The following day. Beneath the lush, verdant sunlight, the wisteria swayed in full bloom throughout the garden. The fragrance drifted in from the courtyard, so thick it was almost cloying, lending weight to the very air.
The shōji doors had been slid open from both sides. Within the main hall, figures were already seated. Seven of them. The Seven Hashira.
They knelt in formal seiza along both sides of the hall, facing the center, their spines straight as drawn blades.
The titles of later eras, Flame Hashira, Water Hashira, named for the Breathing styles, did not yet exist. The Demon Slayer Corps of this age had no Breathing Techniques.
And so there were no Hashira names divided by those styles. They were simply the swordsmen of Hashira rank. The seven strongest warriors of the Corps, each guarding a region, the mightiest force the Ubuyashiki family could wield in direct battle against demons.
Without the amplification of Breathing Techniques, these swordsmen had reached this position through nothing but pure swordsmanship, physical prowess, combat experience, and their Nichirin Blades. Facing demons, they most often operated in squads, at least three, and frequently seven or eight coordinating together, laying complex traps to encircle and kill a single demon, using tactics to bridge the gap in individual combat strength.
Among the Hashira of this generation, those capable of slaying a demon alone numbered at most one or two. Often, there were none at all. The rest were leaders—, commanders who led squads to slay demons. But even so, they remained the humans who stood closest to the absolute limit. Elite samurai and swordsmen.
Occasionally, a master swordsman of kengō level would even emerge among them. Facing those undying monsters, without such elite caliber, it could never have been done.
The bald, powerfully built man sat in the first position on the left. He still wore no outer garment over his torso, his scar-riddled chest gleaming dully in the lamplight.
A few meters beside him was the braided girl who had been polishing her blade. The deep purple haori draped over her shoulders, her braid hanging down her back, a faint smile on her lips.
The remaining five each had their own look, old and young, men and women. But every single one of them carried the same thing. Killing intent. The heavy, weighty killing intent that could only be accumulated through years steeped in blood and death.
The Master of the Demon Slayer Corps, Ubuyashiki Rikiya, sat at the highest place. He was still dressed in that plain white kariginu, half his face shrouded in purple decay.
His clouded eyes reflected the dead-gray gleam of the lamplight. Kneeling beside him were two white-haired attendants, twins, their features identical, each holding a tray.
"You have all worked hard," Rikiya began. His voice was not loud, yet it reached every corner of the hall with perfect clarity. It was a voice of profound calm, like the resonant toll of a temple bell, carrying the power to settle the hearts of men.
This, too, was one of the gifts passed down through the Ubuyashiki bloodline. The charisma of a leader who commanded demon-slaying swordsmen from a sickly, frail body. "I have summoned you all back because there is a lead concerning Kibutsuji Muzan."
The atmosphere in the hall shifted instantly. Seven spines snapped rigid in unison. The bald man's hand moved to the hilt of the blade beside his knee. After a pause that was only natural, Rikiya continued. "The source of this lead… is a yōkai."
Silence. A very brief silence. Then the bald man was the first to speak, his voice rough and unrestrained. "Did you say… a yōkai, Master?"
"It is a demon warrior who calls himself Nakai Shinji. He carries the personal missive of Master Tōtōsai. He sought out Jinjūrō's squad of his own accord."
"Demon warrior…" The braided girl's voice seemed airy and soft, yet it carried a certain clean, sharp edge. "Isn't that just a demon?"
"A yōkai. Not a demon created by Muzan," Rikiya corrected her. "The distinction between the two, you should all be well aware."
There was, indeed, little room for dispute on this point. Yōkai and demons were fundamentally different in their essence. Yōkai were inhuman beings formed from the condensation of impure energies. Demons were mutated humans infected by Muzan's blood.
The former had a thousand forms and a thousand origins. The latter all stemmed from a single root. The swordsmen of the Demon Slayer Corps loathed the demons spawned by Kibutsuji Muzan because they fed on humans, an inherent, irreconcilable opposition of existence.
Yōkai might also kill humans, but it was neither their fixed nature nor their necessity. Between the two sides, there was no undying, irreconcilable hatred.
"There is one more person besides," Rikiya said, his pale eyes narrowing. "A swordsman… the likes of which this age has perhaps never seen." He described the scene relayed in Rengoku Jinjūrō's letter.
The red-haired young man who had, in a single instant, suppressed three swordsmen with unprecedented presence, including Jinjūrō himself.
Silence fell over the hall once more. This time, it stretched longer.
"Bull," the bald man muttered, sucking at his teeth. He knew Rengoku Jinjūrō's strength. Not yet a Hashira, but only a matter of time. He simply lacked the seniority, the accumulated merits. In terms of raw ability, he was absolutely no lesser than any of the Hashira present.
That man might have looked older than his years, but he was still young, barely past twenty. Without question, he was one of the most elite swordsmen within the Corps.
A man like that, along with his entire squad, suppressed in an instant? If a yōkai had done it, fine. Yōkai always had some uniquely dangerous tricks. But a human? Could such a human truly exist in this world?
"Jinjūrō does not lie," Rikiya replied calmly.
The bald man fell silent. Rengoku Jinjūrō indeed did not lie.
"That yōkai… that Lord Nakai Shinji…" Rikiya's voice grew even softer. "He says he knows the whereabouts of Kibutsuji Muzan. And he knows how to kill him."
This time, the silence was the longest of all. The braided girl pressed her crimson lips together. The oldest Hashira present, a man with graying hair and beard, suddenly spoke, shaking his head. "Master, forgive my bluntness. How can the words of a yōkai be trusted?"
"Exactly," the bald man chimed in. "What if this is a trap laid by Muzan? Yōkai and demons can collude just as easily as—"
But his words never finished. In that very second, that very instant, a sudden gust of wind swept in from the courtyard, carrying with it a voice: level, clear, and piercing.
"If I wanted to deal with you..... what need would I have for a trap?"
"—?!"
Everyone in the hall jolted in shock. They spun, hands flying to their blades, eyes snapping toward the entrance. The voice had come from outside the door.
But the next instant, it was already inside the hall. Gray robes. White, flowing hair. Crimson demon eyes. No one had seen how he entered. No one had sensed when he had passed through the wisteria barrier, through the corridors, through the door.
He had simply appeared. As though he had been standing there all along.
The Seven Hashira drew their blades simultaneously. The lamplight flashed once across drawn steel, but every single one of them froze mid-motion. Because in the very next breath, they realized their bodies were refusing to obey. It was fear. And it was instinct.
Like the rigid paralysis of prey before a predator. The yōki of a Ninth Transformation, yet far surpassing any ordinary Ninth Transformation, even surpassing the power of ordinary Tenth Transformation demons, had erupted and withdrawn in the span of a single instant, pressing down upon every body in the hall.
"Your wisteria only works against demons," Shinji said, standing at the very center of the main hall, his crimson demon eyes sweeping over the Hashira on both sides. "Against yōkai, it's useless."
Rikiya did not move. He had seen something, or rather, he had felt something. "Please," he said. "Sit."
The bald man's eyes went wide. "Master—!"
"Sit down." Rikiya's voice remained soft. His body was terribly frail, yet in that moment, it seemed to carry an immense, crushing weight. The blades the Seven Hashira had been unable to fully draw all slid back into their sheaths.
The power within that voice had once again taken hold. No matter how unwilling, they obeyed.
Ubuyashiki Rikiya then turned toward the yōkai before him and smiled. "The August Spirit of the Demon God of Musashi… Lord Shinji, is that correct?"
As the hidden leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, commanding swordsmen who hunted demons across nearly the entire realm, it would have been impossible for him not to have heard Shinji's name.
Though, compared to him, the other Corps members clearly lacked that awareness. They had no interest in the gods or spirits of any province. They only cared about demons.
Shinji did not respond immediately. He stood where he was. He simply drew the cloth token from Tōtōsai out of his robes and tossed it onto the floor before Rikiya. Then he spoke.
"Kibutsuji Muzan is currently in Kyōto. He is hiding within the sphere of influence of a daiyōkai called Hagoromo Gitsune, the Lady of the Feather Robe. Most likely, he is using her yōki to mask his own movements. And he's planning something. His only weakness is sunlight. Nichirin Blades can sever his immortality. But he has five brains and seven hearts. Conventional methods cannot kill him completely. All of his vital points must be destroyed simultaneously, in a single instant."
The information poured forth. Clean. Sharp. Not a single wasted word. Everyone in the hall was stunned.
Not because of the information itself, though the fact that this yōkai could even detail the five brains and seven hearts, knowledge that even the Demon Slayer Corps didn't fully possess, was indeed shocking, but because of the tone with which he spoke it.
No hesitation. No doubt.
It didn't even sound like the result of intelligence gathering. It sounded like… he had seen it with his own eyes.
Rikiya's right eye slowly narrowed. "You have told us all this. What do you want in return? And to what extent… do you wish for us to act?"
"A Nichirin Blade," Shinji said, utterly direct. "I will tell you the complete plan, how to force him into the sunlight. And all I require is a single Nichirin Blade." He paused, then added, "Beyond that—"
He turned his head and looked toward the veranda outside the hall. There, Tsugikuni Yoriichi stood holding his wife in his arms, his crimson hair swaying gently in the night breeze.
"This man is a hundred times stronger than all of your Hashira combined. Let him join the Demon Slayer Corps. His wife and child will be settled here, at your headquarters, under your protection. In exchange, " He looked back at Rikiya. "He will become the blade in your hands. The blade that can truly kill Muzan."
Rikiya lifted his face. Though his eyes had long since gone blind, it seemed as though he was straining to see. To see that impossibly powerful figure the other spoke of. And it seemed he truly did perceive him. He nodded. He agreed. Then he asked, "And what of you yourself, my lord?"
"I am a yōkai. I will not join the Demon Slayer Corps." Shinji lowered his crimson demon eyes. "I have my own affairs to attend to. But for the next few days, I will remain here. When the time comes to face Muzan, I will be there. After all, I have a personal grudge against Muzan as well. So this is not entirely a transaction."
The demon mask coalesced upon his face. His crimson eyes glowed faintly through its gaps. "This is also a notification. When the time comes, I will join you. To kill Muzan."