The walk home was quiet.
After a week of straight demon killing, the simple walk home seemed far more precious than before. I killed many demons before, but never with other people near me who directly relied on me. The experience was far more shaping than I had noticed. Following the path back home that neighbored the stream, really let me think without pause. My blade, already filled with purpose that was both my own and my parents now weighed under the expectations of others. This wasn't the shapeless people that I knew would be saved. This weight came from the connections I made with my fellow demon slayers. I knew I couldn't let them down, and as the stream of water diverged from the path and the sound of running water quieted out of existence, I knew, like always, my blade wouldn't slow down. I had supreme confidence in the knowledge that I wouldn't let them down. It didn't come from some pride in my skill but the experience of life's surprises. I would go with the flow like always, and I held no doubt it would end up right as long as I weathered the storm till it did.
Life sometimes throws a lot at people, it was unfair in its fairness. Sometimes, it takes years before the balancing factor enters your life, many times well after the fact when one needed the factor. I was blessed with resistance, I was unfairly blessed with talent, and I wouldn't waste it when I could see injustice happen in front of me.
This confidence was now solidified in my mind. Coincidentally, these thoughts had swarmed my mind and resolved as I finally reached home. I was alone, my crow had long gone to inform the swordsmith responsible for my blade where I lived.
Somewhat isolated from the nearby village, my home stood on a small hill. Perfect for viewing the farm lands that surrounded the house. Birds chirped as they flew past. It was midday, the sun was out, but it played hide and seek behind the clouds. The spring breeze was fully out in action today, carrying with it the smell of freshly cut grass, blended with the scent of earthy wet soil.
Turning towards the house itself.
A dull brown wood was the first thing one noticed when looking at the home. The second was the almost dying plants that lined the path to the front door; the stone platforms sat in the ocean of pebbles parting the shabby plants. Unfortunately, my talents didn't extend to gardening, nothing close to my mother's magic.
The door itself was plain, a sliding panel of worn wood edged with thin bands of iron, slightly warped from years of sun and rain. Above the entrance, a narrow eave projected, its underside blackened by smoke and age, preventing rain from falling directly onto a person entering. The roof sloped upwards steeply, covered with bundles of straw, browned by seasons, but a few straws curled at the edges. Small gaps in the thatch whispered of hidden birds' nests or squirrels' ventures, secrets of life running parallel to my own.
Faded paper windows in delicate lattice frames filtered light into soft, muted squares along the walls. Inside, the wooden floors were worn smooth, their surfaces polished by years of footsteps, and the faint scent of tatami mats mingled with the earthy smell of old wood and smoke from the hearth. In the main room, a low table, its surface pocked with shallow cuts and water stains but still serviceable, rested on the mats. Cushions, mismatched but neatly arranged, encircled the table as though waiting for the return of a family that might sit and eat together.
The hearth, set into the centre of the room, was a square of blackened stone. A small pot still hung from the iron hook above, its surface darkened with soot. Around the edges of the room, neatly stacked bowls and jars sat on shelves, each labelled in careful calligraphy, their contents ranging from rice to pickled vegetables. Against one wall, a sliding fusuma panel, its chipped painted surface still hinting at cranes flying across a misty lake, led to a sleeping area. Mats could be rolled out for rest, blankets folded neatly at the edges, everything arranged to maximise the efficiency of the small space.
A narrow engawa wrapped around the house like a thin, protective ribbon. Stepping out onto it, the uneven wooden planks creaked underfoot. Beyond the engawa, the small garden, though neglected, still held charms of its own. Twisted bonsai branches, a stone lantern leaning slightly to one side, moss creeping across the base of the rocks. The wind passing through the bamboo fences made a soft whispering song, almost as if the house itself were breathing. Above it all, the sun now alone without a cloud in sight poured its gold over the roof, accentuating faded reds and browns of wood and thatch, warming the house from above. Though humble and weathered, the home seemed alive, each blemish a story, each creak a reminder of people who had trodden its floorboards through generations. It was not grand nor perfectly maintained, but there was a quiet dignity in it, an unobtrusive strength born out of endurance and life lived with quiet simplicity yet fullness.
My home. No matter how many people still call it home, it will always remain the place I call home. Well, as long as the place felt like home, the location itself just brought out nostalgia, not a feeling of home.
A sudden knock echoed across the engawa, sharp and deliberate. Not many people show up anymore. I wonder who it could be.
I could hear the caw of a crow from above. It looks like my crow is back a smile found a way to my face.
The dull creak of the sliding door greeted the visitor as I moved to open it.
Standing on the stone path was a stranger clad in a smith's uniform, the fabric marked with faint streaks of soot and ash. A long rectangular box rested across his back, tightly secured by a cord. But it was the mask that stood out. A traditional Hyottoko mask, its lips pursed in a frozen whistle and cheeks painted a faded red. Goofy at first glance, but nothing about the figure behind it suggested humour. Swordsmiths wore masks not just for tradition, but to protect their identities, their hidden villages, everything demons might seek to destroy. Their work was known. They were not. It looks like my crow had done it's job rather quickly.
The man bowed deeply, hands placed respectfully at his sides.
"You are Kobayashi?" he asked, voice smooth and steady but with a low weight beneath it.
I returned the bow.
"Yes, that would be me."
"I am the swordsmith assigned to you," he continued. "You may call me Jūbei."
Not a real name. A title used only in the world of blades. The people who forged Nichirin steel gave no personal names, no origins, nothing that could be traced back.
"Please come inside Jūbei, you must be thirsty after your journey. Would you like something to drink?"
He entered inside and slid the wooden box down from his back and dropped to his knees onto the tatami mats . His body had assumed the perfect sitting posture. Both hands held out.
"No, thank you, your Nichirin ore."
I sat opposite him, surprised that one could walk so far and could get straight into business. Even took my time to rest, but I couldn't disrespect the person I would bet my life on. Unwrapping the cloth bundle to disclose the dark stone that was hidden in my inner pocket. Without pause, he took the stone quickly. He turned it slowly, testing its weight, its grain, its quiet hum. Though I couldn't see his eyes behind the mask, I felt the sharpness of his assessment.
He whispered, "A stubborn ore, it will not bend to hesitation. A blade born from this metal demands clarity. Resolve."
Jūbei calmly set the ore inside the box and closed the lid with a soft click.
His voice now tinged with curiosity, "A blade reflects not only skill but intention. What form do you desire?"
This was what I had wanted to bring up, but didn't know when.
"I have two requests"
I took a deep breath.
"I do not want a normal Nichirin katana; I wish for you to forge me a chokutō. A two handed straight edged blade. Please."
He straightened, surprised.
"A chokutō is rare. Why do you wish for it?"
I looked straight into his eyes. Taking the blade that I had put down as I entered the home before, I took the damaged sword out of its sheath.
"When I was learning the sword, I never had the full blade in my hands. I have developed and practised killing demons with a blade that was broken and thus straight"
His shoulders sagged looking almost hurt by the condition of the blade.
"How this blade hasn't broken yet amazes me. Was this the blade you used during the Final Selection? Any pressure would shatter this blade"
A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"This was my father's blade. I couldn't let it break. For your other question, this blade was the one I took to the Final Selection. It took a lot of care to keep it from shattering completely"
He leaned back, sighing.
"Well, I can forge you a chokutō, but what was your other request?"
I look down. Disassembling the blade in my hands, completely moving the blade to the side gently, I hand the tsuba of the sword to him. As he starts to look at the cloud designs on the tsuba over I get up, moving to the cupboard that was in the room we sat in. After rummaging around for a bit, I pick out a maroon cloth.
"Please tie the tsuba to the end of my sword with this cloth after you are done. You can carve a slot in the wood if need be. These are mementos from both my parents, and I wish to keep them with me as I fight, please"
He reaches out for the cloth as I sit down. Looking at them both over. He finally looks over to me. I can't see his reaction due to the mask he wears, but I know he wears the face of a man who understands.
"You need not worry, I will return in a month and a half, and your requests will be met. Train your body. Sharpen your spirit. A sword is forged by more than fire and steel. If the heart wavers, even the sharpest blade will break."
He heaved the box onto his back once more and stepped outside. At the gate, he turned his masked face slightly toward me.
"One more thing. When the blade is born, wield it with purpose. I wish to see my creation in your hands"
I simply nod.
His footsteps faded down the stone path until only silence was left. That was rather quick but I guess that meant he knew what he needed. I think I can be confident my sword is in good hands.
Nearly two months till I can finally get ahold of a blade of my own.
The crow flew from the tree it had been resting in and flew to my shoulder, shifted, giving a soft caw that sounded suspiciously like encouragement.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I know."
The house felt different now, not empty but waiting. Just like me.
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Authors Note
Next chapter will be in 3rd person, please let me know if anyone would rather it not. Like I wrote out in the author's thoughts in the previous chapter I feel like 3rd person gives more freedom for fights which is prevalent in the demon slayer universe.
Also I don't really have a name for the crow right now I'm up for any ideas. Leave a comment and I probably will pick whatever is given.
Thanks for reading the story
:)