Mount Sagiri lay quiet beneath the early breath of dawn. The first strands of sunlight pierced through the thinning mist, slipping gently through the window and settling in warm patches across the room. Bathed in that soft glow, Makomo slowly opened her eyes.
"Mm…"
Still half-asleep, the girl clung to her blankets, letting out a soft, almost kitten-like murmur as she wriggled deeper into their warmth. For a fleeting moment, she seemed determined to surrender to comfort, to remain wrapped in that gentle cocoon—but in the end, reluctance gave way to discipline. With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself upright.
"I really wish I could sleep in just a little longer…"
Though she muttered under her breath, her movements betrayed none of her complaints. She rose from bed, dressed herself neatly, washed, and soon made her way to the kitchen. There, with practiced ease and quiet devotion, she prepared breakfast for the one she respected most—her teacher, Sakonji Urokodaki.
Only after everything was done did she take up her Nichirin Sword and step out into the courtyard. Tilting her head slightly toward the sky, she clenched her fist with gentle determination.
"Do your best today, Makomo."
Her voice was soft, almost ethereal, yet clear and bright as it lingered in the quiet morning.
And so, her day of training began.
Before long, the once-silent courtyard echoed with the sharp, rhythmic sounds of her movements—the light yet determined shouts of a young girl, and the swift arc of a blade slicing through the air. As the sun climbed higher, beads of sweat gathered on her brow, trailing down in glistening lines, while her breathing grew heavier, each inhale and exhale carrying the weight of her effort.
Inside the house, Urokodaki—his face uncovered, free from the tengu mask that usually concealed him—sat quietly as he ate the breakfast Makomo had prepared. Her training reached him clearly, each sound threading into the stillness of the room. Yet his gaze was not on his meal. Instead, it lingered upon the fox mask hanging on the wall—a mask with closed, smiling eyes that belonged to Makomo.
Once, he had crafted many such masks. One by one, they had been gathered and sealed away, leaving only two behind.
One remained here before him.
The other was in the hands of Giyu Tomioka.
Since the final selection at Mount Fujikasane, Giyu had written to say he was occupied with demon-slaying missions and would not be returning for the time being. But Urokodaki knew better. It was not duty that kept the boy away—it was guilt. Giyu blamed himself deeply, burdening his heart with regret he could not escape.
And yet, as his teacher, how could Urokodaki ever blame him?
If anything, it was himself he could not forgive.
"This year… the new selection at Mount Fujikasane is about to begin again," he murmured under his breath.
The words had barely left him when he abruptly set down his chopsticks, his fingers tightening unconsciously. The sounds of Makomo's training, once steady and reassuring, now seemed unbearably loud, grating against his thoughts.
"…Hah."
Drawing in a slow breath, he reached for his tengu mask and placed it over his face, concealing the gentleness beneath. In its place stood the stern, imposing figure of a master once more.
When he stepped outside, Makomo was still training, her small figure unwavering as sweat dripped steadily from her forehead, each drop a testament to her relentless effort.
She was working so hard—far too hard.
And yet, that very diligence only deepened Urokodaki's silence.
"Sensei, did you eat the breakfast I prepared?"
After completing several more sequences, Makomo finally came to a stop, her breathing uneven as she turned toward him, concern evident in her voice.
"I have," Urokodaki replied with a nod.
He watched her—her face flushed, damp with sweat—and hesitated before speaking, his voice lowering.
"About this year's selection at Mount Fujikasane… perhaps you—"
As though she had already anticipated his words, Makomo tightened her fist and spoke before he could finish, her voice bright with determination.
"Sensei, I will definitely pass this year's selection."
Urokodaki opened his mouth, still wanting to dissuade her, but the resolve in her expression gave him pause.
"Oh, right—Sensei, what about the news I asked you to look into last time?"
Makomo suddenly cut him off, shifting the conversation with casual ease.
For a moment, Urokodaki fell silent.
"They've probably been busy hunting demons again, haven't they? Otherwise, they would have contacted me by now."
She sheathed her Nichirin Sword and walked over to him. The last time they had parted, Hiroshi Furukawa had mentioned that he would soon invite Kyojuro Rengoku to a meal and call her along as well.
Now, on the eve of her own final participation in the selection, she had hoped for the chance to seek guidance from the Flame Hashira—perhaps to hear perspectives on demon-slaying that differed from her teacher's teachings.
But ever since that day, no word had come from Hiroshi at all.
"…They've already…"
Urokodaki Sakonji turned his head away as he spoke, his gaze drifting elsewhere, as though the words themselves were too heavy to meet directly.
Makomo, misreading the pause, puffed out her cheeks in mild frustration, her voice tinged with childish complaint—a side of her that surfaced only in the presence of the teacher she loved and trusted most.
"They've gone off on another demon-slaying mission again, haven't they? Honestly, that's so annoying…"
"…They've already fallen."
His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the air.
For a brief moment, everything stilled.
Makomo's small hand tightened unconsciously at her side. Memories rose unbidden—of that journey they had once shared. It had been harsh, exhausting, filled with danger at every turn, and yet… it had also been something she could never forget.
It was her first time hunting demons. The others had taken care of her, guiding her with patience, teaching her the craft, sharing not only their experience in battle but also the small, practical wisdom needed to survive in the wild. Among them, Furukawa Hiroshi had stood out—earnest, attentive, and perhaps harboring feelings he had never quite managed to hide. She had not returned those feelings, but neither had she disliked him. On the contrary, she respected him deeply, even admired him.
She had once worried about their next meeting, wondering how she might gently turn him down if he were to confess—she had even rehearsed the words in her mind, trying to find a way that would not wound him too deeply, that would spare him embarrassment or disappointment.
And yet…
What reached her instead was news like this.
It was something she could neither accept nor truly comprehend.
"They… the entire team was wiped out. Not a single one survived."
Urokodaki spoke again, each word falling with quiet finality.
Makomo's body swayed slightly, as though the ground beneath her had shifted. Those companions—every one of them… gone? Was it truly so cruel? So utterly merciless?
Her grip on the hilt of her Nichirin Sword tightened until her knuckles paled, her chest filling with a suffocating mixture of helplessness and grief. From as far back as she could remember, her life had seemed to be an unending chain of losses—each one cutting deeper than the last.
One by one, the senior disciples she had admired had gone to Mount Fujikasane, only to never return.
Then Sabito—the one she had been closest to—had fallen there just a year ago.
Even now, those she had only recently fought alongside had been taken from her as well.
Every loss… traced back to demons.
Every person she held dear… torn away by their cruelty.
And now, in this vast emptiness, only Giyu Tomioka and her teacher remained.
"…How did they die?"
Her head lowered as she spoke, the toe of her foot nudging idly at the stone steps, her tone deliberately light, as though she were untouched by sorrow.
Urokodaki did not see any expression of pain on her face.
But he could sense it—faint, yet unmistakable—the heavy, suffocating scent of grief clinging to her.
It was overwhelming.
He did not wish to burden her with such tragedy, yet he knew that silence would not erase it. These were truths that could not be hidden forever; sooner or later, they had to be faced.
And perhaps… if he told her now, if the blow struck deeply enough, she might abandon the thought of participating in the selection at Mount Fujikasane.
He did not want to lose his last remaining disciple.
So, under the weight of that quiet, worried gaze, he spoke—sharing everything he had learned.
Only then did Makomo come to understand: Furukawa Hiroshi had died on the very day they parted, falling in battle against a demon.
The realization struck her like a blade, a sharp, sudden pain tightening around her heart.
If only…
If only that day…
she had stayed just a little longer—
Would the ending have been different?
Would things have changed?
Would they… still be alive?
The questions came unbidden, each one sharper than the last, spiraling into an endless tide of guilt. Regret coiled tightly within her, suffocating, relentless. Why had she left so soon? If she had lingered just a little longer… perhaps none of this would have happened.
"Then… the demon that killed them?"
Makomo lifted her head at last, her lips pressed tight between her teeth as she looked at her master.
"That day, the rain was heavy," Urokodaki answered honestly. "It washed away every trace. By the time the other swordsmen arrived, there was nothing left to follow. The demon… escaped."
"…It escaped?"
Makomo's hand clenched around the hilt of her blade, her teeth grinding softly together as something fierce and unyielding flickered in her eyes.
"No… it won't escape."
Her voice was low, but resolute.
"I won't let it."