When Muzan Kibutsuji suddenly summoned an emergency meeting, even the Upper Moons, demons who had lived for centuries, stirred uneasily.
But none felt the chill deeper than the first among them—Kokushibo, Upper Rank One.
Muzan's voice echoed through the infinite corridors of the Infinity Castle, calm yet ice-cold.
"From this moment on, if any of you encounter a swordsman with hanafuda-patterned earrings and a black-red Nichirin Blade—"
"—attack with all your strength. Tear off that person's head and bring it to me."
The assembled demons dropped to one knee, their voices ringing out as one.
"Yes, Lord Muzan!"
Most didn't understand the sudden command, but obedience was absolute.
Only Kokushibo's expression changed. His eyes trembled faintly as he raised his head, meeting Muzan's gaze.
What he saw there was not rage.
It was fear.
'It can't be…' he thought, a cold realization crawling down his spine.
Tamayo's Residence.
When Chika and Tanjiro returned, the speed of their arrival left Tamayo and Yushiro wide-eyed.
"So fast?"
Chika nodded lightly. "Mm. The two demons weren't that strong."
It was already close to ten at night. Nezuko was still sound asleep in her box, and so the siblings decided to stay one more night before moving on.
Once back in her room, Chika sat cross-legged on the futon again, switching her breathing from Water Breathing: Constant to Hinokami Kagura, refining her stamina and rhythm.
If she wanted to change fate—to rewrite tragedy—she needed to master at least one of the Three Great Powers: the Mark, the Transparent World, or the Red Blade.
She had to hurry.
If the Transparent World was beyond her reach, then she'd settle for the Demon Slayer Mark, even at the cost of lifespan. Twenty-five years? So be it. Better that than watching the same deaths play out again.
Of course, she fell asleep mid-training—again—her posture twisted, mouth slightly open, a thin line of drool shining under the lantern light.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Ugh… who is it…"
"Hey, ugly, the sun's already—"
Before Yushiro could finish, a sheathed sword whistled through the air and slammed into the door.
The wooden frame split open with a crack, the sword-sheath stopping a mere five centimeters from his forehead.
Yushiro froze. His throat clicked audibly as he swallowed.
Tanjiro, who'd just arrived behind him, stopped mid-step. He'd been about to scold Yushiro for being rude—but the sight of that embedded sheath drained all color from his face.
So fast… and she was half-asleep.
Ten minutes later.
"I'm sorry," Chika said, pressing her palms together apologetically. "I was half-asleep."
"It's all right," Tamayo said with a gentle smile. "It's only a small hole. Besides, Yushiro was rude first. Yushiro—apologize properly."
Yushiro stiffened. Meeting Chika's calm eyes, he flinched and bowed stiffly. "S-sorry. I shouldn't have called you ugly."
Chika waved it off. "Forget it."
She knew the type. Yushiro saw every woman as plain next to Tamayo, his beloved savior. The kind of man who said 'I'm not insulting you personally; I just think every other woman is ugly.'
A chronic case of mouth-poison. Harmless—mostly.
When morning came, Chika and her group prepared to leave.
"If we encounter any powerful demons, we'll collect their blood for you," Chika promised.
Tamayo nodded warmly. "Thank you. Be careful on your journey."
They'd barely stepped outside when the overworked Kasugai Crow swooped down, cawing like an overzealous project manager.
Another mission already.
Chika's aura darkened instantly, the air around her turning menacing. The crow flapped backward nervously before squawking out the order:
"Next… destination… southeast!"
And just as quickly, it fled for its life.
Chika's eye twitched. "This job system is worse than 996…"
Still, orders were orders.
Their next destination: the deadly Drum House Arc—the penultimate mission before true hell began.
The morning sun was unusually bright.
Chika and Tanjiro bought long black coats from a roadside merchant to block the glare—and to keep Nezuko's box shaded.
They walked rather than ran; after two straight missions, even Tanjiro's boundless energy had worn thin.
By noon, as the dirt road curved toward the next town, they encountered a familiar voice—high-pitched, desperate, and utterly pathetic.
"Please! I'm begging you! Marry me! I could die any day out here! I don't want to die without ever having a wife!"
Kneeling in the dirt, clutching a terrified girl's hand, was a blond-haired boy.
Zenitsu Agatsuma.
The girl's patience snapped. With a sharp crack, she slapped him—again and again—until Tanjiro rushed forward to pull her back.
"Please, stop! Violence isn't—"
Zenitsu groaned dramatically, clutching his cheek. "No, no, it's okay! A slap is just another way to say you care! She must be in love with me!"
The girl spun around, cheeks puffed in fury. "Love you? I just asked if you were sick, you lunatic!"
She stomped off, leaving Zenitsu sprawled in the dust, twitching.
Tanjiro blinked. He'd witnessed many strange things lately, but this one ranked high.
Then Zenitsu spotted Chika. Or rather, her side ponytail glinting under the sunlight.
His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. Hope, delusion, and desperation fused into one emotion.
He scrambled to his feet, sprinted toward her, and shouted at the top of his lungs—
"Please, beautiful lady! Date me—with marriage in mind!"
Chika didn't even pause.
"I refuse."