Ichirō Ubuyashiki did not answer at once. He lowered his gaze and thought in silence.
Fujiwara no Ki understood that his words alone would not be easily believed. What he had told the young head was outrageous—almost impossible to accept—but for a family in the Ubuyashiki's condition, even the most improbable explanation was worth grasping.
Ichirō knew the state of his house better than anyone. In less than a decade his kin had been felled one after another; the inexplicable blight had wrapped itself around every branch of the family, and no one could say why it had singled them out. That Fujiwara claimed to know the cause—however strange that claim—felt to Ichirō like a lifeline.
Besides, what use was their wealth when there were no heirs left to inherit it?
"At this point, we have nothing to lose," Ichirō said slowly, lifting his head.
"Then do not waste time," Fujiwara replied. "Select a suitable woman from among your daughters. Arrange a union with the Fujiwara; ensure the continuity of your line. Give priority to securing the succession."
Hearing Ichirō's decision, Fujiwara no Ki straightened and bowed, satisfaction plain on his face. Ichirō could not have imagined then that this compact between their houses would bind the Ubuyashiki to a war with demons that would last for generations.
News of the alliance between the venerable Fujiwara and the Ubuyashiki spread quickly among Kyoto's noble families. Gifts arrived; congratulations followed. With the Ubuyashiki coffers and the Fujiwara's sacred influence, the bones of a new organization took shape the following year.
They recruited masters of the sword to train their members, hired skilled craftsmen to forge weapons, and established a network to gather intelligence on demonic activity. In time a force formed—trained, armed, and bound by purpose—but, because of the delicate political climate, they were forced to operate in secret.
The Ubuyashiki named the organization the Demon Slayer Corps: a band devoted to hunting and killing the evil that fed on humanity.
—
"Is this the place? Our informant said someone disappears here every few nights."
Two young men clad in black strode through the village, swords at their hips. The villagers parted for them instinctively; these were not townsmen but members of the Corps on assignment.
In that era, samurai still held high station, yet they were feared as strangers in small settlements. The two recruits paid the attention no mind and spoke in low tones as they walked.
"This is our first field assignment since leaving the training hall," one said. "We must perform well—so the lord and the masters will be satisfied."
"Indeed. A demon is nothing before our blades."
Their confidence was bold, their voices young. They believed in their training and in each other.
"According to the report, the demon strikes at night. Let us wait until darkness—two days have passed since the last disappearance. It should appear soon."
"Agreed."
They found a small teahouse, sat, and waited for night to fall.
Night settled like a curtain.
"Yamada, stay alert. Something's coming—"
"Understood, Matsuda!"
"Charge—!"
A sudden, dangerous presence prickled at their skins. The two drew sword at once, backing to back.
A shadow moved across the dead-end street and vanished, then reappeared elsewhere with uncanny speed.
"You two aren't from this village, are you, samurai?" a strange voice called from the side.
"What business is it of yours?" Matsuda asked, turning toward the sound, his expression hardening.
The figure stepped into a sliver of moonlight and laughed—a hollow, amused sound.
"Hahaha… how amusing."
The mockery flashed poison into Yamada's veins. He tightened his grip on the hilt.
"Is that so? See the blade at my side? Swords do not ask questions. Speak your name and your purpose, or beg for mercy."
Matsuda's cooler head gave voice to the thought that had occurred to them both.
"Could it be… you are the rumored demon?"
The figure—part man, part something else—smirked. "Not stupid, are you? You're not as foolish as your companion."
The insult landed like a slap. Yamada, enraged, lunged forward.
"Wait! Yamada—do not be reckless!" Matsuda cried, but he was a moment too late and followed to support his friend.
Steel sliced the night. Yamada's strike should have been fatal. His blade flashed true and clean.
He believed in his strength and in Matsuda's skill. They had trained for this. They would slay the demon and return triumphant.
Reality answered in unrelenting cruelty.
The demon that prowled this village had fed for over a year, growing fierce and cunning with every victim. Its strength far surpassed that of ordinary men. In a handful of brutal exchanges, its speed and savagery unmade them.
Limbs were torn, blood sprayed; the two samurai fell with hollow stares, their life's light dimming in crimson puddles.
"The flesh and blood of young samurai—how delicious," the demon crooned, baring teeth. It snapped the fallen katana from a loosened scabbard and tossed it aside like refuse.
Blood slicked its lips as it feasted. The moon watched, indifferent; the village doors remained shut.