Night was supposed to be empty.
Kaigaku knew this because he'd grown up inside nights like this—thin moon, broken clouds, trees pressed together so tightly they seemed to whisper complaints. Nights where nothing watched you unless you deserved it.
Which was why the feeling crawling up his spine annoyed him more than it scared him.
He stopped on the branch mid-step, sandal half-lifted, breath steady. Below him, the forest sloped into a shallow ravine littered with old leaves and the bones of trees that had rotted where they fell. No smell of blood. No demon stench. No movement.
And yet.
Someone is there.
Kaigaku clicked his tongue softly and finished the step, landing without sound. His hand rested near his sword—not drawing, not relaxing. Waiting.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath. "If you're a demon, stop pretending you're clever."
The words tasted wrong the moment he spoke them.
Don't announce yourself, a memory answered—sharp, instinctive, not a voice. People who want to kill you don't need invitations.
Kaigaku scowled. "I know that."
The forest did not react.
Then—
A presence unfolded.
Not stepped out. Not appeared. Unfolded, like a shadow deciding it had always been standing upright.
The man stood at the bottom of the ravine, framed by moonlight that refused to touch him properly. Tall. Still. Six eyes opening slowly across his face like a judgment being completed.
Kaigaku felt his lungs forget how to work.
Every instinct he had—Thunder Breathing drills, survival hunger, the ugly little animal part of him that clawed for advantage—screamed the same word:
Death.
"Oh," Kaigaku said, because his mouth worked even if his body wanted to flee. "That's… excessive."
The man's gaze lifted.
All six eyes locked onto Kaigaku at once.
The pressure hit like a blade laid gently across his throat—not cutting, just reminding him it could.
"You sensed me," the man said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't echo. It simply existed, and the forest rearranged itself around it.
Kaigaku swallowed. "You weren't subtle."
A pause.
Then—something close to amusement flickered through two of those eyes.
"Interesting," the man continued. "Most humans either kneel or run."
Kaigaku snorted before he could stop himself. "Those sound like bad long-term strategies."
Idiot, his instincts hissed.
Correct, another memory countered, calmer, colder. If you're already seen, posture is all you have.
Kaigaku shifted his stance—not into a formal guard, not into a corpse's panic. Side-on. Balanced. Ready to draw, but not begging to.
The man noticed.
Of course he did.
"You are a Demon Slayer trainee," the man said, eyes tracing Kaigaku's callused hands, the sword, the way his weight distributed. "But you do not breathe like one."
Kaigaku raised a brow. "You checking my lungs now?"
That earned him a longer look.
"You have learned Thunder Breathing," the man said. "Poorly taught. Excessively driven."
Kaigaku bristled. "Hey—"
"And yet," the man continued, unbothered, "your intent fractures before release. You withhold."
Kaigaku froze.
That wasn't possible. No one noticed that. Not his seniors. Not the other trainees. Not even—
—your former self would have cut already, the memory finished.
Kaigaku's jaw tightened. "You stalking kids in the woods to give critiques now?"
A beat.
Then the man stepped forward.
The world compressed.
Leaves flattened. Branches bowed. The distance between them collapsed without the man seeming to hurry at all.
Kaigaku's sword was halfway out before he realized he'd moved.
The man stopped an arm's length away.
Six eyes regarded Kaigaku like a specimen that had learned to speak.
"Kokushibo," he said calmly. "Upper Rank One."
Kaigaku's breath hitched despite himself. "Right. Of course you are."
Run, every sane part of him screamed.
You can't, the other part answered, steady and merciless. You won't survive the turn.
Kokushibo's gaze narrowed slightly. "You are not afraid enough."
Kaigaku barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. "Oh, I'm terrified. I just don't see the point in embarrassing myself about it."
Something like genuine interest stirred now.
"You should be screaming," Kokushibo said. "Or begging."
Kaigaku rolled his shoulders, feeling the old ache there—the one that didn't belong to this life, the echo of too many fights survived by restraint instead of force. "Yeah, well. I've screamed before. Didn't help."
Silence stretched.
Then Kokushibo tilted his head.
"You carry memories that are not yours."
Kaigaku's heart skipped.
"Excuse me?"
"Your body is young," Kokushibo said. "But your reactions are… fatigued. As if you have killed far more than you remember."
Kaigaku forced a grin. "You saying I look experienced? Because I'll take that."
"That is not a compliment."
Kokushibo's hand moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just inevitable.
Kaigaku's sword cleared its sheath in a single smooth motion—no Thunder Breathing form, no explosive dash. Just a clean battō draw, angled low, timed to interrupt rather than overwhelm.
Steel met air.
Kokushibo's fingers stopped a hair from the blade.
The shockwave split leaves behind Kaigaku and carved a line into the ravine wall.
Kaigaku's arms screamed.
His feet slid back an inch.
Kokushibo's eyes widened—just slightly.
"That was not Thunder," Kokushibo said.
Kaigaku grinned through clenched teeth. "Yeah. I've been told."
Efficiency over flash, the memory reminded him. If you can't win, don't escalate. If you can't escape, don't provoke.
Kokushibo withdrew his hand.
"You chose restraint," he said. "Against me."
"Didn't feel like dying dramatic tonight," Kaigaku shot back. "Low energy."
For the first time, Kokushibo laughed.
It was quiet. Almost respectful.
"You are defective," Kokushibo said. "And therefore… promising."
Kaigaku exhaled slowly, lowering his blade but not sheathing it. "You flatter everyone you almost kill, or am I special?"
"You are a contradiction," Kokushibo replied. "Ambition without patience. Hunger without surrender."
He leaned closer.
"Become a demon."
The words fell like a verdict.
Kaigaku felt it then—the pull. Not mystical. Practical. Power offered without the grinding ceiling of human limits.
For a heartbeat, he wanted it.
Then another memory rose—red-stained hands, a blade lowered after the killing blow, the weight of choosing to stop.
Kaigaku scoffed. "Hard pass."
Kokushibo studied him.
"You would rather die."
Kaigaku shrugged. "I'd rather decide."
A long silence.
Then Kokushibo straightened.
"Very well," he said. "Live longer. Grow sharper. I will remember you."
The pressure vanished.
The forest breathed again.
Kokushibo stepped back into shadow and unfolded out of existence, leaving only crushed leaves and a ravine split by invisible force.
Kaigaku stood there for a long moment.
Then his knees buckled and he dropped onto the branch, laughing breathlessly.
"Upper Rank One," he muttered. "Sure. Why not."
His hands shook.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
And somewhere deep inside, an old warrior's fatigue stirred—uneasy, watchful, already aware that this meeting had broken something that could never be put back.