Today, something very interesting happened.
A demon attacked the Kamado family.
It was sloppy. Loud. Desperate. The kind of creature that preyed on isolated kindness, certain no one would arrive in time.
It was wrong.
I felt it before I saw it—an overwhelming presence cleaving through the forest like the sun itself had learned how to walk.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni arrived.
The fight was over almost before it began. No wasted movement. No unnecessary force. One clean, absolute strike—Sun Breathing expressed with a purity I had never witnessed before.
The demon didn't scream.
It simply ended.
I watched from a distance, book forgotten at my side, utterly transfixed.
So this was the man who nearly killed Muzan Kibutsuji.
After ensuring the Kamado family was safe, Yoriichi lingered briefly, speaking gently to them before turning to leave. That was when I approached.
Not cautiously.
Respectfully.
He noticed me immediately.
Of course he did.
We spoke.
I introduced myself simply—as a doctor traveling the region. Nothing more. Nothing less. He accepted it without suspicion, his demeanor calm, open, almost painfully sincere.
Kind.
Respectful.
Humble in a way that made arrogance feel embarrassing in his presence.
I found, to my surprise, that I couldn't dislike him.
As we talked, I listened—not just with my ears.
Carefully, delicately, I brushed his mind with Legilimency. No force. No intrusion. Just observation.
What I found was staggering.
His battle IQ was instinctual, almost subconscious. Every movement refined through repetition, loss, and clarity. Sun Breathing wasn't merely a technique—it was an expression of his understanding of life itself.
I copied it all.
The stances.The flow.The intent behind each strike.The experience of fighting beings vastly stronger than oneself and winning anyway.
And beneath it all—
No malice.
No hunger for power.
Just resolve.
Our conversation continued naturally. He spoke of his life, though never dramatically. The loss. The isolation. The quiet burden of being too strong in a world that didn't understand him.
It was… sad.
Truly.
Before we parted, I asked him something.
Carefully.
I explained that I was researching blood compatibility—fusion techniques meant to strengthen the body and prolong life. I framed it as medical curiosity, not ambition.
He hesitated.
Then agreed.
Without suspicion. Without fear.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni offered me a small sample of his blood.
I accepted it reverently, sealing it immediately in enchanted containment.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
He smiled.
And as he walked away, disappearing into the forest like a living legend, I allowed myself a single private thought.
I am absolutely not going to use the strongest being this universe has ever produced for blood fusion, experimentation, and advancement.
Definitely not.
The vial pulsed faintly in my pocket, warm with latent power.
Yes.
Definitely not.