The concept of time had ceased to exist.
There was no heartbeat to measure the seconds, no sun to mark the passage of days. There was only the sensation of walking. Yoriichi Tsugikuni walked through a void that was neither black nor white, but a profound, resonant silence. It was the silence of a sword returned to its sheath, the silence of a snow-covered field after a storm.
He did not know how long he had been walking. It could have been a moment; it could have been a millennium. The last thing he remembered was the bamboo forest, the agonizing grief of seeing his brother's monstrous form, and the failure of his own heart. He remembered the blade stopping mid-swing.
I failed, he thought, the sentiment drifting through his consciousness like a leaf on a stream. I could not save him.
But strangely, the crushing weight of that failure was absent here. The heavy burden that had bowed his shoulders for sixty years had evaporated, leaving him light. Weightless.
Slowly, the void began to fracture.
Color bled into the nothingness—first a soft, weeping violet, then a brilliant, burning gold. The silence was replaced by a low, melodic hum, like the vibration of a tuning fork struck against the fabric of reality.
Yoriichi stepped forward, and the ground beneath him solidified. It was not earth, nor was it stone. It felt like walking on surface tension.
He raised his head.
The sight that greeted him forced a breath into lungs that shouldn't have existed.
He stood on the shore of a boundless lake. The water was not water; it was liquid starlight, shimmering with a viscosity that defied physics. It rippled with hues of iridescent blue and deep, soulful indigo. Above, the sky was a masterpiece of impossible celestial mechanics.
A sun burned in the center—gentle, not blinding—while ribbons of aurora borealis danced around it, weaving tapestries of emerald and crimson light that fell like curtains toward the horizon.
It was a dreamland. A place of such terrifying beauty that it felt sacred.
"Is this the Pure Land?" Yoriichi whispered.
His voice startled him. It was not the raspy, dry whisper of an eighty-year-old man. It was clear, resonant, and strong.
He looked down at his hands.
The liver spots were gone. The wrinkled, translucent skin that had barely covered his veins was replaced by the smooth, callous-hardened flesh of a warrior in his prime. He turned his hands over, clenching and unclenching his fists. Strength flowed through them—explosive, terrifying strength.
He looked down at his body. He was wearing his red haori, the color of dried blood, over his standard Demon Slayer uniform. At his waist, familiar and comforting, rested his Nichirin katana. The black blade that had turned red in battle, the sword that had nearly decapitated the Demon King.
Confused, Yoriichi stepped toward the water's edge. The liquid starlight reflected his image perfectly.
He saw a young man of twenty-four. His hair was long, black with red tips, tied back in a high ponytail. On his forehead was the flame-like mark, the curse and the blessing of his existence. And dangling from his ears were the hanafuda earrings, swaying gently in a wind he couldn't feel.
He was young again. He was the Yoriichi who had walked the earth as a god of the sword, before age had eroded his vessel.
"I have returned to my beginning," he murmured, his face remaining stoic, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of wonder. He touched the water. It did not wet his finger; instead, it sent a warm pulse of energy up his arm, comforting and familiar.
If this is the afterlife, he reasoned, standing up straight, then where are they?
He scanned the horizon with the Transparent World. Even here, in this spiritual realm, his vision remained absolute. He looked for the spiritual signature of Uta. He looked for his unborn child. He even looked for the comrades he had fought alongside.
But the lake was empty. The auroras danced for an audience of one.
A pang of loneliness struck him, sharper than any blade. Was he destined to be alone even in death? Was this his punishment for failing to kill Muzan? To wander a paradise with no one to share it with?
No.
His eyes locked onto something in the distance.
About three hundred paces away, a solitary structure broke the natural curve of the shoreline. It was a simple bench carved from white jade, resting under a tree with leaves that looked like crystallized tears.
And someone was sitting there.
Yoriichi's hand instinctively brushed the hilt of his katana—not out of aggression, but out of habit. He relaxed his grip immediately. There was no killing intent here.
He began to walk. His footsteps made no sound on the glass-like shore. As he drew closer, the figure resolved into focus.
It was a boy. He looked to be sixteen or seventeen years old. He was dressed in robes that Yoriichi had never seen before—fine silk embroidered with strange cloud patterns, clearly expensive, yet torn and stained with blood. The boy sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
He seemed lost. Broken.
Yoriichi slowed his approach, his natural humility taking the lead. He did not want to startle the weeping soul.
"Excuse me," Yoriichi said softly.
The boy on the bench froze. The shaking of his shoulders stopped. Slowly, aggressively, he lifted his head.