Chapter 191: Muzan's Value is a Nichirin Blade
The next day, wisteria branches swayed gently throughout the sprawling garden, bathing in the lush, golden sunlight.
It was still the Ubuyashiki estate. The scene unfolded just outside the main hall.
The sweet, intoxicating fragrance of the purple blooms drifted inward from the courtyard. The scent was thick enough to coat the back of the throat, hanging heavy in the warm air and pressing down on the senses. The paper shoji doors had been slid wide open from both sides, revealing the figures already seated in formal silence within the dim interior.
Seven Hashira.
They knelt in a precise, orderly line along the polished wooden floorboards of the main hall, their backs rigid, facing the center.
In this era, titles like 'Flame Hashira'or'Water Hashira'did not exist. The Demon Slayer Corps of this generation had not yet conceptualized or developed Breathing Styles. Naturally, there were no elemental titles to bestow upon their elites. They were simply known as the'Hashira'—the foundational pillars of the Corps.
These seven individuals were the absolute strongest swordsmen the organization had to offer. Each was tasked with guarding a vast region, serving as the sharpest, most lethal weapons in the Ubuyashiki family's arsenal capable of facing the demonic plague head-on.
Without the supernatural physical enhancements provided by Breathing Styles, these warriors had clawed their way to this rank through sheer, unadulterated grit. They relied entirely on flawless swordsmanship, peak human conditioning, oceans of blood-soaked combat experience, and the unique properties of their Nichirin Blades.
When hunting demons, they rarely fought alone. They operated in highly coordinated squads of at least three. In most encounters, it took seven or eight seasoned slayers working in perfect tandem, laying complex traps and executing ruthless encirclement tactics, just to bring down a single demon. They used strategy and numbers to bridge the massive gap in raw physical power.
A Hashira capable of slaying a demon in single combat was a deep rarity. In this generation, there were perhaps one or two who could manage such a feat; in most generations, there were none at all. The majority of these kneeling figures were simply exceptional leaders, commanders capable of guiding a squad through the meat grinder of a demon hunt and bringing them out alive.
Yet, even without supernatural breathing, they stood at the absolute pinnacle of human limitation. They were elite samurai, and among them sat true masters of the blade—swordsmen of the Kengo tier. To stand against immortal, flesh-eating monsters and survive, one had to be nothing short of extraordinary.
Among the kneeling figures, a burly, bald man occupied the first seat on the left. He wore no outer garment, allowing the dim lamplight to catch the jagged, gruesome scars crisscrossing his muscular chest.
A few meters to his side knelt a young woman with a long, thick braid hanging down her back. A deep purple haori was draped elegantly over her shoulders. Her thumb gently stroked the polished steel of her drawn blade, a serene, almost detached smile curving her lips despite the lethal edge resting in her lap.
The remaining five possessed their own distinct appearances—varying in age, gender, and stature—but every single one of them radiated the exact same aura.
Murderous intent.
It was a heavy, suffocating pressure, the kind of dark aura that could only be forged by years of wading through blood, viscera, and the agonizing screams of the dying.
Seated at the very head of the hall was the Master of the Demon Slayer Corps, Ubuyashiki Rikiya.
He wore a pristine, unadorned white Kariginu. A grotesque, creeping purple corruption marred the upper half of his face, spreading like a web of bruised veins. Under the flickering lamps, his clouded, sightless eyes caught the light, reflecting a deathly, hollow gray. Two white-haired maids knelt dutifully at his flanks. They were twins, their faces identical and entirely devoid of emotion, each holding a ceremonial wooden tray.
"Thank you for your hard work, everyone," Rikiya spoke.
His voice lacked physical volume, yet it carried an unnatural clarity, reaching every shadowed corner of the grand hall. The tone was deeply peaceful. It connected like the deep, melodious tolling of an ancient temple bell, washing over the room with a strange power that instantly settled the violent hearts of the warriors present.
This was the ancestral gift passed down through the Ubuyashiki bloodline. It was this very charisma, this supernatural leadership, that compelled the fiercest swordsmen in the land to bow their heads to a man with such a frail, dying body.
"I have summoned you all back to the estate because a new lead has surfaced regarding Kibutsuji Muzan."
The atmosphere in the hall shattered.
The air grew instantly frigid. The backs of the seven Hashira went completely taut, their muscles coiling like springs. The bald man's thick fingers twitched, instinctively dropping to the wrapped hilt of the sword resting by his knee.
Sensing the sudden spike in hostility, Rikiya paused, allowing the tension to peak before he delivered the rest of the truth. "The source of this lead is a yokai."
Silence.
A brief, stunned silence blanketed the room.
The bald man broke it first, his rough, gravelly voice echoing with disbelief. "Did you just say... a yokai, Oyakata-sama?"
"He is an Oni Samurai who calls himself Kobe Hikaru," Rikiya explained calmly. "Carrying a manual forged by Master Totosai, he took the initiative to approach Rengoku Juro's squad."
"An Oni Samurai..." The braided girl tilted her head. Her voice was soft and swaying, carrying a deceptively clean, innocent cadence. "Isn't that just another demon?"
"He is a yokai, not a demon created by Muzan's blood," Rikiya corrected her gently. "The fundamental difference between the two is something you all should be intimately aware of."
No one argued the point. The distinction was absolute lore within the Corps. Yokai and demons were entirely different species. Yokai were ancient, non-human entities born and condensed from the world's Turbid Qi. Demons, however, were grotesque mutants—humans who had been infected and twisted by Muzan's cellular structure.
Yokai came in countless forms, born from nature, grudges, or ancient magic. Demons all stemmed from a single, parasitic root. The swordsmen of the Demon Slayer Corps harbored a blood-deep hatred for Muzan's creations because demons survived solely by slaughtering and consuming humans. It was a biological, natural opposition.
Yokai, on the other hand, might occasionally kill humans, but it was not a biological necessity. They did not need human flesh to survive. Thus, between the Corps and the yokai, there was no eternal, irreconcilable holy war.
"Besides the yokai, there is one more person," Rikiya continued, his clouded, pale eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to peer into a distant memory. "A... swordsman. One who has perhaps never existed in the history of this era."
Rikiya slowly recounted the contents of the urgent missive sent by Rengoku Juro. He described the scene exactly as it had been written: a red-haired young man who had completely suppressed three elite swordsmen—including Juro himself—in a single instant, radiating an unmatched, suffocating momentum.
Silence reclaimed the hall. This time, it stretched on, heavy with skepticism.
"He has to be bragging," the bald, muscular man finally scoffed, sucking his teeth in irritation.
He knew Juro's capabilities intimately. While the young Rengoku wasn't officially a Hashira yet, his promotion was merely a matter of time and accumulated merit. In terms of raw combat strength, Juro was absolutely on par with anyone sitting in this room. The kid might carry himself like a seasoned veteran, but he was barely in his early twenties. He was undeniably one of the most lethal assets the Corps possessed.
For a swordsman of that caliber, alongside two capable subordinates, to be entirely suppressed in the blink of an eye?
If the yokai had done it, the bald man might have believed it. Yokai possessed bizarre, ancient magic. But a human? A human moving with such overwhelming force? It defied all logic.
"Juro does not lie," Rikiya replied, his tone gentle but leaving no room for debate.
The bald man snapped his mouth shut, his jaw tight. He couldn't argue that. Rengoku Juro was honest to a fault.
"That yokai... Mr. Kobe Hikaru, stated something else," Rikiya's voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing the Hashira to lean in. "He knows Kibutsuji Muzan's exact whereabouts. And he knows exactly how to kill him."
This time, the silence was absolute. No one dared to breathe.
The braided girl stopped stroking her blade, her red lips pressing into a thin line.
Finally, the oldest Hashira in the room—a weathered man with a graying beard and deep wrinkles carved into his face—shook his head slowly. "Oyakata-sama, please forgive my bluntness, but how can we possibly trust the words of a creature born from Turbid Qi?"
"Exactly." The bald man eagerly chimed in, his hand gripping his scabbard. "What if this is an elaborate trap set by Muzan? It's not entirely impossible for yokai and demons to collude—"
His words died in his throat.
In that exact second. In that very fraction of a heartbeat.
A sudden, unnatural wind swept in from the sunlit courtyard, carrying with it a flat, deadpan voice that echoed directly into their skulls.
"If I wanted to deal with you, why would I need a trap?"
Horror seized the seven Hashira. They spun on their knees, their hands blurring as they gripped their hilts, their eyes snapping toward the source of the sound.
The voice had clearly originated from the courtyard. But in the next microsecond, the speaker was already standing dead center inside the hall.
Ash-gray robes. Pale, flowing hair. Crimson Demon Eyes that glowed with a cold, pragmatic indifference.
Not a single elite swordsman in the room saw him move. Not one of them sensed his approach through the dense wisteria barrier, down the wooden corridors, or through the open shoji doors.
He simply materialized. It felt as though he had been standing there, watching them, since the very beginning of the meeting.
Seven blades hissed as they were drawn simultaneously. Cold steel flashed under the lamplight.
But every single movement froze halfway out of the scabbard.
The Hashira realized, with a sickening jolt of panic, that their bodies were actively rebelling against their minds. It was primal fear. It was the biological, freezing response of a prey animal suddenly realizing the apex predator's jaws were already around its neck.
Hikaru's Yao Qi—a terrifying, concentrated density of the Ninth Transformation that vastly eclipsed even ordinary ten-transformation great yokai—had flooded the room. He released it and retracted it in less than a second, but that brief, crushing weight was enough to paralyze every warrior in the hall.
"Your wisteria is only effective against demons." Hikaru stood perfectly still, his Crimson Demon Eyes lazily sweeping over the frozen Hashira on his left and right. "It's entirely useless against a yokai."
Rikiya did not flinch. He couldn't see the monstrous entity standing before him, but he felt the sheer, apocalyptic density of the energy.
"Please, sit," Rikiya commanded softly.
The bald man's eyes bulged, sweat beading on his scarred forehead. "Oyakata-sama—"
"Sit down."
Rikiya's voice remained low, but the strange, commanding resonance within it flared to life. Despite his decaying body, his authority carried a massive, obvious pressure. It forced the seven Hashira to slowly, reluctantly slide their half-drawn blades back into their sheaths. The ancestral power of the Ubuyashiki voice overrode their panic. Unwilling as they were, they obeyed, sinking back onto their heels.
Rikiya turned his blind, corrupted face toward the yokai and offered a polite, measured smile. "Kishin Mitama no Mikoto of Musashi Province... Lord Kobe Hikaru, I presume?"
As the mastermind behind an intelligence network that spanned the entirety of Japan, tracking demons through every shadow and alleyway, it was impossible for Rikiya to be ignorant of a rising regional god's title.
The Hashira, however, exchanged confused, wary glances. They cared nothing for local deities or provincial yokai politics; their entire existence revolved around slaughtering Muzan's kin.
Hikaru did not bother with pleasantries. He didn't even acknowledge the formal title.
Standing exactly where he was, he reached into his gray robes, retrieved the scorched scrap of cloth bearing Totosai's seal, and casually tossed it onto the tatami mats directly in front of Rikiya.
Then, he got straight to the point.
"Kibutsuji Muzan is currently in Kyoto."
Hikaru's voice was dry and mechanical. "He is hiding deep within the sphere of influence of a Great Yokai known as Hagoromo Gitsune. He is likely using the overwhelming density of her Yao Qi to mask his own scent and whereabouts while he conducts his business."
He didn't pause for dramatic effect. "His absolute weakness is sunlight. A Nichirin Blade can sever his cellular immortality, but be warned: he possesses five brains and seven hearts. Conventional decapitation will not kill him. To destroy him completely, all twelve of his vital organs must be annihilated at the exact same moment."
The information hit the room like a physical blow.
Clean. Concise. Utterly devoid of superfluous emotion.
The Hashira stared at him, entirely stunned. It wasn't just the sheer magnitude of the intelligence—though confirming the existence of five brains and seven hearts, a theory the Corps had bled for centuries trying to prove, was devastating. It was the absolute, deadpan certainty in the yokai's voice.
There was no hesitation. No margin for error. He didn't sound like a spy delivering gathered rumors; he sounded like a man reading an autopsy report he had written himself.
Rikiya's uncorrupted right eye narrowed a fraction of an inch.
"By offering us this very useful knowledge, what is it you desire?" Rikiya asked, his tone shifting to that of a negotiator. "And to what extent do you expect our Corps to act?"
"A Nichirin Blade."
Hikaru was brutally direct. "I will provide you with the complete, step-by-step tactical plan on how to drag him out of his hole and force him into the sunlight. In return, I require exactly one Nichirin Blade."
He paused, his glowing eyes shifting toward the open courtyard. "Besides that."
He looked out toward the wooden corridor surrounding the garden. Standing quietly in the evening breeze was Tsugikuni Yoriichi. The red-haired swordsman held his wife, Uta, gently against his side, his haori fluttering softly. He looked entirely unassuming, a stark contrast to the violence inside the hall.
"That man standing out there is a hundred times stronger than all of your Hashira combined," Hikaru stated flatly, ignoring the furious glares his insult drew from the kneeling warriors.
"Let him join the Demon Slayer Corps. Settle his wife and his unborn child deep within your headquarters. Place them under your absolute highest protection."
Hikaru turned his gaze back to the blind Master. "In exchange, he will become the blade in your hands that actually possesses the capability to kill Muzan."
Rikiya lifted his chin. Though his eyes were clouded with death, he seemed to strain them, trying desperately to peer through the shoji doors at the quiet man standing in the wind. He could feel it. The subtle, almost nonexistent hum of a power so deep it felt like looking at the sun itself.
Rikiya nodded slowly, accepting the terms without hesitation. "Agreed. And what of yourself, Lord Hikaru?"
"I am a yokai. I have no interest in joining your Corps," Hikaru replied, his Crimson Demon Eyes dimming slightly. "I have my own objectives to pursue."
"However, I will remain here temporarily for a few days. And when the time comes to corner Muzan—I will absolutely be present."
A dark, chilling aura began to leak from Hikaru's form. "After all, I have a rather personal grudge to settle with him."
"So, consider this less of a trade," Hikaru continued as a terrifying, bone-white oni mask materialized over his face, his glowing red eyes piercing through the narrow slits.
"And more of a notification."
"When the time comes, I will be there to help you butcher him."
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