Morning bathed the Swordsmith Village in a gentle gold as the trees swayed and the hot springs hissed quietly in the distance. The Yorichii Zero Model stood tall in the clearing, and beside it, Muichiro Tokito, the Mist Hashira, practiced in silent focus.
His strikes were sharp, relentless — yet cold, mechanical.
Tanjiro watched him with admiration but also concern.
"You know… your strikes are powerful, but your heart… it's not in them," Tanjiro said softly.
Muichiro paused, turning his gaze slightly. "Feelings don't matter in combat."
Tanjiro smiled gently, walking closer. "Maybe not to you. But your strength isn't just in your sword. There's more to you… something you haven't remembered yet."
Muichiro said nothing, but a glint of emotion crossed his eyes before he turned back to the Zero Model, striking again — this time with a little more breath in his movement.
—
Later that evening, Tanjiro met Mitsuri Kanroji at the hot springs. The sun dipped low, painting the skies with pink and orange. Mitsuri greeted him with her usual warmth.
"You're working so hard again, Tanjiro!" she beamed. "It's inspiring!"
Tanjiro chuckled sheepishly. "I guess I just don't want to fall behind."
Mitsuri leaned against the wooden fence, looking toward the distant mountains. "Just don't forget to smile. That's a kind of strength, too."
—
Night fell quietly.
Tanjiro sat with Muichiro and Nezuko under the stars, resting beside a flowing stream. They shared rice balls, laughter, and a rare moment of peace.
But behind the tree line… he watched.
Kokushibo, Upper Rank One.
His eyes, with rings like celestial curses, stared not at Tanjiro himself, but at his hanafudda earrings. Memories flickered — the image of Yorichii, his brother, burned into his mind even after centuries.
"So you wear his legacy," Kokushibo murmured. "But are you his heir…?"
He stepped closer — silent, deadly.
And then — a shift in the wind.
From the shadows, a masked figure emerged.
Kokushibo's instincts flared. In a blink, his blade was out — six slashes of Moon Breathing arced toward the stranger.
But then — CLANG.
The masked man caught Kokushibo's blade mid-strike — barehanded.
Kokushibo's eyes widened. "What…?"
The moonlight caught only fragments of the masked man's form. Clad in dense fabric, his face concealed in shadow, his presence immense — yet calm, still.
"I'll say it once," the stranger's voice echoed beneath the mask, deep and unwavering.
"Not tonight."
Kokushibo's blade trembled slightly in his hand.