At the edge of a blood-soaked room that reeked of rot, a heavyset woman raised a butcher's cleaver, ready to slice into "meat."
But the moment she saw the young man standing in the doorway—expression cold, a long blade in hand—her arm froze midair.
Her eyes narrowed in anger, and she snapped with a sharp voice,
"Who the hell are you?! How dare you meddle in the affairs of the Tajima family!"
"Someone, anyone! Get over here! Intruder!!"
Her screech shattered the eerie silence that had long haunted the Tajima household.
But Kyūjō didn't stop her.
He wanted to see if—just maybe—someone among this rotten family still had a soul left unstained.
It didn't take long. Members of the Tajima household came rushing into the corridor, weapons clutched tightly in their hands, faces contorted in panic.
They formed a line, surrounding Kyūjō at the narrow hallway just outside the disgusting kitchen.
Among them appeared an old, shriveled man with sunken eyes and a sly, greasy smirk—his presence like a king among devils.
Tajima Hisashi. The current head of the family.
Sixty-three years old. One foot in the grave.
And the one most obsessed with becoming a demon.
His gaze fell on Kyūjō, dripping with suspicion and hate. "Boy... how did you find this place?"
Kyūjō didn't answer.
Instead, he asked calmly—his voice gentle, yet sharp as a drawn blade.
"Why did you do all of this?"
Hisashi scoffed, amused.
"Tch... Another idealistic swordsman."
"You people never understand the power of demons."
Kyūjō wasn't the first to uncover their secret. Every other fool before him had ended up buried in the courtyard, fertilizing their garden with blood.
With Yasuyasu on their side, the Tajimas believed themselves untouchable.
Hisashi smirked coldly, and with a flick of his hand, gestured toward the kitchen behind Kyūjō.
Toward the dangling corpses of young women, strung up like meat in a butcher's stall.
"They're nothing but lowborn trash!"
"To offer their bodies to help us transcend mortality—that should be an honor!"
Kyūjō nodded. Not in agreement... but in understanding.
The human desire to live... could be more twisted than any demon's thirst.
Even if it meant devouring one's own kind.ᴛhis ᴜpdated by ɴoᴠel Fɪre.nᴇt
"People who've surrendered themselves to that kind of hunger," he murmured, "...are more terrifying than demons themselves."
His eyes turned to steel. Cold. Sharp.
"In that case... allow me one final question."
"Is everyone here?"
Hisashi suddenly stiffened.
There was something off about Kyūjō.
He was too quiet. Too calm.
Sensing danger, the old man stepped back and gave a signal to attack.
But Kyūjō was already moving.
His Nichirin Blade hummed with faint tension, his breathing steady—his eyes reading every soul in the room.
Then he activated it—his sword technique that cut not only flesh, but into the heart.
Sword of Heart's Perception.
And just as Kyūjō suspected...
Except for one faint presence far away, there wasn't a single "true human" left here.
They were already too far gone.
Without hesitation, Kyūjō raised his blade—and slashed.
"One flash to reveal the truth in darkness—"
"Thunder Breathing, Sixth Form: Rumble and Flash – Modified."
—
A crack of thunder exploded from above.
Blinding light engulfed the mansion as lightning tore from sky to earth.
The ground quaked.
And just like that—
The great Tajima manor, a den of horror built on hundreds of stolen lives, crumbled into ashes and broken wood.
Smoke and sparks danced into the sky. Wind howled through the wreckage.
Kyūjō stood at the center, catching his breath as his sword buzzed faintly in its sheath.
Under his breath, he muttered,
"You wanted to become demons, didn't you?"
"Then I've fulfilled your wish."
It was his first time taking human lives.
Over twenty people in one strike. And yet—he felt nothing.
Because none of them were truly human anymore.
He calmly slid the heirloom blade from his father back into its scabbard... then drew his Nichirin Blade.
It hummed with low, eerie resonance—almost like it understood what was coming.
On its edge were four carved characters:
"Slayer of Evil Demons."
Kyūjō whispered to it softly,
"Don't worry... your turn's coming."
His eyes turned, locking onto a presence far away.
The last one.
The cowardly demon—Tajima Yasuyasu—was fleeing.
— — —
"I'M DEAD! I'M GONNA DIE!"
"That crazy swordsman almost caught me!!"
"I have to run—faster! FASTER!!"
Yasuyasu stumbled through the woods, panting, his face pale with panic.
Ever since the lightning strike, his mind had been in chaos. He hadn't even looked back. Just ran.
And behind him, Kyūjō gave chase—slow, steady, like death itself.
He let the demon run, as far as he could. Away from the village. Away from people.
Even if this was over in one slash, Kyūjō couldn't take chances.
Demons had strange, unpredictable powers—Blood Demon Arts.
And Kyūjō had no intention of risking innocent lives.
Only after Yasuyasu was far enough away...
Kyūjō came to a stop.
He took a long breath, then sheathed his Nichirin Blade again.
His posture shifted.
Left foot back. Waist lowered. Right hand resting lightly on the hilt.
Iai stance.
(A traditional samurai sword-drawing technique. Even Zenitsu's "First Form: Thunderclap and Flash" started with this.)
Kyūjō inhaled deeply.
Cold night air filled his lungs. His trained breathing technique distributed oxygen through his bloodstream—fast, efficient, precise.
Golden light sparked from his chest, racing along his veins, igniting his muscles.
All his strength poured into his legs.
And then—he vanished.
—
BOOM.
A bolt of lightning tore across the forest.
Kyūjō became a streak of golden-blue light that flashed through the trees.
In the blink of an eye, he covered over a hundred meters.
His Nichirin Blade was drawn—and sheathed again—so fast, it looked like it hadn't even moved.
Yasuyasu kept running.
Then, his head flew into the air.
As it spun, he stared at the world one last time—upside down.
Then—thud.
The severed head dropped to the ground.
His body stumbled forward a few steps... then collapsed into gray ash.
Kyūjō didn't say a word.
He didn't care for final screams or last words.
The only thing on his mind now was—
Food.
— — —
After watching the cursed head turn to dust, Kyūjō turned around and walked back toward Kuroyama Village.
His stomach growled.
He was starving.
He'd always had a big appetite. But now? He was fifteen. Growing fast. Constantly burning fuel.
And today, he'd run for ten hours straight... then unleashed his full power at the end.
If he didn't eat something soon, he might become the first Hashira to die of hunger.
Tonight…
Tachibana Kyūjō, the Thunder Hashira...
...became the Hashira of Food.
— — —
Up in the sky, his personal Kasugai Crow—Shōki—watched silently as Kyūjō returned to the village.
Once it was sure its master was safe, the bird spread its wings wide—
And flew off into the night, carrying news of Kyūjō's success back to Headquarters.
— — —
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