Shinobu made a great show of resistance—but in the end, she trailed along to lunch without a word of further protest.
The kitchen cook had made savory rice balls—and there was something about the traditional kind you simply couldn't find in the era Inori had come from. Inori sat beneath the eaves on the engawa and ate alongside Kanao and Shinobu, and the three of them talked about all manner of things.
She'd come from over a hundred years in the future—a casual observation or two was enough to leave both girls wide-eyed. Kanao's large, candid eyes filled with quiet wonder. Shinobu, for all her lingering wariness, was likely just playing tsundere—she didn't actually dislike Inori; she simply wasn't ready to acknowledge an outsider that easily. Especially an outsider who wasn't even human.
But these things ease with time.
Outstanding people draw others' warmth wherever they go—and Inori was exactly that kind of person. She hadn't lived particularly long, yet she could read the glances and small gestures of these two girls plainly enough. Winning their affection would be effortless if she chose to.
...
...
Half a month slipped by.
(③)
Life at the Butterfly Mansion was quiet and peaceful. Mercifully, the Kocho sisters had received no missions during that stretch—at most, the occasional injured patient arrived. Inori got the calm she'd quietly been longing for: no battles to plan for, no schemes to devise—just meals, sleep, easy conversation with the Kocho sisters and Kanao, and the luxury of a deeply satisfied afternoon nap after lunch.
(③)
Those days at the Butterfly Mansion reminded Inori of Funeral Parlor.
Aside from the weapons having shifted from firearms to blades, it wasn't so different, really. Funeral Parlor was largely made up of teenagers and high school students; the Demon Slayer Corps skewed just as young—teenagers and those barely into their twenties, some as small as seven or eight years old. Most were orphans who had lost family to demons, rescued by the Corps and brought here to help with support work.
The days were peaceful. That was in no small part because Muzan Kibutsuji was, for all his terror, a coward—he had never once faced the Demon Slayer Corps head-on, and had spent centuries simply hiding.
In a way, not unlike Yoshikage Kira—an enemy who required Inori to dig him out of whatever hole he'd buried himself in before anything could happen.
The fundamental difference was that Muzan's existence and name were known; he had a sworn nemesis in the Demon Slayer Corps. His hiding wasn't out of any genuine fear of them—it was to avoid accidents. His goal, like Kars', was to overcome his weakness to sunlight and become a truly invincible being.
As a demon who had surpassed all limits, even a Nichirin blade to the neck couldn't destroy him. The only means was sunlight. And if he conquered sunlight... he would become an undying, deathless demon lord with no equal in this world—and if he chose, could plunge all of Japan, or even the entire world, into an age of darkness.
Kars needed the Stone Mask with the Red Stone of Aja to become the Ultimate Life Form. Muzan needed the Blue Spider Lily.
And yet he'd been searching for centuries without result. His best option was to stay in hiding and not move. If he ever did make some grand play, that would only save Inori the trouble of hunting him down.
—Perhaps I'm being too confident.
(③)
In everything Inori knew of the story, Muzan Kibutsuji's specific abilities had never been clearly revealed—but the Nameless Monster's power didn't end at projecting Feather Blades. There was one true trump card she had yet to use.
Nothing was genuinely unkillable. Even if it came to a real fight and he revealed some staggering technique, Inori could always fall back on her own immortality—hold out until sunrise and let the sun do the rest.
She wasn't in a mood to think about any of this. She was in a burnout phase, had no interest in anything combat-related, and was perfectly content spending her days teasing the children, dozing in a rattan chair in the sun, living the life of a leisured noblewoman.
She'd deal with tracking down Muzan when the motivation showed up one day.
But—as she'd once told Mana—things didn't always go the way they hoped.
...
...
That morning, Inori was up early as usual. Having become the Nameless Monster, she no longer needed sleep in the conventional sense—she could sleep as long as she wished, or as little. But Kanao was an industrious child, and every time Inori woke, she'd find Kanao already in the courtyard practicing her forms. Gradually, Inori had taken to keeping the same early hours—there alongside her while the Kocho sisters were occupied with other duties.
Kanao was quiet and painfully shy, but she no longer flinched at Inori the way she had on that first meeting. Inori could feel it clearly—Kanao enjoyed having her around to practice with, or to listen to a story.
The Inori who had once found herself at a loss with children seemed, after keeping Jolyne company once, to have found the knack for building that kind of connection.
And Kanao was nearly twelve by now—a girl who had endured more suffering in her short life than most people saw in a lifetime, and it had given her a stillness beyond her years. She didn't throw tantrums or make unreasonable demands. She was obedient and earnest, and Inori was genuinely fond of her.
She'd been about to check on Kanao when urgent knocking reached her.
The guard on duty hurried to the gate. Inori happened to be passing by, and paused out of idle curiosity—wondering whether the visitor might be someone she'd recognize from the story.
"Please—someone help my disciple!"
The gate swung open and an elderly man pushed through, short and stocky, his hair and mustache going white, voice raspy and urgent, a small figure cradled in his arms.
"Sir—you're Kuwajima-san, the former Rumble Hashira!"
The guard recognized him at once.
—Former Hashira... retired due to age, most likely. Most who step down from the rank become Cultivators—like Tanjiro's master, the former Water Hashira.
The old man had a scar across one cheek and a full, carefully groomed mustache. One disciple injured, and he'd brought the boy here himself. A conscientious soul.
Inori was quietly moved, and had been about to step away—when her gaze caught a glimpse of the boy in his arms.
—That orange-yellow hair, vivid as a ripe citrus fruit... could that be Zenitsu Agatsuma?
"Please, you have to help my disciple! He was struck by lightning—in a tree!"
"Please calm down—leave him with us. We'll attend to him right away."
—So it really was Zenitsu.
Inori watched from a distance, a brief memory surfacing.
Zenitsu Agatsuma was one of the central members of this story's protagonist group—defined by his lechery and that unmistakable yellow hair, but fundamentally pure-hearted and kind. Cowardly as he was, he had never faltered when it truly mattered.
And this scene—Inori recalled now—was where part of his backstory was rooted. His hair had originally been black. The color changed the day he slacked off during training, hid in a tree to escape his master, and took a direct bolt of lightning.
The original story never mentioned him being brought to the Butterfly Mansion to recover... but thinking about it, of course he would have been. Taking a bolt of lightning while hiding in a tree wasn't something you shook off with a few deep breaths. This was reality, not a comedy manga—Zenitsu had likely brushed very close to the line.
"Mm...?"
Jigoro Kuwajima handed Zenitsu over to the attendant who had come to meet them, and was about to follow—when something faint and unusual snagged at his senses. A scent, barely there, as if its source was actively suppressing it. Ordinary Corps members wouldn't have caught it at all. But he had been a powerful Hashira once, and this trace did not escape him.
It was like a demon's scent—yet subtly, unplacably different.
He turned. Saw nothing. In the space of a heartbeat, the trace was gone.
—That lass Kanae... is she hiding a demon in this house?