Urokodaki Sakonji knew that Haganezuka Hotaru was searching for a swordsman who could turn a Nichirin blade crimson—and not just him; the entire Swordsmith Village had been looking for such a man.
Legend said a swordsman preserved in history could make his blade glow red. Because of him, demons that once roamed unchecked had held back their claws.
But as the current Water Hashira, Tomioka Giyu knew more—and more deeply—than Urokodaki.
He knew that swordsman was none other than the legendary progenitor of all Breathing styles, the Sun Breathing user—Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
Of the Hashira, only two had any real knowledge of that existence—the Stone Hashira and the Wind Hashira.
Himejima Gyomei had once mentioned his name at a Hashira council—he'd heard from his own master (the former Stone Hashira):
"Yoriichi was born with both the Transparent World and the Mark. He nearly killed Muzan Kibutsuji single-handed—drove him to the brink and forced him to split into over 1,800 pieces to escape.
"His hallmarks are the crimson blade and the hanafuda earrings…"
Now, looking at Rōichirō again, those sun-and-mountain earrings seemed to overlap with the "hanafuda earrings" Gyomei had described…
The bowl hit the hearth-bed and split in two—fish porridge spattered across Giyu's haori.
The little cabin fell instantly silent.
All eyes turned to Tomioka Giyu. He looked at Roy with grave intensity. "Rōichirō… will you show me?"
Master's letter to the Lord had been too cursory… Giyu wasn't blaming Urokodaki, but things of this weight can't be glossed over—they should be reported directly.
Perhaps Master himself didn't realize how important this is, he added inwardly, covering for him.
Roy smiled. "If Brother wishes to see—by all means."
Shinsuke perked up: "I'll fetch your blade!"
He spun up as a cold gust to lift the short blade from the wall—only to freeze as—
"No need, Brother." Without looking back, Roy stretched out a hand behind him. Magnetic Pull—the short blade quivered, slipped cleanly through Shinsuke's incorporeal body, and, like it had grown wings, flew straight into Roy's palm.
He caught it with an easy snatch.
"Yo—" Shinsuke squawked. "What was that?"
The sword moved as if it had a mind, obedient to the boy's will. Rōichirō always does the thing no one can imagine…
Makomo's mouth rounded; it was like seeing him for the first time. She looked him up and down, astonished.
Sabito and Giyu traded a glance and both looked to Urokodaki.
The old Water Pillar had fifty years in swordcraft; for all he'd seen, he'd never seen that. He always told the children that a swordsman's blade is his life—man and blade as one, and if the blade breaks, the man dies—but he'd never seen a blade "come alive."
He looked hard at Roy and fell silent.
Cre-eak. Early spring winds weren't as sharp as deep winter's, but they set the paper windows clattering.
Roy's face was calm, as if nothing at all were amiss. He drew the blade and, with a deft will, wrapped the short sword in a layer of scorching Nen.
Tiny red motes surfaced visibly… then, under Tomioka's trembling gaze, they spread—covering the entire blade in a blink. Even two meters away you could feel a wave of heat roll off it.
"A crimson blade," Tomioka said.
No doubt…
Add the hanafuda earrings—
Giyu looked deep at the boy…
Roy tipped a smile. "Will that do, Brother?
"If I hold it any longer, the others won't bear it."
A crimson blade is a pure nemesis to demons—and even to souls like Sabito and Makomo. Forget taking a cut—just looking at it was agony.
And this was with Roy having preemptively sheathed everyone in a layer of Nen via the hearth to protect them.
"It will." Tomioka drew a slow breath, glanced around, and noted the strain on his seniors.
When Roy relaxed the Scorching True Intent and sheathed the sword, everyone visibly exhaled.
"Let's eat."
"Right—let's eat."
"Brother Giyu hasn't had Master's cooking in ages—you must eat more," Makomo chirped. "I'll watch you."
"I'll get you a bowl, Brother."
"No, I can manage."
Giyu turned—and only then saw the mess at his knees. He grabbed a cloth and wiped it up in a hurry, served himself a bowl of porridge, and ate it with the radish.
Afterward he insisted on washing up, tidying the kitchen… Roy didn't fight him for it. It was rare for him to be home; if he wanted to do his duty as a junior, no one would spoil it.
Urokodaki watched with a smile, kneeling at the brazier, and poured tea for the two of them.
Makomo still sat pressed to his side. She nudged Sabito and whispered: "You notice? Since Rōichirō came, Master smiles more."
"Before, he was always alone—either carving or staring into space—barely said a word all day. It made me anxious."
"Isn't that good?" Sabito asked.
"It is." Makomo glanced at Urokodaki, then at Giyu in the kitchen, then sneaked a look at Roy and murmured, "It's just… so good it feels unreal."
Sabito fell quiet.
Human hearts are fickle—when it's bad, we can't stand it; when it's finally good, we doubt it.
He drew a breath, tucked this fleeting warmth into his chest, and said softly, "Treasure it… Giyu's come, which means Rōichirō will soon go…
"Not even a year…"
"For a genius, what's the difference between one year and two?"
He understood Makomo's feeling. He looked at Giyu; he looked at Rōichirō…
"They race the dawn."
Makomo's face dimmed; she bowed her head. She understood the logic—but the ache of parting was real, and growing with time…
Giyu finished in the kitchen and came out.
Just then Urokodaki set the tea down—one cup to him, one to Roy.
The old man looked at his two students. "Let's speak plainly, Giyu."
You'd written at New Year there was no time to return; now, right after the holiday, you rushed here. Urokodaki guessed it must tie to the letter he'd sent the Lord.
Call it an old man's experience—or simply knowing Giyu well—either way, he was right.
Giyu set down the cup and spoke honestly. "By Ubuyashiki-sama's command, I've come for Rōichirō…
"The Lord has heard of Rōichirō's talent—and very much hopes he will join the Demon Slayer Corps."
"Rōichirō," Giyu laid a hand on his Nichirin blade and looked at Roy with solemn care, "please—cross blades with me!"
As expected, Shinsuke and Fukuda traded a glance—eyes bright with excitement.
Sabito and Makomo had also expected as much; they lifted their eyes to the two. Beside them, Urokodaki, too, watched in silence.