Disclaimer:

I do not own nor claim all the rights to 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba | Demon Slayer; all rights are reserved to its respective creator, Koyoharu Gotōge. This is purely a work of fiction; names, characters, businesses, events, localities, and occurrences are all extrapolated from the author's writings and imagination or utilized in a fictitious manner. As such, any direct or indirect references to actual entities, dead or alive, or events do not, in any shape or form, resemble the opinions of the author.

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"..." = Dialogue

'...' = Internal monologues

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Shinobu

The enemy seized hold of me—grasping me by my neck with its right arm.

"Arrrgh!" The abrupt, indomitable stranglehold on my neck meant that no air was flowing in and out of the lungs.

In other words, I was being choked.

My vision starts to get distorted as the absence of a fresh supply of air needlessly wrought a bodily shortage of oxygen.

Tears begin to swell up in my eyes, occluding my field of vision and distorting my eyesight.

No... I don't want to leave now... I can't leave now...

I can't...

Nee-san...

Tomioka-san...

..

..

My eyelids immediately widened.

I remained still and was completely disoriented, as I was reeling from the horrible pain incurred from the chokehold.

I panic, where am I? Am I still bleeding? Where's the demon? Where's Tomioka-san?

I came to a realization.

Oh right...

I'm still alive somehow...

I'm somewhere else now...

At a different time.

"It's January 15th, 1934, the seventh year of the Shōwa Era."

Those accursed words pierced me harder than any blade or demon could.

This all seems impossible, and there's a chance the Old Man could be senile and lying to me.

And yet, I feel like the Old Man's telling the truth. After all, what would be the point of lying in the first place?

But it's still hard to believe that I was suddenly transported twenty years into the future, along with the fact that I magically teleported from the Greater Tokyo Area to the island of Hokkaido.

I pulled over the blankets and raised myself aloft from the futon.

I walk over to the washroom and turn on the faucet.

After splashing some cold water onto my face, I look up at the mirror.

Huh... I look exactly the same. If the year is 1934, then I should be around 37 years of age.

But, from the looks of it, I still look like the 18-year-old Insect Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps—nothing's changed. I'm even wearing my uniform, but I can't find my Nichirin Blade anywhere...

Hm...

There's only one plausible explanation for all of this.

It has to be a Blood Demon Art.

Just like with how I was sent to the year 1966, the blasted demon must've done the same here—except, now, it's 1934 and there's no one else I can recognize.

Yeah, that's probably it.

But, with that said, how do I escape this vision?

I don't exactly remember how I got out of the previous one—it just kinda happened.

Does knowing that you're in a dream break the spell? No, because nothing's happening now even though I've directly acknowledged this as a fact.

In that case, how do I break the spell?

What are the preconditions to undergoing that procedure?

Despite my previous exposure to this sorcery, I haven't got a single idea as to how to approach this dilemma.

What should I do... What should I do...

I carefully exhale.

Calm down.

Time works differently here compared to the material world.

Remember, I was stuck in that dreamscape for sixteen years, and probably woke up a couple of hours after the trap went off.

Meaning, I have plenty of time to think this through.

Albeit, I can't take too many liberties with my seemingly infinite time span; the events in the real world are concurrently transpiring within a margin of seconds—so, while I can certainly spend a few days here, I can't take any chances by dwelling upon this dream for years on end.

For now, though, I'll try to look for clues here—if there are any.

I feel a little drowsy; I'm not sure how long I've been sleeping. But, from the looks of it, it's been quite a long time.

When I first awakened, it appeared to be about midday. Now, it's completely dark outside.

That might be because of the shorter winter days, but it's still a testament to the longevity of my slumber.

I sigh.

I wonder if I should stay here or not...

I start limping—since my ankle is still broken—on my way towards the Shoji screen door.

Though it's uncomfortable, this injury is nothing compared to being assailed by a giant, humanoid monster which has a propensity to bite people's heads off.

*Slide*

I open the door and enter into a hallway.

The house is bigger than I thought...

The old man's abode was that of simple, yet tantalizing architectural design that foreigners would expect when envisaging a traditional Japanese residence.

I ambulate down the corridor as I make mental notes of my inspections.

His house is that of the vernacular Minka design, which is characterized by the presence of a tatami mat flooring, sliding doors, and ligneous Engawa verandas. Historically, in the context of the social hierarchy of the pre-Meiji Restoration era, Minka was the dwellings of farmers, artisans, and merchants.

Interesting. What's a house of this caliber doing in the middle of nowhere?

But I also noticed that the physical configurations of the structure were conspicuously deteriorating. The wood was decaying, there was an eerie creaking sound with each step I undertook on the floor, and it seemed the insulating elements of the abode's composition had been essentially nullified—in other words, it was crazy cold in here.

It wasn't terribly run-down, but the incremental dilapidation was clear.

My only guess is that the Old Man is either terrible at maintenance work or he simply can't handle the workload.

Considering how he's disabled with a missing arm, the latter could very likely be the case.

It's hard to gauge the relative wealth of this man. Considering how he doesn't live in squalor, but neither does he live luxuriously. I can't ascertain if this is just an old grandpa being frugal or a lazy middle-class home property owner.

I wonder if anyone else lives here?

Just as I was about to enter a room, I heard something.

"I'm nothing like you..." it was faint, but I could detect it.

I walked over to the source of this voice; it was in the room opposite to me. There was a slick crack between the Shoji screen and the wall—it wasn't completely shut—allowing me to peer into the room.

It was the Old Man. He was sitting languidly, resting his back on the wall. He also was holding a cup with his left, and only, hand.

He took a sip from the cup, ".... I already know that..."

Who is he talking to?

".... No, I won't make the same mistake again," he added.

Is he talking to himself?

"...." Silence.

"I know you're there, pipsqueak," he calls.

Ah great, already caught eavesdropping.

"Ah, pardon me for the intrusion," I slide the Shoji screen open.

"Could you hand me my walking cane," he requests as he sets the cup of saké on the ground.

"Sure," I slowly walked over to the item in question.

The cane was of a simple design; it looked more like an elongated wooden stick than an instrument for the handicapped.

I procure the cane and then transfer it over to him.

"Thank you," he said quietly once I gave him the stick.

He grunted a little as he stood upright.

"So, kid, how do you fancy some tea?" he inquires.

"It would be a pleasure, thank you," I answered.

"Okay..." he slowly trudges to the hallway, making use of his walking stick.

His gait was uneven and unbalanced, but he remained afoot nonetheless.

Since my initial observations of the old man, I've gathered a lot more from him now—from the manner in which he talks, facial expressions, and other things as well.

He seems to be soft-spoken and harbors some kind of propriety despite his vulgar language. He talks very quietly but also in a very weak, somber demeanor. It's like he's always dispirited or demoralized on any occasion.

And yet, despite that seemingly taciturn characteristic, he can be very sharp or frank with his words.

His gloomy, inscrutable countenance carries very few expressions; it's all lifeless and anemic. He appears to be constantly tired or in a state of lassitude. His morose attitude seems to corroborate that conjecture.

At the same time, though, he has this grim look on his face that emanates a chilly atmosphere of tension and apprehension. He likes to be belligerent and is always on guard for whatever reason.

In terms of general appearance, he looks to be wholly emaciated and quite frail on the outside. There were deep, substantial furrows and wrinkles on his skin. I don't know if it's because of aging or merely because of a lack of nutritional intake, but it's obvious that this man is not healthy by any given standard. And even his very posture—the way in which he stands or sits—has the effect of imbuing a disheartening mood.

I can only assume, judging from his deportment and holistic mien, he is a very dejected individual—probably something in the past might've affected his mannerisms and behavior now.

He's very hard to specify... He's like a walking enigma; his psyche is like a puzzle.

Must've been under a lot of stress, though, as evident by his graying hair color. He looks like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Huh. That alone reminds me of a particular someone.

My best guess is that he's a war veteran, but who knows.

Once again, my knack for inquisitions into the personalities and bearings of different people has come into use.

I wonder, is it because I myself play as Nee-san's personality that I can differentiate between the explicit and implicit natures of individuals?

I don't know. But it's a good theory.

"You coming?" I heard a croaky phonetic pattern.

I was knocked out of my trance, "Yeah."

"Crutches by the door. For your broken ankle. Use them if you desire," he points out.

"Oh... Thanks..." I look over to the side of the Shoji screen.

I didn't feel that there was an urgency to demand the employment of these mobility aids. But, since I don't want to be disrespectful or take a small yet present risk, I chose to use them for the time being.

Eventually, we made our way to what gave the impression of being a tea room.

"You can take a seat there," the old man points at the small, round table situated at the circumcenter of the expanse.

As we entered the room designated for tea ceremonies, we each took a seat, Seiza-style, on opposite sides of the table situated in the center of the room.

He then picks up a kettle that was positioned on the table and unveils two ceramic teacups.

Upon hoisting the kettle, I could see his hand visibly shaking—it wasn't anything extreme or violent, but it was distinguishable.

"It's green tea. Shouldn't be too cold," he informs.

He hands me one of the cups.

I nod as he pours the drink into my cup.

I subsequently drink the green tea.

"It's still warm," I mentioned.

"Good... Now, if you have any questions, shoot away—get it over with," he states.

Oh, that's perfect. Hopefully, I'll get a better understanding of my surroundings.

"Who are you? Where exactly am I? And what did you mean by 'the seventh year of the Shōwa Era,'" I threw an assortment of questions.

"Dear God, were you living under a fucking rock or what?" the Old Man said in an exasperated manner.

Almost forgot that he's a bit of an ass.

"Just please answer the question," I replied, irritated.

He sighed, "Just call me Hiroto for now."

For now? What the hell does that mean?

"As I've mentioned before, you're in Hokkaido. Specifically, Okhotsk Subprefecture in the northeast. Moreover, we are indeed on an elevated level; this building resides in the Kitami Mountains," Hiroto explicates.

"You live in isolation?" I queried.

"That's one way to put it," he murmured.

So he really lives alone up here. He's either extremely brave, stubborn or just an idiot.

"Why?" I asked again.

"This parcel of land used to belong to the patriarch of my family. Following his death, however, not one of his heirs was willing to inherit the land. So, being the only unmarried man in the family, I took it upon myself to claim ownership of this damned place—since no sick bastard would raise their children in this high-risk environment. In short, family business."

"Besides, who'd want to live down there? The world is changing too fast. Too much shit happening in too little time. Add a financial crisis on top of that, and I basically begged to be dragged here. I wanted to be sequestered up here, away from all the troubles down there," he concluded.

He's like a grumpy grandpa next door who always complains about how the Shogun was a better leader than the blasted Emperor Meiji.

Hiroto goes on: "As for the 'Shōwa' Era, that just happens to the period we're now living in."

"The Taishō Era is over?" I asked.

"Yeah. His Majesty, Emperor Taishō, son of the great Emperor Meiji, passed away back in 1926. The eldest son, Crown Prince Shōwa, assumed the throne. Hence, the Shōwa Era," he explains.

(Note: In a number of countries, Emperor Shōwa is referred to as "Hirohito")

Wow... A lot has happened in 20 years...

Wait... Now that I think about it, the name 'Hiroto' sounds oddly familiar...

"Is that it?" he says.

"Ah wait, one more: How can I get down this mountain?" I asked.

"Sorry kid, you can't. The path down the mountain is closed off during the winter months. So you and I can only hope that Mother Nature won't screw us over in that duration," he explains.

Shit...

I pressed on: "There are no roads? Trails? Nothing?"

"Pretty much," he gave a succinct response.

"Then why is this house here of all places? How is there tap water? How do you even manage?"

"Because I was the one who built it. Got a problem with that?" he ripostes.

"No, not at all, but it's jarring to find someone like you, living this kind of lifestyle," I replied.

"Well go cry me a river, cause I couldn't give two shits about what you find peculiar or not," he answers.

A vein protrudes from the upper-right corner of my forehead.

My god, this guy's annoying.

"You really have no standards for proper etiquette, do you?" I retorted.

"Look around you, pipsqueak. There's no one else up here. Nobody could care less about being 'respectful' or maintaining proper 'etiquette' when you've been living in total isolation for almost 17 goddamn years."

Seventeen? No wonder this man doesn't have any manners with his obvious discourtesy!

"And you wonder why people would find you peculiar," I say sarcastically.

"Because everyone hates me, so I have the right to throw that back at them," he replies.

This guy's stupid. He just assumes something and then pursues an equally dumb course of action in retaliation.

"And, as a result of that contempt, I'm only starting to hate you now. So congratulations, you just got yourself another critic," I counter.

"Perfect. I hate everyone equally. I am a firm believer in equal rights," he quips with derision.

Yep, this old man is senile.

"I see this is how you treat your guests. No surprise that you live all alone without a wife or a family," I rejoined.

"I could say the same for how you act towards your benefactors. Are kids these days spoiled or what?" he cavils.

"For a fifty-some-year-old-man, you really like to impersonate a seventy-year-old grandpa who reminisces about the 'good old days,' don't you?" I snap back.

He takes a sip from the teacup, "Before you make any stupid assumptions about my age, I'm fucking forty,"

I blink twice, "F-Forty?"

"Yeah, I get that a lot..."

The hell? I thought he'd be at least 50.

What does someone need to go through in order to look like a 60-year-old man... by the age of 40?!

"You look nearly 20 years older than you actually are," I noted.

"The gift that keeps giving. Also known as life," he jests.

"But this is really something else. Never had I seen someone so hideou—I mean, old-looking," I say.

"Oi, watch your mouth, pipsqueak. The house, which is what stands between you and hypothermia, happens to be mine," he chastises. "I ultimately get to decide whether you stay or not."

"You'd evict someone and leave them to slowly die in the cold? Yep, you're definitely the crabby grandpa next door," I attack.

"Tsk. Either way, there's nowhere else for you to go under these tenuous conditions. I reckon your only choice will be to stay here for now, unless you wanna get eaten by that damn blizzard" he delineates despite my insult.

"If what you say is tru—" I start.

"You doubt me?"

"Of course I do. Who would trust a man such as you?" I replied.

"..." To my astonishment, Hiroto didn't take the liberty of lashing out at me.

Instead, he just let out a low, short guttural sound—almost as if he were in agreement or something.

I really can't extrapolate anything from this man...

I sigh, "If you will officially sanction it, I will be compelled to stay here for the time being."

"I'll let you stay, but on only one stipulation," he begins.

"And what's that?"

He's probably gonna make me do some work, or maybe pay him money...

"That you stay in bed and get that ankle fixed up," he slowly stands up.

Okay, that honestly did surprise me.

"Thanks..." I said, dumbfounded.

"I'm going to get some rest. Don't disturb me for any reason... You should get some as well..." with his walking stick, he proceeds to the door.

I guess he can be nice at times.

But still, that haughty attitude is going to be the death of me.

I can only hope that this dreamscape will last for only about a few days, assuming I actually figure out a way to break free from this idiosyncratic Blood Demon Art...

I'm worried about Tomioka-san... I can't have him get killed.

I give a slight groan. This is really frustrating. I hate this place.

I need to save him, just as he had saved me in all those other times.

But... if he dies... then... I don't know what I'll do...

Tomioka-san... Please, just hold on for a bit lon—

*THUD*

What was that?

I look up.

The Old Man is laying flat—prostrated—on the ground.

"Uhm, Sir?"

No response.

"Sir?"

Nothing.

Something's definitely wrong.

*Wheeze*

He's having trouble breathing?

I hurriedly scurry over to his disposition and haul him over to his backside.

He was profusely sweating and his breathing pattern was highly irregular.

*Wheeze*

"Sir! What's wrong?!" I immediately beseech for a reply.

"C-c-c-c..." the Old Man couldn't get the words out. His voice sounded raspy, strained, and breathy.

His rhythmic breathing has become more erratic and his quivering modulation more hoarse. His (only) hand was violently trembling at an uncontrollable pace. The arm and legs were jerking around somewhat, but his posture was, nevertheless, extremely stiff. He was gasping for air due to his current condition of hyperventilation.

He's suffering from seizure-like symptoms.

This is bad. There are medications for these situations, but I don't even know if the Old Man has them or not. And even if he does, I have no clue where they are.

"C-c-c-cup-p-b-b-b-board..." he manages to get out with his rasping voice.

Cupboard...?

*Wheeze*

There's a cupboard right next to the window.

That's probably where the denoted medications are!

I briskly rush over to the furniture and quickly unlatch its multitude of drawers.

I pulled open one of the drawers. Nothing.

Next one. Nothing.

Next one. Nothing.

Next one. Nothing.

*Wheeze*

Ah shit, I don't have much time!

I haul another one back.

Finally! Something!

There are a wide array of bottles along with a syringe.

The glass containers had the label 'morphine' inscribed into each one of them.

I see now.

I swiftly insert the implement into the bottle and accrue a portion of the bottle's liquid content into the needle.

Then, I make a dash for the patient in question—all the while keeping the syringe balanced so as to not spill any of the medicine.

*Wheeze*

Pulling up the sleeves of Hiroto's left arm, I administer an inoculation onto his shoulder. Using my thumb, I pushed the plunger down and, thus, released the morphine into his body.

He then exhaled in relief.

Almost immediately following that, signs of recovery had already manifested themselves. The Old Man was panting heavily, but no longer was he in a dire state of being—choking for his life.

That was close...

"Sorry..." he said in between his heavy breathing, "I wasn't expecting a relapse."

Ah... So that's how it is.

His health is really as bad as I previously thought.

"Sir..." I say hesitantly, "has someone overprescribed your medicine?"

I've seen his kind before.

Morphine addicts.

Throughout my years in the Butterfly Mansion and the Medical Corps, I've seen a couple of slayers fall victim to this ailment.

Specifically, it was reported that some members of the Kakushi accidentally overprescribed the minimum requirement for morphine consumption. So, many people—following their treatment—were accustomed to larger doses of medicine than the recommended amount. Thus, leading to widespread cases of dependency on the drug.

This is why, upon learning about this predicament, Nee-san and I established a set of rules and practices to regulate the application of such potent medicine only when it was absolutely necessary. Although, most of the said rules took direct inspiration from what the Imperial Japanese Army had already implemented—that's a different story.

"Yeah... you happen to be looking at them," he said with a low, gruff voice.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, "What the hell are you thinking... You know that's dangerous, don't you?"

"Being in constant pain is worse, I can assure you that," he replies plainly.

Constant pain? Does this guy suffer from a medical condition?

"The consequences are worse with whatever you're doing," I countered.

"And that happens to be none of your business, pipsqueak," he grumbles.

"I just happen to be an expert in the medical discipline myself, so it is definitely my problem," I responded.

"Well good heavens, thank god there's a doctor around to remind me of something I already happened to know," he mocks.

"Yes, exactly. But also someone who will enforce that standard so that you don't suddenly collapse on the floor and die!" I answered.

"I was perfectly fine, it's recurring anyway," he murmurs.

"It's what?! You need to stop this."

He seriously needs medical attention; forty-year-olds don't just suddenly suffer from unforeseen seizures or are reliant on morphine to alleviate an unendurable physical pain.

There's obviously something important about him that I'm not yet au courant with. There's more to this man than meets the eye.

"Piss off. I get to choose whether I want to do this or not," he replies.

"That's ridiculous, you nee—"

"Look, pipsqueak. You're the guest and I'm the host. So, to use your interpretation of respect, I kindly ask you to mind your own goddamn business," he raised his voice slightly.

"You think doctors sit around and let their patients do whatever they want?!" I exclaimed.

"They do, under my roof."

"That doesn't mea—"

"Alright, that's enough. I already permitted you to lodge in my abode, so don't go prying into my private life. You hear?" he says sternly.

"That wasn't part of the agreement," I retorted.

The man uplifts himself with the help of his cane, "Do you think I even care? Now, fuck off and get some rest. Goodnight."

He leaves the room.

I let out a big sigh.

What an arrogant, obstinate, senile, crazy motherfucker! HE MAKES ME SO MAD!

He's the kind of idiot I absolutely despise! He outright ignores the advice of experts!

Who does he think he is?! A goddamn shogun?!

I don't know if I should feel bad for him, because that attitude of his is just eating away what little sympathy I have for him!

I swear to god, my temper is going to get the better of me with each passing day I remain here.

Just thinking about him makes my blood boil... and induces weariness as well.

I need sleep.

My fatigue still hasn't been eradicated.

The dizziness in my head is an attestation to that axiom.

For now, I'll worry about being pedantic tomorrow.

As of this moment, I need time to rest my head and collect my thoughts in an orderly manner...

I retired to my room for the night.

..

..

..

..

That's no mere scratch...

"Tomioka-san... how did this happen..." I say.

"One week ago, I began noticing a stinging sensation on my back. It progressively got worse to the point at which it incessantly bothered me. Why do you ask?" he expounds.

"This 'scratch' it which you refer to, is actually a large gash that should've been remedied MUCH earlier than now," I explained calmly.

"Gash? How big?" he asks.

"I can estimate about 20 centimeters in vertical length. Forgetting that, though, why didn't you refer to us earlier about this," I state.

"I only came under the orders of Oyakata-sama; I've never seen the need nor trouble of presenting myself to these grounds," he replies.

You're telling me this is your first time here at the Butterfly Estate?" I inquire.

"That is correct."

"Tomioka-san, if I may, that's the kind of behavior you'd undertake to get yourself killed. If you would have waited any longer, I highly believe that the cut would've worsened and subjected you to perpetual illness that would only incapacitate you from any further service to the Corps," I say bluntly.

"I apologize for my indiscretions," Tomioka mumbled.

"I'm not asking for apologies, just saying that you should look out for your body a bit more," I reply.

"I speculated that welcoming myself into this wonderful mansion after every mission would be intruding on my part to your private business. Even now, I can see that you had other plans for the morning before I came in between all that," he explained almost solemnly.

This guy... is seriously an idiot.

"That doesn't mean you allow a serious injury to be left to its own devices!" I almost shouted.

"..." he didn't reply.

..

..

..

..

I jerked my head upwards, ascending above the pillow of my futon until my back was perfectly straight.

I was heavily panting like I was undergoing a harsh and demanding activity of some sort. It wasn't every day that I woke up to find myself in a tenuous state of being—and it certainly wasn't pleasing or pleasant to do so.

Despite this, I quickly compose myself and revert to a nominal state of existence. It seems it was just a bad night for me...

"Huh?" I say aloud as I feel something ticklish rolling down my cheeks.

I watch as droplets gravitate downwards to my lap. Those were tears trickling down from my eyes...

"Why am I crying...?" I said tentatively as I hastily wiped the wetness off my eyes.

I exhale, "What am I doing..."

I shouldn't be sleeping in peace. I should be scavenging the vicinity, looking for any hints as to how to escape this illusion.

While I live in satisfactory circumstances, Tomioka-san is probably risking his very life for my sake...

I need to do something.

A deep, extensive pang of guilt scathes me for every passing second I'm here.

I can no longer linger onwards.

I have to go.

..

..

It was freezing outside. I can feel my hands going numb within a minute of exposure. I curse my past self for not appreciating the warm summer months as much.

I was walking on the wooden platform directly adjacent to the structure's walls until I saw him again.

Godammit, I don't want to deal with his nonsense again.

The Old Man was outside, sitting on the precipice of the household's veranda—otherwise known as an Engawa. He seemed to be contemplating an array of different subjects.

I slowly turn around in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going, kid?" he exhales a shroud of smoke from his Kiseru pipe—positioned on his left hand.

Oh right... I conveniently ignored the fact that he's also a chain smoker—that might explain his scratchy cadence.

Inhaling objects such as cigarettes or any lung-damaging products is forbidden within the Corps. And for good reason. You do, above all, need healthy lungs to properly conduct Total Concentration Breathing—which is the foundation for all enhanced fighting techniques inculcated within the organization.

As such, I usually feel agitated or repulsed whenever I'm around smokers.

"I have some liquor, if you want some," he adds.

And he's also an alcoholic...

I'm going to be candid with him, "I thank you for your hospitality, but I'm afraid I can no longer remain here."

"And why's that."

"I... " I struggle to elucidate my rationale.

"..." he was silent.

I finally conjured up both the courage and determination to give merit to my virtuous endeavors: "... There's someone I need to get back to. He's waiting for me..."

"... I see..." he whispers.

With subzero temperatures, the disposal of carbon dioxide from our breaths could easily be discerned—we could witness the condensation happen before our very eyes in the space directly in front of us.

It was starting to snow lightly. The illumination of the full moon's dazzling light shined magnificently upon the proximity—giving life to what was seemingly a dull, insipid environment. The perennial snow—that had already, long ago, embraced the welcoming ground—sparkled as it reflected the scintillating luster of the moonlight.

"And how will you leave? The path is blocked in wintertime," he reiterates.

"Don't mistake me for a weakling. I am perfectly capable of crossing any physical obstacles," I replied.

"... Is that so..."

"Yes. So, again, I thank you for what you've done for me thus far, but I must be on my way now," I give a very curt farewell before turning my back on him.

"I wouldn't go now if I were you," he calls.

I begin my long trek for god-knows-how-how-many kilometers, ignoring him in the process.

"Demons are out there in the forest. Rascals will eat you alive," he says.

I stop.

I slowly reverse my antecedent maneuvers, "... What?"

"Didn't the Corps teach you about the conventional course of action when it comes to dealing with those bastards, given that they are prolific in low-range combat zones?"

"H-How—?"

"How do I know?" he interrupts. "Well, it's pretty patent from your standard-issued uniform—or, rather, the 1910 rendition."

"Why—?"

"Why do I know?" He inhaled the fumes from the pipe and blew out another cloud. "Isn't it obvious? I'm a former Demon Slayer. My missing arm, the broken physique, the distorted leg movements, and my overreliance on painkillers. Everything can be traced back to my service in that particular field."

I couldn't move a muscle. I was utterly shocked beyond comprehension.

Never would I have guessed that this repugnant man was once a thoroughly disciplined, fully-trained member of the Corps.

"Here, sit. There's plenty of space," he sets down his pipe and instead picks up a cup of saké.

I reluctantly strolled over to his sinistral side—where he laid the pipe since he only has his left hand.

Then, I perched myself onto the cold, wooden platform.

He imbibes the alcoholic beverage, "Let me ask you something."

"Huh?" my musings were deferred.

"Do you have any regrets, kid?" He takes another drink.

Of course I do...

"... Don't we all?" I replied,

"I suppose... but being old, I have too many to count..."

I stare at him with curiosity, "Why did you come up here? It can't just be family-related business..."

"... I suppose it's to make me forget... or maybe a form of self-exile. I don't remember..." he said calmly. "But, what I do know is that my regrets have led me here..."

"Then why don't you leave?" I asked.

"Because, whether I like it or not, this place is my home now..." he answered. "In your life, isn't there such a place?"

I don't return an affirmation or a statement.

He suddenly adds, "Have you ever come across that moment of revelation... when you realize that... all of your life... you've done nothing but waste it?"

My eyebrows instinctively corrugated, "What do you mean?"

"I've lived a life dedicated to honing my warrior spirit but neglected everything else. And now, decades later, my body is physically overwhelmed, my soul tainted, and my spirit demoralized. In the end, after everything was said and done, I was without a purpose," he reminisced.

"I then came to a revelation. My whole life, I've been obsessed with ingratiating my hatred and remorse. And yet, when it was all over, I was lost. I had nowhere else to go. No one to confer with. It was at that moment when I realized that I've wasted an entire lifetime. I was blinded by rage and sorrow. I squandered all the potential happiness, rejected all forms of joy, and discarded all the possible, good memories I could've made," he ended.

"Those are your regrets?" I asked.

"They are a byproduct of guilt..." he answered.

"Guilt...?"

"Being stuck in the past when you should've looked ahead in the future," he clarifies.

"I... I can understand that..." I opened up.

"Yes, everyone understands it. But they don't do anything about it... Though I'm not one to talk..." he puts down the saké.

"Indeed..."

"Do you have hatred within you...?" He lifts his pipe.

"Yes... I always will..."

"I can understand that as well," he harks back to my previous comment. "I know that feeling."

"You are so consumed by your grief and anger... that you forget how to love... You forget what the sweet touch of happiness was like. You forget all the good stuff. It's a self-perpetuating cycle of pain. It fuels your rage, your motivation. But it also deprives you of a better life. A chance at redemption," he expounds.

"Yeah... My late sister wanted me to live a normal life and not avenge her... maybe it's because she knew that all too well—she knew what it would do to me," I look up at the stars.

He huffed another mass of fumes, "She must've been a wise one, your sister."

"She was..."

I'm beginning to ponder why I feel inclined to disclose myself with this much ease.

And especially to someone for whom I called an 'asshole' only hours ago.

I think it's because there's this strange air of familiarity to him. It's hard to explain, but, to put it simply, I feel like we've had this conversation before. That I can be confident in releasing all this information because I can somehow trust him.

It's quite perplexing. I don't even doubt my contemporary conduct; I'm doing all of this with a large degree of certainty.

A mystifying phenomenon.

"Tragedy breeds pain. And that pain can manifest itself in either hatred, self-loathing, or perpetual despair," the old man is looking up at the heavens as well.

"Or all at once," I remark.

He merely grunted in approval, "Damn right about that. But it ain't worth it. Because, before you realize it, you will have needlessly relegated your life to something your loved ones would have never wished for... They never wanted you to avenge them, they never wanted you to make an oath, nor did they want you to hurt yourself. All they wanted was for you to be happy, to move on and honor their legacy by honoring their wishes."

"That's why I can't let you go out there, pipsqueak," he reflects.

"..." I remained hushed.

"You're young, you still have a long life to live, kid. You're too young to indulge yourself in matters such as guilt or death. You still have a chance to atone for all the mistakes you have made, and all the mistakes you will make. A chance to make a better life for yourself..."

"..."

"I'm old. I lost that chance a long time ago..."

There was a brief pause.

I didn't know what to make of all this.

On one hand, I generally agree with the overall message.

But, on the other hand, I cannot bring myself to uphold the lessons he's trying to convey. Because, despite everything, my hatred and sadness won't go away. I want to kill because I have no one else to live for. No one is there for me anymore.

I've already lost my purpose in this life, and revenge is the only thing that's keeping me going.

Hiroto continued: "Do you know what it feels like when you notice that you are slowly losing yourself? That you were no longer the young, idealistic child from a euphoric memory, and that your body could no longer function as it used to? That's called slowly dying with regrets. That's me right now."

I simply nodded, with what I've observed so far, any doctor would've come to that conclusion—that this man's health is a lost cause.

He sighs, "I should've been dead fifteen years ago. But, instead, here I am now. Living and breathing. All alone. But no matter how long I live, I will never be at peace with myself. There are just some things you will never be able to settle at this age... That's why you don't wanna procrastinate on this stuff..."

I nodded.

"Tell me, kid, do you have someone to live for?"

I look down, "... I don't know..."

He takes a moment before speaking, "I used to have someone. She and I were fellow slayers, and we slowly learned about each other. We had more things in common than I previously assumed. She was an orphan, like me. We both lost an older sister. And we were shackled by our own convictions and the memories of our perished loved ones—we had things we couldn't let go."

"She had an indomitable spirit, but also a gentle and genuine soul. And... she was the most beautiful thing in the world... Like a Wisteria flower..." he said wistfully.

The ends of his mouth seemed to be creeping upwards somewhat—he was smiling.

But then, all of a sudden, he frowned.

He whispered, "One day... she had gone somewhere far, far away. Somewhere that neither a boat nor a train could take me; somewhere I could never reach. I was a fool. I never recognized just how much I needed her until... she had already gone away... It hurts more when you realize that you could've saved them too... The anguish never went away..."

I could see there was a pained expression on his face.

"You must've loved her a lot," I said.

"Love... Huh... Yeah... I guess I did..." he muttered, the inflection of his voice espousing both a very sober but doleful outlook.

"You will only realize the true value of something after you've lost hold of it. You will only notice how truly important something or someone is after they've passed. Cherish every moment, so that you won't have to do so when it's too late."

I widen my eyes.

I've heard that before.

Yes, I definitely have.

I have never forgotten that set of words and sentences.

Who said it?

..

..

"Just remember Kocho-san, you will only realize the true value of something after you've lost hold of it.

"Just as I lost the love of my life, you will only notice how truly important something or someone is after they've passed.

"So, I urge you: take action now, so that you won't regret it later. Because, that way, you can live a gratifying and fulfilling life to its fullest with no shred of doubt in mind.

"Cherish every moment, so that you won't have to do so when it's too late. This is all coming from personal experience, so please, trust me on this," she explains.

..

..

Yui. Akihiro Yui...

I remember now. The lovely lady on the train ride to Yokohama, Akihiro Yui.

How did he say her words verbatim?

Unless...

He sighed, "Just call me Hiroto for now."

This guy told me to call him by that name. It sounded kinda familiar at first, but now I know.

From my memories, I can recollect who Hiroto really was.

..

..

"Where's your husband now?" I decided to inquire.

"Hiroto-san? Ah... He passed away fifteen years ago during the Boxer Rebellion as a naval officer in the Imperial Navy," Yui said with a hint of melancholy.

..

..

Akihiro Hiroto.

He was the deceased husband of Yui.

I've only told one other person about him and her.

And that one another person...

No way...

It can't be...

I turn to face him face-to-face

"Who are you?" I gaze directly into his sheen, blue eyes—they were now exuding a color.

My breathing slows and I don't move an inch, as I knew the tantalizing allure of his eyes were hiding something else entirely.

He smiles meekly, "Well, hopefully, I've convinced you to not leave. Thank you for this splendid time, Kocho-san."

And just like that, he was up and gone—carrying both the pipe and the saké with his only hand.

I still couldn't wrap my head around any of this.

Too much has happened for one godforsaken night.

I need some rest.