Yukishiro woke up from his trance to the soft creaking of wood above his head. For a moment he thought he was still trapped in the chaos of last night, his body torn apart, his soul clawing to hold on. But when his eyes opened, he found himself staring at the brown wooden walls, the bamboo baskets hanging neatly in rows, and the faint lines of sunlight leaking through the cracks. Everything was exactly the same as what he had seen before collapsing.
"It wasn't a dream… I actually survived," he thought, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips.
He had escaped death by a thread, but his body made sure to remind him how close it had been.
His head spun in dizzy waves, his mouth was coated with a metallic bitterness, and his stomach rolled as though something poisonous lurked inside it. Worst of all, every inch of his body screamed with pain, as if he had been stitched together with fire instead of flesh.
Yukishiro pressed his palms against the floor and forced himself upright. The effort nearly made him collapse again—black spots danced in his vision, and the edges of the room blurred. He barely managed to steady himself by gripping the wall, panting like someone who had run ten miles instead of just trying to sit up.
Each step he took was torture.
The simple journey to the doorway felt endless, each shuffle a battle between his willpower and his failing body. Finally, he reached the outside and sank onto a stone bench against the wall, clutching his ribs.
The world beyond the door was blindingly bright. Judging by the sun's position, it was already mid-morning. The mountain air was crisp, filled with the scent of dew-drenched grass and wildflowers, and birds chirped freely among the trees. It was so peaceful, so ordinary—yet Yukishiro couldn't help but shiver.
"Yesterday… a Demon was waiting on this very mountain," he muttered. "And I almost became its meal."
The thought alone was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, but the memory of the Demon's snarling face refused to leave him.
Footsteps crunched on the dirt path, pulling him out of his thoughts. A figure approached from the winding trail below, steady and unhurried.
The man was dressed in gray and white linen clothes, his build strong and shoulders broad despite his age. He carried a short-handled hoe in his right hand and a bamboo basket strapped to his back. Even from afar, Yukishiro caught the faint coppery tang of blood mixed with fishy brine wafting from the basket.
The figure drew closer and finally walked past him without pause.
It was Lang Bingwei.
"Hey, you rude brat," the old man chuckled as he passed, "you finally woke up."
Yukishiro leaned against the wall, saying nothing. He only glanced at the basket again, certain that what he smelled wasn't just vegetables. His suspicion was confirmed when Lang Bingwei reappeared moments later, carrying an iron basin brimming with water. Floating in it was a freshly killed pheasant, and beneath that, a carp's silver body glinted under the surface.
Lang Bingwei dragged a low stool to the doorway and sat down beside Yukishiro as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Without preamble, he picked up a small knife and began plucking and shaving the pheasant. Feathers scattered into the air, mixing with the rich iron scent of blood.
"I caught this for you in the mountains this morning," Lang Bingwei said conversationally. "They say old hen soup is good for recovering from injuries. No hens up here, so a pheasant will have to do. Should work just as well."
The scent alone was enough to make Yukishiro's stomach lurch. Already weak and nauseous, he doubled over, retching. His face twisted with disgust as he croaked,
"Do you… have to do that right here? Can't you clean it somewhere else?"
Lang Bingwei burst out laughing, his voice booming through the valley. His eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Haha! Look at you! You look like death warmed over. Where's that tough guy from last night? Gone already?"
Yukishiro's lips tightened. "This old bastard… he's doing this on purpose," he thought, clutching his stomach and glaring.
When the laughter finally died down, Lang Bingwei carried the basin a few paces away—just far enough that the blood's stench no longer overwhelmed him, though still within talking distance.
The old man worked in silence for a while, scraping and gutting the bird, until he finally broke the quiet.
"Hey, brat," he said without looking up, "why did you fight that Demon yesterday?"
Yukishiro blinked. He hadn't expected the question. But at the memory, anger flared inside him like dry tinder catching a spark. He sneered.
"Hmph. What kind of cultivator are you, sitting on your mountain while demons invade? I nearly got torn apart while you pretended not to notice. If this is the kind of trainer I'm stuck with, I really am unlucky. And don't even get me started on that woman—spouting pointless nonsense before leaving me behind."
His words tumbled out in a bitter rush, leaving him gasping for breath. Lang Bingwei froze mid-motion, feathers sticking to his wrinkled fingers.
Then the old man snarled back. "Bullshit! Who told you this mountain belongs to me? Do I look like some guardian deity? I'm just a cultivator, not a Demon-hunting dog. What's it to me if a demon shows up here or there? If trainers ran around slaying every Demon in Japan, then why the hell would we need the Demon Slayer Corps?"
Yukishiro faltered. He hadn't thought of it that way. His chest rose and fell as the anger ebbed, replaced by a grudging sense of realization. The mountain was vast, far removed from villages—encountering one or two stray demons here wasn't exactly shocking.
Maybe he really had been too quick to place blame.
Still, his pride refused to let him apologize.
After a long silence broken only by the sound of knife against bone, Yukishiro spoke again. His voice was quieter this time.
"I thought… the Demon was a test. When that woman dropped me at the foot of the mountain, she said, 'I can only take you this far. The rest you must walk yourself.' And then a demon appeared, right in the trainer's territory. It was too convenient. I thought you had arranged it."
Lang Bingwei glanced at him, eyes narrowing. "So you believed I sent a demon after you?"
Yukishiro didn't answer, but his silence was enough.
"I see…" Lang Bingwei let out a huff. "Well, running away would've been the worst choice. Once your strength is gone, the demon would've torn you apart. You held it off instead, used your martial arts to slow it down and its screams to guide me. That's no small thing, boy."
The old man's words carried no mockery this time. There was grudging respect in his tone.
Yukishiro shrugged weakly, though pain twisted his features. "I didn't have a choice. Escaping was impossible. Fighting was the only way left."
Lang Bingwei studied him closely. His wrinkled face softened ever so slightly.
"To keep fighting in that state… to think so clearly under pressure… It's rare. Very rare." He paused, then asked, "Have you ever fought demons before?"
Yukishiro's breath caught. The memory of his sister's terrified face and the night she was stolen away clawed its way back into his mind. His body trembled, every scar burning as though freshly carved.
"I have," he whispered hoarsely. His fists clenched tight against his thighs. "These wounds… all from demons. I've escaped them twice now. And if fate keeps sparing me, then maybe it's because I was born for one thing—"
His eyes blazed with fury, grief, and unshakable resolve.
"—to kill demons."