Tetsuji Kawahara held the long case without setting it down.
The four swordsmiths kept their arms rigid, barely daring to breathe.
The long case lay across the doorway, its surface pitch-black, over two meters long and entirely unadorned. Tetsuji Kawahara pressed a hand against its side, bowed, and spoke softly.
"Honored guest, please look."
The lid opened.
A layer of dark silk lined the inside, with a sword resting on it. Its blade was less than three feet long, its edge gleaming a dull silver after a night of polishing. The spine was thick and heavy. The wrapping around the hilt had charred and fallen away, exposing the wooden core. Dirt from two hundred years ago was embedded in the grain. It had been rinsed, but would not wash clean.
Tanjiro stood in the courtyard, his hands slowly curling into fists at his sides.
He recognized it.
It was the sword that had fallen out of Yoriichi Type Zero the night before. He had only managed to touch its spine before Yaha tossed it to him like a toy, thinking it was useless scrap. He had never expected the village chief to take it away and work on it overnight.
Tetsuji Kawahara's voice trembled with barely contained excitement.
"This is a relic of Lord Yoriichi Tsugikuni, the greatest swordsman of the Warring States period. Its blade was already cracked when it arrived two hundred years ago. Three generations of our village's swordsmiths spent seventy years restoring it. I polished its edge anew overnight. Today, with the utmost respect, we present it to our honored guest."
The young swordsmiths behind him stood straight, their faces solemn, as though taking part in a sacred ritual.
Shinobu Kocho stood one step to Yaha's right without speaking.
Muichiro knelt on the corridor floor, the