The swordsman turned, his breath catching for a brief moment. Before him stood a man unlike any he had ever seen. A red haori draped over his shoulders, his posture steady, his presence immense. The katana at his side radiated an aura that felt both ancient and boundless. He had fought alongside the strongest warriors of his time, had stood in the presence of revered masters, yet he had never encountered anyone who exuded such overwhelming presence.
The air between them was heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. Though the man's expression was unreadable, his presence alone spoke volumes. There was no hostility in his stance, no clear intent to fight—yet the weight of his existence was suffocating. It was as if the world itself bent around him, drawn in by the sheer gravity of his being.
For a fleeting moment, a strange unease settled in his chest. This man—whoever he was—surpassed even the strongest warriors he had known. There was no doubt. The way he stood, the way the air shifted around him, the quiet authority he carried—it was beyond anything he had ever witnessed.
For a fleeting moment, a strange unease settled in swordsman chest. This man—whoever he was even the Hashira. There was no doubt.
But before could react, his instincts flared.
A demon.
The presence was faint but unmistakable, lurking somewhere near the city. Without hesitation, he turned away from the swordsman and rushed toward the source, his body moving on instinct. His mission came first—whatever questions he had about the man could wait.
The streets blurred past him as he pushed himself forward, his keen senses sharpening as a piercing scream split through the night.
The dark alleys and twisting roads threatened to slow him down, but he refused to let them. He had to be faster. He had to reach her in time.
His feet barely touched the ground as he rushed toward the source, his speed cutting through the stillness of the night. The streets blurred past him, the world narrowing to a single focus.
Then, a scream.
High-pitched. Desperate. A girl.
His grip on his sword tightened. He had to be faster. He had to reach her before it was too late.
Shadows stretched across the alleyways, twisting in the dim glow of scattered lanterns. The city's winding roads threatened to slow him down, but he refused to falter. He pushed himself harder, each stride fueled by the single thought of saving her.
But just as he was about to close the distance, it happened.
A flicker—a flash of light so swift it was almost invisible.
By the time he reached the scene, the battle was already over.
A single, perfect slash.
His breath caught in his throat. The demon's head tumbled to the ground, its body crumbling into ash before his eyes. The fight had ended before it had even begun.
And there, standing amidst the settling silence, was the man in the red haori.
His katana gleamed under the pale moonlight, its edge still shimmering from the strike. The cut had been executed with such blinding speed and precision that the demon hadn't even had a chance to react. It was over in an instant—a display of power and skill that defied comprehension.
He stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed. He had fought countless demons, trained alongside the strongest slayers, and pushed his own limits to their breaking point. But this… this was something else entirely. This was beyond anything he had ever seen, beyond anything he had ever imagined.
The man in the red haori lowered his blade with a calm, almost effortless grace, as if slaying a demon was as natural as breathing. There was no arrogance in his posture, no pride in his expression—only a quiet, almost solemn focus, as though the act carried a weight only he could feel.
The forest around them was eerily silent, the air thick with the weight of what had just transpired. The moonlight bathed the scene in its cold, silver glow, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly. And as the dust of the demon's remains settled, one thing became painfully, undeniably clear.
'This man was no ordinary slayer.'
He was something beyond human comprehension. Something… different.
The weight of the moment pressed down on him. Silence stretched between them, unbroken save for the distant rustling of leaves in the cold night breeze.
The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken questions. The demon's remains had already vanished into the wind, yet the tension in the air lingered, heavier than before.
The swordsman steadied his breath, his eyes locked onto the man before him. He had seen many warriors—fought beside the strongest of the Demon Slayer Corps—but this man was something else entirely. His presence was immense, his blade sharper than reason itself.
Yet, the name he had just uttered… meant nothing to him.
"Yoriichi." The swordsman repeated it under his breath, testing the weight of it. He had never heard it before. Not in the Corps, not in any records, not even in the hushed stories passed down by the elders.
Still, something about it unsettled him.
The man—Yoriichi—watched him with calm, unreadable eyes. There was no arrogance in his stance, no expectation of recognition. Just patience.
The swordsman tightened his grip on his hilt. "I don't know who you are."
Yoriichi remained silent.
"But you—" He exhaled sharply. "You're no ordinary slayer."
Yoriichi tilted his head slightly, as if considering the statement. "And you," he said at last, "bear of someone who has fought many battles."
The swordsman didn't respond immediately. Instead, he shifted his stance, his hand resting lightly against the hilt of his blade. There was no hostility in his movements, only a quiet resolve.
"…I am Water Hashira Giyu Tomioka of the Demon Slayer Corps.
For the first time, something flickered in Yoriichi's expression. It wasn't just recognition—it was something deeper, something older, as if the word had stirred a memory long buried. His eyes, usually so calm and unreadable, seemed to darken for a moment, like a shadow passing over the moon.
"…Hashira?" Yoriichi murmured, the word sounding strange on his tongue, as if it were a relic from a language he hadn't spoken in years.
Giyu's eyes narrowed, his grip on his sword tightening instinctively. "You don't know what a Hashira is?" he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief.
Yoriichi didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted away, as if he were searching for something in the distance—something only he could see. Finally, he shook his head, his voice soft but firm. "No."
The answer hit Giyu like a blow. How could someone like this—a man who moved with such effortless precision, who had just cut down a demon in a single, blinding strike—not know of the Hashira? The pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps? The strongest warriors to ever wield a blade? It didn't make sense. None of it did.
Giyu's jaw tightened, his mind racing. "You're telling me you've been fighting demons, but you've never heard of the Hashira? The Corps? Anything?"
Yoriichi's expression didn't change. He simply stood there, calm and unyielding, as if the weight of Giyu's questions didn't touch him. But there was something in his eyes—something distant, almost mournful—that made Giyu's chest tighten.
"…Who are you, really?" Giyu asked, his voice lower now, edged with something that wasn't quite suspicion but wasn't quite curiosity either. It was a question that had been burning in the back of his mind since the moment he'd seen Yoriichi move. A question he couldn't ignore any longer.
Yoriichi exhaled softly, his gaze drifting to the ground. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if weighing his words carefully. Then, he spoke, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness of the night.
"A man who walks a path that no longer exists."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, like a storm cloud waiting to break. Giyu felt a chill run down his spine, sharp and inexplicable. There was something haunting in the way Yoriichi said it—something that felt like a whisper from a time long forgotten, a memory that had no place in the present.
Giyu's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but the look in Yoriichi's eyes stopped him. It wasn't just sadness or regret. It was something deeper, something that felt almost… final. Like the closing of a book that had been written centuries ago.
The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Giyu could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, filling the space between their words with unspoken questions and unanswerable truths. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more—the gravity of Yoriichi's words, or the sinking feeling that he had just stepped into a story far larger, far older, than he could ever hope to understand.
But one thing was certain.
Yoriichi was unlike anyone Giyu had ever met. His presence, his strength, the way he carried himself—it was as if he belonged to another time, another world. And whatever path he walked, it was one that would change everything.
Giyu swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. "You should come to headquarters," he said, his voice steady but softer now. "Oyakata-sama will want to meet you. And… you don't have to walk this path alone."
Yoriichi's gaze met his again, and for a moment, Giyu thought he saw something shift—a flicker of emotion, distant and almost nostalgic. Then, with a slow nod, Yoriichi closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for what lay ahead, his expression calm but carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken. After a moment, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his voice quiet but firm.
"…Very well. I will accompany you."
Giyu gave a small nod and turned toward the path ahead. As they began to walk, the weight of the moment settled over him like a heavy cloak. This wasn't just some stranger joining their ranks. It felt like Yoriichi was stepping back into a world he'd once known—a world that had moved on without him. And as the moonlight cast long shadows across their path, Giyu couldn't shake the feeling that this man's presence would change everything.
Giyu exhaled slowly, his grip on his sword easing just a fraction. The man before him was an enigma—his strength, his calm demeanor, the way he spoke as if the Demon Slayer Corps were a relic of a forgotten age. Yet, if he was truly hunting demons, if he genuinely didn't know of the Hashira, then there was only one place where answers could be found.
"The Demon Slayer Corps has a place for swordsmen like you," Giyu said, his voice steady but laced with an edge of curiosity. "If you're fighting demons, you should come to our headquarters. You don't have to do this alone."
Yoriichi didn't move. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Giyu, unreadable and heavy with something unspoken. The night seemed to hold its breath, the rustling of distant leaves the only sound breaking the silence. Then, in a voice so soft it was almost carried away by the wind, he spoke.
"They still… allow me to stand among them?"
The words hung in the air, weighted with a quiet disbelief that made Giyu's chest tighten. There was no curiosity in Yoriichi's tone—only a haunting resignation, as if the idea itself was a distant dream he'd long since abandoned.
Giyu's brow furrowed. "Of course," he said, his voice firm but tinged with confusion. "Why wouldn't they?"
Yoriichi didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted upward, toward the endless expanse of the night sky, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he were searching for something—or perhaps remembering. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally exhaled, a sound so faint it was almost lost to the night.
"…I see."
There was something unsettling in the way he said it, a quiet sorrow that sent a shiver down Giyu's spine. But he pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand. "You should meet Oyakata-sama," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "If you've been fighting demons on your own, the Corps can offer you support. You don't have to carry this burden alone."
Yoriichi's eyes met his again, and for a fleeting moment, Giyu thought he saw something shift—a flicker of emotion, distant and nostalgic, like the echo of a memory long buried. Then, with a slow nod, Yoriichi closed his eyes, as if steeling himself for what lay ahead.
"…Very well."
Giyu gave a small nod of acknowledgment and turned toward the path ahead. As they began to walk, the weight of the moment settled over him. This wasn't just a stranger joining their ranks—it felt as though Yoriichi was stepping back into a world he had once known, a world that had moved on without him. And as the moonlight cast long shadows across their path, Giyu couldn't shake the feeling that this man's presence would change everything.