The moon loomed high above Mount Natagumo, its pale silver glow spilling across the ruined landscape, illuminating the scars left behind by the carnage that once plagued these grounds. Shadows stretched long and thin beneath the towering trees, their skeletal branches swaying ever so slightly in the night breeze. The air was cold, still heavy with the remnants of blood and sorrow, as though the mountain itself had not yet exhaled from the horrors it had witnessed.
Once, this place had been a nest of terror, a stronghold of slaughter where demons feasted upon the weak. Now, silence reigned where screams once echoed. But it was not the peace of the truly forsaken—something lingered. Watching. Waiting.
Yoriichi took a step forward, his bare feet pressing lightly against the cool earth. The mountain's breath, though faint, still carried whispers of the past. He had walked across countless battlefields, tread upon lands soaked in suffering and death, yet this silence was different—it was not the quiet of an ending, but the hush of something unfinished.
And then—
A whisper of danger stirred through the air.
Yoriichi did not hesitate.
His instincts, honed beyond human limits, reacted before thought. His body shifted, a flicker of light in the darkness—just as death came slicing toward him.
A thin, gleaming thread shot past where he had stood a moment ago, cutting through the night with terrifying precision. It shimmered under the pale moonlight, delicate in appearance but carrying a presence Yoriichi could feel.
A single misstep, and it would have cleaved through flesh and bone without resistance.
He landed soundlessly a few feet away, golden eyes calm. He did not tense. Did not waver.
He had already seen it.
His gaze shifted toward the mist, toward the source of the attack.
And then, a figure emerged.
A childlike silhouette stepped forward beneath the moon's pale glow. Porcelain-white skin, smooth and unblemished, yet marked with crimson lines, thin and intricate, stretching across his body like woven threads.
His movements were slow. Controlled.
Not reckless. Not desperate.
Calculated.
His deep crimson eyes glowed faintly, watching. Observing. Not with rage, not with hunger—but something colder.
Yoriichi said nothing. He did not need to. His instincts had already confirmed it.
A demon.
The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
Then, the demon's lips curved slightly.
"You dodged?"
Soft words, almost gentle. Amused.
Yoriichi remained still, unmoved.
The demon tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet intrigue.
"You're no ordinary Slayer," the figure murmured, tilting his head as if analyzing a rare specimen. "Not like the weaklings I've slaughtered before. You carry something… different."
His fingers twitched.
And in that instant—the threads moved.
Thin, shimmering strands stretched from his fingertips, nearly invisible against the night. But Yoriichi felt them—humming with power, coiled with lethal intent.
Sharper as a blade.
This demon was unlike the others. He did not act in blind rage. He did not rush to strike again.
He waited. Watched. Controlled.
And then—the moonlight shifted.
Etched into his eye, gleaming in the pale glow—
Lower Rank Five.
A Demon Moon.
One of Muzan Kibutsuji's chosen.
Yoriichi's fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his sword. His expression did not change.
Because the moment their eyes met—
He had already seen everything.
The demon's stance. His next attack. His threads. His limits.
Yoriichi stood motionless, his expression unreadable as he observed Rui through the lens of the "See Through World". His Slayer Mark pulsed faintly, enhancing his perception beyond mortal limits. Every detail of the demon's body was exposed to him—veins coursing with tainted blood, muscles coiling in preparation, the faintest twitch of movement betraying intent.
With a cold, unwavering gaze, Yoriichi watched as the demon raised his hand. A surge of malevolent energy rippled through the air, and in the next instant—
"Blood Demon Art: Murderous Thread Cage."
A labyrinth of crimson threads erupted forth, far stronger and sharper than before. They twisted together in a massive, interwoven lattice, forming an inescapable prison of death. The threads vibrated violently, their edges gleaming with lethal precision, their song a harbinger of certain destruction. They rushed toward Yoriichi, intent on carving him apart before he could so much as breathe.
To Rui, this was the moment of victory.
To Yoriichi, it was nothing more than a fleeting attempt.
Rui's threads surged forward, a crimson storm of death woven together with murderous precision. Each strand, reinforced by his Blood Demon Art, could slice through steel, let alone human flesh. A web of inescapable demise.
To him, this was the ultimate technique, the undeniable truth of his strength. No one had survived it before. No one could survive it.
But Yoriichi was not just anyone.
And in the span of a single breath—he was gone.
Vanished, as if he had never been there at all.
Rui's senses screamed. His vision darted around in a desperate attempt to locate his enemy. His threads had enclosed the space entirely—there was no escape, no opening to slip through. And yet, Yoriichi was no longer before him.
A presence.
Behind him.
The realization came too late.
A gentle hum filled the air, not the sound of clashing blades or battle cries, but something more profound—like the breath of the world itself, exhaling in harmony with the swordsman. A warm, golden light flickered in the darkness, radiating from the blade now bathed in the glow of the Breath of the Sun.
Yoriichi knelt, his form still, his crimson Nichirin blade resting low. No unnecessary movement, no wasted effort.
One strike.
One perfect stroke.
The cut had already been made.
The technique was flawless—Breath of the Sun: Flame Dance.
Rui's world tilted. His vision split, the sensation unnatural—detached. His mind processed what had happened, but his body could no longer respond. The connection was gone. Severed.
His head fell.
A dull thud echoed through the silent forest as it met the cold earth. His body swayed, as if refusing to accept its fate, before crumbling into a lifeless heap. His threads—once an extension of his very will—flickered and disintegrated into the night, their existence meaningless without their master.
For Rui, there was no struggle. No resistance. No grand final effort.
Just silence.
Just death.
Yoriichi slowly rose to his feet, his blade glistening faintly under the moonlight, still radiating the remnants of Breath of the Sun's power. His expression remained unreadable, untouched by the weight of battle. To him, this was not a victory. There was no triumph, only an undeniable certainty.
This fight had been over before it had even begun.
As Rui remains began to wither into dust, carried away by the passing wind, Yoriichi turned his gaze toward the darkened sky. His heart was still. His mind was clear.
And then, with the same quiet grace, he sheathed his sword.
The night continued as if nothing had ever happened.
As Rui's severed head tumbled to the ground, his consciousness flickered like a dying ember. The pain, the fear—it was distant, almost unreal. His body, now detached, was crumbling into dust, but his mind remained.
And in that final moment, as death's cold grasp tightened around him, memories surged forth.
His past unraveled before his eyes.
A frail boy lay upon a futon, his breaths shallow, his skin ghostly pale. His mother knelt beside him, hands trembling as she wiped the sweat from his brow. His father sat nearby, his sorrow concealed behind weary eyes.
"Rui… You mustn't move too much," his mother whispered, forcing a smile. "You're still weak."
Weak. He had always been weak.
Every step was a struggle, every breath a battle. His limbs, thin and fragile, failed him at every turn. Other children played outside beneath the bright sun, their laughter distant and unreachable—he could only watch from the shadows, confined within walls that felt like a cage.
"Why was I born like this?" Rui had once asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
His parents had reassured him. Told him he was loved, that he was precious no matter what. But their words did nothing to change reality. His body remained broken, fragile, useless.
Then, one night, everything changed.
A man appeared, his presence suffocating, his crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness.
"Do you want strength?"
Rui barely had the strength to respond, but the answer had already formed in his heart.
Yes.
Yes, more than anything.
The man smiled. "Then I will give you what you desire."
The memory shifted.
No more weakness. No more frailty.
Rui stood beneath the moonlight, no longer a sickly boy but something greater—stronger. His body, once a prison, was now unyielding. His limbs obeyed him effortlessly, his strength unmatched. He could walk, run, fight.
He was no longer helpless.
And yet…
Why did the warmth disappear?
His mother's eyes, once filled with love, now held only sorrow. His father, who had always protected him, now stood before him with a blade.
"You are no longer our son."
The words had cut deeper than any sword.
"I did this for us!" Rui had pleaded. "I became strong so we could be together forever!"
His mother's tears fell silently. She did not speak, only held him close, her arms weak yet warm. For a moment, Rui allowed himself to believe that everything was as it should be. That she still loved him.
Then he felt the blade.
She had tried to end his life.
His own mother.
Rui's vision blurred. The world around him twisted, memories unraveling into fragments of regret. The moon above, the scent of blood, the distant echo of his mother's cries—everything began to fade.
"Was I wrong?"
The question lingered as darkness swallowed him whole.
Rui's severed head struck the ground.
His final breath left him, his body crumbling into ash.
Yoriichi stood still, watching as the wind carried the remnants of the demon away. There was no hatred in his eyes, no contempt—only quiet acceptance.
Another soul, lost to the darkness.
Giyu sprinted through the dense forest, the chilling night air rushing past him as he followed the lingering scent of blood and decay. His instincts screamed that something had happened—a presence had vanished.
The presence of a Demon Moon.
As he emerged into a clearing, his sharp eyes immediately took in the sight before him. The pale moon hung overhead, casting its silver glow upon the scene of devastation. Rui—Lower Moon Five—was no more. His remains scattered as nothing but drifting embers, dissolving into the night air.
And there, standing amidst the fading dust, was the swordsman in crimson and black.
Yoriichi.
His blade was sheathed, his posture relaxed, yet there was no doubt in Giyu's mind. He had done this. He had slain a Lower Moon effortlessly.
A feat worthy of a Hashira.
As the last traces of Rui vanished into the wind, a familiar caw echoed from above.
"Caw! Lower Demon Moon eliminated! Caw!"
Giyu's crow circled overhead, its voice piercing the stillness of the forest.
Giyu turned to Yoriichi, studying him for a moment before speaking. "You have fulfilled the requirement to become a Hashira." His tone was calm but firm. "Defeating a Demon Moon on your own… it is no small feat. Only those capable of such strength are worthy of the title."
Yoriichi remained silent, his expression unreadable, but there was no denial.
Giyu reached into his haori and pulled out a small parchment, quickly scribbling a message before tying it to his crow's leg. With a sharp nod, he released the bird into the sky.
"Go to Oyakata-sama. Deliver this message."
The crow cawed in acknowledgment before soaring into the darkness, carrying word of Yoriichi's accomplishment straight to the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Giyu exhaled, his mind shifting to the events ahead. The night was nearly over. By morning, the Hashira meeting would begin.
He turned to Yoriichi once more. "We must head to the Ubuyashiki Mansion. When the sun rises above the horizon, we will attend the Hashira meeting."
Yoriichi gave a slow nod. "Yes."
Yet, as he spoke, his mind was elsewhere.
The death of a Lower Moon was not an event that would go unnoticed. Muzan would move.
Would he replace Rui immediately? Or would he see this as a challenge—a sign that the Demon Slayer Corps was becoming stronger?
Yoriichi knew Muzan. He knew the way his mind worked. A direct retaliation was possible, but so was silence—a patience that concealed a greater threat.
The forest was silent as Yoriichi and Giyu walked side by side, their footsteps light against the damp earth. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of moss and fallen leaves. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, whispering secrets that neither swordsman cared to hear.
Rui's remains had long since faded, swept away into nothingness. The battle had ended in an instant, yet its consequences lingered. Somewhere in the shadows of the world, Muzan Kibutsuji would learn of this. The loss of a Lower Moon would not go unnoticed.
But for now, there was only the road ahead.
Giyu led the way with quiet confidence, his blue haori shifting slightly with each step. He was a man of few words, and Yoriichi did not mind. The silence between them was not awkward—it was the kind shared between warriors who understood each other without the need for conversation.
Still, there was much to consider.
After several minutes, Giyu finally spoke. "You will be recognized as a Hashira." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "The Corps will acknowledge your strength."
Yoriichi remained silent for a moment before replying, "Titles do not matter."
Giyu gave him a sidelong glance but did not argue. He, too, had never sought recognition. Strength was not for status—it was a responsibility.
The path they walked was long, winding through thick trees and quiet streams. Though the battle had left no physical wounds, exhaustion still weighed lightly upon them. Even the strongest warriors needed rest.
As they approached the outskirts of a small village, Giyu turned slightly. "My estate is not far from here. We'll rest there before heading to the Ubuyashiki Mansion at dawn for the Hashira meeting."
Yoriichi nodded. "Understood."
As they arrived at the mansion, they took time to rest, preparing for the Hashira meeting that awaited them in the morning.