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"Ahem."
The sound echoed through the stillness like a crack in glass. Giyu, who had lain motionless on the ground long after Oboro's departure, finally stirred. His chest heaved as violent coughs wracked his body, each one tearing through his throat like sandpaper.
His eyes stared blankly at nothing, refusing to acknowledge the humiliation of his position on the cold earth.
"In the face of absolute strength, willpower is nothing but a joke," he whispered to the indifferent clouds drifting overhead.
But even as the bitter words left his lips, Giyu understood the deeper truth: Overwhelming strength isn't just raw power; it's the crystallization of an unshakeable will. No one is born an unstoppable force. Oboro had forged that terrifying might through an ironclad belief that burned hotter than any flame.
Personal will. Absolute and unyielding.
Oboro showed him what it truly meant for one person's determination to reshape reality itself.
Before this encounter, Giyu had been confident. The new techniques he'd mastered, the refined forms of Water Breathing he'd perfected, and the countless demons he'd slain over the years had built an unshakable faith in his abilities. He expected a fierce battle and perhaps even victory against this mysterious figure.
Instead, defeat came with brutal swiftness. One punch. That was all it took.
Even worse, Giyu could sense with crystal clarity that the man hadn't even been trying. It was a demonstration, not a fight, a lesson written in humiliation and pain about the vast chasm between their abilities.
The Demon Slayer Corps carries the will of inheritance, a collective flame passed from generation to generation. Each swordsman bore the hopes and dreams of those who came before, their determination forged in shared purpose and mutual sacrifice.
But Oboro possessed something entirely different: a personal will that acknowledged no master, tradition, or limitation beyond what he chose to accept.
To pit inherited will against personal will, one would need to bring the entire Demon Slayer Corps as a unified force. Only then could there be a true confrontation between these two philosophies.
Yet, even that realization brought no comfort. Even if every Pillar, every swordsman, and every Corps member stood together against him, Giyu now understood that it would be meaningless.
Perhaps, in Oboro's eyes, this entire world was nothing more than an amusing diversion.
He had seen that contempt in those dark eyes when his throat was gripped. It wasn't arrogance born of ignorance, but the absolute confidence of someone who had measured the world and found it lacking.
"How ignorant I've been," Giyu murmured, his voice barely audible.
Tears carved silver tracks down his dirt-stained cheeks as shame and regret crashed over him like a tidal wave. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I disappointed you."
His voice cracked with emotion. "I couldn't do it after all.
"But I still believe that someday, someone will surpass me. Someone will succeed where I failed."
His gaze drifted to the black haori lying crumpled nearby, Oboro's discarded outer garment, abandoned like everything else the man deemed unworthy of his attention.
Giyu's visit was nothing more than a brief interruption to Oboro's routine.
The encounter barely registered in his consciousness as he returned to the bustling city and seamlessly resumed the peaceful existence he'd crafted for himself. Still, the Water Pillar had managed to spark a flicker of interest. If Giyu could perfect the breathing techniques, then surely the accumulated research of generations of swordsmen would breakthrough into something remarkable.
The timeline for that evolution had definitely accelerated.
Chaos continued to ripple through the common people like waves on a disturbed pond. However, the devastating war that erupted from the shogun's assassination finally sputtered to an exhausted conclusion after several blood-soaked years.
The entire nation settled into an uneasy, fragile peace.
The shogunate still maintained its grip on power, but it was a shadow of its former absolute authority. Regional domains began asserting their independence, and several major cities now answered to local warlords rather than the distant capital of Edo.
Across the country, ambitious leaders declared themselves kings of their territories.
The Edo period had drawn its final, gasping breath.
Over the past decade, Oboro's influence had fundamentally altered the world's trajectory. Beyond strengthening both demons and the Demon Slayer Corps, his converted followers had emerged as a third major power, creating a precarious three-way balance.
The Demon Slayer Corps found themselves hunting not only Muzan and his demon spawn but also the inheritors of Oboro's twisted philosophy.
These inheritors had one thing in common: they gathered followers from the oppressed masses, former peasants and outcasts who rallied behind promises of salvation and a reformed world. Their rebellious movements posed an existential threat to the established order.
Meanwhile, Muzan's demons actively hunted these inheritors, driven by the Demon King's obsession with studying these "samples" and understanding the source of their power.
On the surface, the three-way conflict appeared to have reached a stalemate. Beneath that veneer of stability, however, the struggle between these factions never ceased.
The inheritors viewed the Demon Slayer Corps as the shogunate's hunting dogs, using their demon-hunting mandate as cover to eliminate political threats. From their perspective, the Corps and the government were natural enemies. As for Muzan, the so-called Demon King represented everything the inheritors opposed: a symbol of corruption that had to be cleansed from their perfect world.
However, relatively few inheritors actively pursued Muzan himself. Most remained focused on their primary goal of overthrowing the shogunate and rebuilding society according to their vision.
Those who did seek Muzan's destruction were driven by ideological purity rather than strategic thinking. They saw Muzan's existence as a stain on their beliefs, an abomination that had to be eradicated.
Their faith remained frustratingly vague, lacking the concrete focus that might have made them truly dangerous.
Their power originated from Oboro, not Muzan, a distinction that shaped their entire worldview.
Meanwhile, Giyu made a significant decision within the Demon Slayer Corps. The former Water Pillar officially retired from active combat to dedicate himself entirely to training the next generation of elite swordsmen.
Throughout the organization, discussions of Oboro had been quietly but firmly suppressed by Ubuyashiki and the other leaders. Very few members knew the full truth about the man who had fundamentally altered the balance of their world.
The leadership understood the bitter reality that the Demon Slayer Corps simply lacked the power to challenge Muzan.
Only Rengoku continued his relentless campaign on the front lines, his flames burning as brightly as ever against the encroaching darkness.
Host: Oboro
Age: 31
Identity: The Origin of Will
Comprehensive Attribute Evaluation: Non-Human
Time flowed like water through Oboro's fingers as he took up residence in Edo once again. His position as leader of the Northern District Magistrate's Office secured him a place within the shogunate's inner circle.
He now sat in a high tower within the government complex, savoring warmed sake brought by attentive servants. Cross-legged on his cushioned perch, he gazed out over the bustling streets beyond the compound's walls while casually reviewing his system interface.
The data remained largely unchanged; only age, identity markers, and some attribute classifications had shifted over the years.
Traveling from a higher-dimensional world to this lower realm offered no opportunities for personal growth or increased power.
All he could accomplish here was gather resources.
External accumulation, nothing more.
The Demon Slayer world could only provide him with "supplies": useful materials and interesting experiences. However, it could not provide him with fundamental advancement.
If he wanted true inner development, his only hope lay in eventually sublimating his inherited will. He needed the collective wisdom of countless followers to transform breathing techniques into something approaching metaphysical cultivation.
That goal remained frustratingly distant.
Compared to his decade as a Hunter, these ten years in the Demon Slayer world had been almost luxuriously comfortable.
His appearance remained essentially unchanged, untouched by the passage of time.
Spring had arrived, painting Edo in cherry blossoms. The entire castle town lay beneath a blanket of falling petals, creating an ethereally beautiful scene that seemed divorced from the bloodshed and chaos of recent years.
He had rushed back to the capital because of disturbing rumors he had heard.
During the decade of upheaval, Edo had managed to maintain an island of relative stability. Through careful manipulation, Oboro had guided his family to secure a controlling influence within the current shogunate. Compared to the complex political maneuvering required in the Hunter world, where he led the Fells family to break through V5's stranglehold and extend their reach across the globe, managing a single feudal government felt like child's play.
Ever since one of the inheritors eliminated the previous shogun, none of the remaining converts had posed a serious threat to the government's stability. The Demon Slayer Corps had discreetly provided protection, their swordsmen serving as invisible guardians for the new regime.
But tonight promised to be different.
Oboro remained in his elevated position throughout the day, watching the city's rhythms with patient interest. Soon, darkness fell, and Edo transformed into a constellation of warm lights. It was as if the past decade of hellish warfare had never touched this place.
The city embodied the Edo period, the shogunate's power made manifest in stone and wood.
It had always endured, no matter what storms raged beyond its walls.
Deep into the night, a sudden commotion erupted from multiple directions. Flames began licking at buildings across several districts, their orange glow painting the darkness in violent hues.
The thunderous roar of battle cries echoed between the structures.
People fled through the streets in scattered, panicked streams.
Someone had finally launched their long-awaited assault.
By the second half of the night, thick columns of smoke rose from every corner of Edo Castle like funeral pyres. The entire city had become a battlefield, its streets running red with the blood of countless casualties.
Amidst the chaos, several powerful auras moved like hunting predators above the rooftops, rapidly converging on the shogunate's location.
In less time than it takes to burn a stick of incense, these shadowy figures infiltrated the government compound.
"What the hell?"
One of the infiltrators paused, confusion evident in his voice. While the shogunate's forces were engaged in fierce street fighting throughout the capital and mounting stubborn resistance against the invasion, the closer the infiltrators came to the seat of power, the weaker the defenses became.
Most puzzling of all, there had been no sign of intervention from the Demon Slayer Corps from the beginning. This made no sense, given their supposed protection arrangement.
Even more bizarrely, the Shogunate buildings themselves appeared completely abandoned.
It was like a ghost town.
Their planned infiltration had become laughably easy.
Bzzzz.
Suddenly, a haunting melody drifted down from above.
Looking up, they spotted a woman seated in an elevated corridor. Her fingers danced across the strings of a shamisen, and she regarded them with unsettling calm.
When the intruders recognized her, their faces paled with shock.
Their eyes shifted slightly and caught sight of a man seated beside the musician, leisurely sipping from a sake cup.
The moment the uninvited guests saw that figure, they nearly collapsed to their knees in terror.
"Why is he here?"
The thought crashed through their minds like thunder.
Cherry blossoms continued their gentle descent through the night air, their fragrance sweet and mocking in the face of impending violence.
After a day of drinking, Oboro's cheeks held a faint flush of intoxication.
He rose slowly from his seat, adjusting his haori with deliberate care before slipping his feet into wooden geta. Then, he leaped from the elevated corridor. His body seemed to fall with dangerous speed until his toes touched the ground with the whisper-soft landing of a feather.
"I apologize that we must meet under these circumstances," Oboro said. His words were slightly slurred by alcohol as he studied the familiar faces before him with a gentle smile.
Four figures stood in the courtyard.
They were all inheritors he had personally converted years ago.
They had joined forces to fulfill the will he had planted within their hearts.
One of the greatest strengths of an inherited will is its collaborative nature. It naturally drew like-minded individuals together, creating bonds forged through shared purpose and emotional resonance.
He had converted dozens of people in those early days, but only a third remained alive after a decade of conflict and struggle.
The four before him represented the absolute elite among his surviving followers.
"Yasuhara, Takaya. Ueno. Teshimaga."
Oboro pronounced each name carefully, his voice carrying both recognition and something deeper, perhaps regret.
The four of them exchanged glances before meeting his gaze and maintaining their silence.
They had all suspected this confrontation might eventually come.
"Although the missions you carry out were all gifts from me, I remain bound to the shogunate. From that perspective, we stand on opposite sides."
I cannot retreat from this position."
Oboro's voice held quiet finality as he extended one hand and caught falling cherry blossom petals in his palm.
"You have all exceeded my expectations. Seeing your growth fills me with genuine pride."
"I hope you will change this world. I also hope you possess the strength to kill me so that you might achieve your ultimate purpose."
Noticing the uncertainty flickering in their eyes, he spoke with steel-edged command: "You must kill me. Only by doing so will you honor the faith I invested in you."
"I am an obstacle you must overcome."
As Oboro spoke, Chiyo's shamisen melody shifted into something solemn and ominous, adding weight to the moment.
"As long as I draw breath, you will never succeed in overthrowing the shogunate."
"Do not disappoint me."
"Choose your path. Since you are my enemies now, either kill me or be killed by me."
The black haori rippled dramatically around Oboro as his demeanor underwent a chilling transformation.
His eyes turned cold as winter steel.
In that instant, the image of him as a benevolent teacher and guide crumbled completely in their minds.
After hearing these words, one of the four kneeling figures slowly rose to his feet.
The others followed his example, standing one by one.
Oboro's eyes blazed with fierce approval as he spread his arms wide in invitation. "Don't hesitate! Abandon those meaningless sentiments, and remember that will is absolute!"
Perfect. Simply perfect!
This was the true beauty of inherited will in action.
This philosophy continued to evolve and grow stronger with each generation.
The fact that they dared to draw their blades against the source of their power proved that his teachings had taken such deep root in their hearts that not even he could uproot them.
Will always came first!
Everything else was secondary.