Shinichi's consciousness was a murky haze, as though he had sunk into the cold, black depths of the ocean.
A crushing pressure surrounded him, grinding and dragging at his soul.
There were no dreams—only a void of silence and the faint agony of his spirit being squeezed.
He didn't know how much time had passed before a sliver of light pierced the darkness, stirring a faint reaction in his muddled mind.
Then came voices—completely unfamiliar to him.
Not the roars of battle, the clash of blades, or the wails of policemen from his last fragmented memories, but… the crackling of firewood in a hearth.
And the rhythmic, crisp drip-drip of water falling from eaves onto something hard.
"Where… am I?"
Shinichi's eyes snapped open.
His once heterochromatic eyes were now pure black.
The first thing he saw was a low ceiling, crudely built from rough-hewn logs and thatch.
Thin beams of sunlight fought their way through the gaps, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.
Beneath him was a hard floor covered with clean tatami mats and the thin blanket over him carried the dry scent of sun and faint traces of medicinal herbs.
The unfamiliar surroundings instantly put Shinichi on edge—his last memory was of the brutal battle in the red-light district.
Instinctively, he tried to sit up.
But the moment he moved, an unprecedented weakness flooded through him like a tidal wave. His limbs felt as heavy as lead, every slight motion pulling at deep, aching muscles.
What shocked Shinichi most was that he could no longer feel the violent, seething demon blood that had once surged through him like molten lava.
It wasn't dormant.
It wasn't suppressed.
It was… as if it had never existed at all.
The demon blood had vanished without a trace.
Shinichi reflexively touched his face and chest—his skin was warm, unmistakably human, not the uncanny in-between he had grown used to.
His heartbeat was strong and steady.
Looking at his nails and teeth, even though there was an inner urge within him, the sharp fangs and claws simply wouldn't appear.
"What on earth... happened?" Shinichi stared blankly at his hands.
Just then, a startled cry sounded beside him.
"Oh! You're awake?"
Shinichi turned his head and saw a young woman—no, more accurately, a girl—holding a bamboo basket.
She wore a simple blue floral-patterned kimono, her long black hair tied loosely at the back, revealing a smooth, full forehead and a slender neck.
Her features were strikingly delicate, as refined as a doll's.
Particularly captivating were her amber eyes that was clear as glass, devoid of any impurity, brimming with an innocent curiosity untouched by the world.
The girl stood frozen, staring blankly at Shinichi with the basket in her arms.
After a long moment, she seemed to finally register what had happened.
Her mouth fell open in another gasp, and in a flustered hurry, she dropped the basket to the ground, turned, and bolted.
As she ran, she shouted, "Grandpa! He's awake! That handsome man is awake!"
'Handsome man? What kind of ridiculous title was that?'
Shinichi shook his still-groggy head, too preoccupied to wonder who the girl was.
Right now, he had no time to dwell on his own condition—what mattered most was figuring out what had happened to his fellow Demon Slayer Corps members, Upper Rank One, the Demons, the police...
He threw off the blankets, gritting his teeth against the soreness wracking his body as he struggled to sit up.
After much effort, he managed to stand, only to stagger toward the doorway where the girl had just appeared.
But with every step, his body ached like a rusted, broken toy, sending waves of sharp pain through him. Shinichi's face quickly paled.
"Don't move recklessly. Your body hasn't fully recovered yet."
A voice, aged yet remarkably steady, spoke with a gentleness that seemed to understand the world deeply.
Shinichi lifted his head with difficulty.
In the doorway of the thatched hut stood a slightly hunched old man, dressed in a faded hunting robe.
The man's hair and beard were white, his face deeply lined with age, yet his eyes were bright and clear, as if they could see straight through a person.
In his hands, he held a rough wooden bowl, steam rising from it, carrying the strong scent of medicine.
Peeking out from behind the old man was a small head, its amber eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and timidity as they darted furtively toward Shinichi.
"Who are you? Where is this place? Why am I here? How far is it from Kyoto?"
Seeing the people before him, Shinichi wasted no time voicing his questions.
Instead of answering, the old man stepped inside with the girl, carefully carrying the wooden bowl.
He placed it on a small wooden table beside Shinichi, then turned his gentle gaze toward him.
"Young man, you've been unconscious for three full days. I know you have many questions, but for the sake of your health, you should drink this medicine first."
"I—" Shinichi's voice was hoarse, but his sharp eyes scrutinized the seemingly ordinary grandfather and granddaughter pair before him.
He was about to say something when, in the next moment, a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him.
His vision darkened, and his body instantly lost control.
Just before his consciousness faded again, the last thing he heard was the girl's clear, startled cry.
"Oh no, Grandpa! He fainted again!"
...
Meanwhile, at the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters—the Butterfly Mansion.
The air was thick with the pungent scent of medicine and the lingering odor of blood.
The wards of the Butterfly Mansion were packed with injured patients, their muffled groans and painful coughs echoing incessantly.
The fierce encounters with multiple Upper Moons in the red-light district, followed by the chaos caused by the police's brazen intervention, had dealt unprecedented heavy losses to the Demon Slayer Corps.
The atmosphere in the Butterfly Mansion was as heavy as lead.
Kanae Kocho and the three young assistants bustled about frantically, while even Kanao had donned a white coat to help tend to the wounded.
Yet, compared to the flurry of activity here, what worried the residents of the Butterfly Mansion even more was the room at the very back of the mansion.
At this moment, the atmosphere in the innermost room of the Butterfly Mansion was so oppressive it felt like plunging into an icy cellar.
Himejima Gyomei's towering frame was slightly hunched, his hands—wrapped in prayer beads—clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
His eyes were closed, tears silently streaming down his resolute cheeks before dripping onto the floor.
The strongest Hashira now radiated profound sorrow and boundless guilt.
Shinazugawa Sanemi leaned against the wall, his head deeply bowed, his disheveled white bangs obscuring his eyes.
His tightly clenched fists trembled violently, suppressing extreme rage and self-loathing.
Before the two of them lay a pair of Nichirin Dual Blades, their scabbards still stained with dark brown blood that hadn't been fully wiped away.
On the hilt of the red-and-green Nichirin longsword, visible cracks marred the surface—scars left behind when Shinichi desperately clashed with Kokushibo, silently recounting the brutality of that battle.
Shinobu Kocho knelt before the blades.
She wore a haori embroidered with butterfly patterns, her face adorned with her usual mask-like gentle smile.
Her movements were delicate and meticulous as she used a pristine white silk cloth to slowly, painstakingly wipe away the dark red bloodstains on the scabbard of the Nichirin blade before her.
Shinobu's actions were so focused, so tender, as if she were polishing a priceless treasure—or perhaps caressing the lingering warmth of a loved one.
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