagnant and unwilling to leave, as though she were breathing in her own decay. The silence was absolute, so heavy it felt like it had weight, settling over her shoulders, pressing against her ribs.
But beyond the wooden prison, the world pulsed with life. Scents seeped through the slivers of space between the planks, creeping in like whispers of a dream. Honeysuckle—syrupy and golden—coiled around her senses. Wildflowers, delicate and bright, tangled with the crisp bite of wisteria, sharp enough to make her head spin. It was cruel. Maddening. The fragrances clashed inside her, vibrant reminders of everything just beyond her grasp.
Each inhale painted a picture—sun-drenched fields, petals trembling in the wind, roots nestled in the embrace of rich, untouched soil. It was right there, waiting. Yet she remained here, frozen in the dark, listening to the deafening thrum of her own pulse as the seconds stretched and warped into eternity.
CRRACCK!
The sharp groan of splintering wood sliced through the thick, suffocating dark. A second later, movement. Sudden. Unsteady. The world around her jolted violently, and the suffocating stillness shattered into chaos. The box swayed, tilting dangerously to one side, and Ume's stomach lurched with it. Sounds bled through the wooden walls—hurried footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the ragged breaths of the one carrying her. Each shift, each misstep, sent her tumbling against the walls, her body trapped in a merciless storm of motion.
Then—CRAACCK!
Her forehead crashed into the unyielding wood with a sickening force. A bolt of fire shot through her skull, white-hot and searing, detonating behind her eyes. The pain burned, crawling across her skin like living embers, leaving a sharp, stinging trail in its wake. Her vision burst into chaotic spots, flickering like scattered embers in the abyss. The rough grain of the wood pressed into her raw skin, the jagged texture unforgiving, biting into her flesh like the fangs of some unseen beast.
Her patience snapped.
"Ease up, you idiot!" Ume growled, her voice cutting through the confined space like a blade. It was sharp, commanding, laced with irritation that crackled like the aftermath of a lightning strike.
The box jerked violently, an abrupt and bone-rattling stop that sent her weight pitching forward. She barely managed to brace herself in time, her nose stopping mere inches from another punishing collision. Her breath hitched, nostrils flaring as the thin air filled her lungs.
From beyond the wooden prison, a startled gasp rang out, sharp with alarm. The person carrying the box trembled for just a fraction of a second before steadying again.
Ume clenched her jaw, her fingers curling into fists. If this clumsy fool didn't get a grip soon, she was going to make them.
"Oh! Nezuko…"
The woman's voice carried an unmistakable softness, one that only fanned the embers of Ume's fury into an inferno. That name. That name. Her chest constricted, a suffocating weight pressing against her ribs. It was unbearable. Disgusting. An insult just to hear it, even more so to be called that. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she swallowed the acrid taste of rage bubbling in her throat.
"I didn't mean to disturb you. I was running too fast…"
Ume's foot slammed against the wooden wall with a forceful thud. The sound reverberated through the confined space like a thunderclap, sharp and commanding. The impact rattled the air between them, stealing whatever words the woman had left in her throat.
"No shit! Stop running and just walk straight!"
For a second, there was only silence. Stunned, heavy silence. But then—
"Nezuko!" The woman's voice pitched higher, laced with shock, then swiftly curdled into reprimand. "Nezuko, you mustn't speak like that! That is incredibly disrespectful and unruly of you. Think of your brother! What would your elder brother say if he heard you speak in such a manner to me?"
A sharp intake of breath. The rage inside Ume detonated.
Her foot lashed out again, harder this time. CRACK. The box trembled under the blow, a visible dent warping its surface. The force sent splinters flying loose, the groaning wood barely holding together. The sheer audacity of this woman—lecturing her? Preaching about her elder brother as if she knew a single damn thing?
"Don't lecture me!" Her voice tore from her throat. Her eyes burned, her teeth bared in a snarl. "My elder brother wouldn't waste his breath on you!"
Another vicious kick. CRACK. This time, the entire box lurched from the force, the sound of splintering wood echoing in the tense air. Let it break. She didn't care. The mere thought of being trapped in here while this woman had the gall to act like she knew anything—anything—about her and Gyutaro was enough to make her want to tear through the walls herself.
Another sharp gasp. This one more startled, but not fearful.
"Nezuko!" The woman's voice softened, calm yet firm, like she was trying to soothe a child throwing a tantrum.
That only infuriated Ume more.
"I know you're afraid for your brother, but he's in capable hands," she insisted, the gentle reassurance grating against Ume's ears like nails on stone. "There's no need for such agitation, I promise you. Tanjiro will pull through."
Tanjiro.
The name alone was like a punch to the gut.
Ume's breathing came sharp, shallow, unsteady. Her fingers curled into tight fists, nails digging into her palms as she forced herself not to lash out again. She needs this box. She had to remind herself that she had to stay in this dumb thing anyway.
Instead, she took a slow, measured breath through her teeth.
The woman cleared her throat as if that would somehow steady her against the storm raging within the box. "Look, Nezuko, I know that you are very upset, but…"
Ume had heard enough.
"Enough. Just walk straight." The words were final. No room for argument. No room for her.
The woman did walk straight, but her incessant chatter flowed like an unending river. But by this point, Ume had entirely tuned her out completely, her mind a world apart from the woman's ceaseless monologue. She would have preferred the screech of rusty nails on glass to the grating tones of this woman's voice.
After what felt like an eternity, the box lurched to a halt.
"It's safe to come out now," the woman's grating voice rang out, dripping with forced reassurance.
Ume didn't move. Not an inch. Like hell she was just going to waltz out because some random lady told her to. Trust was for fools, and she wasn't one.
A few seconds passed. Then a minute. The woman must have gotten the hint because her footsteps retreated, finally leaving Ume in peace.
With an exhale, Ume shifted, and pain shot up her legs like fire racing through her veins. Damn it. She felt like she'd been stuffed into that box for a lifetime. Her limbs were useless, pins and needles stabbing into her skin as she tried to flex her fingers. Her back screamed in protest, muscles stiff and uncooperative, making every tiny movement feel like she was trying to bend stone.
Gritting her teeth, she inhaled sharply through her nose, shaking the dead weight out of her arms. Enough sitting around. Time to move.
She pressed a palm against the wood and pushed. The door creaked open an inch, and she peered through the gap, her eyes immediately scanning the remnant of what seems to be a small room. No movement. No shadows creeping toward her. The only thing greeting her was dim light flickering from a lone lamp resting on a tiny desk. The air smelled clean, too clean, like it had never known blood or smoke or death.
Still, she hesitated. The silence was too perfect, like a trap waiting to snap shut.
Screw it.
With a determined huff, Ume shoved the door open wider and poked her head out, gaze darting around like a cornered animal. Empty. She sucked in a breath, rolling her shoulders as the cool air hit her skin.
Finally, she let out a sigh, her lips curling in irritation.
"Well… that was a damn nightmare."
With two obi sashes extended to her sides like beams, Ume managed to hoist herself out of the box, ignoring the terrible surge of pins and needles rampaging through her legs. Her stiff muscles trembled when she stood out of the box and took in her surroundings.
There wasn't much to see really. The room was an assault on her senses with its sheer blandness. The walls, a dull shade of brown, seemed to sap the energy from the air. The furniture was sparse, just a single bed and a spare futon underneath the metal bed frame. Beside the box was a bookshelf with three storage cabinets built into the base to the left of it and a closet. Even the dull lamp filtering from across the room felt lifeless, casting a yellow, uninspiring glow that did nothing to lift the bland atmosphere.
But no sooner did she stand up straight, Ume felt all remaining strength vanishing.
"This body sucks!" Ume exclaimed as she struggled to keep her balance. This body just felt so wrong, like wearing a suit of armor two sizes too small. "It just sucks! It sucks!"
She fought hard to keep herself on her feet, spent from the emotional hurricane that had just ripped through her. But it was no use; her legs were screaming with a thousand tiny pinpricks, even, her obi sashes seemed to waver. She only managed to stumble at least five steps away from the box before her legs buckled. Had she not been within reach of the bed frame to steady herself, she would have plummeted face-first to the floor.
Ume shut her eyes and let out a long breath, remembering her past. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. After all the tragedy that she had been through, Ume wanted nothing more than to just disappear at this point. But as she thought of this, a mental image of Tanjiro's red haunting eyes flashed in her head and her face creased in disgust.
There was something so special in his burgundy eyes, a certain type of beauty that had her throat closing up. The tender warmth resting in his burgundy eyes, the sincerity in his soft features, that perpetual fire behind his burgundy eyes—it all felt so foreign, yet so...beautiful.
Ume clenched her teeth, the image of Tanjiro searing into her mind—the Tsuguko who stood defiant when all should have crumbled to dust.
Any other Demon Slayer might have crumbled under the weight of despair, battling against two Upper Moons, watching their comrades broken and bloodied, surrendering to death as a mercy. But not him. There was no relief in his eyes, no resignation in his stance. He endured.
And as much as she hated to admit it, she had been wrong. She had mocked him, accused him of being nothing, of failing in his role as a Tsuguko. But if Tanjiro had been anything like the pathetic figure she had painted him to be, he would have fled with his tail between his legs, abandoning his allies—abandoning even his own sister. Or worse, he would have welcomed death, let it swallow him whole just to escape his wretched existence.
But he hadn't. He stayed. He fought. He endured because there was something pure inside of him that refused to break. Even in the face of monsters, of overwhelming darkness, he held onto something she and Gyutaro had both long since lost.
Her gaze dropped back to the uniform.
It was strange really. Ume was certain that she would be more repulsed by the thought of standing alongside the Demon Slayers. It was almost laughable to even consider.
After all, she was a first-hand participant that terrorized and devoured mankind beneath the enigmatic shroud of midnight's shadows. The simple thought of fighting a futile war with Demons just was ludicrous.
No, she corrected inwardly. This is hardly even a war; it is a one-sided massacre by powerful, eternal creatures. Eternal, beautiful predator against weak prey of flesh and blood. Assholes who'd never lift a finger for her and her brother. Humanity is not worth helping.
Yeah. This is so stupid. Gyutaro would be rolling his eyes right now.
Her cynical thoughts left her feeling hollower. Ume wanted to throw the piece of fabric to the floor, but she found herself stopping mid-action instead.
Her lips thinned. It was like a splash of icy cool water on her skin, and she couldn't exactly pinpoint this strange influx of emotions. It was only moments later did she finally have a name for this odd feeling.
Hope.
Was this what she had been holding out for? The real price of her debt? Could this be the life of kindness Gyutaro had imagined for her—one built by good people, not ghosts of the past? Was this the leading path back to him?
All of her unanswered questions left an agonizing sting in her heart and a nauseating churning in her stomach. But Ume willed it to dissipate, gathering her composure like a cloak around her.
She would not cry. She cried too much. She no longer had any tears to shed.
Ume's life had always been like a perpetual storm. Anxiety churned like dark clouds, rage struck like lightning, and hate was a constant downpour she couldn't escape. Within her soul, all of these emotions brewed in a pot, each day spent loathing the very essence of her being.
So many things she had lost, so much pain and abuse that she had to endure. Even after her rebirth as a demon, Ume had experienced more agony and heartbreak than she could ever dream she could experience in a lifetime.
But just as Gyutaro had taught her, in life, you have to make choices. Some are important, some trivial, and some insignificant. The choices people make nevertheless determine a large part of their perseverance, and survival. Because one always must live with the consequences of their choices.
And now, for the first time in her life, a choice that she could make had fallen in front of her and she can't let it go to waste. Not when her brother is on the line.
Ume grabbed onto the uniform and slipped into it. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that hung across the room when she was done, and she felt a rare flicker of hope in her stale heart.
"A Demon Slayer..." Ume echoed out in disbelief, her fingertips tightly clutching the fabric on top of her thumping heart. A smoldering ember ignited deep within her burgundy eyes, flickering to life as she locked gazes with her own reflection in the mirror. "Yeah. If being a Demon Slayer is what it takes, then so be it. I'll fight, I'll win, and I'll be back with him before anyone can stop me. That's my payment. That's how I'll make a difference. As long as Oniichan can look at me and say he's proud—" Her words faltered, caught in her throat as she stared at the specks of Tanjiro's dried blood still clinging to her hands.
It wasn't as though she hadn't done horrible things—she had. Cruel and vicious and unforgivable things, void of any compassion. She was not a hero, let alone that good kid that Gyutaro believed that she was. And yet, he had seen something in her, believed in a distant version of her she could hardly remember. Maybe she wanted to believe in it too. Maybe, deep down, she wished she could be that good kid he once knew. But the idea of herself as a righteous member of the Demon Slayer Corps felt like a cruel joke that she herself is making at her own expense—one even she couldn't begin to believe.
But Gyutaro always told her that too often in life will screw you over one way or another, no matter the circumstances, but everyone has a choice — to accept the situation or to curse it.
For once, Ume decided to accept the situation. It wasn't like she had anything to lose anyway; people who had nothing feared nothing. If she would have to gamble with fate, then so be it.
Survive. That was what she needed to do for now.
Upper Moon, Oiran or whatever, Ume knew for a fact that her dear big brother taught her how to be a survivor first.
Because she was strong — not just because of her skills, but because of her innate ability to live through hell.
Chapter 5 will be coming in late February to early March. If you like the story, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends or fellow readers! Every bit of support helps the story grow and reach more people. Your favorites, reviews, follows, and even a simple mention to others really encourage me to keep writing. Thank you so much for your continued support — I couldn't do this without you!