Scribe wiped the tears from his face and charged straight toward the tall tower.
Standing beneath the tower, he made several consecutive leaps and landed steadily atop it.
The night wind blew quietly, carrying away Yoriichi's tears and bringing tonight's other protagonist.
A rustling sound arose, as though someone was approaching.
Before long, a figure appeared at the other end of the path.
He wore Serpent-scaled Samurai armor, with a strange Demon Blade hanging at his waist.
His long hair was tied in a high ponytail, and six scarlet eyes adorned his face.
Most terrifying of all were the words engraved within the two eyes in the middle.
The left eye bore the words Upper Rank.
The right eye bore a single character: One.
The newcomer was Muzan's partner, the being once known as Tsugikuni Iwashiro.
The current Upper Rank One, Kokushibo.
The instant Kokushibo appeared, Scribe instinctively wanted to draw his blade and slash at him.
But his agreement with Yoriichi restrained him.
He had to endure it. Only he could become the witness to this history.
Beneath the tall tower, as Kokushibo approached, he discovered someone standing opposite him.
Scarlet moonlight spilled down, illuminating the other man's features.
Shock filled all six of his eyes. He could not believe this unbelievable sight.
His younger brother, Tsugikuni Yoriichi, who had become frail with age, was standing before him.
What he understood even less was why Yoriichi had not died.
He should have died more than sixty years ago because of the Demon Slayer Mark!
This is impossible. Why are you still alive?
His words trembled, his tone filled with doubt.
Why were you the only one who could live until now?
Yoriichi did not answer Kokushibo's question. Only a clear tear slid down his cheek.
How pitiful, Elder Brother.
The moment he heard those words, Kokushibo's eyes widened instantly.
He had actually been pitied.
Pitied by the man who had once been his younger brother, and who was now merely a frail old man.
Yet for some reason, he did not feel the slightest anger.
Yoriichi calling him Elder Brother, along with the first display of emotion Yoriichi had ever shown before him, conveyed a feeling called sorrow.
And he himself was confused by the inexplicable turmoil in his heart.
For Kokushibo, there was only one thing he could be certain of.
He had to kill Yoriichi, kill the Demon Slayer standing before him.
Looking at Yoriichi's aged, frail body, Kokushibo even doubted whether he could withstand a single slash from him.
From the looks of it now, could he be considered to have surpassed Yoriichi?
At the same time, both sides placed their hands on their sword hilts.
At that moment, the once desolate and lonely atmosphere changed.
A fierce, fearless aura burst from Yoriichi's body, like a lion on the verge of death sizing up its prey.
Kokushibo was even more shocked, astonished that Yoriichi could still possess such a powerful presence.
He was clearly the one who had gained an eternally youthful body, yet he was still being suppressed.
It felt as though two massive boulders had been placed on his shoulders, while his chest felt as though it had been struck by a huge iron hammer.
Yoriichi's stance was without the slightest flaw, no weaker than it had been in the past.
Scribe watched the two men facing each other from atop the tall tower, his heart tightening.
Although he knew the outcome, witnessing it in person was an entirely different feeling.
The story of the Tsugikuni brothers had reached its end.
Without doing anything else, Yoriichi merely spoke calmly.
I have come.
His wrist exerted force in an instant, and Kokushibo drew his blade first with the strength of his powerful body.
Seeing Yoriichi still standing there without any sign of drawing his blade, he felt victory was already in his grasp.
Suddenly, a chilling sensation spread through his entire body, instantly calming the excited Kokushibo.
At some unknown moment, Yoriichi, who had been standing opposite him, vanished and appeared behind him instead.
Pfft... Urgh.
Coughing up blood, Kokushibo discovered in shock that more than half of his neck had been severed.
Other than sunlight, the weakness he feared most had nearly been exploited by Yoriichi.
He was puzzled, shocked, and unable to understand.
Why was Yoriichi the only one who was special? Why had Yoriichi, clearly a marked swordsman, lived until now? Why was Yoriichi's swordsmanship, despite his extreme age, no different from before?
All his emotions ignited in an instant, and an angry, twisted expression appeared on Kokushibo's face.
Even though he knew that if Yoriichi swung his sword one more time, his head would fall to the ground.
It still could not stop his hatred for Yoriichi.
Yoriichi, tell me why—
Just as Kokushibo was about to roar something, he suddenly froze.
Standing atop the tall tower, Scribe leaned against its peak, one hand covering his face.
Tears streamed down, carried away into the distance by the night wind.
Both he and Kokushibo knew that Tsugikuni Yoriichi could no longer swing another sword.
Yoriichi simply stood there, gripping his sword, completely motionless.
He had exhausted every last bit of his lifespan and departed from this world.
Looking at the dead Yoriichi, Kokushibo became enraged.
Even in death, would Yoriichi not give him a chance to truly defeat him?
The Demon Blade left its sheath, and a streak of light passed through Yoriichi's corpse.
His aged body was effortlessly cut apart. The corpse split into two and fell to the ground, blood scattering in every direction.
In midair, a severed bamboo flute flew from a cloth pouch.
Thud, clatter.
The bamboo flute fell to the ground, rolled a few times, and came to a stop.
Upon seeing that bamboo flute, Kokushibo froze where he stood.
Lowering his head and taking in everything that had happened, Scribe forcibly suppressed the impulse in his heart.
He knew that the story of Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ended today.
You Will Fall Beneath My Blade, Tomb of Tsugikuni Yoriichi
Kokushibo stood frozen, quietly staring at the broken bamboo flute, his expression becoming exceedingly complicated.
In the end, as though he had figured something out, he slowly stepped forward.
He picked up the bamboo flute and wiped away the dirt covering it, as though protecting some precious treasure.
After placing the two halves of the bamboo flute inside his robes, Kokushibo turned and walked toward Yoriichi's corpse.
Suddenly, he sensed something, and his expression changed drastically.
He spun around sharply and saw a flaming horizontal slash flying toward him.
Moon Breathing, First Form: Dark Moon, Night Palace.
He unleashed a Quick Draw Slash, striking precisely at the Flame Slash.
The two powerful attacks collided, instantly triggering an explosion.
The dust and debris thrown up by the explosion rose several meters high.
Just as Kokushibo wondered why this energy felt so familiar, a voice rang out.
Get away from him!
The words had barely fallen when a heavy kick slammed into Kokushibo's waist.
The force of that kick was so great that it directly shattered his kidney.
Argh!
Clutching his waist, Kokushibo staggered back several steps.
Such an injury was naturally nothing serious for a demon, but what Kokushibo cared about more was the attacker's identity.
The drifting smoke and dust gradually dispersed, allowing him to see the other man clearly.
A young man around twenty years old, holding a Nichirin Blade.
Although he had already guessed the man's identity, Kokushibo still found it difficult to believe.
You are Scribe?!
Yeah, Uncle Master—ah, no, Kokushibo. What if I am?
Seeing him openly admit his identity, Kokushibo became even more frantic.
Why had more than sixty years passed, yet Scribe, who had not become a demon, still maintained a youthful body?
Could there be a second way in this world to preserve one's life?
If that were true, then what had everything he had done before been for...?
He had abandoned his family, abandoned his wife and children, abandoned his companions, and had even been willing to kill his own younger brother.
After going through all that, was he now being told there had been another way?
At that thought, Kokushibo could no longer suppress himself.
Scribe, tell me, why can you maintain a youthful body?
No comment.
Scribe stood before Yoriichi's corpse with his Nichirin Blade in hand, his face showing no fear.
Although something major had happened during those sixty-plus years, taking up most of his time.
Even with only limited time for training, he had raised his strength to the greatest extent possible.
Master Swordsmanship, Breathing Technique, martial arts (3,000,000/10,000,000). Master Mental Defense (100,000/1,000,000). His other Specialized Skills had likewise reached the Master level (100,000/1,000,000).
Combined with low-grade Rare Blood, the Temporary Scar, and the occasionally useful Clear World.
If they truly fought, he was confident he could cut Kokushibo down.
Before you continue