The former Rumble Hashira had come in person—when word reached Kanae Kocho, she took only a moment to freshen up before going directly to the sickroom, examining Zenitsu Agatsuma's condition herself.
She sat at the bedside and felt his pulse with care, then gently pried open his eyelids to examine his pupils, before releasing a quiet breath of relief. She turned to the anxious old man with her answer.
"Kuwajima-san, please don't worry. The boy has no serious injuries. A few days of recuperation here and he'll be fully recovered."
"Is... is that truly so?"
"Yes. Unlike ordinary electrocution, a lightning strike is a single instantaneous discharge—the current doesn't linger in the body, so the skin and organs sustain no burns. What he has is arrhythmia. With the right treatment, he'll make a complete recovery."
Kanae walked Jigoro through it patiently, keeping her voice steady and reassuring.
"What a relief... The boy frightened the life out of me."
Kanae's words settled over Jigoro Kuwajima like a balm. The deep creases on his weathered face eased somewhat.
"Kuwajima-san... how exactly did this child come to be struck by lightning?"
"It is my fault entirely." The topic drew a weary sigh, guilt heavy in his voice. "He was slacking off and afraid of being scolded, so he hid himself in a tree and refused to come down. Perhaps I have been too hard on Zenitsu..."
"...I see."
Kanae found herself clearly caught off-guard. She'd only meant to say something gentle to ease the old man's worry—but the result had been the opposite.
"Please don't trouble yourself over it, Kuwajima-san."
Her voice found its footing quickly, solid and certain.
"Everyone in the Demon Slayer Corps trains in special Breathing Styles—the fortified lungs and heart that come with it give us a resilience beyond ordinary people. He'll be fine. Please, put your mind at ease."
"...I trust you, Kocho-san. And your Butterfly Mansion."
He was her senior in rank, but their association was thin—acquaintances, little more than names and faces. Meeting her properly now, though... these new-generation Hashira were far more dependable than those of his era. Even the standard of medical care was incomparable.
He'd noticed the rows of bottled medicines about the room, the syringes, the strangely-shaped electric lamps. With how rapidly the times were moving, the Demon Slayer Corps had grown considerably stronger—and the declining fatality rate among the injured was genuinely heartening news.
And yet... that scent hadn't been imagined.
Jigoro Kuwajima's expression shifted, growing quietly serious—but after a moment's deliberation, he set the thought aside and said nothing. A Hashira chosen by the current Master was a person whose skill and character had been personally recognized and endorsed. That kind of question was not his place to ask. He was a retired former Hashira.
—This child surely has her own circumstances.
He watched the Flower Hashira issue careful instructions to the nursing staff, and let a faint, rueful smile cross his lips.
"Then I'll take my leave, Kocho-san... these few days, Zenitsu-kun is in your hands. When he wakes, please send word by crow—I'll dispatch a student to collect him."
"Of course, Kuwajima-san."
Kanae nodded.
"I believe he'll be awake within three days at the most. Please rest easy and trust us."
She added a few more reassurances, mindful that the old man would fret over his precious disciple.
...
...
Zenitsu Agatsuma was a coward.
Or at least, that was how he understood himself... When a conniving woman had swindled him into destitution and left him drowning in debt, it was the old man who had appeared—chased off the debt collectors and taken him on as a disciple.
They shared no blood, but Zenitsu called this man who had given him a new life "Grandpa."
That was when Zenitsu first learned of the Demon Slayer Corps, and of demons. He'd been genuinely willing to take on that responsibility, to protect the world... but that willingness had been ground to dust by the very first day of training. Jigoro Kuwajima had been a Hashira—he didn't let sentiment get in the way of training.
Imagine how Sakonji Urokodaki had trained Tanjiro—and the picture becomes roughly clear.
That wasn't hyperbole. Zenitsu genuinely felt like he was being trained to death. He wanted so badly to live up to what Grandpa expected, and hated himself for falling short—but he simply couldn't go on. When the lightning struck, his last coherent thought had been: at least this way I don't have to go back to that hellish training.
—...Where... where am I?
Zenitsu came around slowly, taking in an unfamiliar room. It had gone dark—was it night now? Outside the window, nothing but black.
"Zenitsu Agatsuma."
A voice like silver bells called his name from somewhere in the darkness.
—That's—a girl's voice!
Every last trace of drowsiness evaporated instantly. Zenitsu might have been cowardly, lazy, and a notorious slacker—but he was also, spectacularly, a sucker for pretty girls. The type who couldn't walk a straight line whenever a beautiful woman was nearby.
He shoved the covers aside and sat up—and there in the dim far corner of the room, barely visible, was what appeared to be a pair of glowing red eyes. Every last drop of excitement drained out of him and curdled into dread.
"Your time has come!"
"Wha—AAAAAAAH! A demon—it's a DEMON!!"
Zenitsu clamped both hands over his face, eyes blown wide as saucers, and screamed like a stuck pig.
The red eyes drifted slowly sideways. A hand emerged from the darkness and turned up the flame of an old oil lamp on the far side of the room. The window was shut, but the lamp's flame shivered restlessly anyway, casting the figure's face in shifting amber shadows—blood-red eyes, eerie pink hair, and a face dominated by the contorted, leering features of a crimson Hannya Mask, a pair of impossible horns rising from the crown of her head.
Her silhouette was graceful, admittedly—but Zenitsu was far too preoccupied to register anything else.
"Ze—ni—tsu—A—ga—tsu—ma."
She spoke his name again—but the voice that came this time was nothing like the earlier silvery sweetness. It was a low, guttural rasp, the kind that crawled up the back of the neck.
"GYAAAAAAAAA!!"
Zenitsu's eyes looked ready to burst from his skull. He scrabbled frantically backward until the headboard stopped him cold.
"Am I... already dead?"
The lightning strike, the fall from the tree—and now this terrifying demon woman looming before him. There was only one conclusion.
"Yes. You will be cast into Yomi at once."
She was moving closer. That awful demon woman—she was coming for him!
"Demon—great Demon!!"
"Wh—why?! I don't—I don't want to die!"
Every flippant thought about death being a relief had been a joke! He wasn't ready! If he died now... Grandpa would be heartbroken. He wanted to live!
"You will go to Hell! Answer for your sins!"
Even accepting his "death" as settled fact, Zenitsu could not accept this arrangement. He'd been nothing but kind! Setting aside a little laziness and an appreciation for pretty girls, he honestly couldn't name a single real flaw! Sob! What had he done wrong?! Wasn't Hell supposed to be flames and agony? He couldn't take pain!
If death sent him to some paradise full of girls, he'd definitely have a different expression on his face.
"Please, please—I'll be better, I promise! I'll listen to Grandpa and train properly, I'll stop bothering the neighbor's daughter, I—I'll be good! I'll never slack off again! Please don't send me to Hell, please—"
"Pff... ahahaha—"
The crushing dread vanished all at once.
The horned, pink-haired demon woman doubled over laughing, arms wrapped around herself, peals of clear, bright laughter ringing out through the room. Only then did Zenitsu see it—the terrifying crimson face was nothing more than a Hannya Mask, the kind sold in any shop in town.