Blue Stone Town: The Strange Villagers!

At the Demon Slayer Corps Headquarters, in a Japanese-style room filled with sunlight.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat upright in the place of honor, wearing a deep-purple haori.

His head tilted slightly as he listened to the booming report from the Flame Hashira, Shinjuro Rengoku, who knelt on one knee before him.

"...and that's what happened, Master!"

Shinjuro's voice rang with energy.

"That boy, Giyu Tomioka! Working with my junior Akamatsu, who was poisoned and at death's door, he managed to slay that troublesome demon hiding in Defiled Wood Mountain!"

Kagaya Ubuyashiki listened quietly, his smile deepening with heartfelt relief.

"He's the boy who slew the Hand Demon that had occupied Mount Fujikasane for forty years, all on his own during Final Selection, isn't he?"

His voice was gentle and pleasant.

"Giyu Tomioka... I remember his name."

"Yes, yes! That's him!"

Shinjuro nodded vigorously, his golden-red hair shaking with the motion, admiration and disbelief mingling on his face.

"That Urokodaki trained a monster of a disciple!"

"How long has it been? A rank B mission, a demon with a special ability, and he just went and killed it!"

"When I was his age..."

He laughed heartily.

"Anyway, he's an impressive kid! He just doesn't talk much, and he's cold as ice!"

Ubuyashiki nodded gently, as if Shinjuro's words let him see the silent, resolute boy in the red haori.

He spoke slowly, his tone calm yet prophetic:

"Perhaps our Demon Slayer Corps will soon welcome a new 'Hashira.'"

"Hashira?!"

Shinjuro's head shot up, his eyes wide.

"Master, you mean... Giyu Tomioka?"

"He's only thirteen or fourteen, isn't he?!"

"A thirteen-year-old Hashira? There's never been one in the history of the Demon Slayer Corps!"

"Precisely because it's unprecedented, it shows how different this era is."

Ubuyashiki faced the garden, his gray-white eyes seeming to feel the sunlight.

"Demons are growing ever more rampant, and the Twelve Kizuki move in secret... but young sprouts like Giyu are also breaking through the soil at an unimaginable pace."

"This... may be fate."

He paused, his tone turning firm:

"The emergence of such a genius is a blessing for the Demon Slayer Corps, and an even greater blessing for humanity."

"We must not let this talent and resolve go to waste! Shinjuro—"

"Yes!"

"Send word to the Swordsmith Village."

Ubuyashiki's gentle voice carried unquestionable resolve.

"Begin preparations to forge Giyu Tomioka a true Nichirin Blade, one worthy of a [Hashira]."

"Use the finest tamahagane and the craftsmanship best suited to his Breathing Style and fighting style."

He paused briefly, the curve of his lips gentle and full of trust:

"I believe that boy... won't disappoint me."

Shinjuro solemnly accepted the order.

"Yes, Master! I'll see to it personally!"

With his report finished, Shinjuro asked after the Master's health before respectfully taking his leave and hurrying off to carry out his orders.

Once Shinjuro's footsteps had faded into the distance, the gentle smile gradually left Kagaya Ubuyashiki's face, replaced by profound calm.

"Muzan... Kibutsuji."

He murmured the name, his voice light as a sigh, yet heavy as a mountain.

His gentle voice was now steeped in bone-chilling killing intent and a will that transcended his own life and death.

Because of an ancestor's mistake a thousand years ago, the Ubuyashiki Clan had created Muzan Kibutsuji, the first demon, and suffered a curse bound to their bloodline.

The men of every generation were frail, and none could live past thirty. Hideous scars would consume their faces until they went blind and died.

This was more than an affliction; it was proof of the mockery and torment Muzan had inflicted upon the source of his bloodline.

For centuries, generation after generation of Ubuyashiki family heads had watched loved ones die young and felt the curse gnawing at their own flesh during their brief lives, yet they had never given up.

Using their broken bodies as kindling, they burned themselves to sustain the Demon Slayer Corps, all to bring down the one responsible.

This hatred had long ceased to be a personal grudge.

For every head of the family, this heavy destiny had been branded into their soul from the moment they were old enough to understand:

"End Muzan and sever this chain of suffering."

Kagaya's pale fingers gently brushed the uneven scars on his forehead.

"My life, the blood of my clansmen, these centuries of sacrifice and struggle..."

His voice remained calm, yet it was like a volcano beneath the deep sea, suppressing enough power to destroy heaven and earth.

"Every scar, every mouthful of blood coughed up, every loved one who died in agony... they all cry out for judgment upon you."

"You take pleasure in trampling lives and feed on spreading despair. You believe immortality is victory, and you see humans as insects and food."

There was not the slightest wavering in Kagaya Ubuyashiki's voice, only pure, icy resolve.

"But it is the humans you regard as insects who have passed down the will to resist from generation to generation. It is the suffering you created that forged the blades that slay demons."

"The Demon Slayer Corps will not perish, so long as injustice remains in this world, so long as tears and blood are shed because of you."

"And I, Kagaya Ubuyashiki, even if my eyes cannot see, even if my body decays more with each passing day, will use all my life and wisdom, for as long as I draw breath, to guide this blade until it pierces your heart."

He slowly let out a breath, as if gathering the weight and hatred of a thousand years into one final vow:

"I will... end you with my own hands."

"I will shatter your twisted immortality and send you to hell to atone for every life you have harmed."

Sunlight fell upon him, illuminating half of his serene profile and half of his grotesque scars.

The setting sun dyed Blue Stone Town gold and red, and cooking smoke rose into the air. It should have been peaceful.

But when Giyu Tomioka stepped into town, the air froze.

He wore a dark-blue uniform and a red haori, with a long sword hanging at his waist.

Though travel-worn, he could not conceal the cold sharpness in his eyes and features.

Almost at once, countless gazes turned toward him from both sides of the road, beneath the eaves and behind windows.

They stared fixedly, full of scrutiny and complicated emotions.

Their eyes fell first on the sword at his waist, as if trying to confirm something.

Giyu looked straight ahead, his steps steady.

But his keen senses caught the hushed, fragmented whispers:

"He's carrying a sword... is he a samurai?"

"He looks so young..."

"Will he really be any use? The ones before..."

"But... if we don't try..."

"What if we anger 'that one'..."

"Shut up! Do you want us all to die?!"

The voices were broken and kept extremely low, filled with fear, hesitation, and the tremor of worry mixed with morbid excitement at seeing a faint spark in the depths of despair.

Giyu's ice-blue eyes shifted slightly, sweeping over the frightened, bewildered villagers.

Weariness and helplessness lay hidden in their eyes, but as they looked at him, a flicker of twisted hope had kindled there, as if drowning people had spotted a piece of driftwood.

He did not stop to ask questions.

Experience told him that asking directly would hardly ever get him the truth and might instead alert his quarry.

Besides the smell of cooking smoke, there was another scent in the air, extremely faint but impossible to ignore... the scent of a demon.

It was faint and dispersed, as though it had been cleaned away, or subtly blended with the town's own scent.

The sky darkened, the last trace of sunset vanished, and Blue Stone Town lay beneath a hazy twilight. Lights came on in every home, but to Giyu they looked unsteady.

He needed information.

And the place to get it...

His gaze turned to a shop farther down the street, with a curtain hanging over its entrance, brighter lights, and a few voices coming from inside—an izakaya.

It was a place where townspeople gathered and exchanged news, and where emotions were easily revealed.

Giyu adjusted his course and walked toward the izakaya.

The hem of his red haori fluttered gently in the evening breeze.

The izakaya's entrance curtain was made of coarse indigo cloth, with "Fujino" written on it.

He lifted the curtain, and a wave of heat carrying the mingled smells of grilled fish, miso soup, sake, and tobacco rushed over him, a stark contrast to the eerie chill outside.

The room was small, with only a few old wooden tables and stools.

It was dinnertime, yet only three or four tables were occupied. The patrons sat far apart, eating and drinking with their heads down, their conversations kept very quiet.

When Giyu entered, every sound abruptly stopped, and everyone froze.

Several gazes shot toward him like searchlights, fixed on him and especially on his sword.

Behind the counter, an apron-clad old man with graying hair and a careworn face trembled, nearly dropping the cup he was wiping.

Seemingly oblivious to the frozen atmosphere, Giyu went straight to the only empty stool at the counter and sat down.

He placed his bundle at his feet and adjusted his sword to an angle that made it easy to draw.

"A set meal and a bowl of miso soup."

He spoke calmly, his voice low, but it broke the deathly silence.

The owner, Fujino, froze for a moment, then hurriedly nodded and bowed.

"Y-yes, sir. Please wait a moment."

His voice was dry, and his eyes darted away, unable to meet Giyu's. He turned and hurried into the kitchen.

The other customers seemed to breathe easier, but they did not resume their conversations. They ate in even deeper silence, still casting occasional sidelong glances at Giyu's back.

Giyu sat upright without looking around, quietly watching the shelves of sake behind the counter.

But his senses spread out like an invisible web, catching every little movement.

He heard two middle-aged men at a table behind him and to one side exchange quick words, almost in whispers:

"A swordsman... a stranger."

"He's too young... can he do it?"

"Better than nothing... shh!"

A man dressed as a ronin, drinking alone to his right, tapped his fingers unconsciously against the table in an anxious rhythm.

In the corner, a pair of customers who looked like husband and wife sat together. The wife clutched her husband's sleeve, her face pale, while he drank silently with his head lowered.

Amid the smells of food and drink, that faint trace of demonic presence seemed a little stronger here, but he could not trace its source.

More pervasive were the heavy pressure and fear in everyone's hearts, so intense they were almost tangible.

Fujino soon brought out a tray and placed a simple grilled-fish set meal and miso soup before Giyu.

His movements were meticulous, and the dishes made almost no sound.

"Sir... please, enjoy your meal."

He spoke quietly, his eyes darting over Giyu's face before dropping again at once.

"Thank you."

Giyu picked up his chopsticks and ate quietly.

The food tasted ordinary, but he ate with care, as if he were merely an ordinary traveler passing through.

He knew that his appearance as a "sword-bearing outsider" was like a pebble dropped into stagnant water, calm on the surface but roiling with currents beneath.

He waited for the water to ripple on its own and reveal its secrets.

Whether out of kindness, fear, or something else, someone, or some "sign," would eventually bring the information to him.

Night had completely enveloped Blue Stone Town.