"Are these your two new disciples?" The masked man turned his head, voice calm yet edged, addressing the figures walking toward him.
"This girl is," Roga answered, his tone instantly softening as he looked at Mitsuri. Then his face soured, lips curling as his gaze shifted to Yukishiro.
"And the other one—just a beggar."
His double standards were merciless. With Mitsuri, he was a doting grandfather. With Yukishiro, he wielded only disdain.
"Come here, little Mitsuri," Roga beckoned, hand outstretched warmly. He ignored Yukishiro entirely, even though the young swordsman walked ahead.
Yukishiro, as always, showed no reaction. His eyes met the masked man's for the briefest moment—sharp gaze colliding with sharp gaze—before he walked straight past them and into the cabin without breaking stride.
"This is my disciple, Kanroji Mitsuri," Roga announced with pride. "Mitsuri, this is Tetsuo, a swordsmith from the Swordsmith Village. He forged your Nichirin Sword. He's come all the way to Bailong Mountain to deliver it to you."
"Hello, Grandpa Tetsuo," Mitsuri said politely, bowing low.
"Hello," Tetsuo replied, his voice unexpectedly kind for someone with such an intimidating mask.
Tetsuo tilted his head toward Roga. "Roga, after Xingming, I thought you'd sworn off taking disciples. Why now? I also heard one of the current Hashira carries the same surname as her… Kanroji. Could it be?"
Mitsuri straightened, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Kanroji Mitsuri, the Love hashira, is my elder sister."
"Ahh, so it's true."
Tetsuo laughed heartily, the sound booming even through the mask. "No wonder. They say the Love hashira possesses a rare physique—her muscle density can multiply to eight times a normal person's in an instant.
If you share even a spark of that gift, little one, then Roga has indeed found a treasure."
Mitsuri ducked her head shyly, her smile flickering small and bright.
"Come now, child," Tetsuo said, pulling a package from behind his back. He set it on the wooden table, unwrapped the cloth, and revealed a polished brown box. Opening it carefully, he showed two Nichirin Blades resting side by side.
"The Corps first told me to forge a soft blade like your sister's. I was puzzled, thinking hers had been broken. But now I see—they meant for another wielder of the Kanroji line. Try it."
Inside the box lay one blade with a pink scabbard and another with a silver scabbard.
"Yukishiro, come quickly!" Mitsuri called excitedly toward the cabin. "Grandpa Tetsuo has brought our Nichirin Blades!" She didn't wait for him to answer before reaching eagerly for the pink one.
The sword felt heavy in her grip—weighty, familiar, as if it had always been hers. The scabbard shone pink, the khaki hilt embroidered with the pattern of wheat stalks.
The tip of the blade was khaki as well, shaped into a hexagram.
Mitsuri drew the blade with reverence. It unfolded like a ribbon, thin as a cicada's wing yet tough as iron. Flexible, whip-like, it could stretch to nearly two and a half meters. Her eyes widened as the steel shimmered, gradually blooming into a bright pink.
"Yukishiro, look! It's turning pink!" Her voice rang with delight.
From the doorway, Yukishiro stepped forward, his expression unreadable. His eyes lingered briefly on the blade in her hands.
To him it seemed strange—less a sword than a whip, coiling and wild, like Mitsuri herself: untamed and unpredictable.
Without a word, he reached into the box and lifted the silver Nichirin Blade. Its scabbard gleamed pale, the hilt wrapped in white with a wisteria vine carved around it. The tip of the blade was cut into the shape of a six-petaled snowflake.
He unsheathed it swiftly. The friction between steel and scabbard sang in a crisp metallic note that echoed through the cabin. In the light, the blade transformed, glowing white—pure, sharp, and cold as falling snow.
"White?" Tetsuo tilted his head, voice suddenly intrigued.
"The color of a Nichirin Blade reflects the wielder's spirit. I have seen red, black, blue, even gray… but never white."
Yukishiro tested its weight with a few practiced swings. The blade cut the air cleanly, humming with vibrations that trembled through his wrist. His expression did not change, but inwardly he noted its perfect balance.
"Now that my duty is done," Tetsuo said at last, closing the box and strapping it once more to his back, "I must leave. May these blades help you cut down many demons. Do not let the sweat of my forge go to waste."
Mitsuri clutched her sword to her chest, bowing low. "Please rest assured, Grandpa Tetsuo. I will treasure this blade with all my heart."
Yukishiro slid his sword back into its sheath. "Thank you," he said simply, voice almost too quiet to hear.
Roga clapped his hands. "Stay for dinner, old friend."
But Tetsuo shook his head. "No. There is another stop I must make before nightfall. I've already packed dry food for the road. Another time, perhaps." With a final wave, he descended the mountain path, silver hair glinting in the sunlight until the trees swallowed him.
That evening at dinner, Roga brought new news. "Your Corps uniforms arrived this morning. Delivered along with the blades, after three months' wait. Strange timing—uniforms and swords together. Likely it means a mission is at hand."
His prediction proved true before the bowls were empty. Two crows descended, wings beating against the shutters, each dropping scrolls before Yukishiro and Mitsuri. The messages were the same.
Shimizu machi, once a thriving hot spring resort, was drowning in fear. Tourists had begun vanishing, one after another. Patrols day and night failed to prevent disappearances. The town was gripped in panic, businesses collapsing, its reputation ruined. The "Kakushi" stationed there suspected demons. The mission had been assigned to Yukishiro and Mitsuri together.
Mitsuri's heart leapt. "A mission already?" She worried briefly—her inexperience, her nerves—but relief followed when she realized she would not be alone. Paired with Yukishiro, she nearly bounced with joy, her grin wide enough to curve her eyebrows.
Yukishiro, on the other hand, felt the opposite. His jaw clenched as he read. "Together again," he thought grimly. He had hoped for distance, to carve his own path without her trailing. Now it seemed the Corps itself conspired to keep her at his side. Whether by design or lack of manpower, he could not tell.
The next morning they dressed in their new uniforms: the patterned haori draped proudly over the black standard garb, Nichirin Blades fastened at their waists. After bowing to Roga, they departed down the slope toward the town of Qingshui.
Shimizu machi—renowned across the nation, the crown jewel of hot spring resorts. For years it had topped every travel list, its steaming baths drawing tens of thousands annually. Its wealth rivaled cities many times its size, built on the back of tourism and culture.
But now, the lifeline of the town was severed. Fear emptied the inns. Shops shuttered early. The flow of visitors had slowed to a trickle, and merchants whispered of ruin. The air itself carried unease, like steam turned to fog.
Two days of steady travel brought them within sight of the valley. On the third evening, just as the sky dimmed violet, they crossed into Shimizu machi.
What should have been bustling streets were silent. By seven o'clock, the main avenue stood deserted.
Red lanterns swayed above doorways, meant to welcome fortune, but here they flickered Demonly, casting warped shadows on the stone.
A wind swept the street, carrying scraps of paper and torn bags. They tumbled and danced like children playing, yet the sound of them scraping along the cobblestones was hollow, eerie. The town that once thrummed with laughter now breathed only dread.
Yukishiro's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Mitsuri drew closer, eyes wide. Together they stepped deeper into the heart of the haunted resort town.