"Hey! Get lost! Who gave you permission to touch that?!"
A furious shout rang out.
The shop owner grabbed the ragged boy by the arm the moment he pulled his hand back, then violently hurled him out of the store.
Malnourished and frail, the child's body was little more than skin and bones. His arms were so thin they looked as though they might snap with a single squeeze.
"Ha! The ugly kid got caught stealing!"
"Heh, figures. That freak doesn't even have parents."
"Come on, let's go. My dad said not to play with idiots like him."
A group of boys laughed as they passed by. The biggest of them shoved the boy hard, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt in front of the steamed bun shop.
The owner stared down at him in disgust, then kicked him hard in the side.
"Get lost, you walking curse!"
The boy curled up, shielding his head as the curses rained down. His crimson eyes trembled as they stared longingly at the steaming buns behind the counter. His stomach growled loudly—he hadn't eaten in two days.
Even far from the battlefield, this land was no place for the weak.
Most people struggled just to survive. Sometimes wandering samurai passed through, their eyes filled with malice, drawing their blades on homeless drifters for no reason at all—sometimes because they lost a gamble, sometimes simply because they were in a bad mood.
The boy licked his cracked lips, his cheeks sunken. He knelt weakly on the ground as sharp gravel tore into his knees, blood trickling down his legs.
When was the last time he'd eaten a warm meal?
Yoriichi couldn't remember.
Maybe never.
He survived on discarded vegetable scraps, wild grass from the hills, and tree bark boiled into a thin gruel using a cracked pot no one else wanted. If he was lucky, he could light a small fire and cook something barely edible.
Steamed buns were a luxury he hadn't tasted in ages.
Because he didn't belong to this world.
Everything began in a cramped, rundown apartment.
Once, he had been an ordinary man—fresh out of school, unemployed, watching Demon Slayer. He was mourning the death of Rengoku Kyōjurō when lightning split the sky—and the next thing he knew, he was here.
When he awoke again, his memories had been sealed away. He had become an infant, lying beside a pale, trembling woman whose eyes were filled with fear and sorrow.
Then he was lifted up.
A man with a samurai's topknot stared down at him coldly.
"This child is a monster. No one is born with markings like that. He's a demon from legend. He must be thrown into the well."
"Please… no…" the woman whispered weakly.
"He's my son… and yours too… Chusha… please…"
The man hesitated, his expression wavering for a moment—but only for a moment.
"No. If we keep him, disaster will follow. He must be dealt with."
Suddenly, the woman pushed herself upright, snatching the baby from his arms.
Her eyes, filled with disappointment, met his.
The infant's wrinkled face squirmed slightly, a small tuft of black-and-red hair atop his head. His tiny hands grasped blindly, searching for warmth.
The woman knelt and nursed him.
"I won't kill him," the man finally said, turning away. "But he cannot stay. He will not bear our family name. When he turns one, he'll be cast out. That's the best I can allow."
With that, he left.
Cradling the child, the woman whispered softly,
"Your name… will be Yoriichi."
The baby twitched slightly, as if responding, then drifted into sleep.
---
Years later…
"Yoriichi… you didn't find anything to eat again, did you?"
At the alley's entrance, the frail boy staggered back. This place was called Furnace Alley—a refuge for the homeless. Bodies lay slumped against the walls, wrapped in rags.
"It's okay, Grandpa Ryōtarō," Yoriichi said softly. "I can handle being hungry."
But his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
Embarrassed, Yoriichi hurried over and pulled out a few rotting vegetable leaves from his clothes—dirty, trampled, barely edible.
"Look, I found food," he said with a clumsy smile, chewing them eagerly.
They tasted awful. Bitter. Rotting.
But he swallowed anyway.
"I'm full," he said, patting his flat stomach.
The old man sighed heavily.
"What kind of monster throws away a child like you…"
He coughed violently. Yoriichi rushed to his side, gently patting his back.
"Grandpa, are you sure you don't need a doctor?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Ryōtarō laughed. "I've got another five hundred years left in me!"
He chuckled and poked Yoriichi's side, making the boy laugh despite himself.
As evening fell, they leaned against one another, sharing warmth in silence.
Then—
Yoriichi woke to the smell of food.
He blinked groggily.
"Grandpa…?"
"Wake up. Dinner's ready."
Before him was a pot of watery vegetable porridge—more scraps than food.
But to Yoriichi, it was a feast.
His red eyes lit up like flames.
"Come on, little glutton," Ryōtarō chuckled. "I made a full bowl just for you."
Using a wooden ladle he'd washed in the stream, the old man filled a stone bowl to the brim.
Yoriichi gulped it down eagerly.
"Careful—it's hot!"
Too late.
"Ahhh—!"
He stuck out his tongue, steaming and red.
Ryōtarō burst out laughing as Yoriichi frantically blew on his food, drooling everywhere.
The two of them sat there, laughing together, finishing a bowl of terrible—but precious—porridge.
And this exact moment…
Was already plenty enough.