Chapter 195: Allowing No Distortion of Life
Thirty miles north of the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters, a campsite lay in ruins.
Or rather, what used to be a campsite.
Dark orange firelight clawed at the night sky, bleeding into the darkness. Seven or eight temporary wooden sheds had completely collapsed into heaps of splintered, smoldering lumber. Torn banners hung limply from the broken beams, untouched by the flames but ruined still. Distorted, grotesque statues of Buddha and erratic esoteric symbols were painted across the fabric, the cheap ink already blurring from the intense heat radiating nearby.
Corpses littered the ash-choked ground.
Not many. Five bodies in total.
Two men and three women. The youngest appeared to be a girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen. She lay flat on her back beside a crude, makeshift altar in the center of the camp. Two rows of neat, jagged tooth marks punctured her throat. Her blood had already drained into the thirsty soil, leaving her skin a ghastly white, and her facial muscles were permanently locked in a mask of absolute terror.
Her stiff, lifeless fingers still desperately clutched a string of wooden prayer beads.
The craftsmanship of the beads was incredibly rough, lacking the refined polish of ritual applies found in formal temples. It looked exactly like something cobbled together by a rogue esoteric sect. The carvings etched into the wood were not orthodox Sanskrit, but rather a bizarre, chaotic amalgamation of Buddhist and Shinto patterns.
Beside her motionless body lay a trampled banner. Four bold characters were scrawled across it: Tachikawa True Religion.
Tachikawa-ryu.
It was one of the most notorious, heretical cults within Buddhist Esotericism. They used the grand concepts of Yin-Yang harmony and immediate Buddhahood as a thin veil to practice lewd rites and dark arts, preying on the ignorance and desperation of commoners in rural, war-torn areas.
Ironically, in an era ravaged by endless conflict, these so-called evil cults often became the final, desperate glimmer of hope for civilians trapped in hellish situations.
This campsite had been a hidden stronghold for the Tachikawa-ryu.
But tonight, this place was vastly different from a typical cult gathering. A demon had broken in.
A true monster walking among distorted humans.
It squatted in the smoldering ruins of the largest wooden shed just behind the altar. Thick, bloody foam still dripped from the corners of its jagged mouth. Its grayish-white skin gleamed with a sickly, unnatural luster under the dancing firelight, and its turbid, bloodshot eyes stared intently at the mountain path, where the glow of approaching torches flickered through the trees.
The creature chuckled. A wet, guttural sound.
It was full of absolute disdain.
This was the standard attitude most demons held toward the Demon Slayer Corps. The casualty rate of the demon-slaying organization was consistently, terrifyingly high. In most encounters, even if multiple swordsmen banded together to set an ambush, they would simply be slaughtered in return by a single, low-level demon.
Demons did not fear ordinary injuries. Even wielding a Nichirin Blade, if a human could not instantly sever the neck, any other wound was entirely meaningless. The flesh would just knit back together.
And no matter how elite the swordsman, they were still just fragile humans.
Humans bled. Humans tired. When they got hurt, they became weaker.
Too fragile.
"The Demon Slayer Corps has come to throw away their lives again!" the demon mocked, its voice scraping like two stones grinding together. "Last time five came. Three died, two ran away like beaten dogs. How many are coming to feed me this time?"
But before the final syllable could leave its throat, the world shifted.
A blinding arc of crimson light cleaved through its field of vision.
It carried a searing, suffocating heat. The dark cyan steel of the Nichirin Blade displayed a color never before seen in the history of this world's swordsmanship.
A thin, vibrating layer of orange-red light floated along the razor edge. It was not a demonic Blood Demon Art, nor was it some mystical spiritual power. It was pure, unadulterated heat—squeezed into existence by human breathing and sheer, unbreakable will at the exact moment of the swing.
Flame Breathing.
The demon's head flew from its shoulders. It didn't even have the time to process the pain, let alone react.
As the head spun through the air, the cross-section of its severed neck instantly charred black. Violent carbonization spread rapidly inward from the wound. The sunlight properties naturally held within the Nichirin Blade had been violently triggered by that layer of orange-red heat, accelerating the burning process to a speed countless times faster than normal.
The head began to disintegrate before it even hit the dirt.
Shattering into ash.
Scattering into the cold night wind.
Rengoku Rengyuro slammed his sword back into its sheath. His broad chest heaved violently, pulling in massive gulps of air. Thick veins bulged against his forehead, and heavy drops of sweat dripped rapidly from his strong chin, sizzling as they hit the hot ash below.
His breathing was ragged and heavy—the intense, immediate physical exhaustion that crashed over the body the second the Breathing Style state was released.
Flame Breathing.
He had actually done it.
But it was vastly different from Sun Breathing. It was different from Tsugikuni Yoriichi's flawless technique. This was something Rengyuro had violently carved out of his own soul over the past few days. He had pulled it from the very marrow of his bones, from the calloused palms that had held countless torches in the dark, and from his dozen years of relentlessly tracking demons through freezing mountain forests.
It was a light that belonged entirely to him.
"It's done…" Rengyuro whispered, his thick, calloused hand still trembling slightly as it rested on the hilt of his sword.
Standing a few paces behind him were two young Demon Slayer Corps swordsmen—the same man and woman who had been effortlessly subdued by Yoriichi just days prior.
But apart from those two, there was another figure present. Someone who absolutely should not have been on the front lines.
Kakushi Butterfly.
She wore the standard black uniform of the Demon Slayer Corps, wrapped tightly in a white haori adorned with elegant wisteria patterns. Her signature butterfly-patterned mask was pushed up onto her forehead, revealing a delicate face that was heavily flushed from the grueling, forced march up the mountain.
A Nichirin Blade hung securely at her waist.
It was the exact blade Kobe Hikaru had gifted her from the fresh batch he had forged back in the Swordsmith Village.
By all logic, she shouldn't have been here. The Kakushi were strictly logistics and cleanup crews; they were never meant for front-line combat. That was an ironclad rule of the Corps.
But during the few days Hikaru had spent at headquarters, this young woman had inadvertently become a 'test subject' for him and Yoriichi as they worked to spread the Breathing Styles. While Yoriichi took personal responsibility for instructing Rengyuro, Hikaru had taken over Butterfly's training.
With Rengyuro and Butterfly acting as the foundation, they planned to spread the Breathing Styles throughout the entire Demon Slayer Corps.
In those few short days, although Butterfly hadn't achieved the same explosive martial insight as Rengyuro and couldn't fully manifest an elemental Breathing Style, she had learned to use the breathing techniques to perfectly regulate her stamina. She was now accomplishing physical feats she never could have dreamed of before.
Her actual talent for swordsmanship had never been poor; her physical constitution had simply been too weak to sustain it. That was the sole reason she had failed the Final Selection.
The Breathing Style had perfectly bridged that gap.
Because of this unmatched progress, she had received special, direct permission from Ubuyashiki to break protocol and deploy to the front lines, technically still under the title of a 'Kakushi'.
Meanwhile, the burly male swordsman stared wide-eyed at Rengyuro's scabbard, his jaw hanging completely slack.
The female swordsman beside him had her hand resting defensively on her own Nichirin Blade, but she had entirely forgotten to let go. Her absolute focus was locked onto the charred, smoking cross-section of the demon's disintegrating neck left behind by Rengyuro's slash.
Butterfly's expression, however, remained perfectly calm. Having spent the last few days watching Hikaru and Yoriichi spar, she had witnessed swordsmanship that defied the very laws of reality.
"Captain… that strike just now…" the burly man stammered, his voice thick with awe.
"Let's go."
Rengyuro completely ignored the praise.
He turned his broad back to them, his fiery eyes sweeping over the scattered corpses in the ruins. His footsteps felt incredibly heavy as he walked forward.
Even though he had finally grasped a Breathing Style and achieved a monumental breakthrough, standing amidst this slaughter, his heart felt no excitement. Instead, a suffocating, oppressive urgency crushed his chest.
He walked over and crouched slowly beside the dead young girl.
Her stiff hand was still locked around that string of rough prayer beads.
Rengyuro reached out, his large, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he carefully pried open her rigid fingers. He pulled the prayer beads free, his eyes briefly scanning the twisted, heretical patterns carved into the wood. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he set them aside.
Then, he reached out and gently closed her terror-stricken eyes.
These people had been completely bewitched by the Tachikawa-ryu cult. They had gathered in this freezing wilderness camp to practice their so-called 'True Method' in a desperate bid for salvation. But if it had only been a scam, they would have just lost their money. They wouldn't have died. If that demon hadn't broken in…
In an era where human life was treated as cheaply as trampled grass, simply staying alive was everything.
"Remember her," Rengyuro said. He didn't turn back to look at his subordinates. His voice was as heavy as a boulder sinking to the bottom of a dark lake.
"We must remember every single person who has died because of demons."
He slowly rose to his feet, his hand gripping his scabbard so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"And then, we avenge them. With every ounce of our might, we will eliminate the source!"
Higher up on the hillside, overlooking the valley.
Pale moonlight and dark orange firelight intertwined through the dense canopy.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi stood silently at the very top of the mountain path, his gaze cast downward, overlooking the dilapidated, blood-soaked cult camp below.
His deep, serene red eyes perfectly reflected the smoldering ruins, the scattered corpses, and the broad back of Rengyuro crouching beside the young girl's body. He watched the tragic aftermath of those who had been manipulated by a cult, only to suffer a senseless, innocent slaughter.
In an era defined by endless war, this level of tragedy was actually the norm.
With chaos and famine ravaging the land, human life was cheaper than dirt. Warlords slaughtered villages for territory, and bandits killed for scraps of food.
But the existence of demons—and their specific nature—still left Yoriichi feeling deeply puzzled.
"...Why?" Yoriichi spoke, his voice incredibly soft, barely carrying over the rustling leaves.
"They were once human too. I can see it clearly. The human form within them… though twisted and corrupted, is undeniably human."
He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "Since they are also human, why must they eat humans?"
This was a question that had been quietly eating at Yoriichi for a long time.
If they were simply mindless beasts acting on instinct, Yoriichi wouldn't have asked. If it were just killing for the sake of killing, driven by their own dark desires or greed, he wouldn't be confused either. This was the Sengoku era; cruelty and murder were everyday occurrences.
Yoriichi would always intervene to stop such cruelty, but he wasn't naive enough to believe that human malice didn't exist.
But right now, the demons he observed were different. Though they had once been human, they were driven by a twisted, agonizing compulsion to consume human flesh. It wasn't born of desire or malice. It was a compulsion. A passive, inescapable drive.
This made it incredibly difficult for him to understand the true purpose behind their existence.
As Yoriichi's quiet words faded into the wind, a tall, gray-skinned figure leaning quietly against a nearby tree trunk shifted.
A woven bamboo hat hung loosely on his back. Long, pale hair draped over his broad shoulders, and his Crimson Demon Eyes glowed with a faint, dangerous luminescence in the moonlight.
Kobe Hikaru did not answer immediately.
He was also looking down at the camp.
But Hikaru saw far more than Yoriichi did.
The scorching heat waves and the brilliant orange flames produced by Rengyuro's Flame Breathing were completely visible to the naked eye. They were not mere visual effects or illusions meant to represent the swordsman's spirit. They were real, tangible, flesh-incinerating flames.
This was a distinct deviation from the original timeline Hikaru remembered, yet it perfectly fit the natural evolution of this merged, crossover reality. The power systems were adapting.
And through the deep soul-sensing capabilities of his Soul-Chasing Archer Transformation, Hikaru could see the exact moment the demon was slain by Rengyuro. In that final, fleeting second as its physical body turned to ash, its lingering soul fragments swept past Hikaru's vision.
He heard a very brief, silent sigh.
There was no fear before death. There was no anger. There was certainly no hatred toward the swordsman who killed it.
It was just a heavy sigh of relief. A deep sense of liberation.
In the exact moment of its death, the only thing that demon felt was: It's finally over.
"Because they have no choice," Hikaru finally spoke, his deadpan voice cutting through the chill of the night wind.
"After Kibutsuji Muzan's blood invades a human body, it violently overwrites the host's will. Eating humans isn't a matter of them wanting to become stronger, or a choice between good and evil. For them, it is simply hunger."
Hikaru pushed himself off the tree trunk, crossing his arms over his chest. "An endless, agonizing hunger."
"If they don't eat humans, they will starve to death. If they do eat humans, they will only get hungrier. The stronger they become, the more ravenous the hunger grows. This is a biological curse. It is not something willpower can resist, just as a human cannot simply force themselves to stop needing air to breathe."
Yoriichi did not speak.
But the furrow between his brows deepened significantly.
Hikaru stood up straight, his glowing Crimson Demon Eyes locking onto Rengyuro's distant figure at the foot of the mountain as the Flame Hashira's ancestor closed the eyes of the deceased girl.
"Do you know where the Demon Slayer Corps swordsmen come from, Yoriichi?"
Yoriichi turned his head, his serene red eyes meeting Hikaru's demonic gaze.
Hikaru's voice remained as flat and pragmatic as if he were discussing the weather. "They are the ones who survived."
"Every single member of the Demon Slayer Corps, without a single exception, is someone who survived after watching their entire family get butchered by demons."
Hikaru gestured slightly toward the camp below. "When Rengoku Rengyuro was twelve years old, a demon broke into his home. It bit straight through his mother's neck. She bled to death right in front of him."
"If a passing Demon Slayer hadn't arrived at that exact moment, he would have been eaten too. He survived because someone was just one step too late to save his mother, but right on time to save him."
Yoriichi remained entirely silent, absorbing the weight of the words.
"And that female swordsman who came with him," Hikaru continued, his tone unwavering. "She was originally the daughter of a wealthy merchant family in Kansai. The winter she turned fourteen, a demon broke into their estate and ate six of her seven family members. She survived by hiding inside a massive rice vat, using the rotting grain at the bottom to mask her scent. She held out in the dark, listening to her family being chewed apart, until the Demon Slayers arrived."
"The burly man beside her? He is the son of a fisherman from Tokaido. A sea demon attacked their fishing boat in the dead of night. Out of the twelve people on board, only two survived. The other survivor went completely mad that very night and threw himself into the ocean the next morning."
A cold gust of wind blew up from the valley, carrying the bitter stench of charred wood and dried blood.
These were all facts Hikaru had systematically gathered and analyzed during his few days at headquarters.
"Every single Demon Slayer is exactly like this. They narrowly escaped death at the hands of monsters, were saved by the Corps, and then chose to join it. After two years of brutal, bone-breaking training, they are given a choice: join the Kakushi and stay safe, or step onto the front lines. And even though they already know exactly how terrifying demons are, they still choose to face them head-on. They face the monsters that run rampant in this world, and more, they face the lingering demons of trauma in their own hearts."
"The Demon Slayer Corps doesn't operate on lofty, philosophical ideals."
Hikaru's Crimson Demon Eyes drooped slightly, a rare flicker of solemn respect passing through them. "They just want revenge. And they want to make absolutely sure the same hell doesn't happen to anyone else."
"It's really that simple."
Yoriichi stood perfectly still on the mountain path. His deep red eyes showed no outward emotion in the pale moonlight.
But Hikaru's sharp gaze noticed a subtle shift. Yoriichi's hand, resting on the Nichirin Blade at his waist, tightened.
That hand had never gripped the hilt so tightly before.
Since the day they first met, Yoriichi's hand had always rested lightly on his sword—nimble, casual, and entirely relaxed. Because Tsugikuni Yoriichi was born peerless. His strength was so absolute that he never required exertion.
But at this exact moment, he was using force.
Because…
"I can see it now," Yoriichi finally spoke, his voice incredibly low, carrying a weight that seemed to anchor the very air around them.
"Those who have been turned into demons still have traces of humanity remaining within them. But… even if they are not doing it willingly, they are indeed slaughtering people."
He paused, his gaze locking onto the ruined camp. "And the victims who are slaughtered are certainly not dying willingly either."
"Therefore, they must be slain."
Yoriichi's grip on the sword stabilized. "Not out of hatred. But because… there is simply no other way."
The mountain wind howled past, violently stirring the dark red hair resting against his forehead.
The flame-shaped birthmark on his skin began to glow faintly, pulsing with a quiet, terrifying heat in the moonlight.
"Mr. Hikaru."
"The Breathing Styles… have been confirmed to be feasible. So, from now on, I will teach more people."
He stated it very calmly.
But Hikaru could hear it clearly. The absolute, unshakable determination vibrating beneath the words.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi had finally found a reason to draw his sword.
It was not like the original trajectory of his life, where he was ignited by the agonizing fire of revenge over the death of his own family. Nor was it because he felt called by some grand sense of mission from the Demon Slayer Corps.
It was simply because he had looked down and seen the truth.
Someone was suffering. And he just so happened to possess the absolute power to end that suffering.
, he would not allow anyone—not Muzan, not the demons—to twist and distort the meaning of life in such a grotesque way.
It was that simple.
That was all.
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