"Seventh Form – Obscuring Clouds."
Muichiro once again unleashed his original sword technique.
What he had said earlier was true. The entirety of Mist Breathing was a Breathing Style that already existed within the Demon Slayer Corps—except for this final form. This move was something Muichiro created himself.
It was with this very technique that he had slain the Lower Rank Two of the Twelve Kizuki.
Muichiro didn't like recalling the details. He couldn't remember the demon's appearance, nor the exact process of the battle.
All he knew was this: if even his strongest technique couldn't defeat Takeo, then this time… he would truly lose.
A complete, undeniable loss.
The first time Muichiro used Oboro (Obscuring Clouds), his execution had been rough and unrefined. Even the second time—moments ago—his technique had still contained minor flaws.
But now, as he activated it for the third time, Oboro had been nearly perfected. During their brief exchanges, Muichiro had also picked up on subtle inconsistencies in Takeo's swordplay.
Perhaps it was because the first five forms of Wolf Breathing and the sixth were developed from different foundations. As a result, whenever Takeo shifted between them, there was a slight stiffness—a momentary gap in the fluidity of his transitions.
It was the kind of flaw imperceptible to ordinary swordsmen—but glaringly obvious to a Hashira.
And that was precisely what Muichiro was aiming for.
His ethereal figure flickered in and out of the mist. With perfect precision, Muichiro's blade slipped into the narrow gap between Takeo's moves.
His sword, like an extension of the mist itself—weightless, formless, yet deadly—pierced straight toward Takeo's heart.
Success.
The subtle feedback transmitted from the tip of the blade told Muichiro with certainty—his strike had connected.
But… it was only superficial!
Muichiro wanted to follow through with the thrust. With that level of precision and force, if this had been a real Nichirin sword rather than a wooden blade, it would've pierced straight through Takeo's heart—the match would've been decided instantly.
But he couldn't do it.
Not only was he unable to press the attack further, but he also had to immediately shift into defense to avoid the counterstrike already coming his way!
A wave of invisible pressure—like compressed air—burst out from Takeo's sword, surging toward Muichiro with terrifying speed.
Several razor-thin blades of wind materialized in the air, slicing toward Muichiro's feet!
Had he hesitated for even a fraction of a second longer, he would have been struck head-on by those air blades!
What is this...? Muichiro thought quickly. Wind...? No... not quite. Air pressure...?
But there was no time to figure it out.
Takeo's swords were already upon him—wind and fire swirling together, crashing down like a storm.
Wolf Breathing, Fifth Form – Eightfold Fang!
Twin blades swept in unison, delivering eight consecutive strikes—all in the span of a heartbeat!
Muichiro managed to deflect five of them with desperate precision, but the remaining three struck true—hitting cleanly against his vitals!
Chest, liver, and the side of the neck.
"…"
"…"
The fierce clash finally came to an end. The lingering mist dissipated. The wind and flames faded. Takeo and Muichiro reappeared in the center of the field.
"It seems the winner has been decided," Shinobu Kocho said softly as she observed the scene before her.
Muichiro's wooden blade was pressed against Takeo's chest—right over his heart. Meanwhile, Takeo's blade was resting against the side of Muichiro's neck.
At first glance, it appeared to be a draw.
But as the breeze swept through, a sharp crack echoed across the field—the wooden sword in Muichiro's hand splintered into pieces, fragments falling helplessly to the ground.
Only one of Takeo's twin blades had broken—the other, the one resting against Muichiro's neck, remained perfectly intact.
"I won," Takeo said calmly.
Unlike their previous match, this was a clear victory.
No tricks. No flukes. A direct, head-to-head fight where he had completely overpowered Muichiro with his own strength—and emerged as the final victor.
Muichiro said nothing. He simply lowered his gaze, staring at the broken hilt left in his palm. Then, in a soft murmur, half to himself, he muttered:
"Oh.. Looks like… the weapon matters too."
With that, he tossed aside the broken hilt and turned, silently walking away without another word.
Takeo glanced at the broken sword in his hand, tossed it aside, and walked toward the exit.
There would be members of the Kakushi to handle the cleanup. He didn't need to concern himself with such trivial matters. Now that he had finished sparring with Muichiro and settled that lingering thought in his heart, it was time to set out again—to hunt demons.
The Hashira who had been silently watching earlier had dispersed at some point, leaving only Kyojuro, Giyuu, and Shinobu Kocho behind.
Kyojuro nodded at Takeo, his usual bright smile on his face, before turning to leave.
Shinobu Kocho also looked ready to depart, but for some reason, she glanced at Giyuu a few extra times—as though wondering why he hadn't left yet.
Takeo ignored it. He had no intention of figuring out whatever was going through Giyuu Tomioka's mind.
He was just about to leave when Tomioka stepped forward, blocking his path.
"…What is it?" Takeo asked, frowning slightly in confusion.
Tomioka stared at him for a moment, then said bluntly, "Do you have any personal belongings?"
Takeo blinked, surprised. "My… personal belongings? What for?"
If Takeo were a girl, he might've suspected this man had some peculiar hobby.
Tomioka fell silent again. After a long pause, he finally explained in his usual stiff tone, "…Tanjiro has a keen sense of smell."
"…I see."
Although Giyuu spoke rather concisely, Takeo still understood what he meant from the flow of the conversation.
He likely wanted Tanjiro to confirm Takeo's identity.
Takeo didn't refuse. After thinking for a moment, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a tattered scarf.
It was the same scarf he'd been wearing when he first crawled out of the grave.
Stained with blood and badly damaged, Takeo had simply cleaned it up and tucked it away, no longer wearing it around his neck. Now, this was the perfect item to hand over—something Giyuu could use to help Tanjiro confirm his identity.
Giyuu silently accepted the scarf without saying a word. When he didn't follow up with anything else, Takeo asked again, slightly impatient: "Anything else?"
Giyuu stared at Takeo for a few more seconds, as though contemplating something. Then, as if unable to hold it back any longer, he blurted out:
"…It's not Water Breathing. What a shame."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Takeo stood there, utterly bewildered.
…
Far away, on Mount Sagiri, where Urokodaki Sakonji lived in seclusion, Tanjiro Kamado was diligently practicing the sword forms passed down to him by Urokodaki.
By now, he had been training on this mountain for nearly four months.
During these four months, aside from rigorous physical training every day, Tanjiro fully dedicated himself to learning the basic swordsmanship taught by Urokodaki.
Tanjiro possessed natural talent, but his foundations were weak. For the past four months, Urokodaki had focused entirely on building that foundation.
Improving physical fitness, navigating traps set all over the mountain to develop reflexes, honing reaction speed, teaching fundamental sword techniques—all to prepare Tanjiro to eventually learn a Breathing Technique.
Right now, Tanjiro was practicing the most fundamental sword drills.
The method was simple.
Swing the sword. Swing it continuously. Every strike had to hit the exact same spot with precision.
Only by achieving that level of consistency could it be said that he had mastered the fundamentals of swordsmanship.
Tanjiro worked tirelessly. No matter how harsh Urokodaki's training was, no matter how exhausting the daily physical demands became, even if he collapsed from fatigue mid-practice, he never once thought of giving up.
He couldn't afford to stop.
Nezuko was still asleep, and he was desperate to become a member of the Demon Slayer Corps as soon as possible—to track down Muzan Kibutsuji, the one responsible for the massacre of the Kamado family.
And at the same time, to find a way to turn Nezuko back into a human.
"Turn her back into a human"—these words alone made it clear that Nezuko Kamado was no longer human.
On that tragic day, Tanjiro survived only because he'd gone down the mountain to sell charcoal. He had stayed overnight at Grandpa Saburo's house.
By the time he returned, his entire family—except for Nezuko—had been slaughtered by a demon. And though Nezuko survived, she had been transformed into a demon herself.
Later, Tanjiro met Giyu Tomioka, and through Tomioka's recommendation, he found Sakonji Urokodaki and became his disciple.
Since then, he had been living and training here.
"Five hundred and one… five hundred and two… five hundred and three…!"
Tanjiro gritted his teeth, swinging his sword repeatedly. Sweat poured down his face, his hands trembled uncontrollably, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
Wait for me, Nezuko. I'll become a real swordsman. I'll find a way to turn you back into a human.
Clinging to this belief, Tanjiro swung his sword tirelessly.
Urokodaki Sakonji stood silently behind him. According to his usual habit, whenever Tanjiro finished a round of sword swings, Urokodaki would assign additional training depending on his physical condition.
But today… something was different.
"All right," Urokodaki said calmly when Tanjiro finally lowered his sword. "That's enough for today."
Tanjiro froze in place, stunned. He turned his head toward Urokodaki in disbelief. "Huh? That's… it? We're not doing more training?"
"No training today," Urokodaki Sakonji said simply. Then he waved at Tanjiro, motioning for him to follow him inside.
Tanjiro blinked in confusion but obeyed. For some reason, his heart suddenly began beating faster, as if something important was about to happen.
He followed Urokodaki nervously into the house.
Glancing toward Nezuko, who was still sound asleep in the corner, Tanjiro sat down beside her quietly and asked, "Mr. Urokodaki… is there something you need to tell me?"
"Mm." Urokodaki nodded.
His face was hidden beneath his tengu mask, but Tanjiro could clearly sense the shift in atmosphere—the air was heavy, filled with something serious… something solemn.
Mr. Urokodaki… seems tense. Why?
Just as Tanjiro began wondering, Urokodaki finally spoke:
"Today, the Kakushi delivered a letter… and a scarf."
"A scarf?" Tanjiro repeated, puzzled.
"Yes… this is the scarf."
Urokodaki spoke as he pulled out a folded scarf and placed it gently in front of Tanjiro.
"…"
It was a black and green plaid scarf—the same pattern and colors as the haori Tanjiro always wore. The moment the faint scent lingering on the fabric reached his nose, Tanjiro's eyes widened.
There was no mistake.
This was the Kamado family's scarf—the very one his younger brother, Takeo, used to wear.
"W-Why… why do you have this…?"
Tears welled up in Tanjiro's eyes.
His expression wasn't particularly sad, but the tears wouldn't stop. They streamed down his face as if something inside him had broken free.
He clutched the scarf tightly, trembling, then raised his gaze toward Urokodaki, his lips trembling as he waited for an explanation.
Without a word, Urokodaki took out a folded letter and set it down in front of Tanjiro.
"It seems Giyuu wasn't mistaken after all," Urokodaki muttered softly.
Then, he straightened and said seriously, "I had thought… it was just someone with the same surname. That's why I never mentioned it to you before. But now… now, it's all but certain."
His voice grew firm.
"Tanjiro. Your younger brother… Takeo Kamado… he's still alive."
"!"
The moment Urokodaki finished speaking, Tanjiro's tears burst forth uncontrollably. It was as if a dam had broken inside him. The tears streamed down, falling like rain onto the scarf in his hands.
_________
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