After bidding farewell to Shinobu Kocho, Cold Cry made his way alone toward the mountain peak.
The narrow trail beneath his feet looked long abandoned, nearly swallowed by thick weeds on both sides.
The forest was damp and stifling. Cold Cry's body was still weak, and after walking only a short distance, he was already panting heavily, his back soaked with sweat.
The bandages wrapped around his torso absorbed the moisture and clung tightly to his skin. As sweat seeped into his wounds, the sting of salt made them itch and burn.
Left with no choice, Cold Cry removed his haori, revealing his bandage-wrapped upper body as he attempted to regulate his breathing and cool himself down.
After an unknown stretch of time, he finally emerged from the cramped trail into a wide clearing.
It resembled a temporary rest stop, furnished with a stone table and benches. Beyond it lay a proper mountain path paved with neat bluestone slabs.
Cold Cry sat down, glancing at the orderly path below. It didn't take long for him to realize that Shinobu had deliberately directed him onto a side route.
Whether intentional or not no longer mattered.
"…What a troublesome woman."
He muttered under his breath, leaning back against the table. As he stared up at the canopy blocking out the sky, the memory of Shinobu's smiling face surfaced in his mind, unbidden.
For someone who called herself a Hashira, she was… rather unconventional.
From what he had learned, the Hashira were the strongest swordsmen in the Demon Slayer Corps—nine pillars who stood at the very top.
Among them, Shinobu Kocho, the Insect Hashira, was unique.
Unlike the others, she lacked the physical strength to decapitate demons—the only reliable method of killing them. Instead, she developed a deadly alternative: wisteria-based poison, specifically engineered to destroy demon cells.
It wasn't that she was weak—far from it. Her speed, precision, and intellect made her a Hashira in her own right.
Cold Cry exhaled slowly, pushing those thoughts aside.
It was already afternoon. If he couldn't reach the summit and find the cultivator before nightfall, he might have to spend the night in this forest—a dangerous prospect.
Suddenly, the nearby bushes rustled.
Cold Cry tensed, turning sharply—only to see a gray rabbit dart past.
He relaxed slightly.
But then—
A chill crept up his spine.
His instincts screamed at him. Something was wrong.
That rabbit hadn't been wandering.
It had been fleeing.
Cold Cry stilled his breathing. The prickling sensation on his back made it clear—
He was being watched.
Slowly, he drew in a controlled breath.
"Cold Tide."
Activating his Breathing Technique, a faint chill spread from his body, heightening his senses.
The already humid air condensed instantly. Fine, snow-like ice particles formed around him, suspended in the air as his breathing deepened and stabilized.
Whatever was hiding had realized it had been discovered.
A shadow dropped from a nearby tree—
And lunged.
The instant it entered his chilled domain, Cold Cry detected its trajectory and leapt backward toward the stone path, widening the distance.
He didn't counterattack.
Not because he didn't want to—
But because he couldn't.
He needed to see what he was dealing with.
From that brief exchange, one thing became clear:
This wasn't an ordinary animal.
Its body temperature was unnaturally cold—far below that of any human or beast.
The creature landed on the stone table.
Ice crystals clung to its body, making it appear, at a glance, like a white-furred monkey. It let out strange, guttural sounds as it scratched at its limbs in irritation.
Cold Cry narrowed his eyes, focusing.
It had limbs. Wore tattered clothing.
Not an animal.
Not human, either.
Then—
It turned.
Its mouth split open in a grotesque snarl.
Fangs.
Blood.
A sickly green face with feral, inhuman eyes.
Cold Cry's legs nearly gave out beneath him.
A demon.
A living, breathing demon.
"…Why is there a demon here?"
His thoughts raced.
Demons typically roamed at night and avoided areas monitored by the Demon Slayer Corps. For one to appear here—
It made no sense.
Unless…
This was intentional.
A test.
Cold Cry's gaze sharpened.
If this mountain truly belonged to a cultivator—or mentor—then this encounter might be deliberate.
A trial to assess him.
Combat ability. Decision-making. Survival instinct.
After all, nothing revealed a person faster than a life-or-death battle.
His breathing steadied.
Fight—or flee?
Running uphill would drain his stamina quickly. Running downhill might mean abandoning the test entirely.
And in his current condition, if he ran and got caught…
He wouldn't even be able to resist.
No.
Running was a dead end.
Fighting… was the only viable choice.
If this truly was a test, then whoever set it wouldn't allow him to die so easily.
Cold Cry inhaled deeply, steeling his resolve. He shifted into a stance, his hand moving instinctively toward his waist—
—only to freeze.
His expression stiffened.
"…No sword?"
A beat of silence.
Wanting to slay a demon without a Nichirin Blade—
It was like trying to cut wood without an axe.
Cold Cry's eyes twitched.
"That woman… couldn't even spare me a blade?"
His lips curled in frustration.
"Is this a test… or am I just being served up as food?"