The red-light district at night was wrapped in perfume and the scent of sake, crimson lanterns swaying under the eaves and painting the dark street with hazy warmth.
Mushiki stood in the second-floor corridor of Kyogoku House. The hem of his black kimono brushed against the wooden floor without a sound.
He had come under orders to monitor Demon Slayer Corps activity within the district, but at this moment, an unfamiliar hunger churned violently inside him—an overwhelming craving for human flesh, stronger than anything he had ever felt before.
Since becoming a demon, he had survived solely on Muzan-sama's blood. He had never eaten a single human.
Yet just moments ago, when he passed the front hall, the faint scent of blood from a dancer drifted through the air and struck him like lightning. His throat tightened, and his reason began to erode like sand under a rising tide.
"Lord Mushiki, you called for me?"
A soft voice spoke from behind.
He turned and saw a dancer in a pale pink kimono standing there. A pearl hairpin glittered faintly in her bun, and her cheeks were tinted with delicate blush.
Her name was Ayuki. She was one of the women rescued years ago thanks to Giyu's reform of the district's laws.
Ever since Giyu had enforced new rules, this place had changed—more orderly, more humane. The dancers and courtesans finally held at least a shred of dignity.
Since then, Ayuki had never forgotten him. She always hoped to repay his kindness somehow.
Mushiki said nothing. He stepped forward and took her wrist.
Her body trembled slightly, but then she relaxed, the color on her face deepening—she misunderstood. She thought he had come to claim her.
"My lord…" she whispered, voice trembling, "you saved my life. I… I'll do anything for you."
Mushiki's throat moved. His fangs slowly extended, glinting faintly in the lantern light.
He leaned closer, lips nearly brushing her shoulder—just one bite, one taste, and the unbearable craving would vanish.
But at that instant—crash!
A thunderous crack split the night. A slash of sword energy tore through the wooden wall, cold blue light flashing like a crescent moon, cutting straight toward his neck!
Mushiki's pupils shrank. Instinctively, he shoved Ayuki aside and drew his Nichirin Sword, swinging it backward to block.
A sharp clang! rang out. The blades met with crushing force, sending shock through his arms and driving him back three steps. His palms tingled from the impact.
He looked up through the shattered wall.
A figure stood there in the moonlight—cloaked in black, hood pulled low over their face, holding a pitch-black Nichirin Sword. The faint trace of blue sword energy still shimmered along its edge.
"That slash… was it Moon Breathing?"
Mushiki frowned. Surprise flickered in his eyes.
The strike's flow, its pressure—it all carried hints of Kokushibo's Moon Breathing, the same sword style his teacher had drilled into him.
But this was sharper, cleaner—refined beyond what even Kokushibo had shown him.
'Could this be a successor… someone who inherited Tsugikuni Michikatsu's swordsmanship from his human days?'
The cloaked figure didn't answer. He merely raised the black blade again, slow and deliberate.
In that moment, an invisible weight filled the air. Mushiki's breath hitched.
It wasn't killing intent—it was pure, oppressive will. Denser, heavier, colder than even Kokushibo's aura when he fought at full strength.
That suffocating pressure—he had only ever felt it before from demons of the highest rank. Yet this man was unmistakably human.
No hesitation now. Mushiki drew a deep breath and steadied his grip. His Nichirin Sword gleamed faintly with blue moonlight.
"Moon Breathing, Third Form: Loathsome Moon, Chains!"
The blade swept through the air like a curved crescent, slashing directly for the cloaked man's chest.
But the man only shifted slightly—one smooth step, just enough to evade the strike.
His movements weren't fast. They were precise. Every motion slid perfectly between Mushiki's attacks, as if he already knew the pattern before the strikes even came.
A chill shot down Mushiki's spine. He focused his senses and activated Combat Aura Perception—a skill he had learned through both Akaza and Kokushibo, allowing him to read the flow of an opponent's inner energy.
But this time… nothing.
His senses came up empty. The cloaked man stood right before him—yet it was as if he didn't exist. No aura, no life, no presence.
"This is… the supreme state?" Mushiki whispered.
Kokushibo had once spoken of it—the ultimate realm of the swordsman. The state where one's spirit is perfectly still, where all fighting intent disappears, and the world itself becomes clear and transparent.
Could this human… have reached that level?
Before he could think further, the cloaked man moved.
The black blade in his hand flashed through the air. There was no wasted motion, no flourish—only direct, deadly precision.
Each strike aimed straight for Mushiki's vital points.
Mushiki couldn't even see the man's movements—only the blinding flashes of the blade and the sharp hiss of steel slicing through air. In a single second, his opponent had unleashed thirty strikes.
He swung his Nichirin Sword desperately, parrying blow after blow. But the enemy's speed was monstrous, his strikes so dense that Mushiki's defenses crumbled.
His shoulder, arm, and abdomen were slashed open. Each wound burned like fire, black blood spilling out in streams—yet the gashes did not heal.
The regeneration that should have begun instantly was halted. Only faint black mist writhed sluggishly over his skin.
'My wounds aren't closing? Is this… Sun Breathing? What is he?'
Shock flashed in Mushiki's eyes.
Only the power of Sun Breathing could suppress a demon's regeneration—could burn with such searing agony. But the stranger's attacks weren't Sun Breathing. They carried the rhythm and form of Moon Breathing—Kokushibo's technique.
How could the two coexist?
The cloaked man gave him no time to think. His black blade shimmered again—this time streaked with faint golden light.
Those lines—those were marks of Sun Breathing.
Mushiki staggered back as the slash tore through the floorboards, leaving a deep groove in its wake.
Pain seared through every inch of his body. His movements grew sluggish, his breathing harsh. The cloaked man pressed forward with frightening precision—like a cat playing with a trapped mouse—tightening the circle with each attack.
In moments, Mushiki's back hit the corridor's end.
The black blade pressed coldly against his throat, close enough that the edge nicked his skin. One push, and his head would roll.
But the cloaked man didn't finish him.
Mushiki panted heavily, his chest rising and falling. 'Why? He has me—why stop now?'
The man slowly withdrew the sword and reached into his cloak. He pulled out four short daggers, their silver blades gleaming faintly under the lantern light.
As he gripped their hilts, the steel began to glow red-gold, as if ignited by flame.
With a single smooth motion, he threw them.
The daggers streaked through the air like shooting stars, striking each of Mushiki's limbs. They pinned him firmly against the wooden wall behind him.
He grunted sharply. The red-gold glow spread through his wounds, sealing his muscles, choking his regeneration. Black blood dripped down the wall in slow, heavy trails.
The cloaked man stepped forward, voice calm and steady. "Do you still remember who you are?"
Mushiki frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "I am Upper Moon Two, Mushiki. Servant of Muzan-sama. Who are you?"
The man gave no reply. Instead, he pulled another item from his cloak—a small vial of pale green liquid, capped with a metal injector.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent it forward. The needle plunged cleanly into Mushiki's neck, injecting the liquid directly into his bloodstream.
A chill spread through him instantly. He could feel Muzan's cells inside his body freezing, the demonic energy that had always boiled within him now stilling—silent, dormant.
The hunger vanished. His mind cleared. For the first time in what felt like centuries, his thoughts were sharp and lucid.
And with that clarity came fragments. Shattered images.
A man. A woman. A name half-remembered.
"This medicine..." Mushiki's pupils narrowed. "What is it?"
The cloaked man finally lowered his sword. "Now," he said quietly, "we can talk."
Then he reached up—and removed his hood.
Mushiki froze. His eyes widened, every muscle in his body locking in place.
The man's face—weathered, scarred, calm—was identical to his own.
The same sharp brows. The same nose. The same cold, steady eyes. It was like staring into a mirror that had lived another life.
And on the man's forehead glowed a faint red mark, shaped like flowing water, shimmering with threads of gold light.
"You… who are you?" Mushiki's voice trembled despite himself.
The man met his gaze, his expression a mixture of sorrow, resolve, and something deeper—an unbearable weight.
When he spoke, his tone was calm, deep, and unmistakably familiar.
"My name is Tomioka Giyu," he said softly. "I am you—
from the future."