"The Thunder Hashira… Is that the rumored anomaly?"

Kokushibō, the Upper Rank One of the Twelve Kizuki, murmured quietly as he watched Muzan and Akaza vanish from the hall.

Behind his ever-calm expression, a faint curiosity began to stir.

An outlier swordsman who walked a path unlike any other...

Could such a being truly exist?

— — —

A quiet pluck of the biwa echoed.

The haunting sound washed over the castle like a dream, and within moments, the Infinite Castle fell still once more—

As if everything that had just occurred was nothing but an illusion.

— — —

Dawn broke gently at the foot of Mount Sagiri.

In front of two modest wooden cabins, three young swordsmen practiced their daily katas—sword drills passed down as the foundation of every aspiring Demon Slayer.

Among them, Sabito stood out with clean, precise movements that carried weight and intent. Giyū was just a step behind, his strikes still a little rigid.

Makomo, meanwhile, looked more like she was dancing than training—more grace than power, like a curious cat mimicking its owner.

Up above, a black Kasugai Crow flapped across the morning sky. Unlike most, this one was unusually… plump.

Makomo's eyes lit up.

"Sabito! Giyū! Look!" she shouted, pointing upward.

"That crow's so fat! How does it even fly like that?"

She stuck her tongue out playfully, pure innocence in her voice.

At that moment—

A tall teenager emerged from the forest path leading down the mountain.

Dust clung to his uniform.

A large iron pot hung on his back, and two swords rested at his hips.

He looked more like a traveling chef than a swordsman.

But his eyes were sharp.

He paused only for a second before his gaze landed directly on the youngest of the trio—Tomioka Giyū.

Inside, Tachibana Kyūjō—Wandering Thunder Swordsman and Hashira—felt his heart soften as he looked at the boy.

"Giyū… you were so much cuter back then."

"If only you knew how complicated your future will be."

All three kids stared back, baffled by the stranger's bizarre appearance.

Eventually, Sabito stepped forward, calm and confident.

"…Excuse me, sir. Is there something we can help you with?"

Kyūjō smiled politely.

"I just happened to be passing by," he replied. "Thought I'd drop in and greet an old senior."

Makomo tilted her head. "Wait… Do you mean Urokodaki-sensei?"

Kyūjō nodded gently.

Her eyes lit up. "Then… that means you're a Demon Slayer too?"

Before Kyūjō could reply, a man in a tengu mask appeared from one of the nearby cabins.

His steps were firm, his robes unmistakable—once the Water Hashira, now a seasoned trainer: Urokodaki Sakonji.

Kyūjō bowed respectfully.

"You must be Urokodaki-dono. I'm Tachibana Kyūjō, from the Demon Slayer Corps."

Sakonji approached slowly. He sniffed the air, reading the scent clinging to the boy.

He nodded.

"A pleasure, Thunder Hashira-dono. Your name reaches even the quiet corners of the mountains."

Without another word, he gestured for Kyūjō to follow.

Soon, they were seated across from each other inside the cabin, sipping warm tea.

Sakonji broke the silence first.

"…What brings a Hashira all the way to Mount Sagiri, Kyūjō-dono?"

Kyūjō waved it off.

"No need for honorifics. Just call me Kyūjō."

"I'm not here on assignment. I just felt like dropping by… paying respects to a senior."

Behind his mask, Sakonji narrowed his eyes.

There was something unsaid.

But the scent Kyūjō carried—of sincerity and unwavering resolve—was enough to put his doubts at ease.

Whatever the reason was, it wasn't harmful.

In fact… it might even bring something good.

— — —

Three days later—

At the foot of Mount Sagiri, three young figures began their journey to the Final Selection: the survival test at Mount Fujikasane.

Sabito watched the tall figure walking ahead of them with cautious curiosity.

Eventually, Kyūjō spoke without turning around.

"Sabito-kun, you've been staring at me for a while."

"Something on your mind?"

Sabito hesitated a moment, then gathered his thoughts.

"Kyūjō-san… Urokodaki-sensei told us you're the Thunder Hashira."

"You're the strongest swordsman in the Corps right now."

"A person like that… your time must be precious."

"So why… are you coming with us to Fujikasane?"

Kyūjō stifled a laugh.

"You'll understand once you're about to be eaten by a certain Hand Demon, kid."

He turned his head slightly, giving a playful grin.

"Wow, you've got a sharp tongue."

"But what you're really asking is—'why am I slacking off instead of working,' right?"

Kyūjō sighed, putting on a dramatic air.

"Well, you see... this is a top-secret Hashira mission."

"I can't say more because you're not official members yet."

"But you should be on high alert. Danger could strike anytime."

His expression turned dead serious.

Both Sabito and Giyū instantly straightened, nerves on edge.

From that point on, they walked like soldiers on a battlefield—eyes wide open, alert to every sound.

They even slept with one eye open for the rest of the trip.

By the time they reached Fujikasane… dark circles had formed under both their eyes.

That's when they realized:

They'd been completely trolled.

— — —

The truth?

There was no "secret mission."

Kyūjō had just wanted to mess with them a little.

He'd been fighting nonstop for a whole year. Was it so wrong to take a short break?

That said… he wasn't here just to play.

Kyūjō had a real reason for tagging along.

As a Hashira, he'd already received multiple summons from Kagaya Ubuyashiki, the Demon Slayer Corps' leader, urging him to return to HQ.

You couldn't go a whole year without reporting back, after all.

But before heading back, there was one thing Kyūjō wanted to see with his own eyes:

The Final Selection system.

A survival test where candidates simply had to last seven days in a demon-infested mountain.

Not win. Not fight. Just… survive.

Which meant that even those who hid the entire time could pass.

Luck, leeching off stronger allies, running away—those could all earn someone a place in the Corps.

Meanwhile, someone like Sabito…

A prodigy who fought tooth and nail to protect others—

Could die from a single misstep.

A system where the brightest sparks were snuffed out before they could shine.

These candidates weren't amateurs.

They'd spent months—years—training in the Breathing Techniques.

They weren't cowards. Their minds were focused. Their bodies honed.

Even if they couldn't become frontline fighters, could they not serve in other roles?

Logistics. Intelligence. Civilian aid.

And yet… most of them would die.

And those who survived?

Just a handful.

Kyūjō exhaled slowly.

"With a system like this… how has this organization lasted centuries against Muzan?"

"Is this just a war between weak chickens pecking at each other?"

He shook his head.

No time for those thoughts.

He had work to do.

And deep down, he knew—

What was coming at Mount Fujikasane would not be so easy to walk away from.

— — —

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