Hayashi stood on the streets of Tokyo Prefecture during the Taishō era, quietly taking in the unique charm of the times.
Wooden telephone poles lined the roadside, and electric lights illuminated the semi-modern streets.
Traditional wooden houses still dotted the area, but here and there Western-style buildings rose up.
Passersby reflected this blend as well—some in kimono, others in modern suits. Hayashi even noticed a group of female students in sailor uniforms laughing as they walked together, reminiscent of something out of Taishō Baseball Girls.
Not far behind them, a maid hurried along the street.
Hayashi couldn't help but think, half-in jest: So the sailor uniforms and maid outfits of this era really are like this… perhaps I should study them with academic rigor.
But then he shook his head. If this were a novel, readers wouldn't want me rambling about sailor uniforms or maid costumes.
Besides, another voice quickly disrupted his thoughts.
"Humai!"
"This ramen is delicious!"
"Another bowl, please!"
"Humai!"
At a roadside stall, Rengoku Kyōjurō was devouring ramen with great enthusiasm, his booming praise echoing through the street.
Hayashi rubbed his forehead in silence. Yes… with this man around, I'll never feel lonely.
Across from them, Sanemi Shinazugawa's forehead twitched, veins bulging.
"You—! Even if it tastes good, you don't need to shout after every bite!"
But before he could continue, several exhausted men in white coats emerged from a nearby clinic.
"Mr. Fujino, still no leads?" asked a younger doctor as he slumped into a seat at the stall. His voice was heavy with fatigue.
"There are too many patients with fever and coma lately, and we still haven't found any treatment…"
He lowered his voice.
"Friends in other prefectures say nothing similar is happening elsewhere. Could it be… not an illness at all, but the work of a demon—"
Bang!
The man called Mr. Fujino slammed his chopsticks against the counter, eyes hard.
"Kamenosuke! Don't speak such nonsense! Instead of doubting, think of ways to cure them!"
On the other side of the stall, Yoriichi, Kyōjurō, and Sanemi Shinazugawa exchanged a silent glance.
That night, in the alleys of Tokyo—
The shadows hid clusters of grotesque, fleshy growths clinging to the walls.
They pulsed wetly, gurgling, and from time to time split open to spew out clouds of dark-red spores.
A man crouched in the gloom, short black hair falling across a face marked with three jagged "X"-shaped scars. He smiled faintly as he caressed one of the pulsing sacs.
"I thought I'd be left to rot in some remote place, scattering spores in secret. Or like that child… playing king of the hill in some forgotten corner."
His grin widened, feral.
"But the Lord showed me mercy—sent me here, to such a prosperous place. Heh, heh, heh—"
His laughter died.
Suddenly, a voice—no, a will—seared into his mind:
"I didn't send you to Tokyo Prefecture to play your filthy little games. Find the one with crimson hair and sunflower-patterned earrings. If you catch so much as a trace of him, report to me immediately!"
The connection snapped like a blade through silk, leaving the scarred man trembling on his knees in the darkness.
Only after a long silence did he struggle to his feet again, gasping for breath.
Carved across his pupils was a word of dread:
Lower Rank Three.
…
Not far away, in another alley.
Momoki Haruko had also arrived in Tokyo, tasked with logistics support.
Taking advantage of the fact that no one was around, she quietly adjusted her uniform. A faint frown appeared on her face as she muttered:
"Even after altering it several times, it's still too tight…"
Her thoughts immediately turned bitter.
"There's no way I'm asking that pervert Maeda Masao for help—he'll definitely mess around with it again!"
The image of Maeda Masao, the so-called Haku of the Demon Slayer Corps, surfaced in her mind. Though he was a skilled tailor, his unhealthy hobby of secretly modifying female uniforms was notorious. Even Kanroji Mitsuri's overly "generous" uniform had been one of his designs.
Haruko clenched her fists in shame and anger, her beautiful eyes flashing with irritation.
"If this doesn't work, I'll have to get some straps from the Butterfly Mansion. It'll be uncomfortable, but at least I'll be able to see my feet when I bow my head…"
Just as she was lost in thought, a strange gurgling noise drifted from above.
Her brows furrowed.
"…What's that sound?"
Before she could react, an explosion thundered overhead. A massive hand shot down from the sky, seizing Haruko by the back of the neck and lifting her effortlessly into the air!
"Find somewhere safe!"
That familiar voice shook her. Struggling to turn her head, she caught sight of dark red hair and sun-patterned hanafuda earrings.
"Yoriichi san?! Why are you here—?!"
Hayashi didn't bother answering. With a single swing, he tossed her into a side alley and barked:
"You two as well—fall back!"
Sanemi Shinazugawa and Rengoku Kyojuro, who had just rushed over, froze in surprise. But neither questioned his command—they immediately withdrew without hesitation.
The gurgling intensified. Flesh-like sacs swelled grotesquely to the size of human heads, then split open with wet cracks, spewing out a dense cloud of dark red spores.
Minoru's face turned grim.
"…If I'd ignored him and charged in, I'd be caught inside that spore cloud right now."
Rengoku's fiery expression hardened as he drew his blade.
"Yoriichi, this must be his Blood Demon Art! If we cut him down, the technique will collapse!"
"We must act now—otherwise countless civilians will suffer!"
But Hayashi did not respond. His eyes were fixed firmly on the shadowy figure materializing within the spreading spores.
A name flickered across his mind—
[Lower Rank Three: Sick Leaves]
Hayashi's gaze sharpened.
"So… it's only the Third of the Lower Moons."