Michikatsu-san was a peculiar man.
Or perhaps I should call him a Demon.
Though he seemed like a hero plucked from a legend—one who could slay monstrous Demons without a second thought—he spoke and acted like an ordinary man, possessing a sincerity that held not a single trace of falsehood.
His speech and refined bearing suggested noble origins, yet strangely, he never looked down on others or concerned himself with formal etiquette. Moreover, he possessed the uncanny ability to prepare wondrous and delicious meals.
Despite being unable to taste the food himself, he made an abundance of dishes that were remarkably flavorful.
He carried with him dozens of bundles of strange stories, and every single one told by Michikatsu-san was fascinating.
Every night, once we had all fallen asleep, he would venture out somewhere and return before dawn. Even though he must have been exhausted, if Suyako and I pleaded to hear more of his tales, he never showed a sign of annoyance. He would not stop unpacking his bag of stories until we drifted off to sleep.
Most of his tales concerned Demons and the hunters who tracked them. He claimed they were true stories, but for us, who lived lives far removed from the reach of Demons, they felt somewhat surreal.
Of course, having seen a Demon with my own eyes, it wasn't that I didn't believe him. Besides, his scent never carried the stench of a lie.
The stories he told were so vivid that I often felt as though I were standing right there on the scene.
He spoke of joining an organization called the Demon Slayer Corps, rising to the high rank of Hashira, and severing the heads of Demons using techniques called Breathing Styles.
It was a heroic saga, like a fairytale come to life.
Before I knew it, I would find myself finishing my charcoal sales and hurrying back up the mountain just to listen to his words.
And at the heart of all those stories was a man named Yoriichi.
His twin brother—a man so powerful that Michikatsu-san claimed he had never once defeated him.
He told us that Yoriichi had possessed the Breathing Styles, the Mark, and the Transparent World since the very moment of his birth, and that even now, as a Demon, Michikatsu-san did not feel he could ever win.
He went as far as to say that everything he had built for himself was nothing more than an imitation of his brother.
He spoke of Muzan, the King of Demons, who would not die even when subjected to attacks powerful enough to cleave a mountain—attacks Michikatsu-san had unleashed after abandoning his humanity to become a Demon. Yet, he said Yoriichi-san was the only one who had cornered that King, and did so as if it were the most natural thing in the world...
To think someone could make the mighty Michikatsu-san seem insignificant by comparison... did such a person truly exist in this world?
However.
As I listened to his tales, there were parts I could not quite understand.
Even to an outsider like me, his achievements were clearly magnificent. He had taken everything Yoriichi-san possessed, made it his own, and taught it to the Demon Slayer Corps without asking for anything in return.
So why did he seem to lack any sense of self-worth?
I couldn't fathom it.
Whenever he spoke of Yoriichi-san, the scent emanating from him was one of exasperated disbelief, but never jealousy.
But it was different when he introduced his other comrades.
They were also great people, surely as remarkable as Michikatsu-san himself, yet he held them in higher regard than he held himself.
He called them geniuses, saying they had absorbed in mere moments things that had taken him years to master, even accounting for the fact that they were learning from his experiences.
Compared to them, he belittled himself as nothing more than a mediocre man.
I simply couldn't understand that.
Didn't that make Michikatsu-san even more incredible?
Even if he knew of Yoriichi-san's power, Michikatsu-san had taught himself and made those techniques his own without any explanation. The other Hashira had only learned because they had Michikatsu-san there to explain it to them.
It was just like how my posture was clumsy no matter how many hundreds of times I swung the axe to chop wood, yet I succeeded the moment my father taught me the trick.
Knowing something is possible and achieving it through self-study is worlds apart from achieving it under someone's guidance...
It wasn't false modesty, nor was it the scent of a lie. He truly believed what he was saying.
To envy their talent while simultaneously cherishing them and refusing to view them as rivals...
He was a strange man, fascinating yet odd.
And at the same time, he was a pitiful man.
Because the scent he always gave off was this:
A scent that seemed to say, though he never voiced it, that he did not belong in such a harmonious household because he was a Demon.
When he told us stories, when he watched over Sumire in our stead, and when he cooked us delicious meals.
It was a fragrance that insisted he could never be permitted to stay in such a peaceful place.
It was the scent of someone who felt he could never blend in anywhere—one who treated himself as an impurity, a stranger.
The fact that a man worthy of being called a hero viewed himself in such a way was truly heartbreaking.
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"I have brought some tea."
I walked toward him on the porch. He was watching over Sumire in place of Suyako, who had fallen asleep.
He had told me that as a Demon, human food did not agree with him, but I had heard that mild drinks similar to water, like barley tea, were less of a burden. So, I brought him a cup.
"My thanks... for this," Michikatsu-san replied with a faint smile.
Sumire seemed to find his arms comfortable, as she was fast asleep in his lap.
"She is truly a deep sleeper... My apologies. It seems my wife has drifted off as well."
I carefully took the sleeping Sumire from his arms.
"I am terribly sorry to have burdened a guest with childcare."
Michikatsu-san shook his head, dismissing the apology.
"Do not mind it. She must be exhausted. Raising a child is a difficult task. Regardless, for this child not to fear a Demon like me... she will surely grow up to be fine general material."
Haha... she's a girl, though...
He took a sip of the barley tea I had given him, wetting his throat.
"At any rate... it is somewhat awkward for a Demon like me to continue staying here. I intend to leave tonight. I am grateful for everything."
The scent drifted from him as he spoke.
That scent again.
That specific scent of treating himself as a stranger who cannot blend in—as an impurity.
Whether he did so consciously or unconsciously, he believed he was not allowed to live alongside humans.
And yet, he did not devour people as other Demons did; he killed Demons instead.
He was a man standing on a precarious threshold, belonging nowhere.
Was there any place where such a stranger could find peace?
Or was it that such a place existed, but he had mistakenly convinced himself it could never be for him?
"Not at all! You are our savior. Had you not been here, neither my wife and I nor this child would even exist!"
At my words, his eyes widened briefly before a small smile touched his lips.
"Even so, I am a Demon. A man-eating monster. I stay here on the porch so that I can face the sunlight immediately if the need arises... but one never knows when I might lose control."
He smiled faintly and took another sip of tea.
His words did not come from a place of arrogance—of claiming to be different from me—but from a place of pure consideration for our safety. Because of that, his silhouette looked all the lonelier.
My heart ached at that scent and that sight.
It was simply too cruel.
He had fought for the sake of humanity.
He had spent his very lifespan to slaughter Demons.
He had even abandoned his humanity and become a Demon just to stake everything on the fight against the Demon King.
And yet, after all that, this was his only reward.
I wanted to give him something in return.
Because we lived thanks to him, and surely there were others who continued their lives because of him.
For you to slowly fade away like this is just too cruel.
Is there truly nothing I can do to repay him?
Think, I must think.
There must be something.
Something that can offer Michikatsu-san even a sliver of comfort.
Come to think of it, he once lamented that he would be unable to leave behind his techniques.
Perhaps that could offer him some solace?
"I understand... Then at the very least, I shall preserve your story."
"My story?"
He looked at me with a startled expression.
Yes, I would leave his story behind.
Perhaps this would be a pointless gesture, as you will live for a very long time as a Demon.
But I want to ensure that in the distant future, your story is not dismissed as the idle boasts of a Demon.
So that the path you have run so hard to forge may be rewarded.
I wanted it to be passed down to the generations to come.
"Though a lowly charcoal burner like me may not be enough... one day, someone..."
In this era.
"Will carry on your legacy."
The tale that a man like you once fought against the Demons.
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