The instant the train pulled away from the platform, Yaha leaped down from a beam dozens of meters overhead.
The night wind spread his black haori wide in midair.
The subtle wisteria pattern at his collar flashed in the moonlight.
He landed steadily on the sheet-metal roof of the sixth carriage.
His military boots struck with a dull, reverberating thud.
He stood like a nail driven into the violently rocking metal, his hands still tucked lazily into his trouser pockets.
The train was accelerating.
Fierce wind hit him head-on, carrying the acrid smoke of burning coal, while withered trees on either side raced backward like black specters.
The carriage beneath his feet was noisy.
The fellow wearing a boar mask was ramming his head against a window, while another powerful voice kept shouting, "Delicious!"
Yaha curled his lip in distaste.
His senses spread forward along the sheet metal.
A cold, sticky aura of demon blood lurked toward the front of the train.
It was thin, probably no better than some bottom-rung Lower Rank small fry.
Like a revolting crawling insect, that aura was trying to worm its way into the brain of everyone aboard.
Enmu.
The lone survivor Muzan had spared after purging those useless failures.
Yaha could not even be bothered to lift his eyelids.
To him, these dirty tricks-using hypnosis to launch sneak attacks-were beneath even a street performer's sleight of hand.
He would make perfect practice for the hardheaded kid carrying a wooden box below.
As long as they did not get themselves killed, they could do whatever they liked.
Yaha looked past the engine into the endless night stretching along the tracks.
Something was waiting thirty kilometers ahead, on the route they had to take.
Its aura was on an entirely different plane from a Lower Rank's.
Scorching and volatile, it was like a heap of high explosives ready to detonate at any moment.
Deep within its core, it openly radiated an insatiable thirst for slaughter and destruction.
Upper Rank Three.
A trace of crimson slowly seeped into the depths of Yaha's pitch-black eyes.
At the end of the valley.
An enormous granite boulder lay across the slope beside the tracks.
Akaza sat cross-legged atop it, his arms folded over his chest.
His eyes were closed.
Cold moonlight illuminated the dark blue demonic markings covering his body.
A steady rhythm of vibrations traveled through the rails. The train was approaching.
The corners of Akaza's mouth curved upward.
He had sensed the Flame Hashira's fighting spirit.
It blazed like the midday sun.
The aura of his Breathing Style was as imposing as a mountain, his sword intent honed to its utmost-a rare prospect even across these past few centuries.
Akaza lightly tapped his fingers against the crook of his arm.
Merely sensing that fighting spirit had already made every bone in his body itch with excitement.
But the very next second, his tapping fingers stopped dead.
Akaza opened his eyes, his number-inscribed pupils shrinking instantly to pinpoints.
Above the Flame Hashira's blazing fighting spirit, he had detected another presence.
It was utter nothingness.
No warmth, no breath, not a trace of human vitality.
Like a forcibly hollowed-out black hole, it carried suffocating death as it swallowed all the light and heat around it.
Akaza rose to his feet.
A dense web of cracks silently spread through the granite beneath him.
He recognized this feeling.
It was the same uncontrollable tremor that had crept into Lord Muzan's voice whenever he mentioned that boy in black.
The monster who could summon a shrine and utterly crush the laws of demonic regeneration.
Akaza did not back down.
The fervor blazing in his eyes nearly burned through his reason.
He slowly clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking with dull pops.
Blood roared through his veins, and his martial resolve climbed to its peak.
"You finally came."
Akaza stared toward the rising white smoke, his smile growing steadily more savage.
On the roof of the speeding train.
Yaha gave a bored yawn.
He casually raised his right foot, then stamped his military boot hard against the metal beneath him, a trace of cursed energy spilling from it.
The shock punched straight through physical barriers and radiated through every carriage.
Inside a hidden compartment in the engine.
Enmu held his palms together.
His hypnotic waves had already covered the first three carriages. In a little while, everyone would be immersed in his perfect art.
Just then, a shock slammed down from the roof.
The sickly smile on Enmu's face froze solid.
His painstakingly woven Dream Barrier shattered from end to end like a mirror struck by a hammer.
That had been no physical impact.
It was pure, cold death, like the gaping maw of an abyss, traveling along the sheet metal to smash the very logic of his Cursed Technique.
Enmu raised his head in disbelief and stared at the metal panel overhead.
A clammy chill spread down his spine, soaking his clothes.
He could not move a single finger, much less dare use even a trace of his Blood Demon Art to investigate what was above.
All he could do was grit his teeth and huddle in the darkness like a sewer rat, desperately trying to steady his ragged breathing.
Dozens of kilometers away, in a sparsely lit town.
Shinobu Kocho stood on bloodstained roof tiles and slowly slid her Nichirin Blade into its sheath.
The night wind lifted her purple haori.
She suddenly turned toward the eastern night sky.
In that deep darkness, a long white plume was swiftly stretching through the valley.
It marked the Mugen Train's passage.
Shinobu Kocho stood quietly for a while.
Her right thumb unconsciously rubbed the butterfly pattern on her sword's hilt.
Her senses had detected nothing.
Yet her feminine intuition inexplicably brought to mind a boy in black, his hands in his pockets and disdain written all over his face.
An inexplicable, trembling chill touched her fingertips.
Shinobu Kocho lowered her eyes, concealing the complicated, searching look within them.
The wind grew stronger.
Standing on the roof, Yaha kept his senses locked firmly on the towering battle lust ahead.
Thirty kilometers.
Twenty kilometers.
Ten kilometers.
Akaza's undisguised killing intent scraped across the distance like a blade.
The blood in Yaha's body finally began to warm.
The instincts of the King of Curses stirred from their slumber.
The excitement that arose only when facing formidable prey brought a sickly flush to his pale cheeks.
Ancient black cursed markings crawled out from beneath his collar.
They climbed his long neck, crossed his jaw, and spread to the corners of his eyes.
The night wind swept all his black hair back.
His pitch-black eyes were now completely filled with savage crimson.
Yaha slowly drew his right hand from his trouser pocket.
He pressed his palm to his waist.
He grasped the jet-black Nichirin Blade that had scarcely tasted blood since he brought it down from Mount Sagiri.
Its sheath reflected no light.
It seemed to imprison a sliver of bottomless shadow.
Yaha pressed his long thumb against the sword guard, veins rising slightly on the back of his hand.
He pushed forward, ever so slowly.
The crisp click rang out with piercing clarity even amid the howling wind.
The guard shifted half an inch.
A length of pitch-black blade that seemed capable of swallowing even moonlight was finally exposed to the air, radiating a chill that made the soul tremble.
"The Martial Supreme?"
Yaha's voice was soft, yet it sliced apart the surrounding gale in an instant.
His mouth curved wider and wider, revealing a smile of utter brutality.
"Let's hope you can take one more fucking slash from me."
Before you continue