Master and Disciple's Farewell, Reunion Sixty Years Later

As for Scribe, he merely smiled and said nothing more.

He knew this was Master Yoriichi's last stretch of peaceful days.

After today, the two of them would once again set out to search for Muzan and destroy demons.

After dinner, Yoriichi and Scribe prepared to leave.

Mr. Yoriichi, we'll always be here waiting for you. You'll always be welcome to come back.

Yoriichi paused as he looked at Tankichi, who was shouting at him with sorrow on his face.

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

When Yoriichi had been frail as a child, his mother had made those earrings herself, praying that he would survive.

Giving them to Tankichi was also Yoriichi's way of protecting Tankichi's family.

Then we'll be going, Mr. Tankichi.

Scribe waved goodbye to Tankichi and his family.

As he watched the two depart, a wave of sorrow suddenly welled up in Tankichi's heart.

Scribe and Yoriichi would likely never return.

The master and disciple's lonely figures faded farther and farther away, until Tankichi could no longer suppress his emotions.

He hurried forward and shouted ahead.

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

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

In the days to come, may your martial fortunes prosper!

As soon as he finished speaking, tears streamed from Tankichi's eyes.

Hearing Tankichi's cry, both Scribe and Yoriichi turned around to look back.

With a glance at each other, master and disciple came to a silent understanding.

Thank you.

There were no grand speeches, nor any earth-shaking outpouring of emotion.

There was only the simplest, most unadorned gratitude from the depths of Scribe and Yoriichi's hearts.

The setting sun shone upon Yoriichi and Scribe, making them seem both lonely and sacred.

With a wave, they left.

The master and disciple once again embarked on their journey of hunting demons.

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

After leaving Tankichi's home, Scribe and Yoriichi arrived at a crossroads.

East or west.

For a time, they stood there without moving.

They both knew that this parting might last a lifetime.

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

Even if they did meet again, who knew how many years would have passed by then.

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

But for them, separating was the most efficient option.

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

In the end, Scribe moved first.

He picked up a pebble from the ground and carved a mark into one side.

A mark meant heads; no mark meant tails.

Heads, we go east. Tails, we go west.

I choose heads.

With that, Scribe handed the pebble to Yoriichi.

Looking at the fingernail-sized pebble in his hand, Yoriichi felt conflicted.

His fists clenched. If he had a choice, he did not want his disciple to walk the same path as him.

No matter what choice he made, Scribe had always supported him in silence.

Even if he had to spend the rest of his life bearing the task of killing Muzan, he had never uttered a word of refusal.

With a faint smile, Scribe slowly closed Yoriichi's palm around the pebble.

Master, toss it.

Yoriichi froze for a moment, then lowered his head slightly and flicked his arm toward the sky.

The tiny pebble spun through the air, then rolled a few times across the ground before coming to a stop.

The marked side faced upward.

Looks like I won.

Smiling, Scribe turned and headed east.

Yoriichi grabbed Scribe, took something from his robes, and handed it to him.

It was a crudely made flute. The material was poor, and its shape was rather ugly as well.

But Scribe knew that Tsugikuni Iwashiro had personally made that flute for Yoriichi when they were children.

Yoriichi handing the flute to Scribe said more than enough.

Live. I'll wait for you to place it back in my hands.

Leaving those words behind, Yoriichi turned to leave.

Wait.

Scribe called out to Yoriichi and took something from his own robes as well.

It was the small box he had found before leaving.

Inside were portraits of himself and Yoriichi from their first seven years together.

Handing the little box to Yoriichi, Scribe spoke.

We can't play favorites. I'll also wait for you, Master, to return it to me.

Yoriichi patted Scribe's head and tucked the box into his robes.

Then he turned and walked west.

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

Then he turned and headed east.

The night wind blew softly, carrying both a chill and a sense of loneliness.

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

Let us meet again someday!

Cold came and heat went; the sun rose and the moon set.

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

Generation after generation, the swordsmen of the Demon Slayer Corps changed.

One man-eating demon after another was continuously exterminated.

Sixty years had now passed.

At night, inside a small tavern, a young man ate his meal and drank some wine.

He looked to be around twenty years old, with a slender build and breathtakingly handsome features.

His short black hair was as deep as the night, and a sharp glint occasionally flashed through his starlike eyes.

A faint smile hung at the corner of his lips, as though he could smile upon everything in the world.

Though he looked very young, his entire body exuded a unique charm.

At that moment, one of the tavern's patrons had drunk too much and began chatting with his companion.

Hey, hey, hey, did you know? Someone said a red moon will appear in a few nights.

A red moon? You've had too much to drink. How could you say something like that?

Believe it or not, you'll find out when the time comes.

Seeing that his companion did not believe him, the drunken man said no more.

But the young man seemed to have been drawn in by his words and walked over to him.

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

Sure, I've got nothing better to do anyway.

The drunken man raised his head, squinting as he let out a wine-scented belch.

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

I'm just an idler. I only traveled to this area recently.

The young man fastened the sword on the table at his waist and smiled faintly.

My name is Scribe.

After obtaining more detailed information from the drunken man, Scribe left the tavern.

As he strolled along the street, he occasionally looked at the vendors on both sides.

This place has become so prosperous too. I remember that when I came here over thirty years ago, it was still a desolate wasteland.

If an ordinary person heard those words, they would surely be startled.

A man around twenty years old had visited this place over thirty years ago. Just how old was he really?

Arriving at an inn, Scribe planned to rest there for a while.

Just then, a cry of alarm suddenly rang out from outside the inn.

Oh no, there's a fight!

At first, Scribe assumed it was merely some ordinary troublemaking, but then he suddenly sensed an incomparably familiar presence.

It was a scorching presence from the same source as his own, blazing like the sun.

This feeling could not be wrong.

Seeing Scribe acting strangely, the clerk behind the counter asked in a low voice.

Sir, would you still like to rent a room?

Ah, sorry. Please wait a moment.

Coming back to his senses, Scribe ran outside.

By then, quite a few people had already formed a circle in the once-bustling street.

A faint groaning sound came from within.

Listening closely, Scribe understood what had happened.

A local thug had come out looking for trouble, only to run into someone he could not afford to provoke.

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

Although the old man had shown mercy, the thug's arm had still been broken after striking a stone on the ground.

Please make way.