Dōma's shameless words froze the air like a winter storm.

The four Martial Demons standing before him could no longer hold back.

They moved.

But before a single blow could land, Dōma unfolded his tessen—his iron fan—with a casual flick of the wrist.

He waved it lightly in their direction.

A chilling gust burst forth, tearing through the night like a flash of winter itself.

In a blink, the expressions on the demons' faces stiffened mid-motion. Their limbs locked, their muscles froze. All four were turned into statues of flesh and ice—immortalized in an instant of horror, caught in death's cold grip.

"Akaza... I came to find you~," Dōma whispered with a serene smile.

And just like that, he vanished into the shadows beyond the twisting street.

— — —

Three months later.

The wounds were healed. The scars had faded.

And now—Kamado Tanjūrō, the newly appointed Sun Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, officially returned to duty!

Soaring through the skies, his Kasugai crow led him toward his first demon hunt since recovery.

At his waist hung a unique Nichirin Blade, but it was no ordinary sword—it was shaped like an axe. A massive, beastly weapon that swung like a guillotine.

From the edge of the courtyard, Tachibana Kyūjō watched Tanjūrō's back disappear into the distance, wearing a complicated expression that refused to fade.

Seriously... an axe?

Out of all the Nichirin forms possible, it had to be that?

To Kyūjō, Tanjūrō was officially the second deviant in the entire Corps.

Sure, the guy had freakish talent with that axe. But was it really possible to unleash all thirteen forms of the Sun Breathing technique with a chunk of metal that big?

Kyūjō remained skeptical.

And honestly... part of him was a little worried.

"Please don't let your son inherit your taste in weapons..."

He sighed.

Since his return to the Demon Slayer headquarters three months ago, Kyūjō hadn't stepped outside once.

The reason was simple: secrecy.

That night, he approached the head of the Corps.

"Oyakata-sama, has Lady Tamayo's research shown any results yet?" Kyūjō asked under the gentle moonlight.

Ubuyashiki Kagaya gave him a soft smile, eyes as unreadable as always.

"Seems like she's making faster progress than our very own 'Sleeping Hashira,' don't you think?" he replied playfully.

Kyūjō's face darkened.

"That nickname again?! Where the hell is your authority as the leader?! If I find out who started that, I swear I'll flatten their face into the dirt!"

No one knew exactly who first whispered that title.

But before long, it had spread across the entire Corps.

The Sleeping Hashira.

Ever since returning from the battlefield, Kyūjō had collapsed time and again while experimenting with his own breathing technique—passing out from oxygen toxicity almost daily.

But each failure brought progress. His body began to adapt, slowly harmonizing with the new external breathing method he was developing.

His blackouts became less frequent.

And now—he was close.

So close to completing his original breathing style.

But still... The Sleeping Hashira!?

Kyūjō gritted his teeth and crossed his arms, glaring at Kagaya.

"I haven't gotten around to teaching them a lesson, that's all. But once I finish this technique... they're first in line for a beating."

Kagaya chuckled quietly.

He knew Kyūjō wasn't truly angry. This was just his way of venting—of letting off a bit of steam before the storm returned.

But still... he couldn't help but ask:

"This breathing technique you're working on… is it really as powerful as you claim?"

"You said you'd 'kick Muzan into the sky' and 'slam Kokushibō so hard he'd kiss the dirt.' Were you being serious?"

Kyūjō rolled his eyes.

"It's not the technique that's strong—it's me."

"Besides, you wouldn't get it, Oyakata-sama. You're not a martial artist. Just wait and see. Once I finish this breathing method, Muzan? Kokushibō? They'll be nothing but bugs to squash."

"Just stick to the plan. Lure them both out. If only one shows and the other runs? That's when things get messy."

Especially Muzan... that slippery coward. The guy had used a hiding technique once before to escape.

Kyūjō had no intention of repeating Yoriichi Tsugikuni's mistake—watching helplessly as the enemy vanished into the mist of time.

Because unlike Yoriichi...

Kyūjō didn't have time.

His life was already burning out, faster than anyone realized.

Kagaya listened quietly.

To be honest, none of Kyūjō's words sounded particularly convincing. It all felt like bluster and bravado.

But Kagaya didn't say that out loud.

He simply shook his head and thought to himself:

"Let's wait. If he really does complete this so-called unbeatable breathing style... then we'll talk again."

What he didn't expect... was that the day would come so soon.

— — —

Five nights later.

Under a massive tree in the courtyard garden, Tachibana Kyūjō sat cross-legged.

Eyes closed. Posture calm. His breath flowed like a whisper of the wind—rhythmic, balanced, and deeply connected with the world around him.

Strands of his long, silver-white hair fluttered gently in a breeze that had no origin—swaying in time with the subtle pull and release of his breath.

Every second brought his body into deeper resonance with the breathing technique he had spent months refining.

It was coming together.

At last.

Tonight... might be the night he perfected it.

Then it happened.

A subtle pulse rippled through his entire body, like a pebble tossed into still water.

Then—silence.

The air within five meters of his body disappeared.

Not drawn in.

Gone.

Erased—as if space itself had been rewritten by his lungs.

And then, a sound like a distant thunderclap erupted from deep within his chest.

A low rumble. A tremor born from his very bones.

Tiny streaks of lightning burst from his pores—real, searing, electric serpents dancing through the night air.

Above him, black clouds suddenly gathered—drawn by the surge of ionized particles from his skin. They swirled together, forming a vortex in the sky.

Then...

CRAAACK!

CRAAAAAAAAACK!!!

KRA-KOOOOOOOOM!!!

Three bolts of lightning rained down, roaring through the sky and shaking the earth.

The entire Corps headquarters trembled.

Far away, in his private room, Ubuyashiki Kagaya jolted awake, clutching the hand of his wife, Amane. She, too, had been startled by the sudden thunder.

"That lightning... it's so close," Kagaya whispered.

"It feels like it struck right above our heads..."

They couldn't sleep.

Soon, a knock echoed softly at the door.

Kagaya already knew—something had changed.

"What is it? Has something happened?" he asked calmly.

A voice responded from behind the door.

"Forgive the late disturbance, sir. Lightning just struck the great tree behind the garden—in the estate of the Thunder Hashira."

"We've extinguished the fire. But before we left... the Thunder Hashira asked us to deliver a message."

Kagaya's breath caught.

"What message?"

The reply came gently. Quiet. But every syllable landed like a hammer.

"He said... 'I'm ready.'"

Those words hit harder than any thunderbolt.

Kagaya's eyes widened, his chest tightened.

Outside, thunder still rolled across the sky.

But the real storm wasn't in the clouds.

It was here.

In the heart of a single man.

And perhaps...

That man might be the one to change the fate of this world.

— — —

Young demon slayers of this generation...

Let us give a name to this breath—the breath that might surpass them all.

The True Form of External Breathing...

What should it be called?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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