The first thing Yoriichi felt was the ache in his bones—not the frailty of old age, but the sharp, vibrant thrum of youth. His muscles coiled with the same effortless power he had possessed in his prime, his senses sharp enough to pick up the rustle of fabric meters away, the rapid beat of hearts, the faint scent of sweat and iron hanging in the air.
He opened his eyes.
Gone were the cedar forests and dimly lit estates of his time. Instead, he stood in a narrow alleyway between towering structures of glass and concrete, their heights piercing the sky like unnatural mountains. The air was thick with a strange, acrid smell, and the ground beneath his feet was hard and smooth, not a blade of grass in sight.
"Get them! Don't let any of Big Deal's rats escape!"
A roar cut through the air, followed by the sound of fists striking flesh and the crack of breaking bone. Yoriichi turned his head slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing.
A group of men—dressed in matching black uniforms with a red emblem, others in white—were clashing in the street ahead. They moved with a raw, brutal efficiency, using their bodies as weapons, but their movements were clumsy compared to the disciplined strikes he had known. Yet, there was a raw strength to them; one man slammed his fist into a concrete wall, and the surface cracked.
"Workers..." a voice gasped nearby. Yoriichi looked down to see a young man with long hair tied back, clutching his side, blood seeping through his clothes. He wore a jacket emblazoned with "BIG DEAL" on the back. "They're... too strong this time..."
Yoriichi stared at him, his expression unreadable. He recognized the look in the man's eyes—fear, but also determination. It was the same look he had seen on the faces of the Demon Slayers who had fought beside him, who had given their lives to protect humanity.
But these were not demons. There was no trace of the grotesque, flesh-eating monsters he had spent his life hunting. These were humans, fighting among themselves for reasons he could not yet understand.
A figure in a white uniform lunged at the injured Big Deal member, fist raised. "You're done for, Lee Ji-hoon!"
Yoriichi did not move a muscle, or so it seemed. One moment he was standing still, the next he was between the attacker and the young man. His hand shot out, wrapping around the attacker's wrist with a grip that felt like iron.
The attacker's eyes widened. He tried to pull away, but he might as well have been trying to move a mountain. "Who the hell are you?!"
Yoriichi's voice was calm, but it carried a weight that made the air feel heavy. "Why do you fight?"
The question caught the man off guard. "What? None of your business—let go!" He tried to throw a punch with his other hand, but Yoriichi simply shifted his stance, and the man's own momentum sent him stumbling forward, crashing into the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of him.
The other fighters paused, their eyes turning to the strange man who had appeared out of nowhere. He wore traditional black hakama and a haori, his hair long and black, tied back with a simple cord. A red mark curved across his forehead, and his eyes held a depth that made even the most hardened fighters feel small.
"Who is that?" one of the Workers muttered, taking a step back. "He's not from Big Deal... is he?"
Lee Ji-hoon stared at Yoriichi, his eyes wide with shock. He had seen strong fighters—Goo Kim, Gun Park, the leaders of Big Deal—but there was something different about this man. It was not just strength; it was the way he carried himself, as if the entire world around him was nothing more than a backdrop.
Yoriichi looked at the crowd, his gaze sweeping over them. He could feel their strength, their auras—some were bright and fierce, others dim and fearful. But none of them held a candle to the demons he had faced, not even the strongest of the Twelve Kizuki.
He had been reborn, in a time and place he did not know. His purpose was gone. But as he looked at the fighting around him, at the pain and the conflict, a faint thought stirred in his mind.
Perhaps... there was a new purpose to be found here.
"Stand down," Yoriichi said, his voice not loud, but it echoed in the alleyway. "This fighting serves no true end."
One of the Workers, a man with a scar across his face, snarled and charged. "Who do you think you are, talking like that?!" He threw a powerful kick, aimed at Yoriichi's head.
Yoriichi didn't even blink. He raised his hand, catching the man's ankle mid-air. With a gentle push, he sent the man flying backward, crashing into a group of his comrades, sending them tumbling like dominoes.
Silence fell over the street. The Workers and Big Deal members alike stared at Yoriichi, their faces pale with disbelief.
He was strong. Unbelievably so.
Yoriichi turned back to Lee Ji-hoon. "Are you injured?" he asked quietly.
Lee Ji-hoon nodded slowly, still unable to speak.
Yoriichi reached into his belt, pulling out a small vial of medicine—something he had carried with him from his old life, though he did not know how it had come to be here. He handed it to the young man. "This will help with the pain."
Then, he turned and began to walk away, his steps slow and steady, as if he had not just single-handedly stopped a gang war with a single move.
"Wait!" Lee Ji-hoon called out. "Who are you? What's your name?"
Yoriichi paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Yoriichi," he said simply. "Yoriichi Tsugikuni."
And with that, he disappeared into the maze of concrete and steel, leaving behind a group of stunned fighters, and a question that would soon spread through the underworld of this world:
Just who is this man named Yoriichi, and how is he so strong?