Chapter 219: Missing a feather ornament

Murakami Taro.

A very ordinary name.

Its origin was simple: his family name was Murakami, and as the first-born son, he was given the name Taro. His parents were uneducated commoners. According to the older generation, just thirty or forty years ago, they didn't even have family names. The surname "Murakami" came from the fact that they lived in the upper part of the village.

He had once thought he would have a younger brother, who could be named Jiro. Of course, if it were a sister, that would be fine too—she could be called Sakurako. He remembered accompanying his father to see the cherry blossoms by the roadside, their color so beautiful.

But everything changed. That night, his father died, and his pregnant mother followed. A demon killed his most important family members.

That year, he was eight years old.

The swordsman arrived too late.

No, it would be more accurate to say the swordsman was too far away. From that day on, Murakami Taro dedicated himself to becoming a swordsman. He survived the despair of the seven days at Fujikasane Mountain, using his Nichirin Blade and teamwork to kill demons.

He had hoped to slay many more demons.

But now, it seemed he might be the one to die.

This demon had devoured countless people.

Murakami Taro knew this well because, upon encountering it, his comrade had been killed. Admittedly, his teammate had been an unpleasant person, always saying things no one liked, arrogant and self-important, acting as if he were the strongest after killing a demon.

But he hated demons.

And now he was dead.

Murakami Taro would likely follow in his footsteps.

Facing death, he was surprisingly calm. He felt no fear—perhaps he had already died that summer night when he was eight.

"You're nothing like your teammate," the demon said, licking its lips.

Its arm had just been sliced halfway through, but its powerful regenerative ability allowed it to heal within a few breaths.

"Why aren't you crying?" it asked.

"Why should I cry?"

"Because crying humans taste the best."

Demons fed on humans.

Murakami Taro understood this deeply. He replied, "Then I definitely won't cry."

"You're even more annoying than your teammate. I'll just kill you quickly."

The demon spoke.

Murakami Taro knew it was telling the truth. He could barely hold his Nichirin Blade anymore; the muscles in his hands were trembling. He could feel his heart pounding, the strain of overusing his Breathing Technique putting too much pressure on it.

It hurt.

But he still gripped his sword.

Blade and flesh clashed again, but this time, Murakami Taro couldn't hold onto his sword as firmly as before. His trembling muscles couldn't withstand the impact.

The Nichirin Blade flew from his hand.

He had lost his most important weapon. Human flesh and blood were no match for a demon.

Murakami Taro remembered that a fallen Pillar had once fought a member of the Twelve Kizuki bare-handed, holding their own.

But that was clearly beyond his capabilities.

Maybe it was better this way. At least he could reunite with his parents and the unborn sibling he never got to meet.

He closed his eyes, giving up resistance. He truly had no strength left to fight.

The sound of slicing wind reached his ears.

But the next moment, his eyes snapped open.

The gates of the underworld had not opened for him.

That wasn't the sound of the demon's claws cutting through the air.

So, what had caused the sound?

Murakami Taro found his answer.

It was the sound of a blade cutting through the air.

The demon's body was torn apart—literally torn apart. Its limbs and head were severed from its torso.

The one who had done this was a young man. He wore strange clothing, and from the quality of the fabric, it was clear the material was expensive.

"Oh, I forgot I'm not holding a Nichirin Blade," the man said.

Then, Murakami Taro watched as the man extended his right hand and, with a flick, his own Nichirin Blade flew from the ground into the man's grasp.

What followed was a dazzling display of swordplay.

It was beautiful.

"Hey, you're a swordsman, right?" the man asked.

"!"

Murakami Taro snapped out of his daze and looked at the man before him.

...

The demon died quickly, without any pain.

Even though the man had made a mistake and the demon no longer had a neck, it didn't matter. Piercing its heart and head with the Nichirin Blade ensured it wouldn't revive.

In truth, demons weren't as terrifying as they seemed. Their regenerative abilities had limits, and under the pressure of severe injuries, they could die without healing. If demons were truly infinite-energy perpetual motion machines...

—Capitalists would probably be thrilled.

Li Mo had considered using this demon for experiments, but given the current situation, he abandoned the idea.

Murakami Taro.

A very Japanese name.

This was the name of the Demon Slayer Corps member he had saved. His rank wasn't low—he was a Kanoe, a mid-to-lower-level swordsman.

But the Demon Slayer Corps had a high turnover rate, even among the Pillars, let alone ordinary swordsmen.

Li Mo had seen many deaths of swordsmen at the same rank. Hearing about the death of Murakami Taro's comrade, he fell silent.

It had been a long time since he had heard such news.

"So, this is near Tokyo?"

"Yes, sir."

No wonder it felt so familiar.

Li Mo looked around, memories surfacing in his mind. He could confirm that he had been here before.

He had once stayed in Tokyo, even though it had been the territory of the Flame Pillar...

But that was all in the past.

It was normal for Demon Slayer Corps members to travel all over the country.

"Is that place still there?"

Li Mo mentioned a specific location.

In Tokyo, there was a ramen shop. The owner knew Kyojuro Rengoku, the Flame Pillar. The food was excellent—Li Mo had always enjoyed eating there.

It was also a Demon Slayer Corps intelligence hub.

If he wanted the latest information, that would be the best place to go.

"It's still there," Murakami Taro said.

He had a vague feeling that this man might be a member of the Demon Slayer Corps. But why wasn't he wearing the Corps uniform?

Even the Pillars wore the uniform, though they often added a haori over it.

"I see. Thank you. Oh, take your Nichirin Blade. Train harder when you get back, and stay safe," Li Mo said, placing the blade in Murakami Taro's hands.

For a Demon Slayer Corps swordsman, the Nichirin Blade was their life.

Losing it was equivalent to losing their life. Demons wouldn't show mercy.

Situations like this, where a swordsman lost their blade and was saved by someone else, were rare. In Li Mo's memory, such occurrences were few and far between.

In the past, he hadn't often been around to save the day.

"The Kakushi are here. I'll take my leave now," Li Mo said.

The Kakushi, responsible for logistics, might not have the most information. It was better to go to the Demon Slayer Corps' intelligence gathering point.

—If only his Kasugai Crow were here. Things would be much easier if it were.

Murakami Taro watched as Li Mo left.

He didn't know the man's name. But as he watched the retreating figure, he felt like something was missing.

What was it?

When the Kakushi arrived and placed him on a stretcher, he realized what was missing.

A haori draped over his shoulders.