The Demon Slayer headquarters looms ahead, a sprawl of stone walls and wooden gates under a gray sky. My heart pounds as I step forward, nerves buzzing. A girl with white hair greets me with a soft smile. "This way," she says, her voice like a breeze. I follow her down a path lined with cherry blossoms and wisteria flowers, their petals drifting like silent warnings. This place feels heavy, like it's sizing me up.
She stops at a massive wooden door and nods for me to enter. I take a deep breath, slide it open, and step into a wide room. Tatami mats stretch across the floor, and soft light filters through paper screens. It's packed with people—strong people. Their presence hits me like a wall of heat, each one radiating power that makes my skin prickle. I spot Shinobu near the front and hurry to sit beside her, relief loosening my chest.
I lean close, keeping my voice low. "Who are these people?"
She gives me that calm, knowing smile. "They're the Hashira. The strongest Demon Slayers."
I knew it. My eyes dart around, landing on a familiar face—Muichiro Tokito, that quiet, cool kid I met before. He's a Hashira? He's younger than me! No way he's that strong, I think, but a spark ignites inside me. If he made it, maybe I can too.
The other Hashira aren't so friendly. Their stares bore into me, sharp and cold, like I'm an intruder. What's a low-rank slayer doing here? their eyes seem to say. I shift uncomfortably, only knowing Shinobu and Muichiro, who doesn't even glance my way.
My gaze then settles on a man with a snake coiled around his neck, his eyes almost unnervingly sharp, and another, truly colossal figure, whose presence feels like a mountain in the room—likely the strongest among them. This group… they're beyond anything I've seen. Powerful. And a little unsettling.
The door slides open again. A man steps in—pale, frail, with cloudy eyes but a presence that stills the room. He's the Master, no doubt, flanked by two girls and a woman, maybe his wife or assistant. Everyone straightens, the air growing heavy with respect. I swallow hard, trying to blend in.
The Master speaks, his voice soft but commanding. "Let us begin." He talks about recent events—Rengoku's death, more demons crawling out of the shadows, Slayers losing their edge. I'm lost, my mind spinning. Why am I here? I thought this was just about my mission report.
A rough voice cuts through. "Why's a low-rank Slayer in a Hashira meeting?" It's a guy with white hair and scars crisscrossing his face. His tone drips with disdain, like I'm dirt on his shoe. I clench my fists, pissed at how he's looking down on me, but part of me wants to thank him for asking what I'm thinking.
The Master's voice stays calm. "Ryo is here to report his mission. He defeated two Lower Moon demons."
A murmur ripples through the room, low and sharp, like wind stirring dry leaves. The Hashira's eyes lock onto me—some wide with surprise, others narrowed in doubt. Two Lower Moons isn't a small feat, even if they're not Upper Moon caliber. Their gazes feel like weights, pinning me down, judging every breath I take. I shift in my seat, my pulse loud in my ears.
"Ryo, please share your report," the Master says. His voice is soft, soothing, like a cool stream over jagged rocks. It steadies me, but only just.
I stand, my throat tight, guilt clawing at my insides. I can't mention Ghost—not after I promised to keep him secret. "I was staying in a village overnight," I start, voice rougher than I'd like. "Middle of the night, demons attacked. I saw three demons first and then a stronger one—Lower Moon 4. I took out the small fry fast to focus on the Moon demon. Made sure the villagers nearby escaped, but…" My chest tightens, the memory bitter. "Some were already dead when I got there."
The words burn coming out. "I almost killed Lower Moon 4. Then Lower Moon 1 showed up and saved him. If I'd had one more second, I could've finished Lower Moon 4. It turned into a 1v2. I hit them hard, took a beating too. They didn't take me seriously, though, and I used that. With some luck, I beheaded them both before passing out." Every lie twists the knife in my gut deeper. I'm betraying the truth, but I owe Ghost my silence.
The Master's cloudy eyes seem to see right through me. "Are you sure it was luck, Ryo?" His tone is calm, but it cuts.
My stomach lurches. I swallow, forcing my voice steady. "While fighting," I say, picking each word like stepping over broken glass, "I thought of my companion, Yuki. I had to protect her, the villagers. Rage kicked in—adrenaline too. I've fought tough demons before, and I was a well-trained samurai before becoming a Demon Slayer. So with that, plus their carelessness…" I pause, hating how it sounds. "I pulled it off. I sliced both the demons' heads."
He nods, his face unreadable, like he's weighing my soul. I think he believes me, but the guilt lingers, sour on my tongue. Then a bright voice breaks the silence—a girl with pink hair, Mitsuri. I glance at her and nearly choke. Her uniform's practically falling off, chest half-exposed. What's with that? Is it some demon-tricking tactic? Do demons have lust for women? My face warms, and I shove the thoughts away as she asks, "Master, does this mean Ryo becomes a Hashira? He killed two Lower Moons, and the rule is one Moon demon or fifty demons, right?"
The Master's voice stays even. "That is true, but we must confirm his strength. Ryo, are you ready for a Hashira test?"
A test? My wounds are mostly healed, but am I Hashira-level? I remember Rengoku's fight—untouchable, blazing. I'm nowhere close. But Muichiro's younger than me and made it. I've got nothing to lose. "Yes," I say, standing taller. "I'm ready."
The Master looks to the Hashira. "Who will test him?"
Sanemi and Obanai—the guy with the snake coiled around his shoulders—step forward, their eyes sharp as daggers. Sanemi's glare is all fire, like he's already decided I'm not worth the dirt under his boots. Obanai's stare is colder, quieter, but no less deadly, his snake hissing softly as if it's judging me too. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. Sanemi smirks, a cruel twist of his lips, and nudges Muichiro. "Join us, kid."
Muichiro, slouched against a wall, glances up with that blank, foggy look of his. He shrugs, like this is just another chore, but steps forward anyway. "Fine," he mutters, his voice barely carrying. Despite his indifference, there's something unsettling about him—like a blade hidden in mist. My stomach knots tighter. These three are Hashira, the best of the best, and I'm just… me.
We step outside and move to a wide training ground, the other Hashira fanning out along the sidelines. The air is crisp, biting at my lungs, and the packed dirt feels unyielding under my boots. They hand us wooden swords, the grain rough against my palms. The weight's familiar, but it carries a new heaviness.
Sanemi grins, all teeth, his scars twisting with the expression. "You're fighting all three of us," he says, voice dripping with challenge. "Prove you're worth it."
My heart plummets, a cold sweat prickling my skin. A 1v3 against Hashira? Their strength rolls off them like a thunderstorm, heavy and unstoppable. Sanemi's raw power, Obanai's slithering menace, Muichiro's eerie calm—it's too much. But I can't back down now. "Can we… make it easier?" I ask, forcing a shaky laugh to hide my nerves.
Sanemi scoffs, loud and mocking. "Scared already? Weak." His words cut deep, each one a jab at my pride.
That smug tone lights a fire in my chest. I hate that guy. My grip tightens on the sword, knuckles whitening, my eyes narrowing to slits. Fear still churns inside me, but anger burns hotter. I've faced demons, survived Ghost's nightmare world—I'm not some coward. "Let's do this," I say, my voice low and steady, surprising even myself.
I raise my sword. Three Hashira. One me. No second chances. No second tries.
My blade shakes, just slightly. But my feet hold steady.
Let's see what happens.
To Be Continued…