Chapter Text
When Michikatsu first laid eyes on his younger brother, Yoriichi, he couldn’t comprehend why the boy was treated as though he were some cursed artifact. Their father’s disdain for Yoriichi was stark and unrelenting, yet Michikatsu couldn’t fathom why this younger sibling, so quiet and unassuming, was shunned. It puzzled him even more that their father seemed to favor him while dismissing Yoriichi entirely. Whenever Michikatsu got too close to his brother, their father would whisk him away, muttering harshly about Yoriichi being a cursed child. But Michikatsu didn’t see anything cursed about him. Yoriichi wasn’t like other children, true, but that didn’t make him cursed. He was just different.
Despite the strict rules, Michikatsu found ways to visit Yoriichi. He would sneak food and sweets to his brother, understanding, even at the tender age of five, that Yoriichi was neglected in ways no child should be. Their brief moments together became Michikatsu’s solace. One day, he crafted a small wooden flute for his brother. “If you ever need me,” Michikatsu said, handing it over with a shy smile, “just blow this. I’ll come, no matter what.”
And he did. Whenever Yoriichi called, the soft, high-pitched whistle cutting through the air, Michikatsu would drop everything—even his training—and rush to his brother’s side. No ache in his small, sore body from rigorous drills could keep him away. To him, Yoriichi wasn’t cursed. He was someone who needed protection, and Michikatsu vowed to be that shield. Yoriichi, often found by their mother’s side, appeared delicate, as though the world could shatter him if it tried. Michikatsu saw this fragility and believed his brother simply needed time to grow, to prove himself.
Michikatsu even tried to convince their father to move Yoriichi to a better room. The cold, neglected chamber at the edge of the estate was unfit for anyone, let alone his younger brother. He knew this firsthand—one night, after falling asleep in Yoriichi’s room, he woke up shivering from the freezing drafts. Yet, somehow, Yoriichi, with his thin blanket and small frame, had warmed him instead. Michikatsu tried to return the favor, wrapping his arms around his brother, but Yoriichi was already warm enough. That warmth, both literal and figurative, stayed with Michikatsu.
Over time, though, Michikatsu began to see his brother in a new light. Yoriichi wasn’t someone to pity—he was extraordinary. Michikatsu watched, stunned, as Yoriichi, still a child, bested their fully grown sword instructor with an effortless grace Michikatsu could only dream of. That moment planted the first seeds of jealousy in Michikatsu’s heart. He didn’t want to feel it, but the bitterness swelled when he overheard the servants whispering about Yoriichi becoming the heir. Meanwhile, he, Michikatsu, who had spent years training and earning recognition, would be cast aside like a forgotten relic.
Michikatsu couldn’t reconcile this sudden shift. Just weeks before, their father had cursed Yoriichi as worthless. Now, he sang his praises to anyone who would listen. The adults’ sudden warmth toward Yoriichi left Michikatsu confused and hurt. What had he done wrong? Why had the love and attention he once received been redirected to the very brother he’d vowed to protect?
Desperate for approval, Michikatsu poured himself into his training. He pushed his body to its limits, hoping to recapture even a fraction of the admiration his father once showed him. But their mother, frail and sick, could no longer offer comfort or encouragement. Michikatsu was left grappling with a deep, gnawing loneliness, while his perfect brother now standing in the sun.
Michikatsu felt utterly helpless as he stared at the barren room that was now his. The cold walls, the draft that crept in through the cracks, and the thin blanket on the futon all felt like a punishment. This room, at the far edge of the estate, was nothing like the warm, comfortable one he’d once called his own. That room, with its plush bedding and soft warmth, now belonged to Yoriichi. His younger brother had earned it after defeating a sword master—a feat that Michikatsu had never achieved despite years of relentless training.
On his first night in the frigid room, Michikatsu curled under the inadequate blanket, his body trembling from the cold. Bitter thoughts churned in his mind. He cursed his father for making him sleep in such miserable conditions. He cursed the injustice of it all, that everything he had was stripped away and handed to Yoriichi. He cursed the bitter, biting cold that refused to let him sleep. But most of all, he cursed himself for feeling this way about his brother.
How was this fair? How could he accept that his twin, the boy he had once vowed to protect, was now placed above him in every sense? Michikatsu clenched his fists under the blanket, biting his lip to keep from screaming. Yoriichi wasn’t supposed to surpass him. He was supposed to be second, his shadow, not the one basking in the light. Now, Michikatsu lay shivering, feeling discarded and insignificant under the weight of their father’s disdain.
As Michikatsu fought his swirling emotions, the sound of quiet footsteps broke the silence. The door slid open, and there stood Yoriichi, holding a thicker blanket and wearing an expression of concern. Without a word, Yoriichi stepped into the room, placing the blanket over Michikatsu before slipping under it himself.
At first, Michikatsu wanted to shout at him, to push him away, to demand why he was there. But then he saw the look in Yoriichi’s eyes—soft and pleading, a silent question asking if he could stay. Michikatsu couldn’t refuse. No matter how bitter or angry he felt, Yoriichi was still his younger brother. The boy only wanted to help, to make the night a little warmer for Michikatsu. And for a moment, the resentment melted away as Michikatsu let Yoriichi stay by his side.
That night, Michikatsu held on to the warmth his brother offered, not realizing it would be the last time.
The next morning, everything changed. Their mother had passed away in the early hours, her illness finally taking her. Michikatsu woke to find Yoriichi gone, the futon beside him empty except for a small piece of candy left on his bedside. The sight of it filled him with a deep, aching grief. His brother had run away, leaving him alone with the cold—not just the physical cold of the room, but the chilling loneliness that came with loss.
As the household stirred with news of their mother’s death, the adults around Michikatsu suddenly shifted their attitudes. Their cold, dismissive behavior was replaced with forced kindness and hollow words of encouragement. They acted as though nothing had happened, as though they hadn’t turned their backs on him before. Michikatsu felt disgusted. These people, the ones who were supposed to guide and nurture him, were nothing but traitors. How could he trust them? How could he trust anyone?
Now, Michikatsu was to inherit the estate. He was once again the heir, just as he had always been told he would be. But it felt empty. The bitterness remained, a constant reminder that everything had come at a cost.
While going through his mother’s belongings, Michikatsu found a letter she had written before her passing. In it, she spoke of her long battle with illness, the pain she endured quietly so as not to burden her children. Michikatsu’s heart sank as he read it. Why hadn’t he noticed? Why had Yoriichi been the one to see their mother’s suffering while he had been blind to it?
He felt a fresh wave of anger—not at Yoriichi this time, but at himself. Why couldn’t he have done more? Why couldn’t he have been better? Why couldn’t he have been loved the way Yoriichi was? Michikatsu crumpled the letter in his trembling hands, overwhelmed by grief, guilt, and a gnawing sense of inadequacy. In his heart, the warmth he had once felt—the warmth Yoriichi had brought to his life—was gone, leaving behind only the cold.
When Yoriichi disappeared, their father was relentless in his search. He sent servants and guards far and wide, shouting to anyone who would listen about how Yoriichi was the true heir to their family—a prodigy destined for greatness. Michikatsu, still a boy grappling with the loss of his brother and mother, was left behind to endure his father’s scorn. "You're nothing but a pale shadow," his father spat one evening. "A replacement for the brilliance your brother was supposed to bring."
Those words haunted Michikatsu. No matter how hard he trained, no matter how many achievements he earned, he was always compared to the brother who had vanished. Even when Michikatsu finally surpassed his own teacher in combat, leaving the man defeated and bleeding, his victory was hollow. His hands were bloody, his sword shattered, and his body exhausted, but the praise he longed for never came. Instead, whispers of "Yoriichi would’ve done it better" lingered like ghosts.
Life eventually shifted. Michikatsu was arranged to marry, a union that elevated his status and promised stability. He joined the Shogun’s army, where his skill with the blade earned him recognition. Over time, he became a respected figure—a soldier admired by peers and feared by challengers. He was no longer the overlooked child of his father; he was a man of his own making. Yet, even at the height of his success, the shadow of Yoriichi loomed over him, a constant reminder of the brother he could never escape.
One fateful day, Michikatsu’s camp was attacked. A demon descended upon them with terrifying ferocity, slaughtering his men in a gruesome massacre. Michikatsu fought desperately, his sword breaking under the strain, his body battered and bleeding. Fear consumed him as he realized death was imminent. In his final moments, his thoughts turned to his family. He thought of his wife and children, the life he would leave behind. And then, unbidden, his mind turned to Yoriichi.
Was his brother even alive? Would they reunite in death if Yoriichi was gone too? The longing to see Yoriichi again gnawed at him, mingling with regret for all the bitter thoughts he'd harbored. He cursed himself for his jealousy, for the anger he'd felt toward the boy he once wanted to protect. At that moment, as the demon closed in, Michikatsu regretted every dark thought he'd ever had.
But then, like a vision from the heavens, Yoriichi appeared. He moved with a grace that seemed otherworldly, his blade cutting through the demon with ease. Michikatsu, bloodied and broken, could only watch in stunned silence as his younger brother knelt beside him and extended a hand.
"Brother," Yoriichi said softly, his voice steady but filled with concern.
Michikatsu took his brother’s hand, too overwhelmed to speak. His mind swirled with questions, but his body was too weak to voice them. He allowed Yoriichi to lift him, to carry him to the nearest town for medical treatment. Yoriichi stayed by his side, refusing to leave him, his devotion reminiscent of a loyal dog reunited with its master after years apart.
In the quiet moments as he recovered, Michikatsu tried to dehumanize Yoriichi, as their father had once trained him to do. He told himself that Yoriichi wasn’t human, that his talents made him something else entirely—an anomaly, an animal, something to be envied but never loved. Yet, no matter how hard Michikatsu tried, his mind betrayed him. He couldn’t stop thinking of Yoriichi as something pure, something loyal and deserving of care, like a dog that was meant to be loved.
The regret and anger festered in Michikatsu’s chest, a storm waiting to break. He couldn’t reconcile his feelings—the admiration for his brother’s strength, the bitterness over his own perceived failures, and the longing for the warmth they once shared. For now, he bottled it all, refusing to confront the emotions that threatened to consume him.
But deep down, he knew that one day, those feelings would erupt and explode into a mess that would ruin their already fragile relationship.
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
Michikatsu lay in bed, the worn pages of a book resting in his lap. It was a story he had read countless times, but tonight it served only as a distraction—a shield from the weight of his brother's unwavering gaze. Yoriichi sat nearby, silent as ever, his presence both comforting and irritating. With the doctor away on an errand to the apothecary, Yoriichi had taken it upon himself to watch over Michikatsu. The gesture felt like pity, and Michikatsu hated it.
He hadn’t summoned the courage—or perhaps the humility—to ask Yoriichi how he had been all these years. Instead, bitterness gnawed at him, a constant reminder that his younger brother had saved him from a demon, a task he should have been capable of himself. The memory of that night lingered at the edges of his thoughts, unresolved and brimming with emotions he dared not name.
Michikatsu's mind wandered to his wife, undoubtedly worried about his absence. He resolved to write her a letter once the doctor returned with parchment and ink. But the logistics troubled him. Who would deliver it? He couldn’t ask Yoriichi—not when his wife might mistake his brother for him at first glance. That misunderstanding would only lead to an endless barrage of scolding, and Michikatsu wasn’t cruel enough to subject Yoriichi to that.
As the silence stretched on, Yoriichi’s stare bore into him. It was the same look Yoriichi had as a child—a helpless, pleading expression that Michikatsu had never been able to refuse. And though he wanted to cling to his resentment, the old warmth began to creep in, softening the edges of his anger. But the envy and bitterness remained, buried beneath layers of affection that only complicated his emotions further.
Finally, Michikatsu closed his book with a sigh, placing it on his lap. He glanced at Yoriichi, his voice low but firm. “...What have you been doing all these years, Yoriichi?”
Yoriichi hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands as if searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and filled with regret. “I’m sorry, big brother…”
Michikatsu scowled, crossing his arms. “Don’t change the subject, Yoriichi.”
“No,” Yoriichi said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I should have come sooner.”
The guilt etched into Yoriichi’s features only fueled Michikatsu’s frustration. He wanted to yell, to demand what Yoriichi could have to apologize for. Hadn’t he saved him? Hadn’t he proven his strength? What more did he think Michikatsu wanted?
“I couldn’t save your men.”
Those words softened something in Michikatsu, though he tried to ignore it. He wasn’t mourning his soldiers—they were just soldiers, after all. Lives meant to be spent in service. But Yoriichi’s compassion gnawed at him, highlighting the chasm between them. Why couldn’t he be as kind as Yoriichi? Why couldn’t he feel that same ache for others?
Rubbing his forehead to ease the growing tension, Michikatsu finally replied. “They weren’t my friends. They were just soldiers. They would have died anyway, one way or another. Don’t waste your guilt on them.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
Yoriichi sighed deeply, his hands trembling slightly as he began to sign. Michikatsu blinked in surprise, warmth spreading through him at the sight. Their secret language, created in childhood to defy their father’s cruelty, had not been forgotten.
“When I left home,” Yoriichi signed slowly, “I was on my way to the temple but met a young girl. She was an orphan, living alone. She invited me to stay with her, and I did. For years, we lived together.”
Yoriichi’s movements faltered, his expression pained. “She became pregnant. I was so happy… But when I left to fetch a midwife, I… I got distracted. When I returned…”
Yoriichi’s hands stopped, his body trembling. He glanced at Michikatsu, and in that silent look, Michikatsu understood the depth of his loss.
“She was gone,” Yoriichi continued, his signing slow and deliberate. “The child too. A demon killed them. A demon slayer found me afterward and helped me bury them. He told me about the Demon Slayer Corps. I joined them… It’s only been a few months, but I’ve developed a new sword style. I’ve been teaching it, but…” Yoriichi hesitated before looking directly at Michikatsu. “No one can master it. Brother, will you help me?”
Michikatsu was taken aback. His brother—a man whose skill eclipsed his own—was asking for help. The request stirred something complicated in his chest: pride, resentment, and something resembling hope.
“A new swordsmanship?” Michikatsu echoed, his tone skeptical. He pushed himself to stand, ignoring the sharp protests of his still-healing body. Yoriichi immediately moved to stop him, but Michikatsu batted his hands away.
“I’m not some weakling,” he snapped, harsher than he intended. “Show me.”
Yoriichi hesitated but eventually led the way outside. Michikatsu followed, his steps unsteady but determined. As he watched Yoriichi demonstrate the technique, moving with a fluidity and precision that seemed almost otherworldly, Michikatsu felt a pang of defeat. He knew he could never match his brother.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
Michikatsu spent weeks recovering from his wounds. Each passing day brought him closer to regaining his strength, and when he was finally able to walk normally, Yoriichi insisted on accompanying him on his journey home. The brothers walked in silence at first, the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps filling the space between them. Michikatsu’s thoughts, however, were anything but quiet.
He turned over the many questions swirling in his mind. What should he tell his wife and children when he gets home? Should he even mention Yoriichi? He hadn’t told his brother about his family yet. Not because he wanted to keep them a secret, but because he wasn’t sure Yoriichi could handle hearing about the life Michikatsu had built. Yoriichi’s loss—the wife and child he’d buried—was a fresh wound Michikatsu didn’t want to deepen.
Still, there was a temptation. If he could elicit even a flicker of emotion from his brother’s perpetually stoic face, would it feel satisfying? Michikatsu didn’t think so. The idea of Yoriichi breaking down, of seeing tears streak down his brother’s face, felt unbearable. In all their years, even under their father’s cruelty, Yoriichi had never cried. Michikatsu wasn’t sure he could face it if Yoriichi did.
His focus shifted to the looming conversation he would have with his wife. How would he explain his absence? The attack? Yoriichi’s role in saving his life?
Breaking the silence, Michikatsu cleared his throat and asked, “So, Yoriichi, how dangerous is becoming a demon slayer?”
Yoriichi glanced at him briefly before answering, his voice calm but heavy. “Very. Demons are strong—some have supernatural abilities. Many slayers have died. Many innocents, too.”
Michikatsu furrowed his brow. “Are they… evil spirits?”
“No,” Yoriichi replied, shaking his head. “They’re worse. They were once human, but they were transformed by the demon king.”
Michikatsu blinked, startled. Demon king ? If he hadn’t witnessed the demon attack firsthand, he might have thought Yoriichi was mad. But the horror he’d seen that night left little room for doubt.
“How do you slay them?” he asked after a pause.
Yoriichi stopped walking and slowly unsheathed his sword, revealing a blade of vivid red. Michikatsu’s eyes narrowed as he took in the unusual color, unlike anything he’d seen before.
“This is a Nichirin blade,” Yoriichi explained. “Also known as a color-changing katana. It’s forged from a special ore found only on a mountain that gets sunlight year-round. Sunlight kills demons, and this blade absorbs that property. I’ve also learned that wisteria flowers repel demons. They seem to hate the smell.”
Michikatsu nodded, digesting the information before sighing. “And how do I get one of those?”
Yoriichi slid the blade back into its sheath as they resumed their walk. “To have a Nichirin blade, you must join the Demon Slayer Corps. You must commit yourself to the cause.”
Michikatsu kept his face neutral, but a chill ran through him. Commitment to the corps… That would mean leaving his family. How could he abandon them? But what other choice did he have? The Shogun’s army would never take him back; they likely already assumed he’d fled the battlefield, branding him a coward and a disgrace.
Sensing his hesitation, Yoriichi added gently, “If you’re worried about our father, the master of the corps will handle it.”
“The master?” Michikatsu asked, raising an eyebrow.
Yoriichi nodded. “Yes. To join, you’ll pledge your loyalty to the master. Since you’re a seasoned warrior, I doubt they’ll test your skills.”
Michikatsu didn’t respond immediately, his thoughts churning. As they approached the estate, its familiar silhouette coming into view, his heart began to pound. His steps faltered, and he came to a stop, turning to face Yoriichi.
“You should wait here,” Michikatsu said, forcing his tone to remain steady. “Father… he won’t be pleased to see you.”
It was a lie. Michikatsu knew full well their father would rejoice if Yoriichi walked through those doors—a prodigal son returned, talented and admired. The thought filled Michikatsu with bitterness.
Yoriichi hesitated, his gaze lingering on Michikatsu before he nodded. “Alright. I’ll wait here for you to come back.”
Michikatsu gave a curt nod and turned toward the estate, his heart heavy and his stomach twisting with unease. Each step felt heavier than the last. He didn’t know what he would say to his wife, his children, or even to himself.
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
The servants swarmed Michikatsu the moment he stepped onto the estate grounds, their relief palpable as they rushed to welcome him back. In no time, his wife appeared, running out of her quarters, tears streaming down her face. She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and sobbing uncontrollably into his chest.
Michikatsu held her close, murmuring soft apologies as her emotions poured out. But her tears of relief quickly turned to anger as she began to rant, her voice quivering as she chastised him for never sending a single letter. He let her words wash over him, guilt sinking deeper into his chest. Once she finished, the servants ushered him inside to rest, seating him in the familiar comfort of their tea room.
As Michikatsu settled, he heard the patter of small feet. His sons appeared in the doorway. His eldest, barely able to contain himself, ran to his father with tears streaming down his cheeks, screaming his joy and clinging tightly to him. Michikatsu ruffled the boy’s hair, his chest aching as he realized how much the child had missed him. His youngest, still too little to understand fully, approached with quieter happiness, smiling shyly as he held onto Michikatsu’s sleeve.
A pang of regret twisted in Michikatsu’s heart as he looked at the younger boy. He hadn’t been there for his birth, a mission stealing that moment from him. It was no wonder the little one didn’t cling to him with the same intensity as his brother—he was practically a stranger.
His wife, still teary but composed enough, brought him a cup of tea. She sat beside him, gently massaging his hands as if trying to draw out the truth of his absence through touch. Her voice trembled as she began to speak.
“The Shogun’s men came. They said… they said you were dead. That your entire squadron had been brutally attacked.”
Michikatsu nodded solemnly, but before he could explain, a sharp voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Did you run away, boy? Is that how you survived?”
Michikatsu stiffened. His father stepped into view, his expression was as venomous as his words. The old man’s glare bore into him, his disdain unmistakable.
“Father,” Michikatsu said, bowing his head to hide the flicker of resentment in his eyes. “I assure you, I did not run away. I was injured and sought treatment in a nearby town.”
His father let out a scoff, his lips curling in a sneer. He lowered himself into a seat across from Michikatsu, and Michikatsu’s wife quietly set a cup of tea before the elder.
“Treatment,” his father spat. “The Shogun’s army has already declared you dead. Do you think they’ll take you back now that you’ve crawled home alive? You’ve disgraced us all. If you were your brother, this would have never happened.”
Michikatsu kept his face carefully neutral, but rage simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
“I know, Father,” he replied, his voice low. “But I will not be rejoining the Shogun’s army. I have new plans.”
The teacup slammed against the table with a sharp crack, the sudden sound making his wife flinch and his children freeze in fear.
“New plans?” his father snarled, his glare like ice. “What will you do now? Rot away in some corner and become a drunk? Is that your great ambition?”
Michikatsu bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic taste of blood grounding him. He couldn’t retaliate. He needed to show respect and stay composed. Slowly, he lowered his head further.
“I’ve decided to join my brother,” he murmured. “He works as a slayer of… wild beasts.”
“Speak up, boy!” his father barked. “Stop mumbling like a coward!” His father leaned forward and slapped his face harshly.
“I’m joining my brother, Yoriichi,” Michikatsu said, his voice louder but firm. Michikatsu felt the sting on his cheek but it didn't bother him as he thought it would.
His wife gasped, clutching his sleeve in disbelief. “Michikatsu, what do you mean? Why didn’t you bring him here?”
His father, on the other hand, exploded. “Your brother?!” he roared. “You’re useless, just like I always knew you were! Where is your brother? Where is this excuse of a man who left you behind?”
The old man surged forward, grabbing Michikatsu’s hair and yanking him down to his level. His wife cried out in alarm, her panic mirrored by their eldest son, whose sobs grew louder. The boy understood the cruelty on display, while the youngest simply stared, confused and afraid.
Something inside Michikatsu snapped. Without thinking, he grabbed his father’s wrist, wrenching it free from his hair. The strength in his grip forced the old man to let go, and Michikatsu rose to his full height, towering over his father.
“I’ve had enough,” Michikatsu said, his voice low but trembling with suppressed fury. “No more. You will not lay a hand on me again. You will not spew your venom at me anymore. I have a goal, Father. One that doesn’t involve groveling for your approval.”
He tightened his grip, and with a sickening crack, his father’s wrist gave way. The old man gasped in pain, clutching his arm as he staggered back, collapsing onto the floor.
“I will surpass Yoriichi,” Michikatsu continued, his voice rising. “I will become stronger than him, stronger than anyone. And I will do it without you. Without this family.”
His father struggled to breathe, his face pale as he clutched his chest. His wife looked between the two men, torn between panic and disbelief, but Michikatsu didn’t spare her a glance. He turned and strode toward the gates.
“Michikatsu, wait!” she cried, but he didn’t stop.
“Baba! Baba!” his eldest son screamed, chasing after him. Michikatsu’s chest tightened, but he didn’t turn back. The heavy gates groaned as he pushed them shut behind him, cutting off the boy’s cries.
His son banged against the wood, his small hands tugging desperately at the unyielding doors.
Michikatsu kept walking, his jaw clenched, his vision blurred with tears he refused to shed. This was all Yoriichi’s fault. If it weren’t for him, none of this would have happened.
Yes. It was all Yoriichi’s fault. It had to be.
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
Michikatsu wasn’t sure when he and Yoriichi had started walking or how long they’d been moving in silence. The world around him blurred into a haze, his mind heavy with a tangled mix of guilt and anger. His brother’s occasional worried glances didn’t escape his notice, especially as Yoriichi’s gaze lingered on the swelling red mark on Michikatsu’s cheek—the clear aftermath of their father’s slap.
But Michikatsu didn’t care. He shoved the concern aside, focusing instead on the gnawing weight in his chest. He tried to rationalize the storm of emotions, channeling his guilt into bitterness directed at Yoriichi. It was easier to blame his brother than to confront the truth: that his actions, his choices, had brought him to this point.
Responsibility felt like too heavy a burden to bear at the moment. His emotions were too raw, too overwhelming, so he simply kept walking. Yoriichi didn’t press him for conversation, his quiet, steady presence a stark contrast to the chaos in Michikatsu’s mind. Even as they traveled without rest, Yoriichi didn’t complain or ask to pause. He seemed to sense that Michikatsu needed to keep moving as if physical distance from the estate could lessen the ache in his chest.
Before Michikatsu fully registered for the journey, they arrived at their destination: the Ubuyashiki Estate. Nestled among tranquil gardens and shaded by towering trees, the mansion emanated an air of serenity. Yet Michikatsu couldn’t bring himself to admire the surroundings. His thoughts were too turbulent, his heart too heavy.
The quiet sound of footsteps drew his attention, and his gaze shifted to the figure emerging to greet them. He blinked in surprise. Standing before him was not the hardened warrior or grizzled elder he had expected but a young man, barely more than a teenager. The boy’s pale skin and soft-spoken demeanor made him seem more delicate than commanding.
‘This is the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps? ’ Michikatsu thought, his brow furrowing slightly. The notion felt absurd at first, but the young man’s presence exuded something that immediately disarmed him. A quiet strength. A profound calmness seeped into the air around him, soothing even Michikatsu’s turmoil-ridden heart.
Michikatsu didn’t understand why, but he felt… peace. A faint, fleeting sense of relief, as though the weight pressing on him had eased just slightly.
The young man introduced himself as Oyakata-sama, the master of the Demon Slayer Corps. His voice was gentle yet firm, carrying an authority that defied his youthful appearance. As he spoke, explaining the responsibilities and sacrifices of a demon slayer, Michikatsu found himself drawn in.
When the time came to pledge his loyalty, Michikatsu bowed his head low, his voice steady despite the whirlwind inside him. “I vow to serve the Corps and dedicate my life to eradicating demons. My loyalty is yours, Master Ubuyashiki.”
The words felt heavy yet resolute, an anchor amidst the storm. His decision was final now.
As he straightened, his eyes flicked toward Yoriichi, who stood quietly to the side, watching. The anger flared again, simmering just beneath the surface.
Michikatsu clenched his fists. He would become a demon slayer, but not just any demon slayer. He would become the strongest. Stronger than anyone who had come before him. Stronger than the demons that haunted the night.
And, most importantly, stronger than Yoriichi.
He had to be. If he couldn’t surpass his brother, then what was the point of any of this?