Chapter 33: Sayonara, Master
Time slowed to a crawl, and Yoriichi's voice reached Ren's ears.
"Those two humans outside—what are they to you? What did you use to bind them to guard this place?"
"They're people I helped long ago. Later, when their village turned against them, I saved them. Since then, they've lived here, protecting Chitoshi."
Yoriichi closed his eyes gently, as if the doubts in his heart had dissipated like smoke.
Minutes later, a faint sound broke the cabin's stillness.
The door was cautiously pushed open from outside.
The elder brother stood quietly at the threshold, bathed in the pure moonlight streaming like water over him.
In the dim glow, he glimpsed a figure standing silently by the window, hands clasped behind their back.
Blood-red hair danced wildly in the breeze, startling as flowing blood. A crow perched on their shoulder turned its head, its scarlet eyes gleaming like twin gems, fixed on the man at the door.
"Bury Master with Chitoshi…" Ren didn't turn, facing the window, his voice calm as he spoke.
At these words, the man noticed another presence in the room.
It was the old man he'd seen before.
But now, the old man lay motionless, slumped over the table, as if in deep sleep.
He asked no questions. With his younger brother, he entered, hoisted the old man onto his back, and carried him out.
Ren stood by the window, watching the brothers dig a pit under the gaze of countless skulls, burying Yoriichi beside Chitoshi.
His expression was serene, devoid of the sorrow he'd shown before Yoriichi.
He reached up, touching his neck.
There, a fine, deep blood mark traced his skin.
His master was dead, passing without pain, a true death of old age.
In his final moment, he'd swung his last blade.
Ren didn't know if his final words had swayed his master, softening his heart, or if Yoriichi had never intended to kill him, always wrestling with the choice. Either way, that final strike had nearly severed his neck.
Yet here he stood, proof that Yoriichi, in his last moment, chose not to kill him. Otherwise, with Yoriichi's skill, even in his frail, aged body, taking Ren's life would have been effortless.
In this godlike man, even the merciless passage of time seemed unable to triumph.
The ravages of age hadn't diminished Yoriichi's prowess; his movements remained as agile as in youth, unchanged.
In that fleeting instant, Ren had felt what Lord Muzan must have experienced facing Yoriichi.
It was the terror of staring down a wrathful deity!
He now understood why Lord Muzan hid, refusing to emerge until Yoriichi's death.
With such a fearsome man alive, even breathing fresh air felt perilous.
Ren sighed. Yoriichi's passing seemed to take with it his last tether to this world, his final memories.
Yoriichi's death was a profound tragedy for humanity, marking the loss of a godlike protector, their greatest bulwark gone.
But for demons, Yoriichi's death was cause for jubilation.
None would rejoice more than Muzan, who, after nearly a century of skulking like a rat, now tasted freedom.
Ren stood in the cabin, gazing through the window at Chitoshi and Yoriichi's graves.
A new stone marker had just been erected there.
Then, he sensed a formidable presence approaching, now at the mountain's base.
This mountain was his domain, watched by countless eyes. He'd noticed the intruder's approach but ignored it until they set foot here.
The moment they did, it was as if one tiger had invaded another's territory, igniting instant fury.
Ren roared, "Begone!"
At the mountain's foot, Kokushibo lifted his gaze to the forest's depths.
That single "Begone" thundered in his ears like a bolt of lightning.
His eyes scanned the surroundings, where countless crows perched, staring coldly, as if one step forward would unleash a swarm to tear him apart.
He lingered at the base, hesitating long, but ultimately did not ascend.
Ren didn't know why Kokushibo came—perhaps the Tsugikuni blood in him sensed his brother's impending death, some cosmic pull guiding him to meet Yoriichi.
But whatever the reason, this was Chitoshi's resting place, and Ren would allow no one—human or demon—to disturb it.
Perhaps sensing his brother's passing, Kokushibo stood briefly at the mountain's base before departing.
No one knew what thoughts stirred in Kokushibo's heart.
From the moment Yoriichi first grasped a blade, he shone like a radiant star blazing across the sky, his peerless talent leaving all in awe.
Since then, Kokushibo's life seemed shrouded in Yoriichi's vast shadow.
Yoriichi was a towering, insurmountable peak, pressing heavily on Kokushibo's heart, nearly suffocating him.
No matter how fiercely Kokushibo strove, how tirelessly he trained, whenever he looked up, that familiar, unreachable figure stood firmly ahead.
No amount of blood or sweat could close the gap. Yoriichi remained like the moon in the heavens, forever beyond reach.
As a swordsman bearing the Demon Slayer Mark, all knew their fated lifespan rarely surpassed twenty-five.
Yet this iron rule seemed powerless against Yoriichi, showing no sign of taking hold.
Perhaps the reason lay in the immeasurable chasm between mortal and divine.
Kokushibo chose to become a demon, an escape of sorts.
Perhaps as a demon, no one would compare him to Yoriichi anymore.
Now Yoriichi was gone. Why did he feel no joy?
The man who stood before him was no more, yet why was his heart so heavy?
A crow flew overhead. Kokushibo stood, watching it vanish.
He seemed to understand his lack of joy.
Perhaps it was because someone even more loathsome than Yoriichi now existed.