My father always told me to be humble and help those in need, it was the very principle that allowed our family to live and hide ourselves from the grasp of Demons.
Yes, Demons. Back in the Muromachi Period one of our ancestors was considered the strongest swordsman in the world to have ever lived. It was only thanks to fate and the mercy of the gods that our bloodline continued.
And ever since then each child would either be born with eyes that could see through the world itself or be born with strange flame-like Marks that spread from their forehead or neck, but never both.
But I was an exception. I was born with two dark red flame-like Marks that spread through the right side of my neck and the left side of my forehead.
The only person to ever have these marks was the older brother of the world's strongest swordsman, Michikatsu Tsugikuni. There weren't many records of him, but all we knew was that he died fighting the Demon King.
So I was named after him, and was considered a prodigy ever since I picked up the sword. After a week of training I was able to fully overpower my father.
From that moment on, I was no longer trained as a boy, but as an heir. My father's lessons grew harsher, his voice sterner, and yet I could see the pride hidden in his eyes each time my blade moved swifter than his own. He told me again and again that strength was not meant to serve the self, but to shield those without it.
Still, whispers spread through our hidden clan. Some called me blessed, others cursed. The marks that seared across my skin were unlike anything they had seen in centuries. Old scrolls spoke of them as a sign of tragedy, of a path that led only to death. Yet, when I looked into the mirror, I aw no one special.
Our clan was never large. In truth, we were little more than a handful of families bound by blood and secrecy, scattered through the mountains where few dared to wander. To the outside world, we were hunters, farmers, and craftsmen. But beneath that humble facade, we carried the weight of a legacy older than most clans.
We survived because we hid. Not only from Demons, but from men as well. Even the Demon Slayer Corps those sworn to destroy the creatures we despised never knew of us. Not even their leader, whose eyes were said to pierce through fate itself.
It was better that way. For our ties ran deeper than any would expect. Long ago, in the Muromachi period, when our ancestor stood shoulder to shoulder with the first swordsmen of the Sun, our family was exiled as the sworsmen wasn't able to kill the Demon King so our family hid. They bound themselves to the hidden village of swordsmiths, the very heart from which the Demon Slayers drew their blades. Generations of Tsugikuni blood mingled with those who forged steel, ensuring our survival even as history buried our name.
But that bond was never meant for the Corps to know. It was a covenant of secrecy a promise that as long as we remained hidden, the Demons would never find us, and the Corps would never demand our service. A pact of silence, sealed in the very sword the greatest swordmen of the world used.
Yet, as I grew and my strength bloomed, I began to understand the truth a pact cannot hold forever. Each time any member of the Demon Slayer corps would visit we would hide back to our little estate.
When my father finally confessed that he could teach me no more, he took me before the elders the keepers of the fragments of our past. Within their care were faded scrolls, ink worn thin by time, detailing a style forbidden to speak of Moon Breathing. It was said to be born of envy, wielded by the brother who turned his back on the Sun. but the moment my eyes touched those ancient forms, I felt the pull of blood and memory stronger than reason.
At first, my body rejected it. Each time I tried to thread my breath into the forms, the pain in my marks grew unbearable, as if fire itself was eating away at my skin. I would collapse, choking on my own breath, my blade trembling in my grip. Father begged me to stop, said the path was cursed, that the Moon led only to ruin.
But I could not stop. Something within me stirred every time I gazed at the night sky. The pale light of the Moon felt… familiar, almost welcoming. It was as if I felt connected to it.
So I persevered. I bled, I burned, I endured. And slowly, the pain began to change. The fire that once tore at me began to temper me, forging my body as if I were steel in the hands of a divine smith. My strikes grew heavier, yet swifter, bending into arcs and spirals beyond the reach of mortal eyes.
At night I trained in secret, the pale light above guiding my every movement. Each swing of my blade painted crescents in the air, each breath tore deeper into my lungs until they burned. The pain was unbearable, but I welcomed it. For in that agony, I felt myself grow.
And when at last I stood beneath the night sky and unleashed the First Form, a crescent slash that split the boulder I swinging my sword from.
And so at the age of 16 I was able to Master the breathing style that the brother of the worlds strongest, Yorichii Tsugikuni made to compete against him. The breathing had 10 forms each stronger than the last.
Yet here I am running away from my home as it burned down to ashes, and in the middle stood a lone figure with long dark red hair similar to my own with 3 pairs of eyes that held the words "Upper Moon One".
He looked at me with a sad expression and I believed he was gonna chase after me but instead he turned to my dear father before decapitating him with a single swing.
That was the very moment I swore to kill every demon in existence.