Tachibana Kyūjō lowered the heavy bundle of firewood from his back and neatly stacked it behind the kitchen of a small eatery.

He let out a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and turned to the gruff old man standing by the back door—short, wiry, and sharp-eyed, with a voice like gravel.

Kyūjō grinned.

“Oi, Oyaji. After carrying and chopping all this firewood, I’d say I’ve earned myself a free lunch, yeah?”

Inoue Shōgo let out a snort, unimpressed.

“Hmph! Brat! You think a bowl of food comes cheap?”

He jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen, voice rising with each word.

“That was three servings in one bowl, you glutton! You inhaled it like a starving demon! If you want to pay it off, work another half a year and maybe we’ll call it even!”

With that, the old man turned around and stomped back into the building, leaving Kyūjō sighing in exasperation.

“…Old fox,” Kyūjō muttered, though there wasn’t any real venom behind his words. He knew Oyaji was just milking the situation.

It had already been two months since Kyūjō left Toyama Prefecture. In all that time, he hadn’t seen a single demon—let alone any sign of the Demon Slayer Corps.

His provisions had long run out, and he’d been living like a wilderness survivor ever since. If this world were a game, he figured he’d already qualify for some elite survivalist badge.

Things were manageable in the mountains where resources were abundant. But as soon as he approached Tōshō City, everything changed.

The forests nearby were… too quiet.

Eerily so.

No signs of wildlife—not even rats. The rivers were barren. No birdsong. No rustling. Just silence.

After three days of starvation, Kyūjō had no choice but to descend from the mountains and sneak into the city. He’d eaten without paying, and was now working part-time to repay the debt.

But that experience had taught him one important truth.

There was something wrong with this place.

He could smell it—the scent of demons.

And if that were the case, then it was only a matter of time before the Demon Slayer Corps showed up.

Until then, Kyūjō played the part of a humble debt worker—chopping wood, hauling goods, and secretly watching the forest for any sign of demon activity.

As a swordsman who had sharpened his blade for years, part of him was… itching to test it against a real demon.

— — —

That afternoon, as usual, Kyūjō was splitting logs with smooth, precise swings.

But from beyond the stone wall by the roadside, a woman’s panicked voice echoed sharply.

“Help! Someone, please help! That boy—he stole all my money!!”

“S-Stop! Please… that’s all I have…”

The voice cracked in desperation.

A middle-aged woman stumbled down the road, pale-faced and breathless, clutching the wall for support as she chased after a fleeing teenager in black.

Kaigaku didn’t bother looking back.

Not until she collapsed behind him, unable to continue.

In his hand, he clutched an old, faded pouch tied shut with frayed string.

He sneered.

Ever since that night—the night he let a demon into the temple to save his own skin, dooming Himejima Gyōmei and the other orphans—Kaigaku had returned to a life of theft.

There was no more free bread. No more protection.

But now, he was “smarter.”

He didn’t steal from the strong anymore. He lingered near clinics, watching and waiting for easy marks—people who were sick, fragile, and powerless.

Just like that woman.

Kaigaku didn’t care.

He had one goal.

To survive.

To become a Demon Slayer.

That was the only way to stop them from hunting him down.

— — —

He ran out of town and collapsed beneath a tree, wheezing, hands on his knees.

“Stupid woman! Idiot!” he spat between coughs. “This money won’t save you anyway!”

“You should’ve just died and rotted there!”

— — —

“Tch…”

The quiet snort shattered the still air.

From behind the thick tree trunk in front of him, a young man stepped into view.

Tachibana Kyūjō rolled his shoulder and flexed his fingers—each knuckle cracking one by one.

His gaze locked onto the boy before him.

The air around Kaigaku stank—not just of sweat and desperation, but of something far deeper.

Something rotten.

In all his years—this life and the last—Kyūjō had never felt such an unmistakable stench of human corruption.

Kaigaku had annoyed him back when he was just a fictional character.

But facing him in person—sensing that festering soul without the barrier of a screen—Kyūjō could no longer suppress the disgust boiling in his chest.

“If I don’t beat you half to death right now, I won’t deserve dinner tonight.”

— — —

Kaigaku froze when the stranger stepped out.

“Wh-What?! Who the hell are—?!”

He didn’t get to finish.

Kyūjō’s fist slammed into his nose with terrifying speed and precision, flattening him to the ground.

Blood sprayed across the dirt.

“I’m your father, you disgrace,” Kyūjō barked, following up with a brutal kick to Kaigaku’s gut. “And today, I’m giving you a lesson you’ll never forget!”

Kaigaku tumbled backward like a ragdoll, coughing and crying out.

Every time he tried to move, Kyūjō’s foot found him—hitting pressure points, muscle knots, weak spots. Precision strikes meant to hurt without lasting damage.

— — —

Eventually, Kaigaku was squirming like a worm in the dirt, sobbing brokenly.

“P-Please… stop… I-I’ll give it back…”

“It’s all here… please…”

Kyūjō took a long breath, then grabbed Kaigaku by the collar with one hand and lifted him like a sack of rice.

Kaigaku—his eyes swollen and barely open—trembled as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the coin pouches.

Kyūjō accepted them silently.

Kaigaku lowered his head, hiding the gleam of hate in his eyes.

“Take it… just go…”

“Leave before I—…”

“I swear I’ll kill you one day…”

He seared Kyūjō’s face into his memory—his voice, his smell, everything.

Burned it all into his soul.

But Kyūjō merely looked down at him with cold, unreadable eyes.

“Kaigaku.”

Kaigaku flinched.

His head turned slowly.

He knows my name…?

How…?!

He knows everything?!

Fear slithered into his spine.

His whole body began to shake.

Kyūjō leaned in and whispered, voice eerily calm.

“Relax. I won’t kill you.”

And it was true. He couldn’t—morally, emotionally, ethically—kill a child.

Kaigaku was still just a boy.

But before Kaigaku could feel even the slightest relief…

Kyūjō’s voice cut back in.

“But I will break you.”

He drew back his fist, adjusted his knuckle so the middle joint protruded just slightly, and gently struck Kaigaku’s ribs—just enough to shock the lungs.

Kaigaku gasped.

He couldn’t breathe.

So you want to learn Thunder Breathing, huh? Kyūjō thought bitterly. Then eat dirt, you bastard.

With a grunt, he slung Kaigaku under one arm like a sack of grain and began walking toward the nearest clinic in Tōshō City.

Kaigaku, barely conscious, glared at Kyūjō with hatred so thick it could curdle air.

He didn’t know who this guy really was—but one thing was clear.

He wasn’t normal.

— — —

“Hah? What’s with that look?” Kyūjō muttered, glancing down. “Don’t tell me you think I’m the villain here.”

“Get real. You’re the scumbag, not me.”

He gave Kaigaku one more light slap to the cheek—just enough to sting.

— — —

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