Tachibana Kyūjō's eyes sparked like bolts of lightning—sharp, blinding, and unrelenting.

Blue electricity crackled and danced around him, streaking across the battlefield in violent arcs.

His grip tightened around his crimson-glowing Nichirin Blade, cloaked in thunder, as he launched himself toward Kokushibō without hesitation.

With the Demon Slayer Mark now branded across his body, Kyūjō showed not the slightest hint of fear as he faced the strongest demon swordsman alive.

He stood tall—eye to eye with the so-called peak of this world's power.

Though Kyūjō's presence was now overwhelming to witness, Kokushibō remained unfazed.

Neither man backed down.

And then—swords clashed.

A thunderous explosion of steel and force erupted between them as they collided, again and again—

Like stars falling from the sky, smashing into earth.

In an instant, hundreds of strikes had already been exchanged.

Each clash birthed bursts of light and sparks that painted the air in flashes—meteor showers of swordplay.

But gradually, Kokushibō's expression began to shift.

He hadn't used his Blood Demon Art yet.

Even so—he was losing ground.

No longer attacking.

Just defending.

Struggling to keep up with Kyūjō's relentless flurry.

But how? Why?

The reason… was truly absurd.

Every time their blades clashed, Kyūjō's strikes would always land on the weakest part of Kokushibō's katana.

Not random—not lucky.

Precision. Absolute precision.

In swordsmanship, power is never evenly distributed along the edge of a blade.

The point of balance shifts depending on angles, grip, and wrist movement.

And yet—Kyūjō hit the exact soft spot every single time.

He wasn't exploiting some human flaw or misstep.

He was cutting through a natural weakness—one born from the physics of the blade itself.

A small force, leveraged in just the right place, can topple a mountain.

It wasn't a "gap" in Kokushibō's technique—

It was a flaw that shouldn't even be targetable.

And yet Kyūjō was doing exactly that.

Again and again.

Which is why Kokushibō began to feel… off.

Like his power couldn't fully reach its target.

Like every strike was missing just a little bit of impact.

And it made no sense.

Both of them had reached the Transparent World.

They should be able to read each other's movements, muscles, blood flow, and even the rhythm of their organs.

With that level of vision, the battle should come down to nothing but raw speed and power.

And in those areas, Kokushibō had no doubt—

He was stronger.

So why?

Why was he the one being pushed back?

He racked his mind for answers, a thousand thoughts flashing by in an instant.

And then… a memory surfaced.

A figure from the past.

The one man he could never defeat.

Yoriichi Tsugikuni.

The swordsman who shattered every logical limit of combat.

And if Kyūjō could hear what Kokushibō was thinking right now, he might've said only one thing:

"Even the Transparent World has blind spots."

Just like back then—when Kokushibō faced Yoriichi.

They had both stepped into that realm.

Both wielded strength, speed, and mastery beyond mortal understanding.

And yet, Yoriichi still triumphed.

Because the Transparent World, as revered as it was, wasn't the end.

It was only a stepping stone.

Kyūjō understood that.

He was a traveler between worlds—his insight wasn't bound by this world's standards.

(So, dear readers… will you accept the story logic I've built up to this point?)

— — —

So what exactly was the difference?

Why was Kyūjō outclassing Kokushibō in this realm they both shared?

There were several reasons.

First, innate talent.

Kyūjō was born with a soul that defied human limits—a spirit sharpened beyond normal senses.

A powerful spirit leads to a powerful mind.

A powerful mind elevates all five senses.

Kyūjō's mental clarity far exceeded Kokushibō's.

That, in turn, allowed him to interact with the Transparent World in deeper, more fluid ways.

Not to mention—he wielded a blade that resonated with his spirit: Kenshin Tōmei, the "clear-hearted sword,"

—a weapon that enhanced his sixth sense.

His observation was terrifying.

If Kokushibō's perceptive range was a ten, Kyūjō's was a twenty.

However… that strength came with a price.

Kyūjō couldn't stay in the Transparent World for long.

(Yes—this was already explained back in Chapter 14.)

To him, the world in this state felt like a slow-motion film.

He and everything else existed on different wavelengths.

The longer he stayed here, the more his soul began to fray—like static in the mind.

He knew that.

He hadn't mastered this power completely.

Not yet.

— — —

And watching all of this, hidden in the shadows—

Akaza.

The Upper Rank Three demon stood quietly, hand pressed against his neck, where a massive slash had nearly taken his head.

Pain churned through him like a stormy ocean.

Hours had passed—yet the wound still hadn't healed.

Not fully.

Even for a demon… that wasn't normal.

Akaza's gaze locked on the human swordsman still locked in battle with Kokushibō.

"…I almost died."

"What kind of strength does this man truly possess?"

He didn't step forward.

He had no intention of interfering.

He had lost.

His pride as a warrior would never allow him to cheapen the fight with numbers.

That was the path of the weak.

And even if he wasn't yet on the same level as these two monsters…

His heart remained true to one thing—pure strength.

Besides…

Kokushibō hadn't lost.

Not yet.

Their battle still teetered on the edge. Blow for blow.

And from a demon's perspective… this was still an advantage.

Because demons didn't tire.

They recovered faster.

Always.

If Kyūjō couldn't break this stalemate soon—

Then tonight would be his end.

— — —

After hours of clashing, Kokushibō's form had changed.

His upper body was bare, and from every part of his flesh—blades had erupted.

Swords jutting out of muscle and bone, like a grotesque forest of steel.

In his hands now rested the true form of his sword:

Kyokokukamusari.

A twisted katana, shaped like a warped tree branch—splitting and branching in unnatural directions.

Kokushibō's strongest form had awakened.

Meanwhile—

Kyūjō's condition was deteriorating.

His breath was ragged.

His blade had lost its lightning glow.

He was preparing for one final burst.

He hadn't taken a single direct hit…

But his body was already at its limit.

If it weren't for the efficiency granted by the Transparent World, he would've collapsed long ago.

He knew it.

He couldn't keep going like this.

He needed one chance.

One opening.

One perfect slash—to sever Kokushibō's neck in a single blow.

But Kokushibō was no joke.

Even with the Demon Slayer Mark, Kyūjō hadn't truly caught up to his raw power.

He could read Kokushibō's moves.

He could push him back with lightning-fast Breathing Techniques.

But that wasn't enough to end him.

What he was doing now… was dancing on the edge of a cliff.

One wrong step—

And he would fall.

Crushed.

Destroyed.

Gone.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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