The next day, Cold Cry awoke in a daze. With great effort, he pushed himself up from the floor and glanced around.
The brownish-yellow wooden walls, the bamboo basket hanging by the side—everything was exactly as he had seen the night before. It confirmed one thing clearly:
None of it had been a dream.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
How fortunate… to have escaped death.
Yet the relief was short-lived. This body was in terrible condition. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted bitter, and his stomach churned violently. Worst of all, every inch of his body ached, as though it no longer obeyed his will.
Gritting his teeth, Cold Cry tried to stand. Even the slightest movement made his vision darken. If not for the wall supporting him, he would have collapsed instantly.
Leaning against it, he slowly made his way toward the door. The few steps felt like an eternity. By the time he reached the entrance, he sank onto the stone ledge at its base, breathing heavily.
The sunlight outside was blinding.
Judging by its position, it was likely around eight or nine in the morning.
The gentle breeze, the rustling trees, the blooming flowers—everything felt serene and peaceful.
And yet…
Just yesterday, on this very mountain, a flesh-eating demon had lurked in the shadows—one that had nearly devoured him whole.
Even now, recalling it sent a chill down his spine.
At the fork in the path leading down the mountain, a figure slowly came into view.
The man wore simple gray hemp clothing. His build was sturdy, his steps steady. In his right hand, he carried a short-handled hoe, while a bamboo basket rested on his back.
Moments later, he arrived.
Without hesitation, Yanrobei walked straight into the wooden hut. As he passed Cold Cry, he let out a chuckle.
"Yo, brat. Finally awake?"
Cold Cry didn't reply. Instead, he caught a faint scent drifting from the basket—blood… and fish.
Sure enough, Yanrobei soon returned carrying an iron basin filled with water. Floating within it was another smaller basin, holding a pheasant and a carp.
Pulling over a low stool, Yanrobei sat right beside the doorway—right beside Cold Cry—and began plucking the pheasant. The metallic scent of blood quickly filled the air.
"I caught these for you this morning," he said casually. "Pheasant soup is good for recovery. Not as good as an old hen, but it'll do."
Cold Cry's already unsettled stomach churned harder. The smell made his head spin.
"…Can't you do that somewhere else?" he muttered weakly, dry-heaving. "Do you have to sit here?"
Yanrobei burst into laughter, clearly pleased.
"Haha! Look at you now. Weren't you acting tough last night?"
Cold Cry narrowed his eyes slightly. So it's deliberate…
After laughing his fill, Yanrobei shifted a little farther away—just enough to lessen the smell, but not enough to stop talking.
Silence fell between them.
Then Yanrobei spoke again.
"Hey, brat… what were you thinking yesterday? Trying to fight a demon without even a Nichirin Blade?"
His tone turned serious.
"You've barely seen the world, yet you rushed in like that. Against a demon, the only result should've been your death. So tell me—what was going through your head?"
Cold Cry didn't expect the question.
At the mention of it, irritation surged within him. He let out a cold laugh.
"Hmph. And you have the nerve to ask? A demon shows up on your mountain, and you do nothing. Some 'cultivator' you are."
His breathing grew heavier, but he continued.
"And that woman—if she wasn't going to guide me, fine. But leaving me with those cryptic words before abandoning me halfway? Completely unnecessary."
Having vented everything at once, Cold Cry slumped against the wall, panting.
Yanrobei stood there, momentarily stunned.
Then—
"Bullshit!" he snapped. "Who told you this mountain belongs to me? I'm no guardian deity!"
He snorted.
"And even if demons appear here, what does that have to do with me? I'm just a cultivator—a trainer. Not a member of the Demon Slayer Corps."
His gaze sharpened.
"If trainers went around hunting demons themselves, what would be the point of raising swordsmen?"
Cold Cry fell silent.
Hearing this, he began to understand.
This mountain wasn't some protected territory. Like most remote places, it simply lay beyond regular patrol routes. The appearance of a demon… wasn't unusual.
If anything, his earlier assumptions had been flawed.
The silence stretched once more as Yanrobei continued cleaning the pheasant.
After a while, Cold Cry spoke again.
"I thought it was a test."
Yanrobei paused slightly.
"That woman dropped me at the foot of the mountain and said, 'I can only take you this far. The rest, you must walk yourself.'"
His eyes darkened.
"And then a demon appeared… on a mountain where a cultivator lives. It felt deliberate."
"So," Yanrobei said flatly, "you thought I set it up?"
Cold Cry didn't answer.
Instead, he continued:
"Running wasn't an option. If I exhausted myself, I'd be caught anyway. At first, I tried to stall—hoping you'd intervene."
He exhaled slowly.
"But when you didn't show up, I realized… it wasn't a test."
"It was real."
His voice lowered.
"So I fought. I used what I could to restrain it… and made it scream. Loud enough for you to hear."
Though his tone was calm, Yanrobei could picture it vividly—
A wounded boy, facing a demon alone, calculating each move between life and death.
That wasn't something ordinary people could do.
Not without experience.
Not without resolve.
Not without a mind sharp enough to remain calm in terror.
Yanrobei clicked his tongue.
"Hmph. Not bad."
"To think you used the demon itself as a signal… at least my effort saving you wasn't wasted."
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You've encountered demons before, haven't you?"
Cold Cry froze.
For a moment, memories resurfaced—
The night his sister was taken.
The blood.
The screams.
The helplessness.
A dull pain spread across the scars covering his body.
"…I suppose so."
His voice was quiet.
"These scars… were left by a demon."
He lifted his gaze, eyes steady despite his weakened state.
"I've survived twice now."
A faint, determined smile appeared.
"Seems like… I was born to slay demons."