The journey began before dawn.
Karina did not question the route. She never did.
Blindfolded, hands loosely bound with soft cord, she followed the rhythm of movement and breath, counting steps, shifts in elevation, subtle changes in air pressure. The Demon Slayer Corps guarded the Swordsmith Village with near-obsessive secrecy, and for good reason. Weapons were lifelines. Knowledge was vulnerability.
Still, even deprived of sight, Karina perceived structure.
Turns were intentional. Distances deliberate. This was not paranoia—it was design.
She moved without resistance, her posture straight, stride controlled. Weakness, even perceived, invited exploitation.
Beside her, Mitsuri hummed softly.
It was an odd contrast. Where Karina conserved motion and energy, Mitsuri radiated it. Her presence filled the space between escorts, lightening the oppressive silence that usually accompanied classified transport.
"You're very quiet," Mitsuri said after some time, her voice warm and unguarded. "Does the blindfold bother you?"
"No," Karina replied. "I've traveled worse."
Mitsuri's hum stilled. "Worse how?"
Karina paused, then answered truthfully. "Alone."
Mitsuri did not immediately respond. When she did, her tone had softened.
"You won't be alone this time."
Karina said nothing.
The path steepened. Gravel shifted beneath their feet, then softened into packed earth. The scent of metal began to bleed into the air—iron, charcoal, oil. Karina's senses sharpened instinctively.
They were close.
When the blindfold was finally removed, the sudden burst of light forced Karina to blink. The Swordsmith Village revealed itself gradually, like a secret reluctantly shared.
Nestled deep within a ring of jagged mountains, the village pulsed with quiet industry. Smoke curled from forges built into stone and timber, the rhythmic hammering of metal echoing through the valley like a heartbeat. Blades were being born here—refined, sharpened, tempered with intent.
Karina absorbed it all in silence.
This place existed for one purpose: war.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Mitsuri said, standing beside her.
Karina inclined her head. "Efficient."
Mitsuri laughed lightly. "That's one way to put it."
They were greeted without ceremony. Swordsmiths moved past them, faces hidden behind masks, eyes flicking briefly toward Karina before returning to their work. She felt their attention like pressure against her skin.
Foreign. Unknown. Dangerous.
She welcomed the assessment.
Their lodgings were modest—clean tatami mats, low tables, sliding doors that opened toward the inner forge paths. Karina set her pack down with practiced ease, already cataloguing exits, angles, lines of sight.
Mitsuri watched her, chin resting on her knuckles.
"You really never stop, do you?"
"Stopping gets people killed," Karina replied.
Mitsuri's smile faded slightly—not offended, but contemplative.
"I used to think that too," she said. "Before I realized that always being ready can hurt just as much."
Karina straightened. "Pain is irrelevant."
Mitsuri met her gaze steadily. "It's not."
The air between them tightened—not with hostility, but with something more subtle. A difference in philosophy. In survival.
Before Karina could respond, a messenger arrived with quiet urgency. Reports. Disturbances at the outer perimeter. Unconfirmed sightings.
Karina's hand drifted instinctively toward her blade.
Mitsuri noticed.
"Soon," she said softly. "But not yet."
Hours passed.
Weapons were inspected. Karina's blade was taken for reforging—its arcane etchings studied with both reverence and unease. Without it, she felt… exposed. The sensation irritated her more than it should have.
She stood at the edge of the village as dusk settled, watching sparks rise into the darkening sky.
Mitsuri joined her again, carrying two cups of tea.
"Shinobu says you should drink this," she said. "It helps circulation."
Karina accepted it. Their fingers brushed briefly.
The contact lingered.
Neither acknowledged it.
The tea was warm, floral, grounding. Karina drank in silence, letting the heat spread through her chest. The poison's echo stirred faintly, then receded.
"You don't trust this place," Mitsuri observed.
"I trust nothing that requires secrecy to survive," Karina replied.
Mitsuri considered that. "Then why stay?"
Karina's gaze remained fixed on the forge fires. "Because it's necessary."
Mitsuri stepped closer, her shoulder brushing Karina's arm deliberately this time.
"And you?" she asked. "Am I… necessary?"
The question was quiet. Direct. Unshielded.
Karina's breath faltered.
Logic presented a dozen deflections. Strategy offered retreat. Experience warned of consequence.
But honesty—rare, unwelcome—rose instead.
"You complicate variables," Karina said.
Mitsuri smiled—not teasing, not triumphant. Understanding.
"I tend to do that."
Night descended fully then, the village settling into a low, vigilant hum. Guards took positions. Forges dimmed but did not die.
Karina lay awake on her futon, eyes open to the ceiling, listening.
She was aware of Mitsuri's presence in the adjacent space—the soft shift of fabric, the cadence of her breathing. Too aware.
Her Arcane Breathing refused to settle into its usual calm. Patterns slipped. Focus fractured.
Attachment compromises judgment.
The thought returned unbidden.
So did Mitsuri's voice.
You won't be alone this time.
Karina exhaled slowly.
Outside the village, something stirred.
High above, concealed among the cliffs, porcelain gleamed faintly in the moonlight.
Eyes watched.
Measured.
Gyokko tilted his head, lips splitting into a grotesque grin.
"So that's her," he murmured. "The one who bends reality… and breaks herself doing it."
His gaze shifted, tracking the subtle glow of Mitsuri's presence beside Karina.
"How very… convenient."
Far away, in darkness deeper than night, Muzan Kibutsuji felt the disturbance ripple outward.
A bond forming.
A weakness.
Or a weapon.
The game was moving forward.
And the Swordsmith Village, hidden though it was, had become the next battlefield.