Chapter 185: The Originator of Sun Breathing
The mountains of Kozuke Province were not particularly steep, but their rolling ridges stretched endlessly, deep and shadowed.
The morning sky had just begun to bleed a pale gray. Thick, damp mist clung stubbornly to the earth, refusing to disperse.
A young man walked along the winding gravel path at the foot of the mountain. He appeared to be in his early twenties, dressed in a faded, heavily patched red haori. An unremarkable wood-cutting hatchet rested at his waist, and an empty woven bamboo basket bounced lightly against his back.
His dark red hair was gathered high, the ends curling slightly. Yet, the most striking feature was his forehead. Resting on the left side of his brow was a deep, crimson birthmark, shaped exactly like licking flames. From his earlobes hung a pair of hanafuda earrings, their painted sun patterns swaying in a gentle, rhythmic arc with every step he took.
He walked with absolute, unnerving steadiness.
It was not the deliberate, grounded stance of a trained samurai lowering his center of gravity, nor was it the practiced, silent tread of a shinobi. Instead, it was entirely natural. He seemed to have melted into the environment itself. When his straw sandals pressed over brittle, withered branches, the wood refused to snap. When his hem brushed against dew-heavy blades of wild grass, not a single drop of moisture rolled from the leaves.
His breathing stretched long and even. His heartbeat pulsed at a slow, tranquil rhythm. He moved like a stray wisp of wind wandering through the ravines, or a sliver of dawn light filtering through the canopy—devoid of the heavy, abrupt presence that usually marked a living human.
But at this exact second, the young man stopped.
He lifted his chin. His deep, quiet red eyes locked onto the path ahead.
A nameless hill rose in the distance. It was not exceptionally tall, but it offered an unobstructed vantage point overlooking the slumbering castle town miles away.
"...Strange," the young man murmured.
His voice carried no inflection, flat and entirely devoid of surprise. Yet, through his vision, the hill ahead was fundamentally wrong.
It was not the foul stench of Yao Qi, nor the violent surge of spiritual power. It was an inexplicable, silent shift in the laws of nature.
A steady southeast wind was currently sweeping through the valley. By all logic, the mountain's flora should have bowed northwest. The leaves should have rustled in unison, and the morning mist should have drifted along the wind's invisible veins.
Everywhere else in the young man's sight, nature obeyed this rule.
Except for that hill.
The blades of grass refused the wind. They stood rigid, bending slightly inward, their tips pointing uniformly toward the summit. The tree branches locked in place, every twig straining upward toward that singular peak. Even the loose gravel scattered across the dirt—stones that should have been random and chaotic—now appeared as though an invisible hand had carefully aligned them in a grand, circular formation.
The mist itself stagnated, forming a massive, unbroken ring around the peak. It neither dispersed nor churned.
Everything was completely silent.
Not out of fear. But out of pure, unadulterated adoration.
It was the posture of loyal subjects crowding around a newly crowned king, or devout believers prostrating before a descending deity.
This shattered common sense. Grass, wood, and stone possessed no consciousness; they were bound only by wind and gravity. While all things held a faint trace of spirituality, awakening it was nearly impossible.
Yet right now, this mountain had undoubtedly 'awakened'.
This phenomenon meant only one thing: something rested at the summit that the earth itself deemed more worthy of obedience than the laws of nature.
The young man did not retreat. Through his eyes—eyes that pierced straight through the superficial shell of the world into its very essence—he saw no malice.
He saw only a pure, impossibly vast, condensing 'Intent'.
He stepped off the path and began his ascent. His pace remained perfectly measured, his sandals finding the exact gaps left open by the bowing vegetation.
The higher he climbed, the heavier the sensation grew. Wildflowers lining the dirt desperately forced their petals open, blooming violently despite it being the wrong season. The soil beneath his feet hardened, actively compacting itself to provide a flawless, stable foothold for the entity resting above.
Then, he stopped.
The young man halted his steps because the mountain was actively repelling him. It was rejecting any presence that did not belong to its circle of adoration.
But he did not need to climb any higher. Standing on the upper slope, he raised his eyes and clearly saw the existence commanding such reverence.
A figure sat cross-legged on the summit's grass, sheltered beneath the canopy of an ancient tree.
A non-human 'demon'.
He wore loose gray robes. His skin was pale to the point of translucence, and his stark white hair was tied casually at the nape of his neck. He sat with his spine perfectly straight, rigid as a spear shaft.
An unsheathed katana lay across his knees.
His eyes remained shut. He did not breathe. He did not twitch. To call him a demon felt inaccurate; he looked more like a forgotten, unremarkable stone sculpture.
But in the young man's eyes, this figure was a terrifying vortex.
The wind, the morning light, the ambient air currents, and the very life force of the surrounding flora were being dragged into that pale body. He was a black hole, devouring everything, yet simultaneously radiating an edge so sharp it threatened to slice the sky apart.
Full. Overflowing.
It was a sword.
Deep within that demon's chest, a sword was taking true form. It was not the folded steel resting on his lap, but the absolute, crystallized intent within his soul.
The young man simply stood there, watching. He made no move to approach, sensing that a single step forward would shatter the delicate equilibrium.
Time lost its meaning on the silent peak.
It wasn't until the first true ray of morning sunlight pierced the thick cloud cover, striking the demon's pale face, that the stillness broke.
The figure opened his eyes.
Pitch-black sclera. Piercing crimson pupils.
Deep within those crimson irises, violent purple patterns and burning orange streaks intertwined, violently collapsing into a single, terrifying point of absolute sharpness.
The katana resting on his lap let out a sharp, resonant hum.
Instantly, the inward-bending grass, the strained branches, and the solidified mist collapsed. It was as if a royal pardon had been granted. The wind resumed its natural course. The leaves rustled.
The world returned to its proper order.
Kobe Hikaru slowly exhaled a long breath of turbid air—pure Yao Qi.
He lowered his chin, his gaze dropping down the slope, locking onto the red-haired young man standing exactly thirty meters away.
Their eyes met. Crimson demonic irises clashing with deep, tranquil red.
Hikaru's thumb rested lightly against the tsuba of his blade. He didn't move.
He hadn't even had the chance to properly analyze the 'Sword Intent'he had just condensed, nor test its fusion with the demonic blade, Onikiri. He also hadn't found the time to dryly appreciate that his bizarre habit of grinding'favorability' with inanimate objects had actually paid off.
Though he had only farmed a meager dozen points with the surrounding environment, the earth itself had answered his call. The grass, the wood, the stones, and the mountain had actively protected his meditation. It wouldn't stop a genuine powerhouse, but it served as a flawless early warning system.
Looking at the young man below, Hikaru's deadpan mind experienced a rare, sharp jolt.
He recognized him.
More accurately, he recognized the patched red haori, the unmistakable flame mark searing the left brow, and those hanafuda earrings.
That was Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
The absolute combat ceiling of the Demon Slayer universe. The man who stood as the ultimate nightmare for evil demons, second only to the Nichirin Blades themselves. He was the sole originator of the 'Breathing Style'—the technique that allowed fragile humans to rival monsters.
The first, and strongest, Sun Breathing swordsman.
Hikaru hadn't expected to stumble across him like this.
Standing up, Hikaru let his gray robes settle. At his waist, Onikiri let out one final, satisfied hum before falling completely silent.
The blade soul was complete. It was no longer a fragmented, semi-finished tool, but a soul approaching true perfection. Hikaru could feel the sheer difference in weight. It wasn't the physical mass of accumulated Yao Qi, but the heavy, obvious weight of condensed intent.
Through blood, fire, and endless slaughter, his Sword Intent had unified. The blade had finally caught up to its master. While it couldn't manifest a true physical humanoid form just yet, it could move on its own command. It had officially crossed the threshold of a 'Tsukumogami'.
Yet, throughout this internal assessment, Hikaru's gaze never left the slope.
Yoriichi remained exactly where he was. He hadn't fled, nor had he advanced. He just watched the pale demon with those quiet red eyes. There was no panic in his posture. His hand rested casually on the wooden handle of his hatchet—just resting, not gripping.
But Hikaru was pragmatic enough to know that if he made a hostile move, that relaxed hand would draw and sever his neck in a fraction of a second.
The name Tsugikuni Yoriichi guaranteed it.
Keeping his expression perfectly cold and stern, Hikaru walked down the hillside. His pace was unhurried. He stopped exactly three paces away from the young man.
Up close, Yoriichi's features were much clearer. Slender build, faded clothes, and that strange birthmark that looked like actual fire seared into his flesh. He wasn't exceptionally handsome, just cleanly featured.
But his aura was entirely alien.
He was breathing, but the rhythm of his lungs matched the mountain wind so flawlessly that he barely registered as a living creature. He felt like an ancient tree rooted in the dirt.
Hikaru's mind supplied the term immediately: Breathing Style.
Using the lungs as a furnace, turning oxygen into a blade, forcing human muscles and blood to shatter their natural limits. It was the only way humans could bridge the physical gap against demons.
Technically, breathing techniques weren't entirely unique to the Demon Slayer Corps. Hikaru knew that traditional samurai schools used breath control. The Jigen-ryu relied on explosive exhalations to build kinetic momentum, while the Ten-ryu used breath shifts to transition smoothly between high and low stances.
But Hikaru had never felt this.
This was absolute harmony with the world. This was the pinnacle of weaponizing the natural act of drawing breath.
Meanwhile, Yoriichi observed Hikaru in silence. His gaze lingered on the pale, maskless face, dropped to the sheathed Onikiri, and finally returned to the crimson eyes.
Humanoid, but undeniably a demon.
"...Sir, excuse the intrusion," Yoriichi spoke first. His voice was soft, his tone entirely placid.
Hikaru noted the phrasing. It was a polite greeting, a confirmation that Yoriichi had no intention of drawing his blade simply because a demon stood before him.
"There is no intrusion," Hikaru replied, his voice a dry, flat drawl. He showed no offense, nor any desire to chase the human away.
Yoriichi's expression remained serene. "It seems, Sir, you have been sitting on the mountain all night?"
"Hmm. Isn't that what a demon should do?"
A brief silence hung between them. Yoriichi's gaze flicked to Onikiri again before turning away, completely unbothered by the confirmation.
"...Just now. Those plants?" Yoriichi asked.
"That was my doing," Hikaru admitted bluntly. There was no point in playing coy.
Yoriichi simply nodded. Understood.
His lack of reaction was entirely abnormal for a human facing a monster. But Yoriichi was born abnormal. Hikaru knew the lore. Born into the aristocratic Tsugikuni branch of the Hojo Clan, Yoriichi possessed the 'Transparent World' from birth. He could see the inner workings of all living things—blood flow, muscle contraction, lung expansion—allowing him to perfectly predict any attack.
Deemed a curse and treated as a mute outcast, he had effortlessly defeated a veteran samurai master as a child. Fearing his talent would threaten his brother's inheritance, Yoriichi had abandoned his noble status to live in the mountains, eventually marrying a commoner.
He was a god perfectly content with living as a peasant.
Because of the Transparent World, Yoriichi had already seen through the anomalies of the mountain. Yet, his question proved he couldn't entirely see through Hikaru.
"Do you live nearby?" Hikaru asked, already knowing the answer.
Yoriichi nodded. "In the mountains outside the city. I have lived there for three years."
"A hunter?"
"A hunter." Yoriichi paused, his quiet eyes shifting toward the distant town. "My wife is about to give birth. I am going into the city to find a midwife."
The moment those words left Yoriichi's mouth, a cold gear clicked into place inside Hikaru's deadpan mind.
Wife is about to give birth.
Going into the city to find a midwife.
Hikaru remembered the tragedy.
In the original lore, while Yoriichi was away fetching the midwife, a demon created by Kibutsuji Muzan would discover his secluded home. By the time Yoriichi returned, his pregnant wife, Uta, and their unborn child would be slaughtered.
It was the catalyst that drove Yoriichi to join the Demon Slayer Corps.
Talk about perfect timing, Hikaru thought dryly. He had been wandering aimlessly, hoping to stumble across the Demon Slayer Corps. Instead, he had walked straight into the progenitor of the Breathing Style on the worst day of his life.
"Is your wife home alone?" Hikaru asked.
"A neighbor will help look after her."
"How long have you been out?"
"I left before dawn. It has been about four hours."
Hikaru quickly calculated the timeline. The slaughter hadn't happened yet, but the window was rapidly closing. Demons burned in the sun; the attacker would strike before dusk.
"Have you found a midwife?" Hikaru asked smoothly.
"Not yet."
"Which part of the city have you been searching?"
Yoriichi turned his head, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his deep red eyes. It was strange for a demon to care about human childbirth. But he answered regardless.
"The medical clinic in the north said their midwife took an emergency case yesterday. She will not return until tonight."
Hikaru nodded. "There is another clinic in the south of the castle town." He had scouted the area yesterday.
Yoriichi fell silent, studying Hikaru's pale face as if weighing the truth of the statement. Finding no deception, he adjusted his bamboo basket and turned toward the southern district.
It was a seamless pivot, as if he had always intended to go that way. After two steps, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"Are you just passing through, Sir?"
"In a way," Hikaru replied.
"Which direction are you heading?"
"No fixed destination. Just wandering."
Yoriichi nodded once, accepting the answer without further probing, and resumed his silent trek into the morning mist.
Hikaru stood in place, his thumb tracing the cold metal of Onikiri's scabbard.
There was a lot he hadn't said. He hadn't mentioned that he knew Yoriichi's true lineage. He hadn't warned him of the impending bloodbath.
But Hikaru was nothing if not pragmatic. By sticking close to Tsugikuni Yoriichi, he was guaranteed to encounter the Demon Slayer Corps. That meant access to a Nichirin Blade—a prime target for his favorability system.
Beyond the loot, Hikaru was genuinely curious. In this chaotic, blended crossover world, what did the existence of a man like Yoriichi truly represent?
Hikaru stepped forward.
He didn't announce his intentions. He didn't offer an excuse. He simply walked in the exact same direction, maintaining a precise three-pace distance behind the red-haired hunter.
Yoriichi didn't look back to question him.
Together, the strongest human and the deadpan demon vanished into the thick, damp fog.
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