The moment Roy finished speaking, Yushirō reacted like a cat with its fur blown up—instantly on edge.
So he really was a demon slayer through and through.
As much as Yushirō hated to admit it, the reason he and Tamayo had survived together for nearly a century was because of the demon blood Muzan had given them. And now Roy opened his mouth asking for demon blood—how was that any different from asking for their lives?
His emotions spiked. The calm lake-blue in his eyes flushed toward a violent red.
Roy only smiled at Tamayo. Before Yushirō could explode, Roy's gaze slid over them—Yushirō's arm already regrown, the anger rolling off him, Tamayo's hesitation plain as daylight in her breath and posture.
"Both of you," Roy said mildly.
"I think you've misunderstood." He lifted the tea Tamayo had poured and took a sip, then chuckled. "Out of three thousand barrels of demon blood, I'm taking a single ladle."
He raised one finger, openly. "From you two—one drop is enough."
"One drop…?" Yushirō glanced at Tamayo.
Tamayo—once a housewife, hair pinned up in a neat bun, gentle to the bone—was the sort who only showed her fangs in the original story when she chose revenge over her own life and forced her medicine into Muzan's body.
Now she fell silent for a long time, then simply nodded.
"Alright."
Roy looked at her in surprise. The speed and decisiveness of her agreement was honestly unexpected.
Tamayo noticed his look and explained first, calm and mature—she'd lived for centuries under Muzan, after all.
"Forgive me if this seems abrupt, Rōichirō-sama."
Kneeling properly before him, she lifted a hand and refilled his tea, steam rising softly.
"The Demon Slayer Corps has changed. The Hashira have changed too." A weave of hatred and grim satisfaction flashed through her watery eyes as she stared at Roy. "I can feel… him… being afraid."
"I don't know exactly what happened," she continued, "but judging from their recent operations—Rōichirō-sama, your appearance shattered the disadvantage the Corps endured for nearly a thousand years."
Him? Roy neither confirmed nor denied. He just looked at Tamayo and Yushirō and said evenly:
"Looks like even after breaking free of Kibutsuji Muzan's control, you still can't speak his name casually."
If his name was spoken, he could sense it. If he was imagined, he could sense it. If he was seen, he could sense it. For demons, thoughts, intent, speech, even memory—if Muzan wanted, he could rummage through it all.
So Tamayo and Yushirō's "escape" was really just hiding from Muzan's active scrutiny. The moment they said his name out loud, he'd lock onto them again.
That had to be the terrifying Talent Roy had seen in Muzan:
Absolute Dominion.
What was "absolute dominion"?
It was what upper rulers did to lower ones.
God to bishops. Bishops to believers.
A perfect embodiment of: Better I betray the world than let the world betray me.
"He's slippery. We've been looking for him too." Yushirō had watched the Corps' recent purges closely. He'd watched the Hashira's sudden strength too. More than once he'd wanted to cooperate with the Demon Slayer Corps for Tamayo's sake—but the "demon" label, and fear of the Hashira, kept him from acting.
Now, he yanked open his collar, exposing his chest, and said bluntly to Roy:
"You're right. If you're taking blood, take mine."
Roy glanced at Tamayo. She looked like she wanted to stop him, to call Yushirō's name, but couldn't quite do it.
It reminded Roy, painfully clearly, of the original story—of the confession before the final battle, of the promise: In the next life, we'll be husband and wife.
Feelings that had taken root and grown.
"Gulp…" Roy watched them, then tipped his head back and finished the tea in one go.
Sweet.
Too sweet.
Cloying, choking sweetness—like it was rotting under the sugar.
"I said one drop," Roy said, calm. "I don't break my word."
A flash of steel—
Eclipse slid free.
No one even saw him move.
Yushirō only felt a faint chill at his sternum. When he and Tamayo looked again, a single drop of stinking black blood was already pinned and bound at the blade's edge, held in place like it couldn't even twitch.
…That was it?
Neither of them had even caught the motion.
Yushirō touched his chest. There wasn't even a visible wound.
Tamayo stared at the black drop like she'd been thrown back into that night—the night Muzan's words drowned her mind, the night she devoured her husband and children, her mouth slick with blood under the moon.
Her breathing hitched. Her shoulders trembled. She leaned into Yushirō's arms, heat flooding her back, and looked up at Roy.
Roy drew the drop into storage and immediately activated Targeted Tracking, using the blood as the anchor.
A thin causal line snapped into focus—stretching from him to Muzan.
Roy's gaze followed it, cold and direct.
At the far end, an image unfolded like a scroll: a man in a black kimono dressed like a woman, geisha makeup painted on, chin propped in boredom while Nakime played her biwa—trying to soothe anxiety, trying to kill time.
Then Muzan jolted, whipped his head around—
And saw flaming red hair.
He heard: "Found you."
Muzan's whole body seized. The chair beneath him cracked. He spilled to the floor in a humiliating heap.
"My lord?"
"It's Kamado Rōichirō—damn it—he found me!"
The image shattered like glass.
Roy flicked a flame from his fingertip and burned the black blood away. Then he stood, only saying:
"Thanks."
He turned to leave—
But Tamayo stopped him.
"You're going alone?"
Roy halted, grip tightening on his sword.
"Three is baggage. Two is excess. One… is perfect."
"And he has Upper Moons with him—especially Upper One!"
Kokushibō. Roy remembered Yoriichi, at the end of his life, meeting his brother again and saying: "How ugly you've become, big brother."
Roy spun his blade once, casually. "Then I'll kill them too."
Life energy was life energy. No point wasting it.
"You're way too arrogant!" Yushirō jumped up, furious. "What if you don't come back?"
"Then I don't come back."
Roy turned into drifting light, sword in hand, and slid out through the window on moonbeams—vanishing into the night.
In the now-empty room, only the cooling tea and the two of them remained—one standing, one half-bowing, silent.
Moonlight spilled in. No warmth left.
Yushirō came back to himself with a sharp snort.
"Lady Tamayo, don't worry about him. Let him go die."
Tamayo was quiet for a long time, then asked softly:
"…What if?"
She looked at Yushirō seriously. "What if he actually gets killed by that man?"
Yushirō froze.
Then he sank onto the sofa, curling in on himself.
Yeah.
What if… he actually can?
Silence swallowed the villa.
Their bodies were in the living room, but their thoughts were tied to Roy's waist, following him as he rode the moonlight—following the causal line toward Muzan.
The line kept shifting, changing position—hiding, fleeing.
If Yoriichi were here, would he mock him again?
How ugly, Muzan.
Roy didn't know.
He only knew: light made filth and rot impossible to hide.
Including the Infinity Castle.
Closer.
Ten kilometers.
Five.
Three.
Two.
The line tightened—then at about one kilometer, it twitched, stalled, then shot forward again.
Roy burst from moonlight and saw a swordsman waiting.
Six eyes. Golden irises stamped with "Upper Rank" and "One."
A purple snake-patterned kimono with black blotches.
Black hakama trousers, severe and traditional—yet undeniably eerie.
He stood with a hand on his sword, perfectly still.
Roy stepped down wrapped in moonlight and landed lightly before him.
They faced each other in silence.
"Kamada Rōichirō…" Kokushibō said.
"Tsugikuni Michikatsu…" Roy answered.
"You know my name?"
"Ugly as you are, you're famous." Roy's voice was flat. "Want to piss on a mirror and take a good look? Or do you want me to do the honors?"
Kokushibō's six eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat, Roy's flame-red hair overlapped with a memory—Yoriichi.
"Ugly…" Kokushibō murmured, almost dazed. "He said that too."
"He was right." Roy's earrings—sun and mountains—swung faintly. "Do it yourself, or I'll help you."
Muzan's causal line was still retreating into the distance—another two kilometers or so.
Roy patted his waist. A sword cry rang out.
Eclipse ignited—red, burning, roaring flames rolling off the blade.
Roy held it loosely and looked at Kokushibō with indifferent calm.
"I'm busy. Hurry up."
Kokushibō's six eyes tightened further. Heat hammered his face. He didn't retreat—he stepped in, shifting to a two-handed grip, blade tip leveled at Roy's throat.
"Fine. Let me see how much of Yoriichi you've learned."
Then, with a single motion, he flung out dozens of crescent moon blades.
Moon Breathing, First Form: Dark Moon—Evening Palace.
Moon-wheels spun, beautiful and lethal, cutting the wind itself to ribbons.
Roy faced it and had to admit the skill was old—centuries of refinement, sharp and merciless.
But compared to Yoriichi… even compared to Hatake Sakumo's chakra-tempered speed blade—
Pure breathing alone still fell short.
That was the gap in cognition.
The gap in scale.
The gap Kokushibō could never close, even with eternity.
"Shame." Roy's voice was almost bored. "Your sword is flashy—but it's still just a sword."
He answered with a single slash.
A true Bankai slash—name released, Ken wrapped tight—air split clean.
He cleaved the moon-wheels, cleaved the moonlight, cleaved the wind—
Leaving only a thin black line reflected in Kokushibō's golden eyes, freezing him in place.
The line passed across his neck.
Cold.
Then—
His head went flying.
It hit the ground with a dull thunk.
Bankai — Remaining Flame Greatsword: Ken.
With what Roy'd just taken from Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni—paired with his own understanding of "gratitude"—that cut carried nearly twenty thousand degrees of heat. The wound cauterized instantly, neat and almost "considerate."
"I… you…" Kokushibō's severed head coughed blood, eyes wide. "That isn't… Yoriichi's Sun Breathing…"
"I've never seen that…"
"So?" Roy stepped forward, turned into light, and drove his blade through Kokushibō's forehead, lifting him into the moonlight like meat on a skewer. "Your sword is still just a sword."
Roy's gaze sharpened.
"Above forms… there is formlessness."
Kokushibō's body lurched without its head, flesh trying to sprout from the burnt wound—
Roy's fingertip flashed.
A laser bored through the new growth, shredding it.
"No." Roy's tone was flat. "You don't get to 'keep fighting.'"
Then he crushed Kokushibō's head completely.
"And tell Yoriichi… you're still ugly."
A dim "lantern" of Kokushibō's life began flickering—an echo of red hair, wavering like firelight…
~~~
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