"Gurgle... hhh..."
With his throat sliced open, air and blood surged into his windpipe in a violent torrent. Kondo tried to speak, but he could only clutch his throat helplessly, watching the spray of crimson before his eyes.
It was his own blood. He was dying.
He had seen this level of blood loss many times before, but it had always been on someone else.
Throughout his life, he had done the same to countless people. Sometimes, to assert his dominance before his subordinates, he would intentionally execute those who had already lost the ability to resist. His favorite method was slitting their throats.
To him, it was the most "spectacular" way to do it. The blood would spray far, and the victim wouldn't die instantly. That expression of pure agony struck fear into his men, earning him their respect and awe. Kondo had always relished those looks of terror.
But now that it was his own throat being opened, he realized for the first time how agonizing it truly felt.
He couldn't breathe... his consciousness was blurring, and his body was growing cold.
Kondo clutched his spurting throat, the slit wound emitting wet, wheezing sounds. As the blood drained away, it felt as if the very bones of his body were dissolving along with his life force.
He slowly collapsed to his knees. His once-sinister eyes were now filled with nothing but absolute terror and the bitter resentment of death.
He didn't want to die. He had a daughter and a pregnant wife. If he died, how would they survive in Yoshiwara? He had made so many enemies; the moment he was gone, his family would surely face retribution. He couldn't die—he absolutely couldn't die!
But miracles are called miracles precisely because they do not happen on a whim. Most so-called miracles are nothing more than a stray drop of mercy falling through the fingers of the gods.
Izumi Kiyokazu stood before Kondo's collapsing corpse, breathing heavily. Sun Breathing was powerful, but the physical toll was immense. His body, lacking systematic training, was still far too frail.
After executing just one technique, his arm had begun to tremble. The rusted dagger shook in his palm, warm blood belonging to Kondo and his men dripping from the tip.
The blood pooled on the ground, emitting a thick, metallic stench. A torch lay nearby, and as Kiyokazu looked at his distorted reflection in the crimson puddle, he felt a sense of estrangement from himself.
Kondo wasn't entirely dead yet. He flickered in agony on the ground, his muscles twitching in a futile rebellion against death. Veins bulged in his arms as he desperately squeezed his neck, trying to delay the inevitable, struggling to crawl. Finally, in the mud soaked with his own gore, he fell still.
Watching this, Kiyokazu felt no rush of vengeful joy—only an indescribable, bone-deep exhaustion.
This was the first time he had personally killed another human being.
Even if Kondo was a piece of subhuman filth, the reality of a living breath being extinguished by his own hand triggered a physiological revulsion rooted in his modern soul.
Yet, Kiyokazu did not regret it. If he had to do it again—ten times, a hundred times—he would swing the blade without hesitation.
To do evil is to invite death. Even if the evildoer had suffered through a thousand agonies themselves, it was no excuse to prey upon the innocent.
"Boss!"
"Big Brother Kondo!"
The two thugs left behind, watching their companions slaughtered in an instant, couldn't control their terror. They let out shrill, horrified screams. To them, Kiyokazu, drenched in blood, looked like a demon crawling out of the deepest pit of hell.
Their legs turned to jelly; their breath came in sharp gasps. Instinct screamed at them: Run!
They collapsed while trying to flee, their legs giving out from sheer fright. Even then, they scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between themselves and Kiyokazu.
Kiyokazu's gaze swept over them, devoid of pity. He stepped into the bloody mire, his footsteps making a wet splat sound.
But after taking one step, he stopped. In the next heartbeat, the heads of the two fleeing thugs suddenly exploded. Brain matter and bone fragments sprayed through the air.
The two headless corpses ran several more meters by sheer momentum before toppling over, twitching twice on the ground before falling completely silent.
"You're a bit stronger than I expected, brat. I was watching your breathing pattern just now. When you kill, your frequency increases significantly. Tell me... are you a member of the Demon Slayer Corps?"
Listening to the demon, Kiyokazu's brow furrowed, his mind racing.
He could not let Sun Breathing be exposed here.
Muzan could read the memories of every demon. While it was unlikely Muzan would pay attention to such a low-level lackey, there was always the risk. If Muzan caught even a glimpse of Sun Breathing, his pathologically cautious nature would drive him to mobilize everything to hunt Kiyokazu down. And if Kokushibo encountered the purest form of Sun Breathing, he would undoubtedly stop at nothing to snuff it out.
In his current state, facing either of them would mean certain death unless he could split his body and flee like Muzan himself. Therefore, he had to avoid any possibility of exposing his breathing style.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I've never heard of a 'Demon Slayer Corps'."
Yamada Mura let out a mocking laugh.
"To save your own skin, you'd claim you don't even know the Ubuyashiki you serve? Humans truly are pathetic. If you aren't a Demon Slayer, how do you explain that bizarre change in your breathing?"
"My breathing changes when I exert myself; that's basic common sense," Kiyokazu retorted. "More importantly... what kind of monster are you?"
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Demon Slayer: Starting by Snatching Daki(61 Chapter- Ongoing)
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