With a sharp clang, the broken blade trembled in Sabito's hand.
Yaha rolled his eyes, his voice sounding especially casual amid the wind and snow.
"Your buddy."
Sabito froze.
Yaha slipped his hands back into his pockets and tilted his head at him.
"You lunatic. Why are you losing your mind in the middle of the night instead of sleeping?"
"When the old man checks our rooms tomorrow, don't expect me to cover for you if he sees that corpse face of yours."
With that, he turned toward the courtyard, muttering under his breath about how cold it was.
The wind carried that flippant complaint into Sabito's ears.
The icy terror pressing against Sabito's spine dissipated like thin ice melting in warm water.
The vicious beast who had stomped the Hand Demon's head apart beneath the moonlight on Mount Fujikasane.
And the lazy bum before him, wearing a thin uniform, hunching his neck against the cold, and spouting nonsense.
Those two utterly different silhouettes overlapped before his eyes in a strange way.
The broken blade fell from Sabito's hand into the snow.
Watching Yaha's retreating back, he swallowed.
"Just how much are you still hiding from us?"
Yaha stopped without turning around.
"Things that keep me alive."
Sabito braced both hands against the cold snow and caught his breath.
"Then... will you lose control?"
Yaha turned his head and looked at him as though he were an idiot.
"No."
"Why?"
"Too much work. I'm too lazy to lose control."
Yaha pushed the door open and returned to his room with a yawn.
Watching the paper door slide shut again, Sabito finally let his shoulders slump completely after seven days of tension.
His broken ribs still ached faintly.
But as he looked at the broken blade in the snow, he exhaled a long plume of white breath and suddenly gave a quiet laugh.
He dropped onto his backside in the snow.
Deep within Mount Fujikasane.
Sakonji Urokodaki stood in the middle of a deathly silent clearing, holding a torch.
This was where the Hand Demon had been killed.
Demons turned to ash after death, leaving no bodies behind.
But the scene spread across the ground made even this old swordsman, who had seen countless lives and deaths, miss half a breath.
Thick ancient trees, the soil beneath them, and even the hard rocks surrounding the clearing.
Everything had been divided into extraordinarily uniform blocks arranged in a grid.
The cut surfaces were as smooth as mirrors, reflecting the moonlight with a cold gleam that made his scalp prickle.
Urokodaki walked into the center of the ruins, his footsteps thudding dully against the blocks.
He crouched and pressed his rough palm against the edge of a stump cut into a square.
The wood grain had been severed cleanly, without a single splinter catching against his hand.
These cuts were identical to those on the giant boulder behind Mount Sagiri, only far more terrifying because of their scale.
The cut surfaces revealed an exceedingly sharp power capable of dismantling things in an instant.
There was none of the splintering left by brute force, nor any trace of a struggle.
That meant the Hand Demon, who had driven countless novices to despair, had been sliced into pieces scattered across the ground before he could react at all.
Urokodaki took the Nichirin Blade from his back.
He slid its tip into the gap between two blocks of wood, effortlessly reaching the layer beneath.
He withdrew the blade and brought the torch closer. The edges of the bark were so perfectly even that they seemed miraculous.
Urokodaki tightened his grip on his bamboo staff.
He remembered their sparring test that afternoon, when Yaha had casually caught the wooden sword between two fingers.
Then he remembered Yaha's eyes, which never showed a ripple of emotion no matter what he looked at.
This power belonged to no known Breathing Style. It existed beyond reason, unfathomably deep and immovable, with an indifference to living beings.
The boy named Yaha harbored a bottomless abyss within him.
If that power ever went out of control, it would spell disaster for the Demon Slayer Corps, perhaps even all humanity.
As the former Water Hashira and a cultivator, he had no choice.
Urokodaki rose, took one long look at the wreckage scattered across the ground, and turned to descend the mountain.
Two days later, late at night, on Mount Sagiri.
Urokodaki sat at his desk beneath the faint glow of an oil lamp.
He picked up his brush and wrote swiftly, its tip rustling across the paper.
Using strictly objective language, he described in detail the shattered stone behind the mountain, the grid of ruins on Mount Fujikasane, and the inhuman physical strength Yaha had displayed in battle.
As for the fact that Yaha had never used a Breathing Style at all, he simply omitted it from the letter.
"His power exists outside both Breathing Styles and Blood Demon Arts. It issues from his fingertips, can shatter metal and stone, and disregards physical regeneration."
"The boy is cold by nature, values only personal attachments, and behaves erratically."
"I ask the Master to decide how to proceed."
The letter was finished.
He lifted the paper and gently blew the ink dry.
Then he folded it neatly, slipped it into a bamboo tube, and sealed the opening with a thick layer of beeswax.
He opened the window, letting the icy night wind pour into the room.
A jet-black Kasugai Crow was already waiting on the windowsill.
Urokodaki tied the bamboo tube securely to the crow's leg.
"Go to headquarters and deliver this directly to the Master," he instructed quietly. "An urgent message."
The crow gave a low, hoarse cry, spread its wings, and flew into the dense night sky.
Urokodaki watched the direction in which it disappeared, his face taut beneath his Tengu Mask.
Early one morning, half a month later.
Sunlight pierced the thin mist and shone into the little courtyard on Mount Sagiri.
Yaha woke to noisy voices outside.
Rubbing his eyes, he pushed the door open. Two people wearing Hyottoko Masks stood in the courtyard, carrying long bundles wrapped in cloth on their backs.
The swordsmiths from the Swordsmith Village had arrived.
Yaha yawned and leaned lazily against the doorframe.
Giyu, Sabito, and Makomo were already standing in the courtyard.
All three had changed into black Demon Slayer Corps uniforms, with a stark white character meaning "destroy" emblazoned on their backs.
A swordsmith named Hotaru Haganezuka was circling Giyu.
He held a sheathed katana in his hands, his tone impatient.
"Draw it and let me see! A Water Breathing swordsman's blade is bound to turn a beautiful blue!"
Giyu silently accepted the sword and slowly drew it.
Sunlight fell across the pure steel blade.
A moment later, a vivid blue rapidly spread across its silvery surface.
Hotaru Haganezuka nodded in satisfaction.
Sabito and Makomo drew their swords as well. Unsurprisingly, both turned the same deep blue, clear and cool as a waterfall.
The other, somewhat calmer swordsmith approached Yaha and presented a long, narrow wooden case with both hands.
"Tomioka Ye Yu, this is your sword."
Yaha accepted the case and casually flipped open the lid.
Inside lay a standard katana with a black hilt and black scabbard, entirely unadorned.
He grasped the hilt and drew it carelessly.
The instant the blade left its scabbard, its color began to change dramatically.
The originally silver blade rapidly lost its sheen and turned pure black.
That black was fathomlessly deep. Not a glimmer reflected off the blade, as though it could swallow all the light around it.
Hotaru Haganezuka immediately leaned closer, staring at the black blade and muttering.
"A black blade? That's an extremely rare color. But... black-bladed swordsmen have always had terrible luck. None of them come to a good end."
Yaha slid the sword back into its scabbard with a click.
"Works for me. Saves it from being so flashy that someone takes an interest."
Hotaru Haganezuka stamped his feet and shouted, "How can you treat a Nichirin Blade like that! You must draw and sheathe it with reverence!"
Yaha picked at his ear, his eyelids half lowered.
"You're so loud. It's just a piece of scrap iron. What, am I supposed to put it on an altar and burn three sticks of incense for it every day?"
Beside himself with rage, Hotaru Haganezuka grabbed for the short sword at the other swordsmith's waist and charged at Yaha, yelling.
Yaha did not even take his hands out of his pockets. He merely shifted casually to one side.
Hotaru Haganezuka lunged past him and tripped.
Thud!
He hit the muddy ground hard, his mask rolling aside.
Giyu hurried over and helped him up, a hint of embarrassment crossing his expressionless face.
"I'm sorry. My little brother has always had a bad temper."
Hotaru Haganezuka snatched his mask back and put it on, pointing at Yaha as he roared.
"Giving you this blade is casting pearls before swine! You're infuriating!"
Yaha leaned against a pillar.
"If you're done, hurry up and get lost. Stop being an eyesore."
Seeing trouble brewing, the other swordsmith firmly restrained the still-flailing Hotaru Haganezuka, gathered their things, and fled the courtyard in a hurry.
They had barely left when several shrill crow calls rang out overhead.
Four Kasugai Crows spiraled down and landed on the eaves, beginning to announce their first mission orders in hoarse human voices.
"Giyu Tomioka! Head east! Young girls have disappeared from a village to the northeast. Investigate at once!"
"Sabito! Head north! Traveling merchants have been killed in the northwestern mountains. A demon is suspected. Depart immediately!"
"Makomo! Head south! People traveling at night have disappeared in a southern town. Proceed there and investigate swiftly!"
When Yaha's turn came.
One crow landed directly on his shoulder.
"Tomioka Ye Yu! Orders from headquarters: act freely, with no assigned patrol area!"
The crow's voice was piercing and harsh. The other three in the courtyard froze.
Even newcomers knew that Demon Slayer Corps swordsmen were strictly assigned to designated areas.
The privilege of "acting freely" was impossible for rank-and-file members to obtain. It belonged only to a handful of the strongest Hashira.
Yaha stroked the glossy feathers of the crow on his shoulder, a trace of amusement flashing in his eyes.
It seemed the old man's letter had worked.
Kagaya Ubuyashiki, the man at the top, was a clever leader.
Unable to gauge Yaha's depths, he had refrained from casually assigning him low-level missions, using this hands-off privilege as his most telling test.
"Interesting." Yaha raised his head and looked at the others in the courtyard.
Giyu approached and grabbed the sleeve of Yaha's jacket.
A few veins stood out on his otherwise expressionless face. After struggling for a long time, he managed only two words.
"Don't die."
Without a hint of restraint, Yaha raised his hand, curled his index finger, and flicked Giyu hard on the forehead.
"Look after yourself, stone-faced big brother." Yaha withdrew his hand, an unrestrained grin tugging at his lips. "The thing that can kill me hasn't been born yet."
Beside them, Sabito hung his blue Nichirin Blade back at his waist.
He looked at Yaha, his gaze no longer distant as it had been days before, but sharpened by a stubborn resolve.
"No matter where you go, don't think I'll admit defeat." Sabito lifted his chin. "One day, I'll use a real sword to force you to draw yours."
Makomo also stepped forward, smiling with her lips pressed together.
"Stay safe, Yaha."
The four stood outside the courtyard gate, their backs to Mount Sagiri, and officially went their separate ways.
Yaha casually tucked the Black Blade at his waist. He had not even buttoned his uniform, letting its hem snap in the wind.
He walked alone down the mountain path.
The wind swept across the wilderness, sending dead leaves swirling through the air.
Freed from his role as babysitter, his chains fell away.
Black curse markings faintly emerged across his face in the shadows beyond the sunlight, while a dark red glow quietly spread through the depths of his pupils.
Yaha licked the corner of his mouth and revealed a chilling smile.
"So, which Lower Rank should I start with?"
Before you continue