Chapter 5 – Battle Against Rokuro
Tachibana Kyūjō stood still.
His eyes were fixed on the figure approaching—an oni with bloodshot eyes and a mouth still stained with what looked like tofu soup, staring at him with hungry anticipation.
Rokuro, Lower Moon Two, advanced slowly, his lips curled into a grotesque grin.
A chill crept into Kyūjō's spine.
"If I lose… I'll be eaten too, won't I?"
He quieted his thoughts. Pushed away the fear.
He stepped into position.
Right foot slid back. Knee bent. His waist dropped into a lowered stance. His right hand hovered gently over the hilt of the katana hanging at his side.
"Breath…"
His breathing adjusted. His heartbeat slowed. The world seemed to fall into a calm, silent rhythm.
He drew into the opening stance of his inherited technique—Iaijutsu.
His gaze sharpened.
Rokuro was exactly five meters away.
Then, between them—in the empty space where tension gathered—fine threads of invisible light began to appear, like the glinting strands of spider silk in the dark.
These were gaps—visible only to those who had awakened Kenshin Tōmei—the Sword's Heart.
An inner sight that connected sword, rhythm, and world. The lines danced gently in the air, flowing into Kyūjō's mind with lucid precision.
Rokuro halted.
His narrowed eyes scanned the young human before him. A boy—nothing more. And yet…
Why did he feel this… unease?
The moment Kyūjō's fingers touched the sword, a spike of intuition stabbed Rokuro's brain.
If I take one more step forward…
I'll be sliced to pieces.
Rokuro's lips curled, his pride flaring like fire.
"A mere insect… thinks it can harm me?!"
With a roar of fury, he lunged forward.
His claws slashed through the air, fangs bared—aiming straight for Kyūjō's face with terrifying speed no normal eye could follow.
But to Kyūjō, the world had slowed to a crawl.
"Now."
His eyes locked onto Rokuro's inner elbow.
In that instant, the gap opened.
And like a bolt of lightning piercing a storm, the katana flashed from its sheath.
A clean, merciless draw. The blade cut through the air—through flesh.
It glided through muscle like a hot knife through wax, sliding across joint and tendon with inhuman precision.
Kyūjō stepped back, resheathing the sword in one smooth motion.
A moment later—
Rokuro's right arm hit the ground.
The very ground Kyūjō had been standing on a second earlier.
But something about the wound was… strange.
The cut was too clean. Even the bone had been severed perfectly at the joint. As if the arm had been designed to be removed.
Rokuro stared at his fallen limb in disbelief. The pain finally surged—sharp, vicious, crawling into his skull like hot needles.
Rage. Pure, blinding rage.
But Kyūjō was already out of range, his eyes focused and calm.
Rokuro growled and raised his leg to deliver a high, crushing kick to Kyūjō's head.
But before it could connect—Kyūjō read him.
Through Kenshin Tōmei, he felt the tension in Rokuro's muscles. The direction of the force. The angle of the next move.
He dropped backward.
Then with a fierce motion, he slashed upward from below.
The oni's heel struck the blade first.
But the katana had already carved through his ankle—muscle and flesh parted like silk, the edge emerging clean on the other side.
Kyūjō's eyes flicked briefly to Rokuro's severed hand.
It was already starting to regenerate.
"…This rate of regeneration… nearly on par with an Upper Moon…"
His eyes narrowed.
Could his Blood Demon Art be like Akaza's? Body reinforcement for hand-to-hand supremacy?
But Kyūjō didn't linger.
He turned and sprinted into the forest outside the city.
He knew.
No matter how it looked from the outside—this wasn't a fair fight.
In strength and speed, Rokuro far outclassed him. One mistake, and his life would end.
And worse—
Rokuro hadn't even used his Blood Demon Art yet.
Meanwhile, Kyūjō…
He had already pushed himself past the limit.
— — —
Rokuro watched the boy flee into the trees.
"…Running away?"
His jaw tightened. Veins bulged across his temples.
A member of the Twelve Kizuki—mocked… by a brat who couldn't even use Breathing Techniques?
His rage exploded.
Without caring about his damaged leg, he leapt after him—eyes locked on a single target.
Kyūjō's back.
— — —
Once Rokuro vanished into the forest, the only remaining witness—Fujiwara Naoto—finally exhaled.
His breathing was ragged. His eyes shook.
He stared at the severed limbs scattered across the alley.
"…Incredible," he whispered. "His swordsmanship… to cut so precisely, through arms and legs, at that speed…"
But awe couldn't mask the fear in his chest.
Naoto clenched his fists.
Kyūjō… isn't part of the Demon Slayer Corps. He doesn't use Breathing Techniques. And more importantly…
"…If I saw correctly, his blade isn't a Nichirin Sword…"
Without that special ore, no demon could be truly slain.
No matter how many times they were dismembered, as long as their heads remained, they would regenerate.
And eventually…
Kyūjō would run out of stamina.
Naoto looked up at the sky, then knelt beside his fallen comrade.
He picked up the Nichirin Blade from the corpse's hand.
With a sword in each hand, he ran—toward the forest. Toward the sound of battle. Toward where the clash of two fates was unfolding.
— — —
Outside the city.
Beneath a canopy of mossy branches and moon-filtered fog, Kyūjō stopped running and turned around.
He stood calmly on damp earth, sword gripped tightly.
Behind him, crashing through branches and roots, Rokuro emerged—limping, furious.
His left shoe was gone. One sleeve had been torn off. He looked like a mess.
But his grin never faded.
"You stopped running?"
The demon's voice was hoarse, burning with hatred.
"You filthy human insect… I'll crush you until nothing's left!"
Kyūjō didn't respond.
He raised his sword with both hands, standing firm.
His eyes were clear.
There were no words.
Only the wind—sighing through the forest.
Carrying with it the scent of blood… the earth… and the unshakable resolve of a man who had chosen to stand and fight.
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