Another half a month passed.
One evening, after dinner, Yukishiro made his way into the backyard laboratory of the Butterfly Estate.
Inside, Shinobu Kocho, dressed neatly in her white coat, was busily working over her desk, her hands steady as she handled medical tools and notes.
The door to the lab was ajar. Yukishiro gave a polite knock—two soft taps—and only stepped inside after Shinobu's gentle voice called,
"Come in."
Shinobu looked up, her expression brightening with a small exhale of relief. A kind smile tugged at her lips as she gestured for him to sit.
Apart from missions, she practically lived in this laboratory. It was her domain, her sanctuary.
"Come," she said warmly. "You're practically a regular here by now. No need for instructions—you know what to do. Sit at the edge of the bed."
Her cheerfulness put Yukishiro on edge. Something about her tone made his chest feel unsteady. Nevertheless, he obeyed, perching on the cot and beginning to unfasten his shirt.
Today was the day the last of his stitches were to be removed.
His left wrist, still in a cast, hampered him.
Awkwardly he tugged at his buttons, fumbling again and again until sweat beaded on his forehead. The simplest task had become a clumsy battle.
Shinobu, turning back, caught sight of his struggle and giggled softly. Without hesitation, she stepped forward, leaned down, and deftly undid the buttons for him.
Beneath the fabric was a chest crisscrossed with wounds—old scars beneath fresh ones, his skin resembling a patchwork doll sewn together with stubborn, uneven threads. It was the body of someone who should have fallen long ago, yet still endured.
Shinobu's smile remained gentle, but a flicker of sadness clouded her eyes. She had removed stitches from him once already only weeks ago.
The marks from that procedure had barely faded, and here he was again, marked anew.
The boy was hardly nineteen, and yet his body carried the evidence of battles most grown men could not survive.
Over the years of running the Butterfly Estate, Shinobu had tended countless Demon Slayers, seen every form of injury one could imagine.
But Yukishiro was different. In less than two months, he had skirted the brink of death not once, but twice. His vitality was astonishing—like weeds forcing their way through stone, he clung to life no matter the odds.
She pulled up a chair, her tools in hand—tweezers and scissors glinting faintly under the lamplight. With practiced hands, she began removing the stitches. Her cool fingers brushed his scarred skin, each touch sending an involuntary shiver down his spine, a sensation like faint currents of lightning racing through him.
Yukishiro kept still, suppressing his discomfort, though his lowered gaze often landed on Shinobu's face. Her violet eyes, framed by long lashes, seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow, like violet smoke lingering in the air.
Combined with the sweet fragrance of wisteria that clung to her, the atmosphere around her was strangely intoxicating.
"Yukishiro," Shinobu said softly, "you did remarkably well in the Selection. I've never seen a newcomer quite like you." She paused, her smile widening knowingly. "Not only has the Love hashira inquired about your condition every few days, but even the Master of the Corps himself asked after your health. That is… quite the achievement."
Yukishiro's head jerked slightly. He seized the opening to divert his gaze away from her face.
"The Lord? You mean—the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps?"
Shinobu nodded, carefully snipping another thread.
"And… who is this 'Love hashira'? Why does she care about me?"
He truly did not know.
His world had been limited since joining; most of the Corps' figures of authority were strangers to him.
Shinobu's brows arched in surprise. "You really don't know? Didn't Mitsuri tell you?"
Yukishiro frowned. "Tell me what?"
"The Love hashira… is Kanroji Mitsuri."
The words hit him like a stone to the chest.
"What? That clumsy girl's sister is the Love hashira?" He nearly shouted.
He had known from Mitsuri's own lips that her sister was a Corps member, but never had he imagined her to be one of the hashiras, the elite standing at the pinnacle of strength.
hashira.
The very title was weighty. To realize that the embodiment of the "Love Breathing Style" was Mitsuri herself—sister to the same bumbling, soft-hearted girl who had tangled herself so awkwardly into his life—was staggering.
Shinobu studied him keenly, noting his unsettled reaction. The usually cold and distant boy displayed a rare expression of alarm, almost as though hearing Mitsuri's name pressed upon some deep irritation. In her eyes, it hinted at a story worth unraveling.
She chuckled lightly. "A 'mess,' you call her? I think Mitsuri is sweet. She's a kind girl, caring and thoughtful. And from what I've heard, she even gave up her first kiss to save you."
"Stop."
The word came out sharper than intended. Yukishiro bolted upright, his face aflame. Without even pausing to rebutton his shirt, he turned and stormed out of the laboratory.
Behind him, Shinobu's soft, teasing laughter followed. "Mitsuri said she'll come see you soon, Yukishiro. You should prepare yourself, hm? Hehehe…"
…
The next morning, just before sunrise, Naru awoke and made her way outside. Passing through the front yard, she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure slipping quickly through the gates. She frowned slightly but thought little of it at the time.
By breakfast, however, the truth came out.
The group waited and waited, yet Yukishiro never joined them. Finally, they went to his quarters, only to find the bed neatly made and a small note resting upon the bedside table.
The note was brief, written in his blunt hand:
"Don't tell her where I went."
The pronoun "her" left everyone puzzled, though the answer seemed obvious enough. They brought the note straight to Shinobu.
Reading it, she could only smile knowingly, recalling his flustered escape the night before.
Yukishiro had fled.
He returned to Bailong Mountain, where Master Roga awaited.
He remembered clearly the words Roga had told Shinobu to pass on: "If he passes the test, tell him to buy a bag of rice before returning to the mountain. There's no food here."
But Yukishiro had no money to his name. Having only just joined the Corps, where was he supposed to find coin for rice?
Helpless, he returned empty-handed. Fortunately, Roga didn't press the matter, and training resumed as though nothing had happened.
Life on the mountain was harsh, but familiar. Yukishiro devoted himself to recovery and training with renewed determination. His thoughts lingered on Fujikasane Mountain. The battle with the last Demon haunted him most—if the sun had not risen when it did, his bones would be rotting there now.
…
Far away, at the Ubuyashiki Estate, the Master sat quietly on the wooden corridor, his face etched with suffering yet carrying a gentle, radiant smile. His body was frail, but his spirit illuminated the space around him.
Kneeling before him were Shinobu and the Water hashira, Tomioka Giyuu, both grave and respectful.
"Shinobu," the Master asked softly, "how is the boy?"
"My Lord," Shinobu replied, bowing her head, "his worst injuries have healed, though his left wrist remains fragile. Two days ago, he slipped away from the Butterfly Estate and returned to Bailong Mountain, where he continues training under Master Roga."
The Master's serene smile deepened. "He is a good child." His gaze shifted. "Tomioka, what of the investigation?"
The Water hashira lowered his head. "My Lord, the situation on Mount Tengxi is troubling. We discovered the remains of several missing examinees and Demons at the bottom of Yingyue Lake. All bones bore fine strangulation marks, unlike typical wounds. The rumored Demon with long hair was nowhere to be found, but we discovered a cave on the northern slope, reaching down to the mountain's base.
According to Corps records, no such Demon has ever been released there—no long-haired Demon, no mutation. How they appeared remains unknown."
Silence hung for a beat, before Ubuyashiki's voice returned, calm but heavy.
"It is not so hard to guess. Fujiyama is where we test and recruit the young—it is our foundation, our blood wellspring. If the enemy strikes there, they strike at the very source of our lifeblood. Without recruits, without fresh strength, our Corps will wither."
Tomioka's lips pressed into a grim line. Shinobu lowered her eyes. Both already knew the name that lingered unsaid.
"Yes," Ubuyashiki murmured, his smile bittersweet. "Muzan Kibutsuji."