The ringing of steel.
Kokushibo's face — twisted in fury, half his head severed, blood spilling like a dark river.
Yorichi's own knees had given way, yet his sword kept him upright, its blade buried in the earth.
He remembered the silence that followed.
The world had felt strangely peaceful.
He had stood there as the night wind touched his face, and slowly, gently, his vision had darkened.
His final thought had been of the sun — that it would rise again tomorrow, even if he did not.
That had been the end.
It should have been the end.
But breath filled his lungs.
Yorichi's eyes opened to darkness — not death, but night. The moon was bright above him, silvering the clearing where he lay. Moss-covered stones of a half-broken shrine surrounded him.
For a long moment, he stayed still. His hand found his chest — no pain, no weakness. His body felt… whole. Young. Strong.
He sat up, and the grass whispered under him. His Nichirin sword rested nearby, its scabbard free of dust or age, as if no time had passed.
"…I died."
His voice was quiet, almost surprised. He looked down at his hands — steady, unwrinkled.
"Why am I here?"
No answer came but the rustle of the trees.
Yorichi rose to his feet, sliding the blade into his sash. The night was still.
He began to walk.
The world felt unfamiliar. The dirt road he found was lined with tall poles strung with black wires that hummed softly. In the far distance, a low metallic groan echoed — unlike any cart or bell he had ever heard.
"This is… not the world I knew."
His steps were silent, his expression calm. Whatever fate had called him back, he would follow its path.
A faint scent reached him then — coppery, sharp.
Blood.
He moved without hesitation, following the smell to the edge of a small village. Shadows flickered between houses. A scream cut through the night.
When he arrived, he saw a demon — its arms long and twisted — holding a woman by the throat. The ground was already wet with blood from two others lying motionless.
The demon turned when it felt him. Its grin faltered.
"Who—?"
Yorichi stepped forward, the moonlight catching in his red hair and pale haori.
"Let her go."
His voice was soft, but it carried like steel through the night.
The demon hissed, baring its teeth. "You think you can order me, human?"
"Let her go," Yorichi repeated.
The demon snarled and hurled the woman aside, lunging at him with claws raised—
A single flash of steel.
The world went still.
The demon's head fell, its body following a heartbeat later. The sound of Yorichi sheathing his sword was louder than the kill itself.
He walked to the woman, helped her to her feet.
"You're safe," he said simply, before turning away.
She stared after him, wide-eyed, unable to speak as he disappeared down the road, his silhouette framed by the moon.
Somewhere in the forest, a night bird cried.
The world felt very, very awake.
The road eventually led him to the city.
It was late, but the streets were alive. Paper lanterns glowed red and gold, casting warm light over crowds of people. Men in tailored coats laughed over drinks. Women in bright-patterned kimono strolled past, their hair pinned with shining ornaments. Street vendors called out, selling skewers of grilled fish and bowls of steaming noodles.
Yorichi stopped at the edge of the street, silent as ever, taking it all in.
The smells were sharper here — smoke, soy sauce, the faint sting of oil. The clatter of shoes on stone was constant. And everywhere, those humming black wires overhead, strange lights glowing inside glass bulbs, steady and bright as captured fireflies.
He stepped forward.
People moved aside slightly, not out of fear, but simple instinct — the way one would step aside for a tall stranger with a sword at his hip. Some glanced at him curiously:
His height, his long crimson hair tied back, the pale haori that looked older than any style they had seen.
The faint mark on his face, strange but not enough to draw comment.
His eyes — calm, deep, watching everything.
No one stopped him. The city swallowed him like any other passerby.
Yorichi walked until the smell of grilled food reached him. Hunger stirred — faint but undeniable. He had not felt it in… how long? He could not remember.
He stopped at a corner stall, where a man turned skewers over hot coals. The vendor glanced up, not startled, just taking him in like any other late-night customer.
"Yakitori? Two sen," the man said.
Yorichi nodded once and reached into his sleeve — his fingers brushed the small coin pouch still tucked there, miraculously as it had been the night he died.
He paid without a word and accepted the skewer.
The first bite was slow, thoughtful. The taste was simple but warm — salt, smoke, fat. For a moment, Yorichi simply stood there under the glow of the paper lantern, eating quietly as life went on around him.
A pair of children ran past, laughing. A rickshaw clattered by, carrying a man in Western clothes. Somewhere down the street, someone played a shamisen, soft and distant.
Yorichi finished the food and set the empty skewer gently back on the stall's tray.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The vendor just nodded and turned back to the grill.
Yorichi stepped back into the street, his mind quiet but his senses sharp. The world had changed, but its heart was the same — people laughed, cried, lived, and feared the night.
Somewhere out there, the demons still hunted.
He walked on, disappearing into the flow of the crowd, just another lone figure under the lanterns.
Yorichi's steps were silent on the road until he saw the boy.
The teenager stopped as soon as their eyes met — Yorichi's tall frame and strange, old-fashioned haori catching the moonlight. His gaze swept over Yorichi's sheathed sword, the faint mark across his brow.
He quickly bowed, his voice respectful.
"My apologies, sir! I didn't see you."
Yorichi's brow tilted faintly. "…Sir?"
The boy straightened, looking nervous but speaking quickly.
"You must be one of the Hashira! Forgive me for not greeting you properly!"
"Hashira?" Yorichi repeated softly, tasting the word like something foreign.
The boy blinked. "…You're not a Hashira?"
"No," Yorichi said calmly. "I am a swordsman. And you are?"
"I'm Saburō, East Patrol Squad, sir," the boy replied.
"You hunt demons?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a Demon Slayer — part of the Corps."
"…The Corps." Yorichi's voice was quiet, but his eyes sharpened.
"Yes," Saburō said, still glancing at him nervously. "There are many of us. We protect villages, towns — everywhere. The Hashira lead us."
"Who commands this Corps?"
"Master Ubuyashiki," the boy said quickly. "He lives at the main estate — but it's far from here."
"Where is it?" Yorichi asked.
Saburō hesitated. "Why do you ask, sir?"
"I wish to know how far humanity has come in its war," Yorichi said simply. "If your Master leads this effort, I will see him."
The boy still looked puzzled, but Yorichi's quiet presence allowed no doubt.
"You'll find the estate if you follow the western road through the cedar hills," the boy said finally. "But…"
"But?"
"The Hashira are all there right now — training."
"Training?" Yorichi's tone was soft, but curious.
"Yes," Saburō said, nodding. "The Master ordered Hashira training for everyone — even the lowest ranks. They're making us stronger for the battles ahead."
Yorichi's eyes lowered slightly in thought.
So — they were preparing for something. For war.
He looked back at Saburō.
"You've been helpful. Return to your duty."
Saburō bowed again, relief in his shoulders. "Yes, sir!"
When he straightened, the tall man was already walking away, his steps quiet, his figure slowly fading into the dark road.