Chapter 5: Expelled from the Demon Slayer Corps
"You should commit seppuku!"
"It's your fault the demon escaped!"
"You're a disgrace—a sinner! You shouldn't even be alive!"
"How can the Demon Slayer Corps harbor scum like you?!"
The words lashed at him like whips.
For years, Akira had dreamt this nightmare: faceless voices, venom dripping from unseen lips, accusing him of crimes he never committed. But now, for the first time, he saw their faces.
The nightmare was real.
And the faces belonged to comrades. Brothers-in-arms. People he had trusted his life with.
When Akira arrived at the lord's mansion, the sight that met him burned into his soul.
The Hashira—the most elite of the Corps—stood encircling Tsugikuni Yoriichi. Their eyes blazed with contempt, their voices cutting like blades.
And Yoriichi… Yoriichi stood silently, head bowed, his expression unreadable. Not a single word rose in his defense.
Akira's blood boiled. He rushed forward, placing himself between his master and their venom.
But the moment their eyes landed on him, their fury shifted to a new target.
"It was you who let Muzan Kibutsuji escape!"
The Sound Hashira stormed forward. His hand seized Akira by the collar, yanking him close. His eyes were bloodshot, spittle flying as he roared.
"How dare you show your face here?! You and your master are filth! If not for you, Muzan would be dead! The lord would still live! You should be executed where you stand!"
Akira's chest tightened under the crushing grip, but before he could speak, Yoriichi moved.
Faster than thought, he appeared between them. His hand clamped down on the Sound Hashira's wrist, his gaze cold, unreadable.
"What are you doing?" the Hashira snarled, face twisted with rage.
The other Hashira drew their Nichirin Blades in unison. Metal hissed as steel bared teeth. In a heartbeat, Yoriichi and Akira stood surrounded, a circle of blades reflecting firelight, tension so sharp the air itself seemed to bleed.
Akira's heart clenched. These were comrades. These were supposed to be allies. And yet the faces glaring at him were twisted with suspicion, disgust, hatred.
Was this still the Corps he had sworn his life to?
Or had he and his master truly become villains in their eyes?
Had they committed some unforgivable sin?
"The one who killed the lord was Tsugikuni Michikatsu!" Akira shouted, voice shaking but sharp as a blade. "What does that have to do with my master?!"
The Sound Hashira sneered. "Michikatsu was his brother. Who brought him into the Corps? Your master. Who stood closest to him? Your master. And you—" he shoved Akira back violently, pointing an accusing finger. "You're the one who let Muzan go! Don't think we haven't considered the truth: that you were working together. Michikatsu rises as the new Demon King, and you conveniently let the old one escape? Too many coincidences!"
The words struck like hammers. For a moment, silence held.
Then something inside Akira snapped.
Grief, guilt, and shame boiled into fury. His voice tore free, burning with rage.
"You don't deserve to judge us."
The hall fell silent. His words, low but seething, cut deeper than any blade.
Akira shoved the Sound Hashira aside, his crimson eyes sweeping across the group.
"None of you are worthy."
"What did you say, brat?!"
The Hashira bristled, hands tightening around hilts.
Akira stepped forward, unflinching, his voice like steel striking steel.
"If you had encountered Muzan first, with your arrogance and blind pride, you would have been nothing but bait. That's all. And maybe then—" his lips curled into a bitter snarl "—I could have finished him off."
"You dare—!" The Sound Hashira's sword half-drew, fury flooding his face.
But Akira wasn't finished.
"All that strength you boast about—and yet when Michikatsu came, you vanished like cowards. Where were you then? Hiding in the shadows? Watching as he tore through the Corps?"
His voice rose, striking like thunder.
"And you call yourself Hashira? You call yourself protectors?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Akira's chest heaved as he turned his glare on them all.
"My master created the Breathing Styles you wield. Without him, you'd be corpses rotting in the dirt. Before you demand our seppuku, look in the mirror. You owe everything to him. You should be grateful—on your knees in thanks. Instead you slander him? You slander us?"
The air vibrated with killing intent. Hands trembled on hilts. The circle tightened.
But no blade struck.
Because despite their rage, despite their hatred, not a single Hashira dared cross swords with Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
And so the verdict was spoken not with steel, but with silence.
Akira and Yoriichi were unwelcome. Cast out.
Exiled—not fugitives, but ghosts banished from the very Corps they had bled to protect.
---
"Brother, are we leaving?"
"Yes… let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know. But we're never coming back."
At the crossroads near the base, Akira paused. His gaze swept over the headquarters one last time—the place he had called home, the place he had trained, fought, and sacrificed.
"We'll never return here again."
His words were heavy, final.
He turned away.
From another path, Yoriichi appeared, his footsteps slow, shoulders bowed. For the first time, Akira saw sorrow etched across his master's face.
"I'm sorry," Yoriichi murmured, voice heavy with grief. "I dragged you into this."
"Master—"
"My brother became a demon. And when Muzan stood before me, I wasn't fast enough. If only—" His voice faltered, trembling. "If only I had struck sooner—"
"Master," Akira said quietly, eyes hard but steady. "Blame me. I wasn't strong enough."
Yoriichi shook his head slowly. "No. You gave everything."
The truth lay unspoken between them. Even had Yoriichi been there, perhaps the outcome would have been the same. Akira's final attack had been their best hope—and still, Muzan lived.
And now… they might never have another chance.
---
"Brother! Master Yoriichi!"
A voice broke the heavy silence. Akito came running, breathless, face flushed, tears brimming but unspilled.
"Don't think about it anymore!" he cried. "Didn't you say you always wanted to see the world, Brother? Then now's the time!"
Akira inhaled deeply. He looked at his little brother's determined face, then gave a small nod. "You're right, Akito."
He turned to Yoriichi. "Master… where should we go?"
Yoriichi lifted his gaze to the sun above. His eyes softened, caught by memories. "There's a place Shi and I once lived. Let's go there."
---
They traveled deep into the mountains. The air grew colder, purer, untouched by human hands. Pines swayed overhead, their needles whispering in the wind. Streams trickled clear and bright, cutting paths through moss-covered stone.
Yoriichi walked steadily, his hand occasionally steadying Akira, who still bore the weight of his wounds.
"My wife…" Yoriichi began quietly. His voice was gentle, distant. "Shi was kind. So very kind."
Akira glanced at him, lips curving faintly. "You must have been happy, living together."
A ghost of a smile touched Yoriichi's lips. "We spent ten years in peace here. If not for demons… I would have stayed with her forever."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with words unsaid. How many lives had demons destroyed? How many families torn apart, futures stolen?
Finally, Yoriichi stopped. His hand lifted, pointing ahead.
"We're here."
Through the trees stood a small home, humble but strong. Its walls were weathered by time, but it stood, unbroken.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped out. His cautious expression hardened—until his eyes landed on Yoriichi.
Then his face lit with joy.
"Benefactor!"