The moon hung low, pale light spilling across the riverbank. Toji sat with his back against a tree, sharpening the Split Soul Katana with slow, steady strokes. Sparks danced briefly with each scrape of stone against steel.
His expression was calm, almost bored, but every muscle in his body was coiled and ready. Toji didn't need cursed energy to sense danger—his body was already sharper than most sorcerers or warriors. Every sound in the night, every shift in the wind, he processed with predator's instinct.
The child he'd allowed to follow sat nearby, hugging their knees. Their wide eyes stayed fixed on Toji, as if afraid he might disappear—or worse, abandon them.
"You're staring," Toji said, voice flat.
The kid flinched, then whispered, "You… you killed that thing so easily. How?"
Toji smirked faintly.
"Skill. Something you wouldn't understand."
The child pouted, but said nothing. For a while, only the rasp of the whetstone filled the air.
Finally, Toji spoke again, almost to himself.
"That thing back there… didn't bleed. Didn't die like anything I've seen. My blade didn't just cut its flesh. It cut… deeper."
The cursed tool pulsed faintly in his hand, as if agreeing.
Toji leaned back, letting the silence stretch. He wasn't in a rush. The world felt different here—too clean, too quiet. No cursed energy, no sorcerers, no familiar pull of danger. But the monsters roaming the night? They were real enough.
---
Far away, in the halls of the Demon Slayer Corps, rumors spread. Survivors spoke of a man with no uniform, no breathing style, cutting down a demon with a weapon that wasn't Nichirin steel.
The Hashira listened, but none could confirm it. No crow had seen him, no scout could trace his movements.
"Unlikely," one said. "A human cannot kill demons without a Nichirin blade."
"Then explain the ash in that village," another replied.
They debated endlessly, but in the end, they had no leads. No scent. No trace. No presence.
Toji Fushiguro, bound by his Heavenly Restriction, existed outside their world's rules. To them, he was a rumor. A ghost.
---
Back by the river, Toji closed his eyes, resting against the tree trunk. To the untrained eye, he looked lazy, careless. But his grip on the Katana never loosened.
The child's voice broke the quiet again, soft and hesitant.
"Why… why did you save me?"
Toji cracked one eye open, studying them. For a moment, his cool mask slipped—just a flicker, a shadow of something unspoken.
"Tch. Don't flatter yourself. You just happened to be in my way."
He leaned his head back again, smirking.
"Don't think it means I'll save you twice."
The kid frowned, but a tiny smile tugged at their lips anyway.
In the stillness of the night, Toji Fushiguro—mercenary, assassin, predator—remained undetected, untraceable, unseen. Neither demon nor Slayer could sense him.
A ghost had entered their world.