Chapter 19: Makomo
The first light of dawn had barely touched the sky when Kanzaki Akira awoke, his routine as ingrained as the rising sun.
He ate his breakfast under the watchful eye of Kuwajima, who peppered the meal with a litany of concerned instructions. When Akira was finished, the old man handed him his Nichirin Blade, then stepped forward to fussily straighten the collar of his uniform.
Kuwajima's gaze lingered on the boy before him. Akira was not yet fourteen—an age where he should have been chasing friends and dreams, not beginning the cruel path of a demon slayer. A deep-seated hesitation took root in the old master's heart. His rough, calloused hands clutched the corner of Akira's clothes, refusing to let go, as if the simple act could keep the boy anchored safely in this courtyard forever.
"Master, we had an agreement," Akira said softly. He placed his own hand over Kuwajima's, his touch gentle as he slowly but firmly pried the trembling fingers from his uniform.
He understood his master's turmoil, but he refused to use his youth as a shield, hiding behind others with a clear conscience. If he were weak, that would be one thing. But his strength now far surpassed that of most swordsmen in the Demon Slayer Corps; to continue to hide would be a stain on his soul.
Besides, as long as demons roamed the night, there was no truly safe place in this world.
To become an official swordsman now, to grow stronger through the crucible of real combat, to seek out and rewrite the tragedies he knew were coming—this was the path Akira had chosen. He had been given a second chance in this world, and he had to do something with it. Not for some grand ambition of saving every soul, but simply so he could live without regret.
"Go then, go! You stinky kid." Seeing the unshakeable resolve in Akira's eyes, Kuwajima turned away with a huff, snatching his hand back. "Barely a year and your wings have already hardened. Now you're so eager to fly the nest…"
"I'm leaving, Master. Wait for my good news." Akira bowed deeply to the old man who had been his teacher, his friend, and his family.
Kuwajima said nothing more, only waving a dismissive hand, his back still turned.
Akira straightened up, took one last look at the small courtyard that had been his home for over a year, and then turned, his strides firm and purposeful as he set off toward Fujikasane Mountain.
The distance from Peach Mountain was not particularly great. Since he didn't need to conserve stamina during the daylight hours, Akira arrived at the foot of Fujikasane Mountain before noon.
It was a peculiar peak. A dense ring of wisteria trees encircled its mid-slopes, their vibrant purple blossoms defying the seasons, blooming eternally. Wisteria was a flower that demons loathed; a toxin extracted from it could prove fatal to weaker ones. It was for this very reason that the mountain had been chosen as the site for the Final Selection. The demons imprisoned within—weak creatures specifically captured by high-ranking slayers—were trapped by the impenetrable floral barrier.
All a candidate had to do was survive for seven days.
Akira reviewed the rules in his mind as he walked, admiring the stunning sea of purple flowers that painted the mountainside. He ascended at a steady pace, soon stepping onto the plateau that served as the selection's starting point.
This was the designated gathering area, and the place they would return to if they survived. A number of aspiring slayers had already assembled, most clustered in small groups of two or three. They were likely from the same Cultivator or knew each other from before. A few others stood alone, isolated and without companions.
Presiding over the event was Ubuyashiki Kagaya. He stood on a small platform closest to the wisteria, flanked by his two young daughters.
"Kagaya-san, it's been a while."
Akira walked up to the platform and greeted him in a low voice. Over the past year of correspondence, he and the young leader of the Demon Slayer Corps had become genuine friends, a bond forged in shared burdens.
In an era that placed immense importance on hierarchy, such a friendship should have been impossible. But Kagaya was young and carried the weight of the world on his shoulders; he yearned for someone who could see him as a person, not just a title. Akira, with the egalitarian values of his past life, was perhaps the only one who could. The two of them had, as they say, hit it off immediately.
"Akira-kun, you've come." A gentle smile was already on Kagaya's face, but upon seeing Akira, it brightened with genuine warmth. "I thought Mr. Jigoro might not let you."
"He didn't have much choice," Akira replied with a slight shrug, a hint of amusement in his voice. "If I lacked the ability, I could hide behind my age. But since I have the strength to kill demons, it wouldn't feel right to enjoy the peace that other swordsmen bleed for."
As he spoke, Akira's eyes caught something, and he froze for a fraction of a second. Peeking from beneath the hair at Kagaya's temple was a faint but hideous purple mark, the first sign of the family curse.
Kagaya simply gave him a look—a silent plea not to speak of it—and the two of them tacitly let the subject drop.
Beside their father, Ubuyashiki Hinaki and Nichika blinked their bright, curious eyes. They watched him chat so intimately with this boy they had only met once before. Their upbringing, however, had taught them to never show their feelings in front of outsiders. So, despite their curiosity, they remained silent, their faces mirroring the same gentle, placid smile as their father's.
Akira knew Kagaya needed to maintain his public image as the Master. After a few more words, he excused himself and found an empty spot to the side, waiting for the selection to begin.
The other participants cast glances his way, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and scrutiny, but he paid them no mind. Instead, he began his own assessment, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. With his powerful observational skills, he noted the calluses on their hands from endless sword practice and the subtle, subconscious shifts in their stances. From these small details, he could glean a measure of their strength.
After a brief scan, his eyes landed on someone who gave him pause.
She was a petite girl with short black hair that barely brushed her shoulders. She wore a modified pink kimono patterned with cherry blossoms, cut to reveal her fair calves, and a sleeveless black haori over it. Even while at rest, her delicate hands remained pressed to the hilt of her Nichirin Blade. A smiling fox mask, painted with a blue floral design, concealed her face.
But based on the distinctive outfit and the mask, Akira knew exactly who she was.
Makomo. The disciple of the former Water Hashira, Urokodaki Sakonji. A girl of immense talent and gentle spirit, fated to die an early death at the hands of the Hand Demon—this mountain's overpowered 'starter village' boss.
He hadn't expected to be in the same Final Selection as her.
'This is good, though,' he thought. 'Now I don't have to worry about finding the Hand Demon.'
After all, that creature had managed to hide on Fujikasane Mountain for decades; its ability to conceal itself was not to be underestimated. Akira wasn't confident he could find it on his own. But with one of Urokodaki's disciples present, he just had to follow her.
The Hand Demon had been personally captured and imprisoned here by Urokodaki. Its hatred for the old Water Hashira's students was absolute, and the fox mask was the unmistakable sigil that marked them as his.
As the memories surfaced, Akira couldn't help but feel a flicker of frustration. Urokodaki's disciples were slaughtered by the Hand Demon, one after another, yet the former Hashira only ever seemed to doubt his own teaching ability. It never occurred to him that a demon far too powerful for novice slayers might have appeared in the selection.
As a former Hashira, could he not accurately judge the skill level of his own students?
The more likely reason, Akira mused, was the rigid structure of the Corps. The Final Selection was an ancient tradition, established and upheld by generations of Masters. Bound by the era's strict hierarchical concepts, the former Hashira was unwilling to question the system or its leaders. He could only turn that doubt inward, upon himself.
Shaking his head slightly, Akira pushed the thoughts aside and refocused on the imminent trial.
It was at that exact moment he realized the girl had sensed his gaze. She turned her head, and their eyes met across the clearing.
Beneath the fox mask, Akira saw eyes filled with curiosity and a touch of confusion. He thought he could see her brow furrow slightly. But after a single, charged look, they both broke contact.
Ubuyashiki Kagaya had begun to speak, his calm voice carrying over the silent assembly. The Final Selection was about to begin.
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