Demon Slayer: Starting with the Great Swordmaster System, My Master is Tsugikuni

As for the Scribe, he wore a smile and didn't say much.

He knew this was Master Yoriichi's last period of peace.

After today, the two would once again embark on the path of finding Muzan and exterminating Evil Demons.

After finishing dinner, Yoriichi and the Scribe prepared to leave.

"Mr. Yoriichi, we will always be here waiting for you. You are welcome to visit anytime."

Yoriichi paused, looking at Tankichi, who was shouting at him with a hint of sadness on his face.

Then, he took off the earrings from his ears and placed them in Tankichi's hands.

These were earrings his mother had personally made for Yoriichi when he was a child, hoping he would survive his frail health.

Giving them to Tankichi was also a form of protection for Yoriichi towards Tankichi's family.

"Well then, we're off, Mr. Tankichi."

Waving goodbye, the Scribe bid farewell to Tankichi's family.

Watching their retreating figures, a wave of sadness suddenly washed over Tankichi.

Yoriichi and the Scribe would likely never return.

As the master and disciple's somewhat lonely figures walked further and further away, Tankichi could no longer suppress the emotions in his heart.

He quickly stepped forward and shouted into the distance.

"Mr. Yoriichi, Scribe, we will definitely carry on the lives you two have protected!"

"I promise you, whether it's the earrings or Sun Breathing, I will pass them down forever!"

"In the days to come, I wish you great fortune in your martial endeavors!"

After speaking, tears welled up in Tankichi's eyes.

Hearing Tankichi's cry, the Scribe and Yoriichi turned around and looked back.

Exchanging a glance, the master and disciple's thoughts reached a silent understanding.

"Thank you."

There were no grand pronouncements, no earth-shattering emotional displays.

There was only the most simple and unadorned gratitude from the bottom of their hearts for the Scribe and Yoriichi.

The twilight sun cast its light upon Yoriichi and the Scribe, a scene tinged with melancholy and a touch of sanctity.

With a wave, they departed.

The master and disciple once again set out on their journey to hunt demons.

Chapter 46: Master and Disciple's Farewell, A Reunion After Sixty Years

After leaving Tankichi's home, the Scribe and Yoriichi arrived at a fork in the road.

Go east, or go west.

For a moment, they stood frozen, neither making a decision.

They both knew that this parting might be for a lifetime.

If fate did not show them mercy, they might never meet again in this life.

Even if they could meet again, it was hard to say how many years it would take.

Having lived together for nearly ten years, neither the Scribe nor Yoriichi wanted to see this happen.

But for them, separating was the most efficient method.

As long as Muzan was dealt with, everything they were doing now would be worth it.

Finally, the Scribe made the first move.

He picked up a small stone from the ground and drew a scratch on one side.

A scratch meant heads, no scratch meant tails.

Heads meant east, tails meant west.

"I choose heads."

With that, the Scribe handed the stone to Yoriichi.

Yoriichi looked at the stone, no bigger than his fingernail, his heart filled with complex emotions.

He clenched his fists. If he had a choice, he wouldn't want his disciple to walk the same path as him.

No matter what choice he made, the Scribe had always silently supported him.

Even if he had to bear the burden of exterminating Muzan for his entire life, he had never uttered a single word of objection.

With a slight smile, the Scribe slowly closed Yoriichi's hand.

"Master, toss it."

Startled, Yoriichi lowered his head slightly and flicked his arm upwards.

A tiny pebble tumbled through the sky before rolling a few times on the ground and coming to a stop.

The side with the engraved scratches rested on top.

It seemed I had won.

Smiling, the Scribe turned and began walking towards the east.

Yoriichi grabbed the Scribe and pulled something from his pocket, handing it to him.

It was a flute, somewhat crudely made, from poor materials, and rather ugly in design.

But the Scribe knew this was the flute Tsugikuni Iwashiro had personally made for Yoriichi when he was young.

Yoriichi giving the flute to the Scribe explained a great deal.

Live on, I'll be waiting for you to give it back to me.

Leaving those words behind, Yoriichi turned to leave.

"Wait a moment."

Calling out to Yoriichi, the Scribe also took something out from his own pocket.

It was the small box he had found before he left.

Inside it was a portrait of himself and Yoriichi from seven years prior.

Handing the small box to Yoriichi, the Scribe spoke.

"I can't show favoritism. I'm waiting for you, Master, to return this to me as well."

Yoriichi patted the Scribe's head and put the box in his pocket.

Then, he turned and walked towards the west.

After putting the flute away, the Scribe looked at Yoriichi's departing figure.

He then turned and walked towards the east.

The night wind blew gently, a little cold, and a little lonely.

It brushed away the tears of the two swordsmen and sent their respective hopes into each other's hearts.

"Let us meet again someday!"

Seasons passed, sunrises and sunsets came and went.

New lives were constantly born, and old lives constantly passed away.

Generation after generation, the swordsmen of the Demon Slayer Corps were continuously replaced.

One by one, man-eating Evil Demons were constantly exterminated.

At this moment, sixty years had already passed.

At night, in a small tavern, a young man was eating and drinking.

The man appeared to be around twenty years old, with a slender build and breathtaking looks.

His short black hair was as deep as the night, and a sharp glint occasionally flashed in his star-like eyes.

A faint smile played on his lips, as if he could calmly observe everything in the human world.

Although he looked very young, his entire being exuded a unique charm.

At this moment, a patron in the tavern, having had a bit too much to drink, began chatting with his companion.

"Hey, hey, hey, do you know, some people say a red moon will appear a few nights from now."

"A red moon? You're drunk, saying something like that."

"Sigh, believe it or not, you'll know when the time comes."

Seeing his companion disbelieve him, the drunken man said no more.

The young man, however, seemed drawn by his words and walked up to him.

"I'm a little curious about this red moon you mentioned. Could you tell me some details?"

"Sure, I've got nothing else to do anyway."

Looking up, the drunken man squinted, hiccuping.

"But kid, what's your name? I haven't seen you around here before."

"I'm just a wanderer. I only recently traveled to this area."

Tucking the blade on the table into his waist, the young man smiled slightly.

"My name is Scribe."

Having obtained more detailed information from the drunken man, the Scribe left the small tavern.

Strolling through the streets, he occasionally glanced at the vendors on both sides.

"This place has become so prosperous. When I came here over thirty years ago, it was still a desolate wasteland."

If a normal person heard this, they would surely be startled.

The man, around twenty years old, had been here over thirty years ago. Just how old was he, really?

Arriving at an inn, the Scribe intended to rest for a bit.

Just then, a shout suddenly came from outside the inn.

"Good heavens, a fight!"

The Scribe initially thought it was just ordinary troublemaking, but suddenly, he sensed an incredibly familiar aura.

An aura that originated from the same source as his own, scorching hot like the sun.

This feeling, it couldn't be wrong.

The clerk at the counter noticed the Scribe's strange demeanor and asked in a low voice.

"Sir, are you still looking to book a room?"

"Ah, my apologies, please give me a moment."

Snapping back to reality, the Scribe ran outside.

At this moment, the bustling street had already attracted a crowd, with many people forming a circle.

A faint clanging sound could be heard from within.

Listening closely, the Scribe understood what was happening.

A local ruffian had come out to cause trouble but had run into someone far tougher.

He had intended to bully an old man, but the other party had instantly taken him down.

Although the opponent had held back, the ruffian's arm was still broken by a stone on the ground.

"Please, make way."