"There are so many different breathing techniques. Which 'practice' do you mean? The practice of discipline? Or…?"
Mitsuri glanced sideways at Yukishiro. Her cheeks flushed red, and she lowered her head in embarrassment. "No… no, it's the breathing of love."
"Love?" Yukishiro blinked, at first thinking he had misheard. "How can there be such a name?"
Breathing techniques were supposed to be solemn, formal—tools of survival and war. Even when named after natural elements or weapons, they carried weight. But this one? The word "love" seemed far too soft, too frivolous.
Mitsuri fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. "This breathing technique was taught to me by my sister. You've seen what our family is like… we eat more than others, yet our bodies remain like this.
Because of that, my sister could never find a partner. Later, she joined the Demon Slayer Corps, hoping… hoping to meet someone who might understand her. That's how the word 'love' came about."
She bit her lip, sneaking a glance at him before looking away again, her ears burning red.
Yukishiro stared at her for a long moment before sighing inwardly. "So that's it."
As the saying went: if you are not of the same family, you will not enter through the same door.
These sisters truly were peculiar treasures. One had joined the Corps to seek love, the other merely to eat her fill.
Yukishiro nodded with mock solemnity. "I see. I didn't expect such a beautiful story behind this breathing method. Your sister fought for love, so hers is called Love Breathing. You, on the other hand, fight for food… so yours should be called Eating Breathing. You can consider renaming it later."
The first half of his words sounded sincere and poetic. But by the time he finished, Mitsuri had realized—yet again—that he was teasing her.
"You… you're so annoying!" She gave his arm a playful swat, her tone half a pout, half a laugh.
"If you dislike 'Eating Breathing,' then perhaps call it Food Breathing. More elegant, don't you think?"
"Still teasing me…" Mitsuri raised her hand as if to strike again, but in the end she only let it fall gently with a small thump.
She quickly shifted the subject. "What about you? I heard you say 'Ice Breathing.' That means your technique is also a derivative, right?"
"Yes." Yukishiro's tone grew softer. "I was born in the snowy mountains. As a child, I once lost my way while hunting during a blizzard. I thought I would die there. But on the third day, I met an old man. He sheltered me and passed on a breathing technique along with two sword forms. Looking back, I believe that old man must have been part of the Demon Slayer Corps."
Mitsuri tilted her head curiously. "And why did you join the Corps? You say I came here for food…
What about you? What brought you here?"
The question hit him like a blade.
Yukishiro's body stiffened. Though his wounds from earlier battles had healed, his chest felt as if it had been split open anew. Pain burned across his skin—and deeper still, in his heart.
Yes. Why did I join the Demon Slayer Corps?
The memory clawed at him: the face of Imiya Kishi—the man he had killed. He had done it to protect his sister, and yet the blood still clung to his hands.
Mitsuri waited. When no answer came, she glanced up at him. Her eyes widened in alarm.
Yukishiro's gaze had turned glacial. His face, usually cold but controlled, now twisted into something frightening—murderous intent spilling from him like an icy storm.
"Are… are you alright?" Her voice trembled. She grit her teeth, forcing herself not to step back.
Then, suddenly, he looked at her. His eyes burned, and the killing aura thickened.
Mitsuri's breath caught. Her knees weakened, and she stumbled sideways, face pale with fear. Her rosy cheeks drained of color, her wide eyes full of confusion.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other—the hunter and the hunted. Slowly, the murderous look faded from Yukishiro's eyes.
Guilt replaced it.
He extended a hand toward her.
Mitsuri hesitated, heart pounding. Then, timidly, she placed her own hand in his. His palm was cold as snow.
Yukishiro pulled her to her feet, lowering his voice. "…I'm sorry. I frightened you just now."
"It's… it's alright." Mitsuri tried to smile, but it was strained, a poor mask over her shaken heart.
"I'll tell you the truth—later," Yukishiro murmured.
Mitsuri blinked, still dazed. For a second she forgot what they had even been discussing. Then it clicked: Why did you join the Demon Slayer Corps? She quickly nodded, answering with two soft hums of acknowledgment.
She never would have guessed that her casual question could cut so deeply into his soul. And now, she understood—his perpetual coldness was no simple temperament. It was a shield, forged from scars.
The silence between them thickened. Neither spoke again. The fragile thread of warmth from moments ago unraveled, leaving only awkward air.
…
Far across the mountain, another battle raged.
Kimura stood at the center of his squad's formation, his Nichirin Blade raised. Around him, the team had formed a tight defensive circle. Demons lunged at them from every direction, but no matter where they struck, the formation held.
Each Demon was met with three defenders—one leading the clash, two others flanking to press the attack or deflect claws.
With breathing techniques and Nichirin steel, the demons were beaten back again and again.
Even wounded fighters were swiftly replaced, their comrades stepping into position without hesitation, while medics dragged the injured back for treatment.
The tactic worked—on the surface. Yet every man and woman inside the ring could feel it: this was a fragile defense.
Demons were tireless. Their wounds closed in minutes. They attacked with unrelenting hunger. Humans, on the other hand, bled. They were tired. They faltered.
By midnight, the Demons had already struck more than twenty times. Exhaustion gnawed at the slayers' arms and legs. Their breathing grew ragged. Fear etched itself into their eyes.
Kimura himself felt his sword-hand trembling. His earlier confidence now seemed foolish. He had thought gathering everyone together into a fortress was wise.
Yet the truth was bitter: the bigger the fortress, the bigger the target.
A flock of sheep, even if huddled together, are still sheep, he thought grimly. And wolves will always circle the largest herd.
If a few had broken off alone, perhaps they could have avoided the Demons' gaze and slipped through the night. That boy in white… he had left decisively back in the square. Kimura now envied his choice.
"I was so sure of myself," Kimura muttered under his breath, sweat dripping down his face. "But all I've done is lead them into a grave."
The Demons circled again. The defenders braced for yet another assault.
Then—
A shadow fell from above.
Something dropped straight into the heart of their circle, landing soundlessly on both feet. It stood tall, pale in the moonlight, directly in front of a trembling female slayer.
The circle froze. Blades wavered. A single, chilling thought swept through them all:
The bouncing Demon had returned.