Yukishiro carefully drove his Nichirin Sword into the ground, the blade quivering in the dirt as he straightened and glanced down at his wrists.
In all his battles—whether on patrol, in ambushes, or even that desperate fight back on Fujikasane—he had never once discarded his burden. The weighted gear was part of him, a constant reminder that true strength had to be tempered under restriction. But now, against one of the Twelve Kizuki, hiding his true ability was no longer possible.
Even so, he knew the truth. Removing the weights would not bring victory—it could only buy time. He could delay Rui, perhaps hold him at bay, but killing a Lower Moon outright… no, that was beyond him. Yukishiro clenched his fists. He understood his limits.
Slowly, he tugged at the knots around his wrists. The ropes loosened, and he pulled free the heavy wrist guards, each weighing twenty kilograms. They thudded against the ground like iron shackles. Next came the weighted leggings strapped tight around his calves—another forty kilograms discarded.
The earth itself seemed to sigh as the weights settled into the soil.
Straightening, Yukishiro rolled his shoulders. His body felt suddenly lighter, every muscle loosened as though chains had been broken. The air rushed deeper into his lungs, his blood flowed more freely. For the first time in days, he allowed himself a full breath.
His fingers curled around the hilt of his blade once more. He lifted it, gave it two experimental swings—sharp arcs that hissed through the night. The movements were effortless, dangerous.
His eyes sharpened.
Cold air burst from his body in a violent surge, washing across the clearing. The blood-red threads Rui had compressed around them paled in an instant, frost crawling along their surface until they gleamed white.
The forest followed. The ground whitened. Flowers and grass stiffened under sheets of frost. Tree trunks groaned as ice crystals formed in their bark. Mist mingled with snowflakes, drifting outward in an expanding halo of winter.
Rui stiffened, the sudden drop in temperature cutting to his bones. He lifted a trembling hand. A snowflake, delicate and crystalline, landed on his palm.
He stared at it, uncomprehending.
Snow.
Snow was falling on Natagumo Mountain. Under a clear moonlit sky.
Before Rui could react further, a deep roar reverberated through the woods. Not the call of beast or bird, but the guttural cry of something ancient. Something draconic. His silks twitched violently in his grip, the threads in his left hand snapping one after another until five of them fell slack.
"No… that's impossible." Rui's face twisted. "Another bug broke through my prison?"
He clenched his teeth.
These were just fledgling Demon Slayers—new recruits, insects. Yet again and again they defied his Blood Demon Arts.
"Why… why does this keep happening?" His voice broke into a shrill scream. "Why won't you leave me alone?"
For the first time, Rui doubted himself.
To him, Muzan was sacred. A god untouchable. Demons were chosen children, and humans mere ants crawling beneath their feet. Yet these ants stood here, challenging him, daring to sever the strings of divinity itself.
Fear crept into his chest. He felt it, raw and corrosive. The fear that ate at him from the inside out, twisting into rage.
"No… I won't allow it!"
His hands jerked, feeding more blood into his silks. The crimson cage pulsed brighter, layers upon layers of threads weaving tighter, shrinking around Tanjiro and Nezuko. Another moment, and they would be minced, reduced to nothing but bloody scraps.
The white mist thickened, rolling in from the east. It swirled, surged, and in seconds cloaked the clearing, engulfing Rui's threads.
The crimson light drowned, swallowed by a tide of frost.
Within the fog came the faint sound of roaring again—dragon-like, terrible. Rui's instincts screamed, but he clenched his jaw. He refused to believe this human could break through the "Killing Eye Cage." Stronger, denser, far superior to his "Engraved Line Cage," it was woven from countless layers of his own blood-soaked silk. It was unbreakable.
Then the voice rang out.
"Ice Breathing… Seventh Form—Ice Dragon."
The mountain shuddered.
Above, the night split. From the sky descended a colossal dragon wrought from crystal ice, its scales glittering with lunar light. Its roar shook the treetops, its presence ancient and absolute.
Rui stumbled back two steps, cold sweat breaking across his forehead.
The dragon dove.
At its head, Yukishiro swung his Nichirin Sword, dragging the beast down upon the crimson cage. The impact thundered through the clearing, scattering the mist in an instant. Blinding frost erupted outward, ripping across the ground in a storm that froze everything in its path.
The dome of Rui's cage groaned under the assault, layers of crimson silk hardening white, cracking, fracturing.
Steel screeched. With a sharp snap, Yukishiro's blade split in two.
But even broken, he drove the half-sword forward, wedging it into the silk dome.
The webbing tore. A fissure ripped open across the cage's crown. The threads stilled. The strangling pressure ceased.
Panting, body coated in frost, Yukishiro straightened and leapt down from the broken cage. His entire form looked carved from ice, every breath he exhaled a puff of white vapor.
His eyes locked on Rui.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice cold and unwavering. "Is there a man named Imiya Kishi among the Twelve Kizuki? A white-haired woman with him?"
The mention struck a nerve. For just an instant Rui's expression flickered—too fast for most to notice, but Yukishiro saw it.
But Rui only sneered. "Why waste words on the dying?"
He yanked his silks, trying to reassert control. Yet the moment they tightened, snap!—they broke.
He froze, staring at the limp threads in his hands.
The truth cut through him like a blade. His greatest weapon, frozen, had lost its strength. Ice had made them brittle.
Rui's lips parted soundlessly. For the first time, he realized—fire and ice both were natural enemies of his craft.
Tanjiro, still kneeling on the ground, stared in stunned gratitude at Yukishiro. They had never met before this night, yet he felt something familiar in him—like a bond carved by fate.
Rui looked down at them all. He should have been furious. But instead, he was calm.
And calm, for Rui, was always worse.
He spread his fingers wide, ten digits weaving a circular seal.
The air convulsed.
Countless crimson threads spun together into a vortex, a screaming storm of silk. The winds howled, the trees bent, and the very air seemed to split beneath the pressure.
"Blood Demon Art—Engraving Rotation!"
The vortex lunged forward, a spiraling storm of death, aimed to swallow everything in the clearing.
Tanjiro's voice cracked as he shouted, desperation in every word: "I don't know your name—but please, take my sister with you!"
His body trembled. After the strain of unleashing both Water Breathing and Hinokami Kagura, he could barely stand. His legs refused to move. His breath rattled in his chest. Yet his eyes blazed with determination.
He thought Yukishiro had strength enough to flee with Nezuko, to protect her when he no longer could. What Tanjiro didn't know was that Yukishiro's body was already near collapse.
The "Ice Dragon" had drained him. His cold was fading, wounds reopening, blood seeping freely again. Every breath was painful. Every step was a mountain.
Still, he forced himself upright. He bent down toward Nezuko, hand reaching for her.
But Nezuko snapped her fangs and growled, a low, threatening rumble. Her body trembled with refusal.
She would not abandon her brother.
"Nezuko…" Tanjiro gasped. "Don't worry about me. Just—go! Follow him!"
He pushed her gently, his bloody hand pressing her forward.
Nezuko froze. Her wide, pink eyes darted between Tanjiro, broken and bleeding on the ground, and Yukishiro, standing unsteady before the roaring vortex. Confusion and pain flickered across her face as her body trembled.
The storm of red threads drew closer.