The moonlight was truly beautiful, yet Kokushibo had never once truly stopped to appreciate it.
As he gazed at Izumi Kiyokazu, who was currently collapsed on the ground gasping for air, a memory from the distant past suddenly flickered into Kokushibo's mind.
It was from when they were very young. Yoriichi Tsugikuni had approached him holding a book, saying with a smile:
"Elder Brother, I never understood the beginning of this book, but after reading the ending, I finally realized what the opening meant. This style of writing is truly unique. Are there any other books like this?"
Kokushibo couldn't remember which book he had handed to Yoriichi back then. He only remembered what he had told him:
"When you read, remember to do so where the light is sufficient, otherwise you will damage your eyes. Try not to read at night. Even if you must, do not read for too long. Candlelight is far more straining than the sun."
Yoriichi had nodded earnestly at him, then replied with a smile:
"Elder Brother, I will remember those words for the rest of my life."
Kokushibo didn't know why he remembered that scene so vividly. It was just... a very ordinary summer afternoon.
Looking back now, perhaps Yoriichi's words were indeed a form of destiny.
After becoming a demon and personally slicing the flute that belonged to them as brothers in two; after he had completely finished reading the "book" that was the lives of the Tsugikuni brothers...
Now, looking back at Izumi Kiyokazu, it felt as though he were reading the "beginning" of their story all over again.
Was this a sequel? Or a new beginning?
Kokushibo couldn't tell. He looked down at the fallen Kiyokazu while Muzan's furious roars continued to thunder in the back of his mind.
He quietly closed his eyes, then spoke to Kiyokazu once more:
"The next time we meet will be the time I kill you."
Hearing Kokushibo's words, Kiyokazu felt a massive weight finally lift from his heart. An overwhelming surge of joy from surviving a disaster rushed over him, making him feel almost like crying.
No one knew what the events of this night truly meant to him.
He understood better than anyone here what an "Upper Rank" truly represented, and he knew better than anyone just how microscopic his chances of survival were tonight.
And precisely because he knew these things, the pressure he had endured was far greater than that of anyone else present.
Only a few months ago, he had been an ordinary person. Even before tonight, he had never entertained the idea of risking his life for others.
Damn Demon Slayer Corps!
They're just like a cult!
How are they so good at brainwashing people?!
Of course, no one could see through Kiyokazu's internal grumbling. Kokushibo watched the boy still gasping for breath, glanced at those familiar Marks, and frowned slightly. He couldn't help but speak up:
"Unless you are exhausted to the point of collapse, do not lie on the ground. It insults the dignity of a warrior!"
Hearing this, Kiyokazu sat up almost as a reflex. However, because his body was so overextended, he staggered and nearly fell again.
Watching Kiyokazu in this state, Kokushibo felt a strange sense of satisfaction for some reason.
He liked this weak version of Yoriichi... no, Kiyokazu.
Under Kiyokazu's astonished gaze, Kokushibo reached out and helped him up. He then tore off a piece of his own sleeve and began to bandage the boy's wounds, explaining in a stiff tone:
"If your wounds are left untreated, they will cause permanent, irreversible damage to your body. Humans are fragile creatures. I do not wish to find you unable to even lift a sword the next time we meet."
Kiyokazu watched Kokushibo meticulously bandaging him and, for a moment, found himself at a loss for words.
Staring at the torn sleeve, Kiyokazu remained silent for a long time before speaking softly:
"Can you give me the flute?"
The moment the words left Kiyokazu's mouth, Kokushibo's movements froze. Those hands, which had never wavered through thousands of sword strikes, now betrayed a nearly imperceptible tremor.
Several seconds passed before Kokushibo resumed. He tied the cloth strip tightly, as if trying to strangle that momentary lapse in composure within the silence.
"Why..."
Kokushibo spoke, his voice hoarse, the words sounding as if they were being forced out of his throat:
"That flute is nothing but a useless trinket. There is no way I would have kept it until now..."
Yet, hearing this, Kiyokazu did not look away as he usually might. Instead, he stared fixedly at Kokushibo's lowered profile. His gaze was locked onto Kokushibo's chest—right where the broken flute was hidden.
Kokushibo sensed the boy's gaze. His six blood-red eyes seemed as if they didn't dare to look back, all of them shifting away simultaneously.
"You're lying..."
Kiyokazu's voice was soft, yet it gave Kokushibo an indescribable feeling.
If anyone else had said those words to him, he would have decapitated them instantly. But facing Kiyokazu—this "reincarnation" who was so much weaker than his brother Yoriichi—he felt an even more complex emotion.
"Even I don't understand why I feel this way, but I know... you still have it on you. Please give it back to me. It is very important to me."
"Give it back...?"
Kokushibo repeated the words, his tone unreadable.
He slowly straightened his back. Lord Muzan's angry roars were still buzzing deep in his mind, but he had no desire to pay them any heed.
Whatever reprimands or punishments he might face upon his return meant nothing in the face of that word: "flute."
A long silence stretched between the two, broken only by the night wind sweeping over the scorched earth. The air held the faint, lingering scent of wisteria flowers.
Finally, Kokushibo moved. He reached into the inner pocket of his robe, the one closest to his heart. Very slowly, he withdrew an object.
It was a broken flute, carefully wrapped.
The flute itself was crude, looking like a child's clumsy attempt at carving a toy.
However, from the polished sheen on its surface, one could tell that it had been rubbed and handled countless times.
The break in the flute was perfectly smooth; the person who had severed it must have struck with immense force.
Despite the break, it was clear the item had been impeccably preserved. Aside from the unmendable crack, it showed almost no signs of the centuries that had passed.
Kokushibo did not hand it over immediately. He simply ran the pad of his thumb gently over the cold, broken edge, a turbulent and nameless sea of emotions churning in his heart.
There was pain, regret, a sliver of liberation, and perhaps even... a sense of debt that could finally be repaid?
"Take it."
After a long time, Kokushibo finally extended his hand with the broken flute.
"Since you want it, then take it."
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Demon Slayer: Starting by Snatching Daki(194 Chapter- Ongoing)
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