The air inside the Demon Slayer Corps' council hall was heavy—thick and suffocating, as if filled with lead.
Around the long wooden table, the Hashira looked fewer than ever. Nearly every one of them was wrapped in thick white bandages, the faint scent of medicine lingering in the room.
Tokito Muichiro sat in the corner, his left arm bound in a splint and suspended against his chest. The sutures at his wrist were still faintly visible—remnants of the surgery to reattach it after Mushiki's Water Blades had severed it. For now, he couldn't move it at all.
Beside him, Kocho Kanae wasn't faring much better. Her arms and back were wrapped in layers of gauze, and even the slightest turn of her shoulders looked painful. The pale pink haori she once wore proudly was now in tatters, folded neatly over her lap.
Uzui Tengen leaned on a crutch, the bandages around his right leg already stained with faint traces of blood. His body was wrapped almost completely, every shift tugging at deep, throbbing pain from his old battle wounds with Akaza. Still, he forced himself upright, refusing to show even a flicker of weakness.
At the head of the long table sat a tray covered by a white cloth—on it rested Rengoku Kyojuro's Nichirin Sword. The blade still bore deep nicks and grooves, left by Mushiki's strikes.
Ubuyashiki Kagaya sat at the main seat, his face calm yet sorrowful. His gentle eyes swept over the room before he sighed softly.
"This western campaign… everyone worked hard."
No one spoke. The only sounds were shallow, strained breaths echoing through the chamber.
After a long silence, Shinazugawa Sanemi's fist slammed the table. His knuckles whitened, trembling with fury.
"What's the use of saying that?! Kyojuro… Rengoku is dead! And Tō—that kid's lost an arm, his body's torn apart! Tanjiro's still unconscious! All of this—every damn bit of it—is because of that traitor, Tomioka Giyu! If I'd known, back when the five of us had the chance, I'd have cut him down myself!"
His voice shook the walls, full of rage and grief he couldn't suppress. None of the others rebuked him. They all knew it wasn't truly anger at Giyu—it was at themselves, for failing to protect their comrades… for failing to stop tragedy from striking again.
Kagaya shook his head gently. His tone remained calm, yet carried quiet, unyielding weight.
"Sanemi, compose yourself. We've confirmed that Giyu did not betray us. His memory has been erased by Muzan. The one we face now is not the Water Hashira Tomioka Giyu—it is Upper Moon Two, Mushiki. Muzan's weapon, not our comrade."
The words fell like stones into still water, deepening the silence that followed.
"Do not lose hope," Kagaya continued softly. "Though the cost was high, we've gained crucial information. Mushiki's regeneration is slow—he has not yet consumed any humans. His Blood Demon Art, though powerful, has a limited range.
And most importantly, Kamado Tanjiro awakened his Demon Slayer Mark. Even Tō, despite his grievous injuries, fought on until the end. These are reasons for hope."
He paused, his gaze warm but firm as it swept across the wounded Hashira.
"For now, return to Butterfly Mansion and recover. Regain your strength. Patrol duties will be handled by the lower ranks and the few Hashira who remain uninjured. Mitsuri, I'll leave coordination of the Kakushi and patrol routes to you."
Kanroji Mitsuri immediately stood, her eyes shining with resolve. "Yes, Oyakata-sama! Please leave it to me!"
Kagaya gave a faint smile. "Good. That will be all for now."
He tapped the table lightly. "Remember—our fight is not over. As long as we live, as long as our resolve endures, we will defeat Muzan and restore peace to this world."
The Hashira slowly rose, helping one another toward the doors.
Muichiro lingered at the back, his gaze drawn to the tray where Rengoku's Nichirin Sword lay beneath the white cloth. He tightened his grip on his own blade.
He would grow stronger. The next time he faced Mushiki, he swore he wouldn't be so powerless.
…
Not far from the council hall, the laboratory lights flickered dimly. The only steady glow came from a small alcohol lamp on the table.
Tamayo, dressed in a white laboratory coat, leaned over the operating bench.
There lay Rengoku Kyojuro—his chest marked by a deep, jagged wound where Mushiki's blade had pierced his heart. The wound no longer bled, yet beneath the skin, faint muscle movements rippled slowly, unnaturally.
Yushiro stood beside her, holding a ledger, brows deeply furrowed.
"Tamayo-sama… are you sure this will work? His heart was pierced straight through. Even with your blood…"
"In theory, it should," Tamayo interrupted softly, pressing her fingers to Kyojuro's wrist, feeling for the faintest pulse.
"Did you forget? Months ago, I injected all Hashira with a serum mixed with a trace of my blood—a rapid regeneration compound. It doesn't grant a demon's recovery, but it drastically accelerates human healing and can protect vital organs in emergencies."
Her expression softened, a trace of relief flickering across her eyes.
"When Kyojuro was brought back, his heart had stopped—but the serum was still active. It prevented total necrosis of his heart tissue. I immediately infused him with more of my blood. Now, his pulse has begun to return, and his body is repairing itself. However…"
"However, what?" Yushiro asked urgently.
"I'm not sure if his brain survived," Tamayo replied softly.
She picked up a sample slide. "We still don't know if his consciousness remains—whether he'll wake up, or stay in a vegetative state. For now, all we can do is watch and wait for him to wake on his own."
Yushiro looked at Rengoku Kyojuro's body on the operating table and nodded, admiration clear in his eyes. "As expected of you, Tamayo-sama. You really brought him back even from this."
Tamayo didn't answer. She continued observing the cells under her lens, her expression unreadable.
She wasn't just trying to save Kyojuro. She was also racing to perfect her antidote against Muzan. She refused to let more people fall to demons as Kyojuro had.
…
At that same moment, the Butterfly Mansion was heavy with the scent of medicine.
Zenitsu sat beside a bed, holding a damp towel as he gently wiped Inosuke's forehead.
Inosuke lay under layers of thick bandages across his chest. His right arm was secured in a splint, and several patches of gauze covered his face. His injuries were the lightest of the group—four broken ribs, a fractured arm, and several deep cuts—but he was conscious and loud as ever.
"Dammit! That black-haired porcupine! Next time I see him, I'll rip out every strand of that stupid hair!"
He glared at the ceiling, growling, "And my swords—he knocked them away! I've never been that humiliated!"
Zenitsu didn't tease him like usual. He simply soaked the towel again and pressed it gently over Inosuke's arm. His face lacked its usual lazy grin—his eyes were calm, focused, and strangely serious.
Moments ago, he'd heard from a Kakushi what had happened—Rengoku Kyojuro was dead.
The man who had shared his food with them, who smiled through every hardship, who said, "As long as you believe, you can grow stronger"—was gone forever.
Zenitsu remembered that first meeting, Kyojuro's bright laugh as he handed him roasted meat.
"You need to eat well, young man," he'd said, "so you'll have the strength to protect others."
He remembered the training days, when Zenitsu tried to sneak away to nap. Kyojuro never scolded him—instead, he trained beside him, encouraging him.
"Thunder Breathing is fast—if you train properly, you'll become one of the strongest swordsmen."
Tears welled up and slipped down Zenitsu's cheek before he could stop them. He wiped them away quickly and drew in a steady breath. His voice was quiet but firm.
"Inosuke… once we heal, let's train—seriously this time."
Inosuke blinked, turning his head toward him. He had never seen Zenitsu's face so serious—no trembling, no whining. Just pure resolve.
"What's up with you, yellow hair? You sound all serious now."
"I'm done being dead weight." Zenitsu's fists tightened, his voice rough. "Kyojuro-san's gone. That means we have to get stronger—to survive, to fight, to defeat Mushiki, to kill Muzan. I'm going to master Thunder Breathing completely. The next time I face a demon, I won't be afraid again."
Inosuke stared for a second, then burst into a toothy grin. "Fine! We'll train together! I'll make a new Beast Breathing form, and you'll perfect your Thunder Breathing. Together, we'll crush that black-haired porcupine!"
Zenitsu nodded firmly and turned toward the other two beds.
Kamado Tanjiro lay motionless, his chest rising faintly, his face pale. The bandages around his torso were soaked through with traces of blood. He had five broken ribs and numerous cuts—still unconscious.
Beside him lay Tō, wrapped entirely in bandages, only his eyes visible. His left arm was gone, lost for good. When the wrappings had been changed earlier, the scars beneath looked as if he'd been sliced a thousand times—yet he had somehow survived.
Kocho Shinobu had explained it: Tō, even while near death, had forced his body to circulate Storm Breathing to slow the bleeding. Combined with the injection from Kanae containing Tamayo's medicine, he had barely clung to life.
"Tanjiro… Tō… wake up soon, okay?" Zenitsu whispered. "We still have to train together… fight together… defeat Muzan… and make this world free of demons."
Sunlight spilled through the window, soft and golden, warming the quiet room.
They were battered and broken, mourning the comrades they'd lost—but they were not defeated.
In the Butterfly Mansion, pain and grief had become fuel for strength. From despair, they drew hope.
And when their wounds healed, they would rise again—Nichirin Swords in hand—ready to return to the battlefield.
This war against Muzan was far from over.
As long as one fighter still drew breath, hope would never die.