Tokyo.
"Flame Breathing, Ninth Form: Rengoku!"
BOOM!!
A roaring crimson dragon of flames surged forward, its maw wide open as it charged towards the grotesque Demon before it.
"So fast!"
"Raaaah!!!"
Covered in blood, Kyojuro Rengoku bellowed as he swung his crimson Nichirin Blade with all his might.
In a single strike, he severed the obsidian longsword wielded by the Demon, whose body melded with the shadows.
Though every organ and cell in his body screamed in agony, the unwavering determination in Kyojuro's eyes never faltered.
His focus was solely on the Demon's neck—his only goal was to sever it, no matter the cost.
For the Flame Hashira haori fluttering behind him!
CRACK! SPLIT!
Even as the Demon's grotesque head flew from its shoulders, Kyojuro remained in his slashing stance.
THUD!
The blackened head hit the ground, the thick shadows slowly receding to reveal a face frozen in disbelief.
Within its gray-black right pupil, the characters 'Lower Two' were clearly etched.
Lower Rank Two—Hairo, a pitiful creature who had forsaken the dignity of a swordsman.
The last light his eyes beheld was the purest strike of Flame Breathing, unleashed by Kyojuro.
Truly… beautiful.
Such a flawless slash.
Once upon a time, hadn't he too pursued such mastery of the blade?
But when had he forgotten that pursuit?
Hairo's thoughts drifted back to his days as a human.
Back then, he had been a proud swordsman.
But all that pride had vanished the moment he knelt before soldiers armed with guns.
Flame Breathing…
After becoming a Demon, Hairo had abandoned his katana and embraced the very firearms that had once brought him endless humiliation.
Yet even then, he had been effortlessly defeated by a man who wielded Flame Breathing.
Barely escaping with his life, Hairo had nursed his hatred for that man ever since.
Even after ascending to Lower Rank Two, he had never forgotten that disgrace.
He had longed to wield his newfound power for vengeance.
But now… heh.
On the brink of death, Hairo's heart grew strangely calm.
Perhaps, all along, he had merely been a petty, resentful fool.
With one last glance at Kyojuro and the Nichirin Blade that still seemed to burn with flames, Hairo murmured,.
"What a beautiful strike…"
Lower Rank Two—annihilated!
As Hairo crumbled into ashes, Kyojuro remained gripping his Nichirin Blade tightly, his brow furrowed.
Then, a gentle breeze swept past.
"Guh—!" A torrent of blood burst uncontrollably from his lips.
Kyojuro's towering frame wavered, his strength leaving him.
Were it not for the blade propping him up, he would have collapsed then and there.
His body had reached its limit.
Yet no trace of relief crossed Kyojuro's face.
"No… I can't fall yet. The bombs in Tokyo… still need to be disarmed. Everyone… is still in danger…" he muttered, swaying as he forced himself upright.
But then—a rather… well, how to put it? Fiery? Figure came sprinting towards him.
Her lovely hair, a blend of cherry pink and green, was braided into two charming pigtails.
Concern was written all over her beautiful face, and her black Demon Slayer Corps uniform was striking—especially the area around her chest, a sight guaranteed to make any man's eyes widen.
Mitsuri Kanroji, a disciple of Kyojuro, was an incredibly kind and beautiful young girl.
"Master! Master! Thank goodness! You're alright! Master, you defeated one of the Twelve Kizuki! You can become the Flame Hashira now!!"
Splash!
The severely injured Kyojuro was suddenly embraced by Mitsuri, instantly feeling a suffocating pressure from her immense strength.
Waaaah!!!
Mitsuri clung to her master and began sobbing uncontrollably—not tears of sorrow, but of overwhelming concern, admiration, and sheer excitement.
Kyojuro and Mitsuri weren't the only Demon Slayer Corps members on the mission in Tokyo.
Including swordsmen of various ranks, over a dozen Corps members had been present, all fighting valiantly and fearlessly against Lower Rank Two, Hairo.
The commotion gradually drew the attention of the other Demon Slayer Corps members.
Their uniforms were more or less tattered, most bearing wounds, yet miraculously, not a single member had perished.
Kyojuro had fully upheld the promise he made upon arriving in Tokyo—that no one would die here.
Seeing Kyojuro, severely injured and nearly suffocated in Mitsuri's embrace, some Corps members panicked.
"Quick, quick! Pull that girl away! Kyojuro's going to be crushed to death!"
"Put some strength into it!"
"Damn it! What's with this girl? How is she so strong?!"
"Hey! Let go already! Kyojuro needs medical attention right now!"
With everyone scrambling to help, they finally managed to "rescue" Kyojuro.
But even in his dazed state, Kyojuro kept murmuring, "The bombs... the bombs aren't disarmed..."
A Corps member quickly reassured him, "It's alright! It's over, we succeeded. The bomb threat is gone. Kyojuro—no, Flame Hashira-sama, you've done enough. Please rest now!"
As the sun gradually rose, dispelling the darkness, its first warm rays filtered through the surrounding skyscrapers, illuminating Kyojuro's face.
His vision was soon filled with radiant light and in his daze, he seemed to see his mother's gentle face.
"Mother... I... I didn't disgrace the Rengoku family. I kept my promise to you..."
*****
"Ahhh!! You monster! Stay away from me!!"
In a dimly lit alley, a one-eyed Demon screamed in terror at the figure before him.
It was hard to imagine a Demon displaying such fear.
The response was a swift, dark and razor-sharp blade flash.
Slice!
With a clean cut, the Demon's horrified expression froze forever as its head thudded to the ground.
The grotesque head rolled to a pair of feet wrapped in white leg wraps.
Under the pale moonlight, a slender figure stood silently, gripping a uniquely shaped Nichirin Blade.
Clad in a black-and-white striped haori, with jet-black hair and an aura of chilling coldness, the figure's mismatched eyes—one gold, one green—held no emotion.
The lower half of his face was concealed by bandages, revealing no expression.
Most striking was the small white snake coiled around his nose, its ruby-red eyes scanning the surroundings as its tiny head flicked its long tongue in and out.
"The fiftieth one—this number meets the standard to become a Hashira, doesn't it? But... is someone like me even worthy of becoming a Hashira? Will everyone agree?"
Iguro Obanai silently pondered.
For some reason, the figures of The Forest Hashira—Shinichi, the Master, and Kyojuro suddenly surfaced in his mind.
If it were them, they would surely support him becoming a Hashira.
[Canon approaching soon!]
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