"It seems… you've gone a little too far."

Tachibana Kyūjō stood tall, eyes fixed on the demon in front of him—one who had clearly lost control after days of starvation. Its face twisted into a feral grin, radiating nothing but bloodlust.

"In that case… I'll just take one of your arms."

He muttered softly, voice calm but unwavering.

In the blink of an eye, Kyūjō drew his Nichirin Blade from his hip.

The air around him split open with a sharp hiss—the blade cut so fast the very atmosphere couldn't keep up. Friction sparked along the edge, generating heat that shimmered in the air.

Then, it happened.

The black Nichirin Blade flared crimson, glowing like molten metal fresh from the forge.

Kyūjō's version of the Crimson Blade—unleashed in an instant.

— — —

"AAAAAGHHH…! It burns… it BURNS!!"

The howling scream that followed didn't sound like the roar of a predator—but more like a man being dragged back from the brink of madness.

The demon, known as Momotarō, clutched the stump where his arm used to be. Smoke rose from the scorched flesh.

Why wasn't it regenerating?

Why did it still burn?

He was a demon. Regeneration should be as natural as breathing.

But this time… it wasn't.

"AARGHH! GRAAAHH!!"

The pain didn't stop. It dug deeper, past flesh and bone—straight into the nerves—driving him back into a haze of agony and rage.

— — —

One slash. One severed arm.

Without even sparing a glance, Kyūjō turned and walked away, his steps light and unhurried.

There was still much to be done.

He was sweeping the entire mountain—searching, hunting, correcting.

Demon candidates like Momotarō, who were far too powerful for a selection exam, had to be… "adjusted." Personally.

Any demon Kyūjō "adjusted" would find themselves unable to regenerate for the remainder of the Final Selection.

True, his Crimson Blade wasn't yet on the level of the legendary Tsugikuni Yoriichi—whose strikes could leave wounds that never healed, even on Muzan himself.

But against low-to-mid-tier demons?

Kyūjō was already more than enough.

— — —

Three hundred years ago, when the legendary Yoriichi confronted Kibutsuji Muzan, the so-called Demon King, it only took a single strike from the Thirteenth Form of Sun Breathing…

…to leave a wound so deep, Muzan never fully recovered from it—even centuries later.

Yes, most of that destructive power came from Sun Breathing.

But the Crimson Blade played a key role.

— — —

In the world of Kimetsu no Yaiba, the three supreme powers a swordsman could ever reach were:

1. Transparent World（透き通る世界 / Sukitōru Sekai）

2. Crimson Blade（赫刀 / Kakutō）

3. Demon Slayer Mark（鬼殺の痣 / Kisatsu no Aza）

— — —

Among them, the Transparent World was the rarest—only a handful throughout history ever reached it.

But the Crimson Blade?

It wasn't unreachable.

The principle was simple: heat. When a Nichirin Blade's temperature rose to the extreme, its color turned crimson—like metal fresh from a blacksmith's fire.

Once activated, it greatly weakened a demon's regenerative ability—inflicting even permanent wounds on Muzan himself.

There were three known methods to ignite a Crimson Blade:

By gripping the sword with incredible strength, channeling heat through sheer will.

By repeatedly clashing two Nichirin Blades until the friction raised their temperature.

And the unique method used by Kamado Tanjirō—where Nezuko's Blood Demon Art set his blade ablaze from within.

Of course, no matter how crimson the blade burned…

Its true power still depended on the swordsman wielding it.

— — —

Mt. Fujikasane.

A heavy stillness hung in the air—the kind that came right before the rain.

In another part of the haunted forest, a young swordsman named Murata Genichi stood frozen.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he faced a demon… with only one arm.

"…Can demons… be crippled?"

He murmured under his breath.

"Why do all the demons today look like they've lost an arm, or a leg…?"

— — —

Meanwhile, deep within a dark cave on the northern side of the mountain—

A monstrous figure stirred.

The Hand Demon, infamous for devouring countless swordsmen over the years, slowly opened his eyes.

Hundreds of hands slithered out from his body like vines creeping from damp soil.

"Hmm… so noisy today."

"The Final Selection… is it that time again?"

"Perfect. I'll eat until I'm full… Kukukukuku…"

But then, the laughter turned into a snarl.

"Urokodaki Sakonji… that damned bastard…!"

"And those bratty little kids with the fox masks…!!"

Rage surged like a flood.

He still remembered being captured and imprisoned here—by Urokodaki's hand.

All that hatred, buried deep within him, now came crashing back like a storm.

But just as he rose to his full height—

A flash of blue and yellow light sliced through the trees like lightning splitting the sky.

"…Ah. So there you are."

Tachibana Kyūjō stepped out from the foliage, calmly facing the grotesque giant.

Kyūjō raised a brow and tilted his head.

"…You've got way too many hands."

"Should I take a few as samples?"

"But hmm… how many is enough?"

The demon furrowed his brow. Something about this kid felt… odd.

Then he squinted down, finally getting a good look at his opponent—a small swordsman, barely reaching his chest.

"Heh. A brat, huh?"

"What year is it now?"

"…And did you see those fox-mask brats around here?"

Kyūjō didn't answer.

He was still deep in thought.

This demon… might be on par—or even stronger—than Kyōgai, the former Lower Moon Six.

Killing him outright might be a waste.

But taking a few hands? That could make him weak enough for the other candidates to handle.

Then again… if he held back too much, those kids might not survive.

Decisions, decisions.

— — —

The Hand Demon's temper snapped.

"What?! You ignoring me now?!"

"You deaf or just plain rude?!"

Kyūjō glanced up, expression flat. A flicker of cold calculation crossed his eyes.

He almost went for the neck.

But right then, he sensed two powerful presences approaching fast—Sabito and Giyū Tomioka.

Perfect timing.

Kyūjō's lips curled into a faint smile.

This was a matter for the Water Breathing lineage. Best let them handle it.

He trusted them. If they were in top form, they had a shot at this.

And if anything went wrong…

He'd still be close enough to intervene.

Kyūjō turned and shouted—loud enough to echo through the woods:

"Help! There's a demon here! Somebody help!!"

Far in the distance, two figures darted through the trees, heading his way.

"…Sabito, doesn't that voice sound kinda familiar?" Giyū asked, sword already drawn as they ran.

Sabito nodded slowly. "A bit. But who do we even know here?"

— — —

"Hah?! You're calling for help?!"

The Hand Demon blinked.

This brat was… odd.

"Must be stupid."

"…But if I eat his meat, will I turn stupid too?"

He shook his head.

"No good. Stupid meat's not worth eating."

"Better to just… smack him to death!"

The demon raised one massive hand, aiming to crush Kyūjō like a bug.

But—

Before it could fall, a crimson flash tore upward.

In one fluid motion, Kyūjō had drawn Zhusha—his Crimson Blade—and slashed.

The giant hand was severed clean off.

The Hand Demon staggered, wide-eyed.

He didn't even see the attack.

Too fast.

So fast it might as well have not existed.

And in that moment… only one thought remained in his mind:

"If that strike had been aimed at my neck… would I have survived?"

A cold dread crept down his spine.

— — —

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