Chapter 8 — Swordsmanship × Demons
Yukizō—named for its snowy-white blade.
Years ago, Zeno claimed it as a trophy from a fallen swordsman.
Roy weighed the katana in his hand, gave it a few test swings. A bit light. He tilted it down, slashed in a diagonal arc—
and the system panel immediately popped up:
[Constitution +0.05]
So he had been wrong. The flaw wasn't in the technique, but in his approach. He had overlooked the essence of the Breath of the Sun.
It was never meant for brawlers. It was a breathing art crafted for swordsmen.
The proof was right before him—his panel now displayed a brand-new skill.
[Congratulations. Swordsmanship unlocked.]
[Current Level: Lv.1 (1/100)]
"Hnmm… an expected surprise, or an unexpected inevitability?" Roy murmured, sliding the blade back into its scabbard.
Crack!
The dining table split cleanly in half, a perfect line down the center.
Only Wutong's quick reflexes saved the meal from spilling to the floor.
"Master Roy, this blade is razor sharp. Perhaps… best not to swing it indoors."
Roy nodded in agreement. It was indeed a fine weapon—light, but flawless. Still, he couldn't help but wonder… could Yukizō be carried into the Demon Slayer world through reverse materialization?
"Maybe I should try it tonight."
And so he did. At ten o'clock, with the old clock chiming, Roy bathed, changed into sleepwear, and lay down with Yukizō in his arms.
After a day of electrocution training, poison resistance drills, and relentless practice with the Breath of the Sun, his body was spent. Sleep came easily.
The familiar tunnel appeared once more.
This time, he glanced down at his right hand—empty. No Yukizō. He chuckled at his own naivety.
Of course not. According to the "original author's" cruel logic, materialization-types always had a streak of neurosis. Their vivid imaginations were both their gift and curse. Just look at Shizuku, Kortopi, or poor Kite—killed, reborn, and bound to his macabre Nen clown.
Without Yukizō, he walked lighter. The sword could be replaced. The Demon Slayer world had its own Swordsmith Village; if nothing else, he could always borrow the black Nichirin blade hidden inside Yoriichi Type Zero.
Decision made, Roy pressed forward. He found the familiar wooden door with its ghastly ornament and pushed it open without hesitation.
The dizzying plunge took him once more.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the small mountain cabin.
Taketō and Shigeru slept nearby, limbs sprawled in chaos—feet in mouths, hands stuffed into sleeves, the quilt kicked to the floor.
Roy smiled, tugged the blanket back over them. The movement woke Tanjiro.
"Niisan…" The boy's amber eyes blinked wide in the dark. "Can I come into the mountain with you today?"
Can I say no? Roy thought dryly. Judging by the boy's expression, he'd hardly slept all night, still shaken from the things he'd seen.
Roy shot him a glare. "Then why are you still in bed? Waiting for me to put your shoes on?"
"Sorry, sorry!" Tanjiro tumbled out of bed, clucking around him like a nervous hen.
Roy ignored him, opened the door. Outside, snow blanketed the mountain. In the kitchen, their mother Kie emerged, scarf tied, carrying a bundle of steaming dumplings. She pressed them into Roy's arms.
"Eat on the way. Don't let them go cold."
Then her eyes fell on Tanjiro.
"And why are you carrying a basket?!"
"I'm going with Niisan into the mountain."
"No, you are not."
"Yes, I am."
"Husband! Say something!"
From the veranda, Tanjuro's soft voice drifted over. At some point, he had appeared there, quiet as snow.
"If he wants to go, let him. He'll be with Ryoichi."
"You—!"
Kie glanced from Tanjuro to her mule-stubborn son Tanjiro, then sighed in defeat. She reached out, tightened the scarf around Roy's neck, and said softly:
"Take care of your brother. Be back before dark."
At that moment, their grandmother came out cradling Hanako in her arms. Tanjiro opened his mouth, wanting to insist— "I can protect myself, I can protect Niisan too."
But then he remembered the way Roy had glided like a phantom through the forest… and how a single strike had pierced clean through a tree trunk.
So he shut his mouth wisely, stealing only a glance at his elder brother.
Roy ignored the look. His eyes swept over Kie, Tanjuro, Grandma, and little Hanako, then softened into a rare smile.
"Wait for me to come back."
With that, he hefted the hoe, slung the basket onto his back, and strode toward the snow-draped forest.
"Niisan, wait up!" Tanjiro stumbled after him.
Behind them, Kie, Tanjuro, and Grandma watched until the two figures vanished among the trees.
The cabin grew smaller in the distance, but the warmth it left in Roy's chest lingered. Something he had never once felt in the Zoldyck estate.
He cherished it. Savored it. Even craved it. For the first time, he thought— Maybe staying in this world… wouldn't be so bad.
"Huff… huff…" Tanjiro half-ran, half-trudged through the snow until he caught up.
He opened his mouth, but Roy already knew what he wanted to ask. He spoke first:
"Tanjiro, do you believe… that beyond the world beneath our feet, there are other worlds?"
"Really, Niisan?" Tanjiro's eyes went wide in shock.
The two of them walked through the white forest, leaving twin trails of footprints behind.
Roy's voice was calm, unhurried.
"I once had a dream. In that dream, I traveled to another world."
"In that world, I had a new family. New parents. New brothers…"
"But our family lived by killing."
"From the time I could walk, I was raised as an assassin."
"And the day I woke, I found myself—without ever being taught—already armed with countless ways to kill."
"That's when I realized the dream… was all too real."
Tanjiro's jaw hung slack. A gust of wind shook snow from the birch branches, dumping it squarely on his head.
It took him a moment, but then he blinked in wonder and gasped:
"That's incredible! Just like when Grandpa Saburo says… demons really exist."
"No," Roy cut in, halting mid-step. "That part—is real."
Tanjiro crashed into his back with a yelp, rubbing his nose as he stumbled. But then his nostrils flared, his face paling.
"Blood… Niisan! I smell thick blood ahead!"
"I see it."
Roy lowered the basket from his back, gripped the hoe like a weapon, and stepped forward.
His narrow eyes glinted coldly in the snow-lit forest.