The young man at the door radiated an unsettling grace—his refined clothes and posture were unlike anything the Kamado family had ever seen. He seemed to belong to another world entirely.
Takeo Kamado craned his neck upward, staring at the stranger in awe and confusion. He'd never seen anyone like this before. When his mother, Kie Kamado, hurried over, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked at the visitor with wary politeness.
"Excuse me," she asked softly. "Who are you? What brings you here?"
The man's smile never faltered. Muzan Kibutsuji narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice smooth as silk.
"One, two, three…" He counted under his breath, gaze drifting lazily from one family member to the next. "Quite a big family you have here."
As he lifted a pale hand, his fingernails began to grow—long and sharp—stretching unnaturally before their eyes.
A suffocating pressure filled the house. Even in the kitchen, Chika Kamado froze mid-motion, knife hovering above the cutting board. Her chest tightened. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
She set the knife down and turned toward the door, confusion twisting into dread. The air felt heavy, the light dimmed. By the time she stepped out and saw what was happening—
—her mind went blank.
A well-dressed man stood there, his arm plunged straight through her mother's chest. Blood pooled at his feet. Her younger brothers—Takeo, Shigeru, Rokuta—lay motionless on the floor, crimson spreading beneath them.
Chika didn't know who he was. None of them did. There was no reason, no warning, no logic to the massacre. Only horror.
"You—what have you done to my family?!"
She charged forward, trembling with fury. She'd never fought anyone in her life; her body was frail, her hands made for cooking, not killing.
Muzan turned his gaze toward her, bored.With a casual flick of his arm—
Slash.
Pain tore through her side like fire. She hit the floor hard, vision spinning, the world drowning in red.
Through the haze, she could still see him—calm, untouchable, the embodiment of arrogance. Her consciousness wavered, but her hatred did not.
Voices—soft, distant—echoed through her collapsing mind.
"Sister, when I grow up, I'll take care of the family!"
"Sister, look at my muscles! I'll be strong enough to chop firewood with Tanjiro soon!"
"Sister, teach me how to sew! I want to make everyone warm clothes before winter!"
Her eyes blurred, then closed. The warmth of life drained away, leaving only silence and the scent of blood.
Chika woke with a gasp.
Sweat streamed down her face as she shot upright in bed, chest heaving. The nightmare had come again. The same dream, every night—the same unbearable pain, the same memory carved into her soul.
She pressed a hand to her forehead and exhaled shakily. Even knowing it was just the dream's echo didn't make it easier. The original Chika's grief, her rage—it still bled through, as vivid as ever.
But each time she relived it, she felt herself synchronizing more with this body. The emotions, the memories—they were no longer just inherited echoes. They were hers now.
"Don't worry," she whispered to the reflection in the mirror. "I'll avenge you. I'll protect Tanjiro and Nezuko… no matter what."
The girl in the mirror looked back—beautiful, weary, and fierce. She resembled Nezuko closely, only older, more mature. Her long reddish-brown hair shimmered faintly under the morning light, and her eyes, a deep crimson, gleamed with quiet determination.
And yes—her figure was... well, surprisingly generous.Chika sighed. "Of course. Even in a world this tragic, the author still had time for fan service."
She glanced toward the window. Dawn had arrived. Training would begin soon.
In the world of Demon Slayer, tragedy was constant. Fans had even dubbed it "Pillar Slayer" for how mercilessly the story consumed its heroes.
The Pillars—the elite of the Demon Slayer Corps—were humanity's strongest defenders. Yet even they were crushed beneath the might of the Upper Moons.
Each victory demanded unbearable sacrifice.
The Flame Hashira, Rengoku, fell to Upper Moon Three.
The Sound Hashira, Uzui, survived Upper Moon Six—but lost an eye and an arm.
The Insect Hashira, Shinobu, sacrificed herself to weaken Upper Moon Two.
The Mist Hashira, Muichiro, was sliced in half by Upper Moon One.
The Serpent and Love Hashira, Obanai and Mitsuri, died together, bleeding in each other's arms.
The Stone Hashira, Gyomei, burned away beneath the sun with a smile, having awakened the deadly Demon Slayer Mark.
Even the survivors—Sanemi and Giyu—were doomed by their Marks to die before twenty-five.
And Tanjiro himself? One eye blinded, one arm lost. His beloved Kanao nearly blind as well.
Such was the cost of victory.
Sure, the story gave them a reincarnation ending—but that was another life, another world. It didn't undo the pain that came before.
If I'd ended up in Naruto or One Piece, Chika thought wryly, maybe I'd just hide, grind, and enjoy the plot from the sidelines.But in Demon Slayer? You'd need a heart of stone to watch all this and stay detached.
She couldn't.
This wasn't just someone else's tragedy anymore.
"This time," she murmured, gripping her sword, "the story changes."
She stepped outside just as Tanjiro emerged from his room, yawning with exhaustion.
"Ugh, I still can't get the Tenth Form right… If this keeps up, Master Urokodaki's gonna hit me with his Bone-Crushing Fist again…"
Urokodaki's threats weren't idle. He'd broken Tanjiro's bones before—then healed them perfectly, stronger than before—just so he could break them again if necessary.
The memory made Tanjiro shudder. "He's terrifying…"
Before he could spiral into despair, Chika spoke up. "Want me to teach you? The Tenth Form."
"Huh? Wait—you've already mastered the Tenth Form?!"
"Mm." She smiled faintly. "A long time ago."
Tanjiro blinked at her in silence.Then gulped.
"...I'm doomed, aren't I?"