At half past seven in the morning, Yukishiro arrived at the square at the foot of Fujikasane Mountain, just as Shinobu Kocho had instructed.
The broad square was already crowded with young men and women, each with a sword at their waist and fire in their eyes. Some stood alone, while others were huddled in groups of three or four, talking in low voices, forming strategies, or simply looking for company.
Everyone knew the truth: surviving seven days on Fujikasane Mountain alone was near impossible.
A companion meant an extra blade, an extra pair of eyes, an extra chance at survival. The larger the group, the greater the safety.
In the center of the square, a team of ten had already formed. Like vendors hawking wares, they called out, trying to lure more stragglers into their fold. Their confidence spread like fire, and soon even the reluctant loners gave in.
Watching the team swell in size, few dared to remain outside of it.
By the time Yukishiro stepped into the square, the massive team dominated the space, leaving only a scattering of individuals who had yet to join.
The moment he appeared, all eyes turned.
Dressed in white, silver hair gleaming in the morning light, a blade at his waist, and an expression carved from ice—Yukishiro radiated a presence that was impossible to ignore.
But he wasn't alone.
Trailing behind him was a girl.
She had a round, innocent face, wide watery eyes, and looked about his age. Her pink haori was embroidered with butterflies, and her shoulder-length hair was tied back simply. At first glance, she might have seemed unremarkable—but her figure told a different story.
The maturity of her body contrasted so sharply with her youthful face that it left both men and women unsettled.
If Yukishiro drew attention with his aura, this girl drew stares for another reason entirely.
The two had merely crossed paths on the road, yet as they entered the square together, everyone assumed they were companions.
Feeling the weight of the gazes on her, the girl flushed, ducked her head, and nervously twisted her fingers.
In the square's center, where the large team gathered, two figures broke away and approached them.
The man was tall, handsome, and carried himself with calm authority. His clothes were finer than most, marking him as someone from wealth.
His name, as he soon gave, was Kimura.
The woman beside him, Eimi, was equally striking—graceful, well-dressed, and full of confidence.
"Hello, I'm Kimura, and this is Eimi. May I know your names?" Kimura said politely, his eyes lingering not on the timid girl, but on Yukishiro.
The girl blinked nervously. "H-hello… my name is Mitsuri, Kanroji Mitsuri. You… you can call me Mitsuri."
Her voice was soft, uncertain, her big eyes fluttering like frightened butterflies.
Kimura and Eimi barely spared her a glance. A girl who stammered over her own name? To them, she was nothing more than a weakling waiting to be devoured. But her presence suggested she was with the boy beside her, and that boy… his aura was different.
So their true intent was clear: they wanted him.
The three of them turned toward Yukishiro, waiting for his reply.
But Yukishiro only stared back at Kimura, expressionless, eyes unreadable. He said nothing.
Seconds passed. The silence stretched.
Finally, without a word, he turned his head and walked away, toward the courtyard wall where clusters of wisteria flowers bloomed. He stood beneath them, cupping a blossom in his palm, studying it with quiet reverence.
Kimura's face darkened. What kind of person ignores someone like this?
The onlookers whispered among themselves. A boy who preferred flowers to conversation? Strange. Perhaps even broken.
But none of them knew what the wisteria meant in Yukishiro's heart.
Kimura frowned, turning back to Mitsuri. "Wait—you two didn't come together?"
Mitsuri flinched at his directness. "N-no… we didn't. We just… just met on the road."
"So you don't know him at all?"
She shook her head quickly.
Kimura exchanged a glance with Eimi.
Annoyance flickered in their eyes. Whatever strength that boy carried, his aloofness was insufferable.
"Forget it," Kimura muttered.
He turned to leave, but Eimi hesitated. She looked back at Mitsuri's timid face, her lips parting to speak. "Mitsuri, do you want to—"
Before she could finish, Kimura tugged her arm sharply.
His eyes gave the answer: No.
Eimi hesitated, then forced a smile. She patted Mitsuri's shoulder lightly. "Work hard, Mitsuri. I believe you'll pass the test and become a Demon Slayer."
With that, the two walked off toward the main group.
As they went, Eimi frowned. "Why didn't you let her join? She looks so pitiful. If she goes in alone, she'll—"
Kimura cut her off coldly. "Everyone here risks being eaten. If she's too weak to even speak properly, she has no place with us. We're forming a team to survive, not to protect dead weight. Compassion won't keep us alive."
Eimi bit her lip, saying nothing more.
Behind them, Mitsuri lowered her head, disappointment heavy in her chest. When she finally looked up, her eyes darted around the square, desperate to find someone—anyone—who might let her stand with them.
But the teams had already formed. Those who remained had given up or avoided her gaze.
In the end, the square held only two true outliers: Yukishiro beneath the wisteria, and Mitsuri standing alone.
After a long pause, she took a breath, lowered her head, and walked timidly toward him.