Cursed energy poured from his palm into the blade.
Dark red, thick, and searing hot. It did not seep in little by little. It forced open the gaps between the metal's molecules and crammed itself into every grain.
The ancient blade made a sound.
It was not the clear ring of clashing metal, but an extraordinarily shrill wail rising from within. Like glass being twisted from the middle, about to shatter but not quite broken, trembling on the brink of collapse with a sound that set everyone's teeth on edge.
Tetsuji Kawahara's knees buckled, and he pitched forward onto the mud.
His eyes stayed fixed on the blade. Cracks began appearing across its surface. Fine and dense, they spread toward both ends from the point where Yaha's palm touched it, like a dry riverbed cracked by the blazing sun.
"No, don't." Tetsuji Kawahara forced the words from his throat, hoarse and choked with tears. "Three generations. Seventy years."
He crawled half a step forward and reached out, but could not get close enough.
The line of swordsmiths behind him erupted. The burly, brutish-looking man surged half a step forward, only to be held back by three others. Several young apprentices turned deathly pale, their lips trembling. Some had already turned their heads away, unable to watch.
Tanjiro stood rooted to the spot with his fists clenched. His mouth opened, but not a single word came out.
The cracks widened.
The first fracture broke clean through the middle of the blade. A fingernail-sized piece of tamahagane peeled off its surface and fell into the mud with a tink.
Tetsuji Kawahara's eyes rolled back, and his body tipped backward. The apprentices beside him scrambled to catch him and pressed the spot beneath his nose.
Yaha did not look at them.
His attention