This path felt endlessly long to Yoriichi. He traversed the forest, reaching the valley's crest, when a pungent stench of rotting corpses assaulted his senses, piercing his nostrils.
Yoriichi's gaze darkened instantly. Years of battling demons had honed his sensitivity to unnatural odors.
This nauseating reek was unmistakable—the unique scent exuded only by demons who had devoured countless humans!
He pursed his lips, his brows furrowing slightly, a trace of irrepressible sorrow creeping across his face.
He pressed forward. Not far ahead, a humble wooden cabin came into view.
But at that moment, Yoriichi's attention was wholly captured by something else.
To one side of the cabin stood a solitary, forlorn grave, quietly presiding over the scene. Before it, a weathered, mottled stone bore the bold, vigorous inscription: "Chitoshi's Tomb."
The gravestone appeared meticulously clean, clearly tended with care by frequent visitors. A gentle breeze stirred, rustling what seemed like surrounding grass—but upon closer inspection, it was no grass at all!
All around the grave, countless human skulls were densely arranged!
Compared to the grave itself, the surrounding scene was truly bone-chilling!
At a glance, a sea of white stretched out, like an ocean of death.
These skulls encircled the grave in orderly rows, all facing the tomb, as if atoning in silent remorse for sins committed in life.
No!
Yoriichi peered closer, detecting a clue.
The placement and orientation of these skulls were not mere happenstance but seemed deliberately arranged.
This setup was as if they were imprisoned here, their souls forever denied release or salvation even in death!
Such an act could not be described as mere cruelty—it was utterly depraved!
Killing was not enough; this sought to trap their souls eternally!
This was no longer simple vengeance.
Yoriichi took deep breaths. His aging body could no longer endure intense emotional surges.
He forced himself not to look at the gravestone, continuing until he reached the cabin's door.
His right hand rested lightly on the ancient wooden door, fingers curling slightly. Though a thick panel separated him, his keen senses pierced through, detecting a formidable, restrained presence radiating ceaselessly from within.
This aura was like a dormant volcano, calm on the surface yet brimming with boundless energy and power, needing only the slightest spark to unleash a cataclysmic eruption.
A mere moment's sensing confirmed it for Yoriichi: the demon behind this door possessed a terrifying strength, rivaling the most formidable demons he had faced in his long years—perhaps even matching the dreaded Demon King, Muzan!
He drew a deep breath, applying slight pressure. With a faint creak, the tightly shut door slowly swung open.
Cold moonlight poured in like quicksilver, illuminating the dim interior.
Yoriichi looked up, finding the room starkly simple, almost devoid of adornments or furniture. The only notable object was a wooden tatami mat at the center.
His gaze was soon drawn to a figure in the corner.
There, someone stood with their back to him, slightly hunched, hands busy with some task, wholly absorbed.
The figure did not pause at the door's opening, saying, "You're here, Master. I didn't expect you so soon. I'm sorry, this will take a moment. Would you mind coming in and waiting a bit?"
Ren…
Though decades had passed, Yoriichi recognized his disciple at a glance.
Yoriichi stood at the threshold, his expression profoundly complex.
He wanted to ask why Ren hadn't fled, why he waited here. Did he not fear death? Did he truly believe Yoriichi wouldn't kill him?
Or did he know—know that Yoriichi's purpose in coming, weary from travel, was to slay him, not to reminisce?
He must know. What else could it be?
Yoriichi stepped inside, sitting at the small table.
Soon, the figure finished and approached, carrying something.
"Over the years, I've tried many times, but it never matched his skill. Knowing you were coming, I thought I'd make this for you. Try it, Master, and see how it compares."
Ren placed a delicate plate of sushi before Yoriichi.
Yoriichi looked up, truly seeing his disciple for the first time in decades.
Ren stood calmly, his appearance unchanged from years past.
Time seemed to have left no mark on him—neither his body nor his face showed signs of demonic decay.
Even his aura was indistinguishable from a human's.
His glossy black hair cascaded like a waterfall to his shoulders, his face still youthful, like a boy of seventeen or eighteen.
Though dressed simply in a black robe, lacking the Demon Slayer Corps' signature inner garb, in that fleeting moment, Yoriichi's thoughts blurred. He struggled to discern whether this was his former disciple or the man-eating demon.
He gazed at the sushi, memories stirring of that summer fifty years ago. Before parting, Ren had invited him to dinner at their home, where Chitoshi had prepared sushi.
Yoriichi took a piece, placing it in his mouth. Tears rolled from his clouded eyes.
That summer's sushi, delayed by half a century, he had finally tasted.
"Don't you like it? Is the taste off? I'm sorry, Master… I thought I'd gotten it right…" Ren fussed, standing nearby.
"No, it's delicious."
Yoriichi kept his head bowed, wiping his tears. When he looked up, his gaze was calm again.
"Having eaten, your master will now send you on your way."