A lone cabin stood nestled high in the mountains.
The door swung open, and a man stepped into view.
He wore a crimson tengu mask.
He was one of the trainers who taught swordsmanship to prospective Demon Slayer Corps recruits preparing for the Final Selection, and in his time, he had been a Hashira.
Urokodaki Sakonji—that was his name.
Gourd in hand, he was making his way to the well to fetch water.
At that moment, with a sudden flutter of wings, a crow flew in.
He offered his arm, allowing the creature to perch comfortably.
A small 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 possessed a paradoxical blend of strength and delicacy, and it began with the traditional prayer, “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 formal request concerning his duties as a trainer.
Urokodaki recalled the events of the previous day.
Yesterday, his master’s crow had visited, hinting that an important guest would soon arrive.
Could that guest be this student?
He pondered this 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 demon."
As he read on, a single phrase arrested his gaze.
A demon…?
The letter explicitly stated that the person wishing to learn swordsmanship was a demon.
So the important guest Master spoke of is a demon?
A man-eating monster coming to learn the way of the blade from a former Hashira—it was utter nonsense.
Still, he read further.
"Circumstances led him to become a demon, yet he has saved children and has never eaten a single person. He is called Tsukinokami."
His eyes narrowed.
He had become a demon through misfortune and had spent his time saving children.
Urokodaki did not believe Himejima was lying.
Just as Urokodaki could smell the scent of a person’s heart, Himejima possessed the mind's eye to see the very form of the soul.
And then there was the name that struck him: Tsukinokami.
The legend of the former Grand Master of the breathing arts, who perished in a clash with Kibutsuji Muzan five hundred years ago, only to be 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 Gyomei."
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 this as he drew his hood up, preparing to receive his guest.
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Memories of long ago came flooding back…
It was a time so distant it had almost been forgotten.
The day I fled my family at age seven, I tumbled and rolled through these very mountains under the guise of training with Uzui.
I forced myself through grueling push-ups while wielding [Sun Breathing], a style that simply 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 tripwire a moment ago, would have rocketed into my face—an exceedingly devious piece of engineering.
Of course, it was not difficult to dodge.
"A rather rough welcoming ceremony."
Traps of flying logs, showers of gravel, collapsing pits, bamboo lashes, and rolling boulders—they were strewn everywhere.
Yet, despite their violence, they were clearly designed for training.
If they were meant for hunting or defense, sharp stakes would have been used—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 was a single, massive 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, though?
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 higher and arrived at a cabin.
Before the house stood a man wearing a white hood.
More striking, however, was the mask he wore.
A tengu mask with a long nose and an angry expression, accented by painted facial hair.
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 Hashira before becoming a trainer.
@@@
Astonishing.
My nose assured me he was indeed a demon.
Yet…
Could a demon truly give off such a scent?
In my days as a Hashira, I faced countless demons—from the weakest wretches 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 entirely absent.
Himejima’s claim 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 a peak 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 so familiar, it drew the attention of the man, who had been silently observing me.
"Who is this person…?"
Perhaps sensing 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, I caught sight of the fox-masked boy’s Nichirin Sword.
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], just like mine.
And that meant…
A successor!
In the long, long span of five hundred years, at last, a wondrous student to carry on my legacy stood before my very eyes.
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