Returning to Mount Sagiri, nothing had changed much.
The door slid open.
Inside, Urokodaki Sakonji froze slightly when he saw Aoyama standing there.
Almost instinctively, he grabbed the tengu mask at his side and put it on.
He coughed lightly.
"Why have you suddenly returned?"
Mask secured, he turned back to face Aoyama.
His intuition told him—
This sudden visit was not without reason.
Aoyama's gaze lingered on the mask as he chuckled.
"There's no one else here. You don't really need to wear it. I've already seen your face anyway."
Urokodaki stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Having presented himself behind a mask for years, being seen bare-faced still felt… unfamiliar.
He cleared his throat and shifted the topic.
"How are Tanjiro and Nezuko?"
Aoyama knew he was avoiding the earlier remark but let it pass.
"They're well. Tanjiro broke a few ribs in battle and is recovering elsewhere."
Truthfully, Aoyama had seen Urokodaki's face long before today.
Back when he first transmigrated, curiosity had gnawed at him.
One bitterly cold morning, he had risen before dawn and waited beneath the waterfall where Urokodaki washed.
He had watched with his own eyes as the mask was removed.
That little secret—
Belonged only to him.
As for the mask—
Years ago, a demon had mocked Urokodaki's gentle appearance, claiming it lacked intimidation. From then on, he wore the mask before demons and men alike.
"In Asakusa, Tokyo Prefecture, Tanjiro and I encountered Kibutsuji Muzan. I exchanged blows with him."
Urokodaki's hand paused briefly over the firewood before resuming its steady movement.
Kibutsuji Muzan rarely showed himself.
How had they crossed paths so easily?
Was there more behind it?
"On my way back, I received Muzan's 'gift'—two demons."
As he spoke, Aoyama unsheathed his blade and held it upright before him.
Urokodaki's gaze settled on the sword.
The blade's color seemed subtly altered.
Especially the golden streak along the edge—it appeared deeper, richer.
Aoyama had returned for two reasons.
First: to inform Urokodaki about Muzan.
Second: his sword.
Ever since the system enhanced its sharpness, he had sensed something different.
Subtle.
But real.
It had grown heavier.
"Your blade…" Urokodaki asked. "What seems to be the problem?"
Aoyama couldn't mention the system.
"I feel it's heavier. Has this ever happened before? To you—or anyone?"
A heavier blade would affect stamina and swing speed over time.
"When using Breathing Techniques, or under environmental influence, blades can feel heavier. That is the weight of power gathering within them."
Aoyama shook his head.
"I understand that. But this is different. Even now, without activating any Breathing Technique, its weight has changed."
Urokodaki examined the Nichirin blade carefully.
A color-changing sword.
He had never encountered such a phenomenon.
"Leave it with me. I'll examine it thoroughly."
Aoyama handed it over.
With nothing else to do, he took up the wooden practice sword he once used and stepped outside.
The forest boulder.
The same massive rock he used to nap upon in the past.
Now it was blanketed in fallen leaves, grass growing wild around it.
Aoyama placed a hand upon the stone.
A breeze stirred.
Mist gathered behind him.
From within it—
A figure emerged.
Makomo.
"Aoyama… you've returned?"
"Senior Sister Makomo."
She blinked slightly.
He had never called her that before.
Realizing it himself, Aoyama scratched his head with a sheepish smile.
"By seniority, I should call you that. But… Makomo, it's been a long time."
She relaxed faintly and nodded.
"You encountered Kibutsuji Muzan?"
If she asked, she already knew.
Aoyama nodded honestly.
"Yes. Unfortunately, he escaped."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
Makomo studied him.
That smile—
She had never seen it before.
The Aoyama she remembered never smiled like that.
Not even in danger.
She stepped closer, lightly grasping his sleeve.
"Aoyama… you have worries now. When you think too much—when you carry too many concerns—attachments take root. They wrap around your heart. They hold your steps. You cannot move forward freely."
"Worries? Concerns?" he murmured.
"Isn't that normal?"
Humans had emotions.
Desires.
Doubts.
Was that wrong?
"When I fought the Hand Demon during Final Selection, I wondered how it had survived so long. I thought it was too strong. I worried whether I could win. Because of that, my movements lost their sharpness. My blade wavered."
She looked into his eyes.
"Aoyama… when you fought it—what were you thinking?"
He fell silent.
Back then—
He had held only one belief.
That he would kill it.
For Makomo.
For Sabito.
For those it devoured.
His heart had been unwavering.
Suddenly—
Understanding dawned.
Makomo wasn't speaking about doubt.
She was speaking about the heart.
About preserving one's original resolve.
His expression brightened.
He opened his mouth to thank her—
But her figure was already dissolving into mist.
"Makomo! Thank you!"
His voice echoed through the empty forest.
Only the wind answered.
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