"Ah… found it at last. This should be the place, right?"
Tachibana Kyūjō stood in front of a plain-looking wall, its surface weathered and unremarkable to any passerby. But his sharp eyes were scanning for something more—something beneath the surface.
"It's hidden pretty well... Is this an illusion-type Blood Demon Art?" he muttered softly. "It's masking itself—making people instinctively ignore it."
Kyūjō didn't hesitate for a second.
He stepped forward, walking straight into the wall—only for his body to pass through it like mist.
There was no resistance. No impact.
As if the wall was just a shadow.
As half his body phased through the illusion, Kyūjō paused and turned slightly to the southwest. His gaze sharpened, and he whispered under his breath:
"Kibutsuji Muzan… be ready."
"Your new 'father' is coming for you soon."
Yes. On his way to find Tamayo in Asakusa, Kyūjō had caught a whiff of something unmistakable.
A rotting stench that didn't cling to the flesh, but reeked from deep within the soul—something only centuries of killing and corruption could create.
There was no mistaking it.
That presence… could only belong to Muzan Kibutsuji.
Kyūjō knew he wasn't ready.
Not yet, at least—not for a one-on-one fight against the progenitor of all demons.
Especially not when Muzan could vanish at will, supported by elite subordinates, and drag his enemies into the Infinity Castle with a single strum of Nakime's biwa.
Getting caught in that place would be a death sentence.
Unlike some Hashira in the original timeline—who lunged headfirst at the mere mention of Muzan's name—Kyūjō understood the value of patience.
He knew when to strike… and when to wait.
A smirk tugged at the edge of his lips as he lifted his face to the sky.
Give me a few more years, Muzan.
Then I'll sweep you aside like a pest.
Like you're nothing more than a gnat beneath my blade.
Of course, the one who had once brought Muzan to the brink of death…
Was none other than Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
A living legend. A man who had surpassed all human limitations.
Born with the Transparent World.
Born with the Demon Slayer Mark.
Born with Sun Breathing, not a derivative imitation.
(Yoriichi created the five fundamental Breathing Styles from his own Sun Breathing technique—proof that his very body and soul operated on a different level from birth.)
Even without intense training, his body grew stronger with age. Everything about him was effortless.
If there was one area where Kyūjō might exceed him… it would be in perception and mental depth.
With the Sixth Sense granted by Kenshin Tōmei, and mastery of the Transparent World, Kyūjō's spiritual sensitivity had reached a level even deeper than Yoriichi's.
He had even unlocked the secret behind activating the Demon Slayer Mark.
But he had no intention of using it.
Activating a Mark might grant immense power—a distinct pattern manifesting on the skin as the body reaches a heightened state.
But it came at a price.
To awaken it, the body must be forced beyond biological limits: a core temperature of 39°C, a heart rate above 200 bpm, and a flood of adrenaline surging through every vein.
When that moment comes… the entire body feels like it's burning alive.
But the real danger wasn't in unlocking the Mark.
Because that power came with a curse—it borrowed from one's future to strengthen the present.
Every swordsman who awakened a Mark would die before the age of 25.
Except for one man: Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
He was the only exception. The only one who lived past that limit with his Mark intact.
If he opened the Mark, he knew—he wouldn't live long.
His current body was stable, healthy, capable of surviving to a ripe old age—perhaps even past eighty.
Activating the Mark would burn through all of that, trading decades for fleeting power.
It simply wasn't worth the trade.
Not unless… he had no other choice.
When it came to technique—
Yes, it was true that Thunder Breathing didn't compare to Sun Breathing in raw origin or purity.
But so far, Kyūjō's body had synced almost perfectly with lightning.
Even if he managed to master Sun Breathing, there was no guarantee the results would surpass what he had already achieved with Thunder.
Resonance of body and soul mattered more than technique hierarchy.
In the end, Sun Breathing belonged to one man alone.
Everyone else could only imitate it. This content belongs to novelꜰire.net
Even Tanjiro, in the original story, never truly reached Yoriichi's level—despite using the same style.
Because in truth, every other Breathing Style in existence was just a fragment of Yoriichi's original.
If Kyūjō wished to surpass that legend…
Then his only path forward was to forge a Breathing Style entirely of his own.
Passing through the illusory barrier, Kyūjō stepped into the hidden courtyard.
His steps were calm, deliberate—unhidden.
He wanted them to know: he was not an enemy.
Inside the modest western-style house nestled quietly within the illusion, two residents were in the middle of conducting a medical experiment.
They paused, their ears catching the approaching footsteps.
Tamayo turned to her companion.
"Yushirō… that's not a demon. It's still daytime. It must be human."
Yushirō frowned. "Maybe some clueless civilian who wandered in?"
Tamayo gently shook her head. Her expression was serene, yet serious.
"His steps are too steady. His breathing is controlled."
"He's no ordinary person. And it feels like... he came here on purpose."
"Open the door, Yushirō."
Yushirō hesitated. "But…"
"It's fine," Tamayo said with a warm smile. "If he had ill intent… we wouldn't even hear his footsteps."
Outside, Kyūjō reached the doorway.
With a calm, composed voice, he spoke:
"You're absolutely right, beautiful lady. I've come without malice."
The moment that sentence left his lips, a vein bulged on Yushirō's forehead.
How dare this human speak so boldly about Tamayo-sama—out loud?!
"You insolent bastard!"
Yushirō stomped toward the door, flung it open just a crack, and snapped from the shadows:
"Hurry up and get inside! Don't keep Tamayo-sama waiting!"
"Yushirō!" Tamayo's voice echoed gently from within.
"Ah—! I-I'm sorry, Tamayo-sama! I'll behave, I promise!"
Yushirō did a complete one-eighty, his expression flipping into polite sweetness.
Kyūjō scratched the back of his head.
This kid seriously had no manners.
Still, he didn't take it personally. With steady composure, he stepped into the house.
Standing there in the soft light of the doorway was a tall young man, dressed in an elegant sky-blue cloak. Twin Nichirin blades hung at his waist, and his face carried a quiet strength—calm, noble, and confident.
Yushirō stared at him for a long moment.
Why did he have to be that handsome?
Why did this pretty boy have to show up in front of Tamayo-sama now of all times?
A tiny, bitter seed of jealousy began to sprout in Yushirō's demon heart.
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