Guided by the address provided, Yukishiro led Mitsuri through the dim streets until they stood before a weathered inn.
The building looked ordinary enough, yet the silence surrounding it felt suffocating. Lanterns hung unlit at the eaves, and shutters were drawn tight against the night air.
Yukishiro raised his hand and knocked firmly on the wooden gate. For a long moment, nothing stirred.
Then faint, hesitant footsteps shuffled across the yard.
"W–who… who's there?" A voice, low and trembling, came from the other side.
"Accommodation," Yukishiro answered bluntly.
"There are no rooms left. Go ask somewhere else." The voice cracked with unease, and hurried steps retreated back into the shadows.
Yukishiro knocked again—harder this time. The sound echoed like a drum through the deserted street. Windows in neighboring houses snapped shut, lanterns flickered out one by one, until the entire block drowned in darkness.
Mitsuri pressed close to him, fingers tightening around the edge of his sleeve. Her eyes darted nervously into every corner where shadows pooled. Each gust of wind seemed to whisper. Each darkened alley threatened to harbor something waiting to lunge.
"Stop… stop knocking!" the anxious voice pleaded from within. "Please—stop!"
Yukishiro ignored him. His knuckles struck the wood again.
At last the door creaked open a sliver. A cautious head poked out, framed by the glow of two lanterns mounted at the gate. The man's eyes scanned Yukishiro and Mitsuri quickly—then froze.
His gaze lingered on the black uniforms beneath their haori, on the Nichirin Blades gleaming faintly at their waists.
"You're Demon Slayers!" His tone shifted instantly, relief flooding his features. The gate swung wider. "Quickly, come in!"
Once they entered, the young man craned his neck, scanning both ends of the street, before slamming the gate shut with trembling hands.
"You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Forgive my earlier rudeness. With all the disappearances lately… no one in Shimizu machi dares open their doors after dark."
Yukishiro said nothing. His eyes roved the courtyard instead, sharp and calculating.
The yard was small, neatly swept, with a two-story attic looming ahead. Its upper windows were dark and lifeless. Only a single room on the ground floor glowed with lamplight.
The man bowed slightly. "I'm Fukada. And you are?"
Mitsuri returned his bow, polite as ever. "Kanroji Mitsuri. You may call me Mitsuri. This is Yukishiro."
Fukada's gaze lingered on Yukishiro—tall, sharp-eyed, his presence heavy even in silence. The young man felt a shiver of unease beneath that cold expression, yet also a flicker of admiration.
"Miss Mitsuri, Mr. Yukishiro," he said quickly, "please, don't stand outside. Come in."
He led them down a corridor, sliding open a paper door to reveal a modest living room. Tatami mats stretched across the floor, a low table at its center. A single lantern cast warm but weary light over the walls.
"You haven't eaten, have you?" Fukada asked.
Mitsuri shook her head, embarrassed.
"Then rest here. I'll prepare something at once. We can talk over food."
He left swiftly, footsteps fading toward the kitchen.
Once the door closed, Yukishiro's voice cut through the quiet. "You should let him work more."
Mitsuri flushed, eyes dropping. "I didn't—" She trailed off, too flustered to finish.
Before long, Fukada returned carrying trays. He had prepared generously—rice, simmered vegetables, grilled fish, steaming soup.
The aroma filled the small room, a comfort against the heavy air of Shimizu machi.
"I thought you might not have eaten properly on the road," he explained, setting everything carefully before them. "It's late, and inns have long since stopped serving guests."
At first, the arrangement seemed ordinary. But as they ate, Fukada's eyes widened. Much of the food had been intended for Yukishiro, yet the stoic young man ate little—each bite slow, measured.
Mitsuri, on the other hand, devoured portion after portion, chopsticks flashing with surprising speed. Plates meant for three vanished before her, and still she looked faintly unsatisfied.
Fukada nearly dropped his bowl. "That girl eats… more than three men combined," he thought in astonishment. "And she's still hungry?"
As if sensing his gaze, Mitsuri quickly forced an awkward smile, cheeks puffed as she chewed.
To smooth over the moment, Fukada fetched another tray—this one filled with the town's sweets and fruits.
"Please, try these. They're specialties here." He offered them with a hopeful grin. Partly to ease the girl's hunger, partly because—well, what girl didn't like sweets?
Yukishiro set his chopsticks down. His eyes pinned Fukada like needles.
"What's going on here?"
The bluntness of the question froze the air. Fukada's smile faltered. For a heartbeat, he fumbled for words—but better blunt than evasive, he decided. These were Demon Slayers. They needed truth.
"This… began half a year ago." He lowered his head, voice steadying.
For the next thirty minutes, Fukada laid everything bare: the first disappearances, the panic spreading through the town, the local patrols that yielded nothing, the desperate investigations by the Kakushi.
Each detail layered dread upon dread.
Mitsuri's eyes widened. Yukishiro sat still, expression unreadable, but his silence pressed like weight.
"So all the disappearances occurred at night?" Yukishiro asked finally.
"Yes," Fukada confirmed. "In some cases the exact time is uncertain, but without exception, all victims vanished after nightfall."
Night—the demons' domain. A textbook sign.
"Any clues at the scenes?" Yukishiro's tone was sharp, precise. "Blood, cries for help, signs of struggle?"
"None," Fukada admitted. "Relatives heard nothing. When we searched, there was no blood, no disturbance—only absence. People vanish as if swallowed by air itself."
Yukishiro's brows drew slightly together. Demons lusted for blood; to leave none was strange. How could victims disappear without a trace?
"Anything else unusual about the disappearances?"
Fukada hesitated, then straightened, voice rising with sudden realization. "Yes. All of them—every case—occurred at hot springs."
"Hot springs?" Mitsuri echoed softly.
"Exactly. Shimizu machi has dozens—every street lined with them. But only within those baths did people vanish."
"Was there a particular resort? Any single location more than others?"
"No. They are scattered. Large inns, small houses, public baths—it doesn't matter."
"What of the victims? Their ages, genders?"
"Mostly young women and children," Fukada answered grimly. "Only two young men so far."
Women and children—the weak, the tender, blood sweeter to demons than any other.
Yukishiro leaned back slightly, falling silent. His expression gave nothing away, but his thoughts cut deep and fast.
The absence of blood, the vanishing in hot springs, the choice of victims—all pieces of a puzzle not yet complete.
Across the table, Fukada shifted uneasily.
Though Yukishiro appeared young, the weight of his presence, the relentless precision of his questions—it was like being interrogated by a seasoned veteran.
The tension pressed heavy, broken only by the sound of chewing. Mitsuri had quietly finished both plates of dessert, licking the tips of her chopsticks with a sheepish grin.
Fukada blinked, then laughed awkwardly.
"What a pair you two are," he muttered under his breath.
Clearing his throat, he turned back to Mitsuri. "Miss Mitsuri—"
"Don't be so formal," she interrupted, smiling. "Just call me Mitsuri."
"Then… Mitsuri," he said carefully, "forgive the rudeness of this next question. The situation here is dire, and I must know. What is your rank within the Demon Slayer Corps?"
"My… rank?" Mitsuri tilted her head, confused.
A chill prickled down Fukada's spine.
"The strength level," he clarified.
"Oh! Kinoto We're both Kinoto. And… well, we only joined three months ago."
Fukada froze. "…Kinoto rank? Three months?"
The lowest rank. Trainees, essentially.
His heart sank like stone. He had prayed the Corps would send a Hashira. Or at least a seasoned slayer, one with years of experience. Instead, they had sent him two rookies. His lips pressed together, disappointment dragging his expression into shadow.
"Kinoto… against whatever is here," he thought bleakly. "We are doomed."