Chapter 196: A Half-Day Tour of the Swordsmith Village
In no time at all, the last sweet skewer of dango vanished, the two of them having happily shared bites back and forth in the warm afternoon breeze.
Beside them, Haganezuka had entirely lost his appetite for the delicate treats. He aggressively shoved the remaining dango into his mouth, chewing with furious resentment. Slapping the dust from his hakama, the masked swordsmith stood up and shot Akira a deadly glare. "Remember to come to my workshop tomorrow to retrieve your blade," he growled, pointing a threatening finger. "And listen well! If I ever catch you using a masterpiece I forged to chop down ordinary trees again, I absolutely will not let you off easy!"
Without waiting for a response, Haganezuka spun on his heel and stomped off down the dirt path, muttering dark curses under his breath.
Akira let out a long, quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping a fraction. Being hunted by a top-tier vengeful spirit in the form of an enraged swordsmith was an exhausting experience—one he wasn't eager to repeat anytime soon.
With the loud, angry craftsman no longer drawing a crowd like a blazing beacon, the curious gazes of the passing villagers finally drifted away. They had clearly gotten their fill of the young couple's public displays of affection. Finally, the bustling street quieted down, leaving Akira and Kanae in a comfortable, private bubble.
Kanae stepped a little closer, her floral scent mingling with the crisp mountain air. She reached out, her slender fingers gently intertwining with his. "Akira-kun," she murmured softly, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Would you take me on a tour around the village?"
"Of course. Anything you want," Akira agreed without a second thought, his thumb lightly brushing the back of her hand.
In truth, despite having visited the hidden Swordsmith Village twice before, Akira wasn't particularly familiar with its winding streets. His first visit had been strictly business—customizing a specialized Nichirin Blade for Mitsuri. The second time, he had escorted Shinobu here to provide medical treatment for Haganezuka.
Akira was a man of pragmatic efficiency. Whenever he traveled alone, he operated with a singular focus: locate the objective, secure the necessary items, and depart immediately. He rarely wasted time lingering in storefronts or admiring the local scenery. His previous trips here had followed that exact pattern. He would arrive at the hidden entrance, meet directly with the village chief, settle his affairs, and vanish back into the forest the moment his business concluded.
The chief had offered him leisurely tours in the past, but Akira had always politely declined. After all, aimless wandering held no appeal for him when he was alone. The joy of a casual stroll didn't come from the destination, but from the person walking beside you. During those past visits, he simply hadn't had anyone by his side who made him want to slow down and enjoy the view.
So, despite his confident agreement, Akira actually had no idea which path to take. He simply chose a sunlit cobblestone street at random and guided Kanae forward. If something caught their eye, they would stop; if not, they would just enjoy the peaceful walk. That was the true essence of a date, anyway. The scenery was just a backdrop for the woman holding his hand.
The residents of the Swordsmith Village possessed a deeply ingrained, almost fanatic love for their craft. While not everyone reached Haganezuka's terrifying levels of obsession, nearly every villager treated metalwork as both a sacred duty and a daily recreation.
As Akira and Kanae strolled past the traditional wooden houses, the rhythmic, musical clanging of hammers striking steel echoed from every direction. Some of the metallic chimes were light and rapid, suggesting a craftsman working on a delicate trinket, accompanied by the bright, expectant laughter of children watching nearby.
Other strikes were heavy, deep, and powerful, shaking the very ground. These booming impacts were often punctuated by muffled, angry grumbling—likely a senior swordsmith furiously reforging a Nichirin Blade that some hapless Demon Slayer had managed to chip or break in battle.
Then, there were the uneven, clumsy strikes—one hammer blow too light, the next far too heavy. It was the unmistakable sound of a young apprentice struggling to master the fundamentals of the forge.
"One light, one heavy... what, are you having a seizure?! Put your back into it!" a gruff voice roared from inside a nearby workshop.
The erratic hammering instantly shifted into a frantic, panicked rhythm. Hearing the harsh scolding, Akira and Kanae exchanged an amused glance, silently agreeing to quicken their pace and leave the poor apprentice to his suffering.
A short while later, the winding path opened up into a quiet, secluded clearing surrounded by tall trees. In the center of the grass stood a small boy dressed in a red haori, his face hidden behind a traditional Hyottoko mask. He was deeply engrossed in tinkering with a massive, imposing mechanical doll.
The wooden automaton towered over the boy. It possessed six articulated arms, each one gripping a dulled Nichirin Blade. Its wooden face was chipped and weathered, yet its stoic features bore an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Tsugikuni Yoriichi from Akira's memories. The craftsman had even painstakingly carved the complex, flame-like Demon Slayer Mark onto the doll's forehead. However, the splintered wood and rusted joints made it painfully obvious that the magnificent construct had fallen into severe disrepair over the centuries.
"What a peculiar doll," Kanae murmured, tilting her head in curiosity. "Akira-kun, do you recognize it?" Her gentle voice pulled him from his deep observation.
"I do," Akira nodded, his eyes scanning the six-armed figure. "That is the Yoriichi Type Zero. It was constructed centuries ago, using the creator of Sun Breathing, Tsugikuni Yoriichi, as its prototype. The creator had to give it six arms just to barely mimic Yoriichi's blindingly fast combat movements. In the past, it served as a brutal training tool for Hashira-level swordsmen."
He paused, noting the fragile state of the gears. "Unfortunately, it's incredibly old now. It probably wouldn't survive more than a few intense sessions before breaking down completely. The Demon Slayer Corps hasn't been able to find anyone skilled enough in ancient mechanical arts to repair it, so it was left here to gather dust."
Akira had learned of the automaton's existence during a private conversation with Kagaya. They had been discussing the lost history of Tsugikuni Yoriichi, and the master of the Corps had casually brought up the mechanical doll, even suggesting that Akira might want to test his skills against it someday.
But Akira had felt absolutely zero interest in the prospect. As a training partner, could a decaying wooden puppet really offer a better challenge than Sabito? The fierce Water Hashira practically lived at the Butterfly Mansion these days, constantly demanding sparring matches and actively seeking out a beating from Akira whenever he had free time. With a living, breathing rival throwing himself at his sword, Akira saw no reason to travel all the way to this hidden mountain just to bully an antique toy.
Besides, if he accidentally shattered the fragile relic, it would be a massive headache. The young boy currently hovering over the doll—Kotetsu—clearly cherished the heirloom with all his heart.
Hearing a stranger's voice casually dissecting his family's legacy, Kotetsu whipped around. He planted himself protectively in front of the towering automaton, glaring at the couple through the eyeholes of his mask. "Who are you people?! What are you planning to do to the Type Zero?!" the boy demanded, his voice tight with suspicion.
Panic flared in the boy's chest. He assumed Akira and Kanae were arrogant swordsmen looking to forcefully use the doll for training. Even though very few slayers bothered seeking out the decaying machine these days, Kotetsu's protective anxiety always got the better of him.
"Relax, kid. We aren't here to train with it," Akira said, his tone calm and reassuring as he raised a placating hand.
In truth, fighting the stiff machine would offer absolutely zero benefit to Akira's current level of strength. It might have provided some decent reflex training for Kanae, but if she wanted to improve her swordsmanship, she had Akira right beside her. He was a far better teacher than a piece of wood.
"We're just here to have our Nichirin Blades maintained," Akira explained smoothly. "We were taking a walk around the village and happened to stumble into this clearing. That's all."
The tension instantly drained from Kotetsu's small shoulders. He bowed his head, his tone shifting to one of embarrassment. "I see... My apologies for my rude attitude."
The boy looked back up, studying Akira's confident posture. "But if you know so much about the Type Zero's history, you must be a Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, right? Please understand... although my ancestors built it to fight Hashira, the gears are failing. It can no longer withstand high-intensity combat, so..."
"It's fine, you don't need to explain," Akira interrupted gently. "I can see how much you value it. It has already served its grueling purpose in the past. Now, it deserves to rest peacefully as a quiet monument to the history of the Demon Slayer Corps."
Akira waved his hand dismissively, easing the last of the boy's lingering anxiety. With the air cleared, the three of them fell into a light, pleasant conversation, formally introducing themselves.
When Kotetsu eventually realized exactly who he was talking to and recalled the terrifying battle records associated with the Sound Hashira, the boy's attitude did a complete one-eighty. He practically vibrated with excitement, showering Akira with awe-struck praise and turning into an absolute fanboy on the spot. The sheer intensity of the kid's admiration actually made Akira rub the back of his neck in mild embarrassment.
Kanae covered her mouth with her sleeve, her eyes curving into amused crescents. "Is the great Akira-kun actually embarrassed?" she teased softly.
Akira sighed, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "That's not the point," he muttered, though he couldn't hide his own fond amusement.
A short while later, Akira glanced up through the forest canopy. The sky had deepened into a rich, dusky orange, signaling that dinner time was fast approaching. Not wanting to keep their hosts waiting, he and Kanae bid a warm farewell to the energetic young swordsmith and made their way back down the path toward the village chief's grand residence.
Given their esteemed status as Hashira, their food, lodging, and comfort in the hidden village were being personally overseen by the chief himself—a luxurious end to a surprisingly peaceful afternoon.
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