Chapter 4: The News Spreads
"Why—why didn't that kill him?!"
The scream shattered the silence like glass.
The woman beside Muzan staggered, her composure breaking into jagged pieces. She fell to her knees, trembling hands clutching the earth.
"I was so close…! I nearly severed his head—and he lived?! He survived even that?!"
Her voice cracked, sharp with grief and rage.
Tamayo's fury spilled over, her eyes blazing as she spat through clenched teeth. "You damn monster! Why won't you just die?!"
The venom in her voice caught even Yoriichi off guard. His blade, raised to strike, wavered. His eyes narrowed, his stance loosening.
Because the hatred burning in Tamayo's gaze wasn't directed at them.
It was aimed squarely at Muzan Kibutsuji.
Her voice shook with a grief only betrayal could sharpen. Ignoring the two Demon Slayers before her, Tamayo slumped forward, shoulders quivering. It was as though her body had been drained of strength, of hope, of any reason to rise again.
"Damn it…" she whispered, voice raw. "We were so close…"
Akira's fists hammered the ground. Pain shot up his arms, but he didn't stop. Each strike was fueled by the storm boiling inside him. His body quaked, not from weakness, but from anguish too sharp to contain.
"I had him!" His voice cracked. "I had him right there!"
A gentle hand settled on his shoulder.
"Don't lose heart," Akito murmured, kneeling beside him. His young eyes were firm, steady in a way that both soothed and broke Akira. "He escaped… but we'll find him again."
"It's useless."
Tamayo's words were heavy, dripping with despair. Her face remained lowered, eyes hidden beneath shadows. "Muzan is cautious beyond reason. Now that you've failed, he'll vanish. You won't see him again—not in your lifetime."
The words pierced Akira deeper than any demon's claw. His chest tightened, air catching in his lungs.
Not in my lifetime?
That meant Akito, too. It meant every innocent would suffer while Muzan prowled free.
Akira's voice trembled as he raised his head, crimson eyes wide with anguish. "Master… if I hadn't suggested we split up… could we have killed him?"
"Akira!"
Yoriichi's voice cracked like a whip, firm enough to shake him from the spiral.
Akira blinked. His ragged breathing slowed, pupils focusing again.
Yoriichi turned toward Tamayo. "You know him. Muzan Kibutsuji. Speak. Tell us everything."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Tamayo lifted her head. Her eyes, wet with grief, locked onto Yoriichi's. The hatred in them was raw, unfiltered, and utterly real.
Perhaps it was the overwhelming strength radiating from Yoriichi. Perhaps it was the faint ember of hope she saw in Akira's defiance. Whatever the reason, Tamayo spoke.
Her voice trembled as she recounted what she knew. Muzan's cruelty. His cunning. His impossible body—hearts, brains, regeneration. His ability to vanish without a trace.
And when she told them the truth—that Muzan would disappear into the shadows, perhaps for centuries, waiting until all who opposed him were dead—Akira's chest collapsed in on itself.
It would have been easier if there had never been a chance. But there had been. He had seen Muzan bleed, stagger, weaken. He had been there. He had failed.
That unbearable truth coiled around his throat like a noose.
Akira bowed his head. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. His breaths grew shallow, ragged. The last sliver of light slipped away.
"Akira!"
His master's voice reached him, faint through the storm.
Then, nothing.
---
Akira floated in darkness. Pain licked at him from every nerve. He had pushed his body far beyond human limits in that final strike. For a time, the will to kill Muzan had kept him standing, sheer determination dragging him forward when flesh had already failed.
But now that purpose had slipped away, his body finally collapsed.
Whether he would survive… was uncertain.
---
"Brother, you're awake!"
The voice pulled him back.
Akira's eyelids fluttered. Harsh light blurred his vision, but gradually the haze receded. He was lying on a futon. The faint smell of herbal medicine clung to the air.
And beside him—Chitose, his younger brother, eyes wide with relief and exhaustion.
Akira tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his lips cracked.
"Water!"
Akito's small hands darted for a glass. He hurried back, holding it carefully, trembling with eagerness.
Akira reached out—but his arms shook violently, too weak to even steady the cup. It slipped from his grasp, water spilling down his chest.
"Here," Chitose whispered. He lifted the cup himself, pressing it gently to Akira's lips.
Cool liquid slid down Akira's throat, soothing the desert inside. Yet his gaze didn't leave his wrist—limp, powerless, trembling.
"Why…?" His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Why can't I even hold a glass?"
Chitose's expression crumpled. He tried to smile, but it was weak, fragile. "Brother… your injuries were too severe. The doctor said… you may never wield a sword again."
He forced brightness into his tone, but the tremor betrayed him. "But it's fine. I'm grown now. I'll protect you."
Akira barely heard him. Only one thought echoed, relentless:
I can't fight anymore.
The words struck harder than Muzan's whip, heavier than any wound. He had braced himself for this truth, but hearing it… facing it… broke something inside.
His gaze shifted, searching. "Chitose… where's Master?"
Chitose froze. Hesitation flickered in his eyes.
Akira's heart lurched. His tone sharpened. "What happened?"
The silence said enough.
And then the truth spilled forth.
While Akira lay unconscious, the world had shifted.
Tsugikuni Michikatsu—Yoriichi's own brother—had returned as a demon. He stormed the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters. In a single night, he severed the Lord's head and vanished.
The Corps was in chaos.
And now, Yoriichi Tsugikuni—Akira's master, the strongest Demon Slayer alive—was on trial.
Akira's body reacted before thought. He tore free of the futon, stumbling upright. His wounds screamed. His ribs felt like shards of glass grinding inside him. But he didn't care.
"Brother!" Chitose cried, reaching for him.
But Akira was already gone, staggering into the street.
---
The village blurred around him as he ran. Faces turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight of him—alive, moving.
But there was no respect in their gazes.
Only something colder.
Disgust.
Whispers hissed behind him as he passed.
"That's him, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The one who fought Muzan… and failed."
"They say he was with Yoriichi. Word is… he's the one who let Muzan escape."
"Why's he still alive? Should've died with Yoriichi."
Akira stopped.
His head turned slowly, crimson eyes burning toward the voices.
"What… did you just say?"
Silence.
The speakers lowered their eyes, suddenly fascinated with the dirt beneath their sandals. None dared meet his gaze.
Akira's jaw tightened. His grip clenched into a trembling fist.
But he didn't lash out. He said nothing more.
He only turned… and walked on.
The weight inside him grew heavier with each step.
Rumors spread faster than any truth. And already, they had twisted everything.
They were slandering Yoriichi. His master. His savior.
And worse—whispers painted him as the one who had failed. The one who had let Muzan slip away.
His chest burned, fury and grief warring within him.
How could they say that?
How could they dare?