A quiet morning breeze rolled across the fields as Yoriichi stood outside, eyes closed, listening to the rustle of wind through tall grass. He had begun to breathe again—not just with lungs, but with purpose. His sword, once set aside in grief, now rested at his side.
That day, a crow descended with a sealed scroll. Its emblem was unfamiliar—a stylized wisteria crest, a symbol meant to ward off demons.
Yoriichi opened the scroll, the wax seal cracking like brittle memories. Inside:
*"To Yoriichi Tsugikuni,
Word of your swordsmanship and instinct has reached us.
We are the Demon Slayer Corps, recently founded by those seeking to push back the terror that has begun to spread across villages and provinces.
Demons—creatures of shadow and blood—threaten innocent lives, and we lack the strength to face them alone.
We ask you to join us.
Your skill may be the light humanity needs."*
He read it again and again.
Uta's face, her final breath, flashed through his mind.
By nightfall, Yoriichi stood before his brother.
"Michikatsu," he said, eyes clear for the first time in months. "We are not alone. There are others who want to fight."
Michikatsu's eyes narrowed, curious.
"You mean… the Corps?"
Yoriichi nodded. "I'm going to join them. Will you come with me?"
After a beat, Michikatsu smirked.
"Of course I will. Someone needs to make sure you don't get all the glory."
Soon, five others stood with them:
Kazuyoshi Iwamoto, the calm giant with a will as steady as stone.
Shin Kaminari, swift as a thunderbolt, joking even in battle.
Enjuro Rengoku, whose flame-lit passion burned through fear.
Takeshi Hayate, wind-scarred and wild, unafraid of chaos.
Yusuke Mizuhara, silent as water but swift to strike.
Seven swordsmen, bound by fate and forged by loss.
That night, as torches lit the forest path, they gathered beneath the stars.
No uniforms yet. No ranks. Just resolve.
The Demon Slayer Corps was born not from might, but from grief—and a single, flickering hope.
And Yoriichi, once a humble swordsman, unknowingly became its soul.