The night wind howled, scattering the last traces of dust from the collapsed house. In the distance, firelight drew nearer. The three figures carrying lanterns burst through the forest canopy in an extremely short span of time. Their speed was remarkable.
The man leading them, wearing a pitch-black crow mask, touched down in an instant. His feet pressed a shallow crater into the soft earth. There was no pause to absorb the impact. His blade was already half-drawn. This was instinct, honed from years of walking the line between life and death.
The black haori on his back spread wide, mirroring his mask, as though a pair of dark crow's wings had unfurled. The man and woman behind him were slightly slower, but their movements were just as crisp and clean.
The man was broad and powerfully built. The hand gripping his sword bulged with veins, the blade already gleaming bright under the lantern light. The woman was more slightly built, her long blade likewise already sliding free of its sheath. The three of them, one forward, two back, swept their gazes rapidly across the ruins.
And then their eyes locked dead onto Shinji. Even though Shinji had not released a trace of yōki. Even though he was simply standing there in silence. But that face of his, so pale it was utterly bloodless.
Those eyes, black sclera and crimson pupils. On this night, with the moon shrouded, they were simply too conspicuous. That was… a demon. The man in the crow mask had not yet spoken, but the two behind him had already begun to react.
No confirmation was needed. No questioning. In their eyes, within the devastated scene before them, there was a young pregnant woman, trembling, blood on her clothes, curled in on herself. There was a red-haired young man who seemed to be an ordinary hunter, holding her. And there was one more, a figure with demon eyes, radiating an aura that was anything but human.
Any normal person would conclude that this figure was deeply suspicious. And they were the Demon Slayer Corps. They were the unit that had chased the trail of a demon all the way here. A unit that hunted demons.
But in the very instant the brawny young swordsman's toes dug in, his blade beginning to edge toward Shinji—
"STOP!"
The crow-masked man, who had not spoken a word until now, shot his arm out, barring the two behind him. The movement was blindingly fast. As fast as a conditioned reflex. Yet it wasn't because he had seen something clearly.
It was because he had felt something. More precisely, he had felt something coming from another direction. From where the red-haired young man crouched beside the young pregnant woman.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi stood up. He simply stood up. No blade drawn. He hadn't even placed his hand on his hatchet.
He merely released his wife's hand gently, shifting from a crouch to a standing position. He turned around. His deep crimson eyes looked calmly at the three Demon Slayer swordsmen.
And then, the air changed.
It was something pure to the point of transparency. Intangible. Yet heavy enough to crush a rooftop. Sword Will. Sword Will, gathered but not yet unleashed.
Like a blade still in its sheath. The steel had not yet been revealed. But the single click of the tsuba loosening, was enough to send a chill racing from the tailbone all the way up the spine to the back of the skull.
The crow-masked man's breath seized in his throat. He was one of the most seasoned veterans in the Demon Slayer Corps. He had slain over twenty demons, great and small. He had rolled through piles of the dead.
He had fought for his life beneath the claws of demons. His experience was anything but shallow. But never, never once, had he encountered something like this. There wasn't even killing intent within it. It was, instead, profoundly calm. Restrained. Utterly devoid of aggression.
Even filled with a deep gentleness. But that gentleness, was precisely what made it the most terrifying. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling someone gently tap your shoulder. You knew they meant no harm.
You knew they might not push you. But your body was still trembling, because you realized, with absolute clarity, that if they wanted to push, you would have no power whatsoever to resist.
This was a crushing of sheer existential hierarchy. An obliteration already complete, without a single blow ever being thrown.
"D-Don't move—!"
The crow-masked man's voice ground out from between clenched teeth. He wasn't speaking to Shinji. He was speaking to the two young teammates behind him. The brawny man's feet were already frozen in place. His half-raised Nichirin Blade hung rigid in mid-motion.
He didn't even know when he had stopped, his body had instinctively refused to advance any further. The female swordsman was the same. At some point, her grip on her blade had loosened.
The Nichirin Blade slipped half an inch in her palm, nearly tumbling from her grasp. Because her body was screaming at her, You cannot. You absolutely cannot. To raise a hand against this person was suicide.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi simply continued standing there. His deep crimson eyes swept calmly over the three of them. No extraneous movement. Not a shred of aggressive intent.
He was only conveying a single meaning, This gentleman is my guest. More than that, he is my benefactor. Do not move against him.
Leaning against a broken pillar nearby, Shinji narrowed his crimson demon eyes slightly as he watched Yoriichi's silhouette. No attack. He had merely stood up. One motion. And three elite Demon Slayer swordsmen, whose skills far surpassed those of ordinary samurai, were frozen dead in their tracks.
That, without question, was Sword Will. Sword Will at the level of a master swordsman, even a great master swordsman. He was already approaching the realm of a Sword Saint.
Approaching Kamiizumi Nobutsuna. Perhaps even surpassing him. This was absolutely not a state that could be honed through mere decades of bitter training. It was something closer to innate, inborn. Etched into the marrow of his bones from birth. The pinnacle of what a human could achieve.
Shinji quietly acknowledged something to himself. This formless suppression from Tsugikuni Yoriichi was, in some ways, even more exquisite than his own slash that had cut through the clouds.
Cloud-Severing's display had relied primarily on his Extreme Will, but it could not have been done without the support of his yōki. What Yoriichi had just done, used only pure human Will. As expected of Tsugikuni Yoriichi. Truly beyond the ordinary. Truly so.
The crow-masked man finally regained his senses from that intangible pressure. Cold sweat had already soaked through the inner lining of his mask. Slowly, he lowered the arm that had been barring his two teammates. Slowly, he slid his half-drawn Nichirin Blade back into its sheath.
Then he drew a deep breath. And another. Before he could finish the third, he turned his head and reassessed the pale figure leaning against the broken pillar. Unlike the two impulsive youths behind him, he had already confirmed, this was no demon.
Before arriving here, they had been tracking the demon that had come to this place for three full days and three nights. That rotten, putrid stench unique to Kibutsuji Muzan's bloodline, he could recognize it with his eyes closed.
The "person" before him, though indeed not human, carried absolutely none of that odor. A yōkai. A demon of a different kind from the ones they hunted.
Yōkai, though often opposed to humanity, did not, for the most part, feed on humans. Every member of the Demon Slayer Corps should be able to tell the difference between the two.
And then there was the attitude of the red-haired young man shielding the pregnant woman, clearly, he was protecting this yōkai. A misunderstanding. It was a misunderstanding.
Having confirmed this, the crow-masked man removed his mask, revealing a middle-aged face covered in scars, with thick brows and large eyes. He bowed deeply toward Yoriichi.
Then, somewhat awkwardly, he cupped his hands toward Shinji. "Our apologies. We were reckless. Demon Slayer Corps… Rengoku Jinjūrō. I offer our sincere regrets to you both."
Rengoku. Shinji raised an eyebrow. That surname was familiar. By the current timeline, this must be the ancestor of the Flame Hashira from the main story of Demon Slayer, the one with the yellow-and-red hair, perpetually overflowing with spirit.
No wonder. Someone like this would indeed produce rather impulsive subordinates. The man himself, however, was reasonably cautious.
"Since it was a misunderstanding, there's no harm done. After all, none of you managed to actually draw your blades." Shinji straightened up and dusted off his clothes.
"But your timing is good. I do have some business that requires finding the Demon Slayer Corps to complete…" He pulled out the cloth token Tōtōsai had given him and dangled it between his fingers. "You recognize this, I take it?"
Rengoku Jinjūrō's gaze fell upon the cloth. On it was the crooked, rudimentary sketch of a mountain peak, alongside handwriting that looked like a chicken had scratched it across the fabric.
His pupils contracted faintly. Not because the drawing was so terribly ugly, though it was. But because of the mark serving as a signature at the bottom. Though blurred, it was recorded in the higher echelons of the Demon Slayer Corps, the unique sigil belonging to that legendary, reclusive master smith.
It was said that the forging techniques of the original Nichirin Blades were connected to that very master.