Cough, cough, cough…
After Oboro had left, Ichimiya, lying on the ground, finally seemed able to breathe again, and broke into violent, racking coughs.
His eyes were dull and vacant; he made no move to stand straight away.
"Before absolute strength, willpower is nothing but a joke," he murmured softly, gazing up at the drifting clouds in the sky.
That very strength was itself the embodiment of Oboro's will.
No one is born invincible. The power Oboro possessed came entirely from the unshakable conviction burning deep within his heart.
This was the power of individual will.
Oboro had shown him just how far a single person's will could stretch and how mighty it could become.
Before coming here, Ichimiya had believed that with his Mark awakened, his mastery of breathing techniques and new forms of Water Breathing, plus years of experience slaying demons… even if he wasn't unbeatable, he could at least put up a proper fight.
He never imagined defeat would come so swiftly. Just one strike had proven the truth: overwhelming strength trumps all skill.
And worse—he could clearly feel that Oboro hadn't even fought seriously. He had merely been shown what true power actually meant.
The will passed down through the Demon Slayer Corps was collective… inherited from generation to generation, carried out without hesitation or regret.
It was nothing like individual will, which centered entirely on the self.
Put simply: if you wanted to pit one person's will against that shared legacy, you would need to bring the entire Corps here.
Only then would you have a true, equal clash between these two kinds of will.
But now Ichimiya understood… even if every member of the Corps stood together, it would make no difference.
In Oboro's eyes, perhaps this whole world was nothing worth mentioning at all.
He had seen the disdain in Oboro's eyes when his hand closed around Ichimiya's throat.
It wasn't arrogance—it was absolute, unwavering faith in his own strength.
"How foolish I was…"
He fell silent for a long moment, then sighed deeply.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Oomo Issui… I've let you down."
"In the end… I couldn't do it."
"But… I believe. One day, someone will surpass me."
With that, he turned his head, looking toward the ground a short distance away—where Oboro's discarded black haori lay.
...
Kawai Ichimiya's visit had been nothing more than a passing incident.
Oboro paid it no mind at all.
He returned to the city and continued living his quiet, orderly life as before.
Still, the Water Hashira had given him something to look forward to. If Ichimiya had already mastered breathing techniques to such a level, then surely—with each generation of swordsmen refining and building upon what came before—the breakthrough to the next stage of inner power would arrive much sooner than expected.
Chaos still lingered across the land, but the wars that had spread after the assassination of the lord finally came to an end several years later.
The whole country enjoyed a brief period of peace.
The Shogunate still held ultimate authority, yet its grip over regional domains and even major cities had weakened drastically from what it once was.
Countless local warlords rose up in rebellion, declaring themselves rulers over their own lands.
The Edo period was drawing to its final close.
Over these ten years, driven by Oboro's influence, the world had changed beyond recognition.
Not only had demons and the Demon Slayer Corps grown far stronger, but Oboro's own successors had also stepped onto the center stage, forming a balance of three great powers.
The Corps now fought not only against Muzan and his demons, but also against those who carried on Oboro's will.
These followers all shared one thing in common: their forces were drawn mostly from the oppressed poor and downtrodden, gathering into rebel armies under the banner of saving the world.
They posed a grave threat to the Shogunate.
At the same time, Muzan's demons hunted these successors as well—for the Demon King needed to study them, treating them as rare subjects of research.
Outwardly, tensions seemed to ease, but in secret the struggle between these three sides never ceased.
To Oboro's followers, the Demon Slayer Corps were nothing but lapdogs kept by the Shogunate—using the government's power and hiding behind the name of demon slaying to target them. Enmity ran deep between them.
As for Muzan, the so-called Demon King, few among them actively sought him out. Most were far more focused on overthrowing the Shogunate and rebuilding the world from scratch.
Those who did wish to kill Muzan did so almost entirely because his existence—and that of all demons—was seen as a stain upon their faith.
And their faith was Oboro.
Their power came from him, not from Muzan.
Smoke and fire rose thick and heavy over the city.
The whole capital had become a battlefield; the dead and wounded lay everywhere.
Beneath the dark sky, several powerful figures leaped from rooftop to rooftop, speeding straight toward the Shogun's stronghold.
In less time than it takes to burn half an incense stick, the dark shapes landed within the compound itself.
"Huh?"
One of them frowned in surprise. Though they had fought their way through city patrols and met fierce resistance, the closer they got to the heart of the Shogun's domain, the weaker the defenses became. Strangest of all—not a single Demon Slayer had appeared. That made no sense at all.
Even more bizarre: inside the compound, there was not a soldier in sight.
It was as empty as a ghost town.
Their raid had been far too easy.
Hum… Suddenly, a low, lingering note drifted down from the sky above.
They looked up. High on a balcony walkway, a woman sat playing a shamisen, her gaze calm and fixed directly upon them.
The moment they saw her, every face went tense.
Then their eyes shifted slightly—and they saw him. Seated beside her, raising a cup to drink.
At the sight of that figure, all four intruders felt their souls tremble, and almost fell to their knees at once.
How could he… be here? was the only thought in every mind.
Cherry blossoms drifted down through the night air, carried by a soft breeze, filling the space with their sweet fragrance.
Oboro had been drinking all day; a faint flush colored his cheeks.
Slowly he stood, adjusted his haori, stepped down in his wooden clogs, and leaped from the balcony.
His body fell fast, yet the instant his toes touched the ground, he landed light as a feather—without a single sound.
"Sorry to meet you like this," he said. He sounded a little drunk, and smiled as he looked at the four familiar faces before him.
Four men.
All were followers he had personally guided and shaped years ago.
And now… they had joined forces to carry out the will he had passed down to them.
One great strength of a shared legacy was unity: it drew people together, bound by shared belief and feeling.
Oboro had once had dozens of followers. Now only a third remained alive.
And these four were the finest of them all.
"Yasuhara, Takaya, Ueno, Teshima Ga."
He spoke each name clearly.
They exchanged glances, then looked up again, saying nothing.
Each already knew what was coming.
"Though the missions you carry were given by me… I myself still serve the Shogunate. So where it counts—we are enemies."
"I… cannot step back."
He spoke softly, and reached out to catch a falling cherry blossom in his palm.
"You have all done well. Seeing how far you have come… makes me proud."
"I hoped you would change this world. I hoped even more that you would one day kill me… and thus fulfill the ultimate purpose."
Seeing the waver in their eyes, his voice grew sharp and firm. "And you must kill me. Only then will you truly honor the belief I gave you."
"I… am the barrier you must overcome."
As he spoke, the music from Chiyo's shamisen shifted instantly. The melody turned cold, sharp, and filled with killing intent.
"As long as I stand here, you will never overthrow the Shogunate."
"Do not disappoint me."
"Choose. Since we are enemies… kill me. Or… be killed by me."
At his words, his black haori fluttered wildly around him.
His eyes turned cold as ice.
In an instant, the noble, towering image they had held of him for years was completely overturned.
After hearing him out, one of the four who knelt stood up first.
Then one by one, the others rose as well.
Light flashed in Oboro's eyes. He spread his arms wide toward them. "Do not hesitate. Cast aside all useless sentiment. Remember always—will is absolute!"
Wonderful. Simply wonderful!
This was the true beauty of a shared legacy!
Their will was still rising, growing ever greater.
That they dared draw their swords against the very source of their belief was proof enough: everything Oboro had taught them had taken root deep in their hearts.
Will always comes first.
Everything else is secondary.
____________________
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