Inside the modest clinic of Tōshō City, an elderly doctor frowned as he listened closely to the boy’s chest through his stethoscope.

After a moment, he pulled the instrument away from the pale skin and turned to the young man standing beside him.

“You’re the new worker at Inoue’s family diner, right?” the doctor asked sharply. “This kid… what exactly happened to him?”

Tachibana Kyūjō replied calmly, without hesitation.

“He tripped while walking. Just an accident.”

The old man’s expression turned skeptical, as if silently saying, Do I look that easy to fool?

Kyūjō remained composed, then added,

“If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”

The doctor glanced over at Kaigaku, who was sitting up on the futon, clutching his chest and coughing weakly.

Kaigaku nodded slowly.

Not out of loyalty—far from it.

He simply understood the consequences. If the police got involved, all his past crimes could come to light.

Kaigaku wasn’t stupid. Bringing more trouble on himself would only speed up his own ruin.

And Kyūjō knew that too. That’s exactly why he’d brought Kaigaku to the clinic without any hesitation.

The doctor let out a tired sigh.

“If that’s what the patient says, then there’s nothing more I can do.”

After a second check, he delivered his findings.

“Bruising around the respiratory tract and lungs. No critical damage. If he rests properly, he should recover.”

Then, he added with a slight frown,

“If possible, take him to Tokyo. I’ve heard there’s a hospital run by foreign doctors there. They might have better equipment for treating this kind of injury.”

Kyūjō gave a quiet nod, uninterested in dragging the conversation any further.

He still had things to do—like returning the stolen money to the woman in town.

Of course, the money Kaigaku had stolen from other cities? That wasn’t his concern. Kyūjō wasn’t some saintly hero. He had his own mission.

He only brought Kaigaku here to confirm one thing:

That his punch had hit the mark.

And after seeing the damage to Kaigaku’s lungs… he was satisfied.

With the current level of medical care in this era, the boy likely wouldn’t be able to practice any Breathing Technique again.

His future would be defined by one thing—permanent weakness.

And guilt.

— — —

One week later, Kyūjō found himself back at the clinic, emptying out the last of his coin pouch.

Apparently, as soon as Kaigaku recovered enough to move, he had slipped away from the clinic without paying a single mon.

Naturally, the debt fell onto Kyūjō’s shoulders.

The doctor left with a sour face, muttering under his breath and clutching the handful of coins tightly.

Behind him, old man Inoue let out a laugh loud enough to shake the ceiling.

“Hah! So you’re broke again, kid?!”

Kyūjō said nothing, swallowing the urge to throw something at the stingy geezer.

All that labor… and not even a single copper to show for it.

Filthy old miser, he thought grimly.

The only thing that gave him the slightest comfort tonight was one thought:

“I’m gonna eat like a king tonight, no matter what.”

— — —

Night fell.

A thin layer of mist blanketed the streets of Tōshō, shrouding the city in an unnatural calm. Most residents had already gone to bed. The silence felt frozen in place.

A few izakaya and back-alley brothels still glowed faintly on the outskirts of town.

But at the edge of the city, a figure emerged—moving slowly toward the center.

A tall man with long, unkempt hair and a cracked face like porcelain fractured under pressure.

Under the pale moonlight, his green-tinted eyes gleamed with eerie malice.

But what stood out the most… was the grotesque carving etched into his left eye:

「下弦の弐」— Lower Moons Two.

Rokuro. One of the Twelve Kizuki—the elite demons who served directly under Muzan Kibutsuji.

He walked leisurely through the street, humming to himself like a man shopping for dinner ingredients.

“How many should I eat tonight, I wonder…”

“Three? Or six…?”

“Hmm. Three is enough. If I overdo it, the Hashira might sniff me out and show up early.”

He chuckled, low and cold, disappearing into the city’s half-lit shadows.

— — —

Elsewhere, deep in the back of the diner, Kyūjō jolted awake from his sleep.

“…Blood.”

He sniffed the air again.

The scent of fresh blood.

In a flash, he was on his feet, sword in hand.

— — —

Far above the rooftops, a Kasugai Crow flew through the night sky, its wings beating furiously as it carried a message of grave urgency.

Down below, in a dim alley soaked with red, Rokuro dangled a young Demon Slayer by the neck, grinning as the boy struggled.

“So… you got here first,” he mused. “But only two of you? How dull.”

His grip tightened around the boy’s throat.

The slayer—Fujiwara Naoto—clutched at the demon’s wrist, gasping, legs kicking helplessly.

His hand barely touched the hilt of his Nichirin Blade—but he couldn’t lift it.

I’m going to die…

I can’t… fight something like this…

Naoto was a fresh recruit, barely out of two and a half years of training.

This was supposed to be his first mission.

It might also be his last.

Rokuro’s cold eyes narrowed.

“Humans… so fragile. So pointless.”

And with a single flex of his monstrous fingers, he crushed the boy’s neck.

There was a sickening crunch of bone, followed by a spray of blood from ruptured flesh.

Then, with a long, forked tongue, the demon licked his victim’s face clean—and slowly, deliberately—tore the head free.

Naoto’s partner screamed.

— — —

By the time Kyūjō arrived, there was no “fight” left to witness.

Only a massacre.

Another slayer—still in uniform—was crouched nearby, trembling as he retched beside a pool of blood and scattered limbs.

Even Kyūjō had to stop and press a hand over his mouth, forcing the bile down his throat.

In front of them, Rokuro sat cross-legged on the ground, licking crimson from his fingers like someone savoring the last drops of soup from a bowl.

Without even turning around, the demon muttered,

“Oh? Another guest? Looks like I might just be full tonight.”

Kyūjō’s gaze locked onto the kanji in the demon’s eye.

「下弦の弐」

Are you kidding me…?!

My first real battle… and it’s against one of the Lower Moons?!

Kyūjō swallowed hard.

Even if they were the lowest of the Twelve Kizuki, they were still far beyond normal demons.

And worse—he didn’t even know what Blood Demon Art this one used.

But there was no time to hesitate.

This was it.

The battle had already begun.

— — —

Elsewhere, high above the peaceful rooftops of Momoyama District, a Kasugai Crow circled above a small house.

Inside, a white-haired old man sat cross-legged, having just finished his nightly meditation.

The bird opened its beak and cried out in a shrill voice:

“Warning! Lower Moon Demon detected in Tōshō City!”

“Engaged in battle: Mizunoto rank—Fujiwara Naoto and Kobayashi Izumi!”

“Reinforcements required!”

The message echoed only twice before the crow veered eastward again, wings slicing through the wind.

Inside the house, the old man stood.

He reached for his wooden cane—and his Nichirin Blade.

Though he had retired due to his injury, there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in his eyes.

“If I still have a hand to grip this sword…”

“If my heart still burns for justice…”

“Then I will keep cutting down demons until my last breath!”

Kuwajima Jigorō, former Thunder Hashira, stepped out into the night—ready to fight once more.

— — —

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