Night fell deep.
The candlelight in the Shrine Hall had not yet gone out, shadows flickering on the paper doors.
Hikaru sat cross-legged under the corridor, holding a cloth and meticulously wiping muramasa.
The blade's purple light was restrained, but the vibration of its thirst for blood transmitted through his palm into his bones, like a hungry ghost that could never be satiated.
Although its favorability was already maxed out, Hikaru had never been a heartless person who discarded things after use.
He was quite sentimental.
He still kept fragments of some max-favorability weapons he had used before on his person.
Naturally, he wouldn't treat this blade, which had accompanied him for quite a while, as worthless just because its favorability was full.
Kikyo sat opposite him, about a foot away, fiddling with several pieces of white paper cut into human shapes.
"That old gentleman... why did he look for you?"
Hikaru didn't look up, asking casually.
The question lacked context, but Kikyo understood.
He was referring to the elder of the Demon Slayer Village, the one who had died on Hikaru's back.
"Because he trusted me."
Kikyo put down the scissors, white light rippling at her fingertips as she released a bit of spiritual power.
The paper man swelled up as if inflated, standing light as a feather on the table.
Hikaru took a glance and didn't think much of it.
"Seven years ago, a plague broke out in Musashi Province. The source was a Plague Demon that had cultivated significant power. I was still young then, passing through their village, and I purified it in passing."
She spoke very lightly.
Hikaru's movements paused for a moment.
Seven years ago.
How old was this girl then? Ten? Eleven?
To be able to purify a cultivated Plague Demon.
She truly was a genius blessed by the Heavens.
One must know that Oni, as a common type of demon in this era—whether formed from corpses or resentment—were more troublesome than minor demons transformed from ordinary animals.
Although few reached the level of High Yokai, they generally reached above the Third Transformation and below the Six Transformations.
"At that time, the elder said that I have a 'Pure' constitution and a mind free of stray thoughts."
Kikyo looked at the flickering candlelight, her gaze somewhat distant: "He said if one day he grew old and could no longer suppress the shikon jewel in his hand, he would entrust it to me—at that time, perhaps only I could protect it."
"Good eye."
Hikaru sheathed his blade with a crisp click.
"Not just because you can fight, but because you are indeed very pure."
Kikyo glanced at him.
She didn't argue.
But she always felt that what this Ghost Samurai was saying wasn't quite the same thing the village chief meant.
"And you?" she asked back calmly.
"Clearly an Ghost Samurai, yet you act like a... Ronin."
"I am someone who has died once."
Hikaru leaned back against a pillar, not intending to weave any lies. "I woke up in a pile of corpses with a spear through my chest and my head full of mush. All that was left was the obsession not to become a beast."
This was the truth.
The memories of a transmigrator had made him who he was now.
Kikyo nodded and didn't pry further.
In these chaotic times, who didn't have a past they didn't want to talk about.
"That elder's remains..."
Kikyo changed the subject, "Are they still in that cave?"
"Yeah."
"We must send them back."
"I know."
Hikaru nodded.
"Did he have any mementos on him?" Kikyo asked.
"The situation was urgent then, so I only took the shikon jewel."
He carefully recalled the scene at the time.
The old man had collapsed in the cave, his left arm severed, his right hand tightly clutching the shikon jewel.
Besides that...
"I didn't notice."
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