A lone cabin stood tall in the mountains.
The door swung open, and a man stepped into view.
He wore a crimson tengu mask.
One of the trainers who taught swordsmanship to prospective Demon Slayer Corps recruits for the Final Selection, and in the past a district head–level swordsman.
Urokodaki Sakonji—that was his name.
He was on his way to the well, gourd in hand, to fetch water.
At that moment, with the flutter of wings, a crow flew in.
He offered his arm so the creature could perch comfortably.
A piece of paper was tied to the crow's leg.
Assuming it was a letter for him, he unfolded the note.
"Namu Amida Butsu. Urokodaki Sakonji, I hope you have been well."
Himejima, was it…
The handwriting held a paradoxical strength and delicacy, and it began with the line "Namu Amida Butsu."
Of everyone he knew, only Himejima wrote in such a style.
"This is Himejima."
"I have sent someone who wishes to learn swordsmanship to your location."
It was a request concerning his duty as a trainer.
Urokodaki recalled what had happened the day before.
Yesterday, his master's crow had visited and hinted that an important guest would arrive.
Could that guest be someone seeking training?
He pondered as he continued reading.
"I know this is a presumptuous request, but I beg your pardon."
"You may not understand, but the one on the way is a blood demon."
As he read on, one word suddenly arrested his gaze.
Blood demon…?
The letter said the person who wished to learn swordsmanship was a blood demon.
So the important guest Master spoke of is a demon?
A man-eating demon coming to learn the way of the blade from a former district head—what utter nonsense.
Still, he read further.
"Circumstances led him to become a demon, yet he saved children and has never eaten a single person. He is called Tsukinokami."
His eyes narrowed.
He became a demon through circumstance and saved children.
Urokodaki did not believe Himejima was lying.
Just as he could smell the scent of a person's heart, Himejima possessed the mind's eye to see the form of the heart.
And the word that struck him was Tsukinokami.
The legend of the former Grand Master of the breathing arts, who perished in the clash with Kibutsuji Muzan five hundred years ago, reborn as a sort of deity to slay demons…
Could the hero of that legend be the very demon headed here?
"Even though our master has permitted this, I apologize for my impertinence."
"Please take care of your health and continue your diligent efforts."
"Namu Amida Butsu. From Himejima Kyoumei."
With that final greeting, the letter ended.
Hmm…
He folded the note and watched the crow fly away.
It was a request his master had approved, so he could not refuse… but still…
He thought so as he drew his hood up, preparing to receive the guest.
@@@
Memories of long ago came flooding back…
It was a time so distant as to be almost forgotten.
The day I fled my family at age seven, I tumbled and rolled in these very mountains under the guise of training with Uzui.
I forced myself through push-ups while wielding [Sun Breathing], a style that didn't suit me.
It was because of those days that I stand here now.
"Do not live sprawled on your belly; if you must perish, do so on your feet."
Perhaps…
But why was I recalling the past so suddenly?
The answer lay in the log suspended by a rope before my eyes.
The very log that, had I stepped on the rope a moment ago, would have rocketed into my face—an exceedingly devious log.
Of course, it was not difficult to dodge.
"A rather rough welcoming ceremony."
Traps of flying logs, showers of gravel, collapsing pits, bamboo lashes, rolling boulders—traps lay strewn throughout.
Yet though they were traps, they were all set up for training.
If they were meant for hunting or defense, sharp stakes would be useful—but there were none.
Then again… upon closer look, I saw signs of mechanisms for pitfall traps and logs rigged to impale—perhaps they were real traps after all…
Moreover, the mountain's thin air was perfect for draining one's stamina.
In short, the entire mountain could be considered a single training ground.
But the air was so thin that few could hope to pass through these traps unscathed.
If a log struck and cracked a rib, it would be game over…
Why include rolling boulders?
I seem to have taken a wrong turn…
This cannot be the path I was meant to take…
After somehow avoiding all those traps, I climbed on and arrived at a cabin.
Before the house stood a man wearing a white hood.
More striking, though, was the mask he wore.
A tengu mask with a long nose and an angry face bearded in paint.
I did not know why he wore it—perhaps he bore scars beneath.
What I could say for certain, however, was…
"Not bad, I suppose."
From all appearances, this must be the trainer Himejima mentioned.
An unshakable presence, a fluid aura of swordsmanship…
He must have been a formidable swordsman in his youth.
Perhaps he served as a district head before becoming a trainer.
@@@
Astonishing.
My nose assured me he was indeed a blood demon.
Yet…
Could a demon give off such a scent?
In my days as a district head, I faced countless demons—from weak ones to the Lower Ranks of the Twelve Kizuki—and never did one carry this aroma.
By nature, demons exude a malevolent aura and the unmistakable stench of blood, do they not?
Demons feed on humans; their strength is measured by the number of lives they've consumed.
Thus, demons inevitably reek of blood.
Yet from this man came no such odor—only serenity.
Though undoubtedly a demon, the heavy stench of blood was absent.
Himejima's words that he had eaten no humans seemed true.
And yet there was a gulf between him and me.
Precisely because I sensed nothing, I could feel with my whole being that…
He stood in a realm far removed from this world.
Not through demonic strength, but attained as a human.
I could not help but believe it.
That this man was indeed the former Grand Master of the breathing arts… Tsukinokami…
If—if he truly is Tsukinokami, then that child…
And then the question came unbidden.
Why would so mighty a being come to me to learn the sword?
It was at that moment.
"Urokodaki-san!"
With a resounding shout, a boy wearing a fox mask darted in from behind the man.
The boy's voice was as it had always been.
Because it was as before, it drew the man's attention, who had been silently observing me.
"Who is this person…?"
Perhaps at seeing a stranger, the boy lifted his hand to his sword and pressed the blade to his nose, taking a cautious sniff of the steel.
"No, this one is…"
I moved to restrain the boy when—
Suddenly, the scent shifted.
From the man who had been quietly watching the boy, a new fragrance began to overlay the serene aroma.
That scent was…
A mixture of shock and joy.
@@@
In that instant, the very blade of the fox-masked boy's [Ichirin-do].
I could not help but be stunned by its presence.
The light it emitted was purple—a pale wisteria hue.
It matched the hue of the blade I held.
That purple is proof of the moon.
Which meant the boy's aptitude for the breathing arts… was [Moon Breathing], like mine.
And that meant…
A newbie!
In the long, long span of five hundred years, at last, a wondrous newbie to carry on my build stood before my very eyes.