The air at the base of the mountain was different.
It wasn't clean.
It smelled of charcoal smoke, horse manure, and the damp, heavy scent of humans living too close together.
It had taken me two days to reach the first village.
My ribs held.
The "rhythm" was constant now, a background hum in my nervous system that kept my heart rate steady even as the elevation dropped and the oxygen thickened.
The village was a collection of grey, weathered huts huddled along a muddy road.
It was called Okutama, or something similar. Names didn't matter.
What mattered was the friction.
I could feel it the moment I stepped onto the main thoroughfare.
People stopped talking.
They looked at my clothes—the patched kimono Nezuko had mended, the indigo bundle from Kie.
Then they looked at the sword.
They didn't see a "guest." They didn't see a man who had helped a family survive the winter.
They saw a Ronin. A stray dog with a bite.
I walked into the first tavern I found.
It was a dark, cramped space filled with the smell of cheap sake and fried grease.
I sat at the end of the counter, keeping my back to the wall.
The bartender was a thick-necked man with a scar running through his eyebrow.
He didn't smile.
"Water," I said. "And whatever you're serving that isn't soup."
He grunted and slid a wooden cup toward me.
"You're late," he said.
I paused, the cup halfway to my lips. "Late for what?"
"The recruitment. The magistrate's men went through here three days ago. Taking anyone who can hold a spear."
I set the cup down. Clack.
"I'm not looking for a spear," I said.
"Then you're looking for trouble," the man replied, cleaning a glass with a rag that was filthier than the floor.
"There's a war brewing in the West. Daimyos playing chess with peasant lives. If you've got a blade, you're either a target or a tool."
I ignored him.
I reached into the indigo bundle and pulled out a piece of the dried meat Kie had packed.
It tasted of salt and home.
It felt like a foreign object in my mouth.
I was back in the world of men, and the world of men was exactly as I had left it.
Ugly. Noisy. Desperate.
"I'm looking for a man," I said, my voice low.
The bartender stopped scrubbing. "Lots of men in the world."
"This one carries a black blade. No tsuba. He has a mark on his neck like a scorched leaf."
The man's eyes shifted.
He looked toward the corner of the tavern, where three men were sitting over a single bottle of sake.
They were dressed in mismatched armor—the kind of gear you strip off a corpse.
"You mean the Kuroi-leaf," the bartender whispered.
"He passed through a week ago. He wasn't looking for work. He was looking for a 'ghost'."
My grip tightened on the counter.
The "ghost."
That was me.
The man I was looking for—Kageyama—didn't just think I was dead.
He was checking.
He was scouring the base of the mountains to make sure the ravine had finished the job.
"Which way?" I asked.
"North," the bartender said. "Toward the fortress at the pass. But I'd stay here if I were you. Kageyama doesn't travel alone anymore. He's got a pack of wolves with him."
I stood up.
My legs felt light. The training with the water buckets and the heavy logs had paid off.
I didn't feel the weight of my gear. I didn't feel the ache in my side.
I felt the hunger.
As I turned to leave, one of the men in the corner stood up.
He was tall, with a rusted breastplate and a sneer that showed missing teeth.
"Hey, Ronin," he called out.
I didn't stop.
"I'm talking to you, mountain rat."
I stopped at the door.
Inhale.
The air in the tavern was foul, but I filtered it. I felt the pressure build in my gut.
Hold.
I turned my head just enough to see him.
"That's a nice scabbard," the man said, gesturing to Kū-on.
"Too nice for a beggar. Why don't you leave it here? Consider it a tax for using our road."
His two friends stood up.
They didn't have swords. They had heavy clubs and a long, jagged knife.
I looked at them.
Months ago, I would have killed them in three seconds.
But as I looked at their desperate, hungry faces, I saw the "meat grinder" I had talked to Tanjiro about.
These weren't warriors. They were residue.
The leftovers of a society that was rotting from the inside out.
"The road is free," I said. "Move."
The tall one laughed.
He lunged forward, swinging his club in a wide, sloppy arc.
I didn't draw my sword.
I didn't need to.
Exhale.
I stepped inside his reach.
My movement was a blur—the same explosive burst I had used to split the oak logs in the snow.
I drove the heel of my palm into his solar plexus.
Oof.
The air left his lungs in a sickening rush.
His eyes rolled back.
He collapsed like a suit of empty clothes.
The other two froze.
They looked at their leader on the floor, then at me.
I hadn't even broken my rhythm.
My breathing was still slow.
Still deep.
"I'm going North," I said.
"If I see you on the path, I won't use my hand next time."
I walked out of the tavern.
The mud of the village was cold, but it was nothing compared to the mountain frost.
I looked up at the peaks.
They were shrouded in mist now, distant and unreadable.
I thought of Tanjiro.
I thought of the smoke rising from the chimney.
They were safe. For now.
But the residue of my past was waiting for me in the North.
And the "ghost" was done hiding.
I adjusted the indigo bundle and started walking.
In. Hold. Out.
The hunt had begun.