Several days had passed since that snowy night when father and son finally spoke from the heart.
On a morning when the wind and snow had just eased, Kamado Tanjuro left this world peacefully.
His passing was quiet—like a lamp that had burned through its very last drop of oil. There was no pain. Only lingering attachment to his family.
The funeral was simple, with hardly any relatives to attend.
As the eldest son, Yoriichi didn't wail like his younger siblings did.
In his previous life, he had seen off many people.
A wife murdered by demons, comrades who died of old age, and a brother who, for the sake of power, willingly fell into becoming a demon.
Compared to that… his father's departure—having awakened the Transparent World and accepted the mandate of heaven—could, in this cruel era, be called a kind of happiness.
"Don't worry, Father."
He gently stroked the rough gravestone and said softly, "I will protect this home."
…
Grief is a privilege of the rich. The poor can only struggle to survive.
With Father gone, half the pillar holding up the household had collapsed.
The rice bin was nearly empty, which meant the charcoal baskets had to be filled for sale.
If he didn't go sell charcoal, the family might not even be able to afford a single proper meal for the New Year.
"Be careful on the road, Tanjiro."
His mother, Kie, carefully wrapped a white scarf around him. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes held exhaustion that wouldn't fade, and yet she still smiled at him gently. "The snow is heavy. Don't push yourself. Come back early."
"I understand, Mom."
Yoriichi took his mother's hand.
Warmth traveled from her palm through his fingertips, and he felt a long-missed comfort settle into his chest.
To protect this ordinary, peaceful happiness—even chopping firewood ten thousand more times was better than gripping a blade and hunting demons through endless nights.
So no matter what, he had to cherish this rare, precious normalcy.
…
Life down the mountain was livelier than he'd expected—full of everyday smoke and noise.
Relying on the instincts left in this body, along with that sincere, honest smile, Yoriichi sold out of charcoal quickly.
During the sale, he casually reset the dislocated ankle of an elderly man who had sprained his foot, and even pointed a policeman toward the direction where a thief was hiding. The townspeople looked at him with a new kind of amazement.
"That boy's eyes… They're a bit scary, but they're so clear."
"Yeah. What a gaze. I didn't even see where the thief ran…"
Yoriichi, his charcoal basket now empty, stood at the edge of town and tilted his head slightly.
The sun had already dipped below the mountains, and cooking smoke curled lazily into the air.
He was about to shoulder the basket and head back up—when the wind shifted.
A faint, almost imperceptible scent—yet one that struck him as pure "stench"—slid into his awareness with the coming night and the sweep of the breeze.
It was rotten beyond measure, saturated with brutality and cruelty.
Four hundred years ago, he had pursued that scent for most of his life.
He knew it too well.
So well that even after four centuries, even in a different body, his blood still boiled in an instant.
That was… the source of evil.
The culprit that had once stolen every shred of happiness from him.
"Could it be… him?"
Without the slightest hesitation, Yoriichi spun around and dashed onto the pitch-black mountain path.
"Hey, Tanjiro!"
As he passed the wooden house at the foot of the mountain, a familiar window was shoved open.
Grandpa Saburo stuck his head out, his expression grave. "It's already dark—don't go up the mountain! It's dangerous!"
Yoriichi's steps paused for a split second.
He bowed politely. "Grandpa Saburo."
"There are 'demons' around here!" Grandpa Saburo's voice was urgent, laced with fear. "Wait until daylight to go back! If you walk the mountain road at night, a demon will eat you!"
Yoriichi lifted his head and looked at the kind old man.
In those transparent, penetrating eyes, he could see the old man's genuine worry—and beyond him, deeper in the mountains, the "calamity" that was growing thicker and thicker.
"A demon…?"
Yoriichi repeated the word softly.
Then he tightened the strap on his basket, bowed again, and said, "Thank you for your concern, Grandpa Saburo."
"But if there truly is a demon… I have to go back."
"My family is still waiting for me."
"Ah—Tanjiro—!"
Grandpa Saburo was just about to call out to stop him again when, in the next instant, his face twisted into stunned disbelief.
Before his eyes, the boy's figure vanished into the night like a ghost.
It was a speed no human could ever reach—like a gust of wind, swallowed by darkness in a blink.
…
Total Concentration: Constant.
Air cycled through his lungs at high speed. His boiling blood surged, forcing this not-yet-fully-grown body to its absolute limit.
Yoriichi sprinted through the snowy night.
Faster.
Even faster.
Images from his previous life kept flashing through his mind… Back then, when he pushed open the door to his home, he had seen only blood everywhere—his wife's cold corpse, and the child she had never been able to give birth to.
"Not again…?"
"Are you going to make me late again?"
As the thought took shape, the boy's usually gentle, composed dark-red eyes filled with an ancient, terrifying killing intent.
"Kibutsuji Muzan—!"
…
The Kamado home.
The once warm, cozy wooden house had been destroyed beyond recognition.
The door was shattered, the furniture overturned, and freezing wind mixed with snow poured into the room unrestrained.
"Ah… ahhh…"
A voice of pain rose from a corner.
Nezuko lay in a pool of blood, her body convulsing violently.
Her veins bulged, her nails lengthened, and a beastlike growl spilled from her throat—clearly she'd just been injected with a massive amount of blood and was undergoing the agonizing process of turning into a demon.
In front of her, Mother Kie was covered in blood. Like a hen shielding her chicks, she spread her arms wide, blocking several children behind her with everything she had.
"Please… let the children go… Please…"
A man stood before them.
A black suit. A white hat. Vertical crimson pupils without the slightest emotion—only the indifference reserved for insects.
Kibutsuji Muzan.
"How noisy."
Muzan frowned in disgust, looking down at Nezuko. "Too much blood? I didn't expect her to be unable to endure even this. What trash."
He lifted his head, his gaze landing on Kie.
"Fine. If the little one is about to die, then I'll have you take her place."
He slowly raised a hand. Sharp nails glinted coldly in the dim lamplight, and his face remained detached.
"As a mother, your vitality should be stronger. Perhaps you'll produce a demon that can overcome sunlight… though the odds are slim."
"N-No… don't…"
Kie's eyes widened in terror as the hand that symbolized death drew closer and closer.
At the exact moment Muzan's fingertips were about to touch her throat—
He stopped.
Not out of mercy, but because his keen senses detected something wrong.
In the wind and snow outside, something was approaching at terrifying speed.
Absurdly fast.
A human? Or a beast?
Annoyed, Muzan withdrew his hand. He hated being disturbed in the middle of an experiment.
He glanced at the grotesque lower demon beside him—recently turned, drooling.
Straightening his cuff, Muzan said coldly, "Something noisy is coming from outside. Deal with it."
"Yes… my lord…"
The demon licked its fangs excitedly and turned toward the door.
It could smell it—fresh human flesh outside. A meal delivered right to its doorstep.
Inside the house, Kie heard those familiar footsteps.
Footsteps she had waited for countless evenings—the sound of her eldest son coming home.
Terror crushed even her will to survive. She screamed herself hoarse toward the door:
"Don't come in!! Run… Tanjiro!! Run!!"
Behind her, Hanako and Shigeru were so frightened they couldn't even cry—only clinging to their mother's clothes, shaking all over.
"Heh heh heh…"
At the doorway, the demon let out a low, ugly chuckle. It glanced back at the mother and children, despairing in the corner, its eyes brimming with mockery.
"What touching motherly love… Don't worry. I'll send him inside to keep you company."
It stretched out a large hand covered in black hair, pressing forward with malicious intimidation, and slowly pushed open the wobbling wooden door before striding out.
The door swung shut again behind it.
The demon opened its blood-red maw, bared its fangs at the dark silhouette that had just stopped outside, and sneered:
"Brat, your meat looks really—"
But it only managed half a sentence.
Sun Breathing: First Form — Waltz.
No wasted motion. No probing exchange.
A searing arc of light—too bright to look at—ripped through the blizzard.
It wasn't fire…
It was more like the sun itself.
The demon didn't even have time to feel pain.
Its head, torso, and limbs were diced into countless pieces in an instant.
There was no blood spraying from the wounds—because the horrific heat instantly carbonized the blood at the cuts.
The old axe he used for chopping wood, unable to withstand that ultimate sword pressure, glowed red-hot the moment it swung—
Crack.
It shattered.
-------
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