A certain year, a certain month.
Oboro sat in his usual spot in front of the mansion, watching a group of children play spiritedly. Their wooden swords clacked together in mock battles, filling the air with laughter and shouts of triumph. The scene brought a familiar warmth to his weathered features.
Though over sixty years old, Oboro showed only the slightest signs of aging. Only the elderly residents who had lived in the district for decades could guess his true age. To everyone else, he was an enigma: a kindhearted elder who happened to be a powerful noble and delighted in teaching swordsmanship to children and sharing sweets with them at the end of their training sessions.
That was all they needed to know.
"It's still not working," Oboro murmured, tilting his head toward the endless sky above.
Despite years of tempering and polishing this mortal vessel, his flesh and blood remained frustratingly inferior to what he had possessed during his time in the Hunter Association. The harsh truth was inescapable: the energy structure of the Demon Slayer world operated on a fundamentally lower level than the Nen-based reality he had known. Living as long as Netero had was simply impossible here.
Even reaching a hundred years would push the absolute limits of human longevity in this world. Two hundred years? Utterly impossible. Already, Oboro could feel his body slowly declining, with each day bringing subtle reminders of mortality.
"It seems I still have to become a demon to wait for the plot to unfold." The words left his lips as a resigned sigh.
Transforming into a demon would elevate him immediately to the rank of Demon King, far surpassing his encounter with Muzan years ago. To reach Tanjiro's level in the future timeline, Oboro would need to face Muzan at full power. The Upper Ranks, even the formidable Kokushibo, simply wouldn't suffice as adequate challenges.
Muzan's patience had proven remarkable. Decades had passed in the blink of an eye. Ever since Oboro appeared in this world, the original Demon King had vanished into the shadows. He rarely showed himself, instead dedicating his time to studying the demons he had converted and analyzing their potential and limitations. The identity of the disguise Muzan currently wore remained a mystery, even to Oboro.
Not that it particularly mattered to him.
Perhaps Muzan had discovered something significant during his research. Maybe he had gained new insights or made breakthroughs that would make their eventual confrontation all the more interesting.
"He's coming!"
"It stinks!"
"Get away from us!"
The children's sudden outcry snapped Oboro from his contemplation. Moments before, they had been playing joyfully, but now they turned their attention in a single direction, their faces twisting with unmistakable disgust.
Down the street, a figure approached who was roughly their age, though clearly younger and far more fragile. The boy's appearance immediately explained the children's reaction. When they spotted him, several of the children reached for the stones scattered along the roadside and hurled them with cruel accuracy. Only Oboro's presence prevented them from grabbing sticks and escalating the harassment.
The approaching boy raised his thin arms to shield his head, weathering the barrage of stones without so much as a whimper of pain. Despite the assault, he continued forward with unwavering determination, his steps never faltering.
"Let's go! We don't want to breathe the same air as him!"
The other children had clearly reached their limit of tolerance. After offering respectful bows to Oboro, their manners intact, despite their cruelty toward the newcomer, they scattered like leaves in the wind, abandoning their games entirely.
Right on schedule, Chiyoko appeared beside Oboro. Her hair, once dark, had turned completely white with age, yet she moved with the same graceful efficiency that had served her for decades. She carried food wrapped in oil paper, her timing impeccable as always.
This scene had repeated itself every three days for the past six months. Without fail, the young man with black spots covering his emaciated body would appear, looking every bit like a beggar from the deepest slums, to request food from Oboro.
Their first encounter had occurred half a year ago. The boy had long, matted black hair and a skeletal frame that spoke to prolonged starvation. The stench emanating from his unwashed body was potent enough to clear entire streets. Even his fingernails and toenails had turned black, giving the impression of a terrible disease.
Gyutaro.
This pitiful child was already notorious throughout the Rashomon Riverbank as a harbinger of misfortune. Everyone treated him like vermin, a creature to be avoided at all costs. His suffering began before birth, while he was still in his mother's womb.
His mother was a prostitute who sold her body to survive in the district's harsh economy. Upon discovering her pregnancy, she attempted numerous abortions, consuming dangerous medicines and inflicting violence upon herself, anything to prevent the birth. Yet, despite her desperate efforts, Gyutaro emerged into the world like a tenacious cockroach, refusing to be extinguished.
From the moment he became conscious, abuse became his constant companion. His biological mother starved him, beat him, and tormented him psychologically. She even attempted to kill him multiple times, treating his existence as a burden she couldn't escape.
Hunger became his natural state. To survive, Gyutaro consumed anything he could find: snakes, rats, insects, and even ants. Nothing was beneath him when starvation threatened.
Six months ago, chance brought him to this corner of the district. He collapsed from hunger directly outside Oboro's magnificent villa, his body finally succumbing to malnutrition and exhaustion.
Decades had brought significant changes to the secular world, even as supernatural conflicts remained largely static. The area that was once known as the tourist district had evolved into what people now called the red-light district. While it was no longer the slum it had once been, poverty still festered in its forgotten corners. The red-light district sprawled across a vast area, with the main thoroughfares hosting the most prosperous establishments.
The slum where Gyutaro was born was now called Rashomon Riverbank, a location beside contaminated waters whose name foreshadowed the desolation and suffering of its inhabitants.
Ever since Oboro saved Gyutaro's life and provided him with food, the boy returned every few days seeking sustenance. And every time, Oboro gave generously.
Oboro had been aware of Gyutaro's existence since before his birth, watching from afar as the tragedy unfolded. Among the future Upper Ranks, Gyutaro held a special place in Oboro's estimation.
First, Gyutaro was the only Upper Rank to retain his human name after transformation. Unlike the others, his human existence hadn't been marked by inherent evil or malicious intent. While Gyokko embodied arrogance and Hantengu represented cowardice, Gyutaro's tremendous power was ultimately fueled by an unmistakable inferiority complex, a wound that cut deeper than any blade.
Furthermore, Gyutaro's tragic experiences made him an ideal candidate for succession. His talent was extraordinary, almost beyond measure.
Even from Oboro's experienced perspective, Gyutaro would eventually hold the position of Upper Six, and his actual combat capabilities wouldn't fall short of Gyokko's. His strength earned direct acknowledgment from Muzan himself, a notable achievement in the demon hierarchy.
With such a character from the original plot coincidentally present, Oboro felt compelled to pay closer attention to the boy's development.
By this point in the timeline, the future Upper Ranks had already been established: Kokushibo, Akaza, Doma, and Hantengu had all emerged and claimed their positions. Notably, Akaza had undergone his transformation before Doma, which speaks to the unpredictable nature of Muzan's selection process.
Through years of careful information gathering, Oboro had essentially mapped out the current roster of the Twelve Demon Moons. This knowledge was like discovering an unexpected treasure, though its value remained to be seen.
Of all of them, Akaza and Gyutaro were the ones who truly captured Oboro's interest. Unfortunately, Oboro arrived in this world too late to influence Akaza's fate; the former human had already sworn loyalty to Muzan by the time Oboro began his observations. Gyutaro was his primary focus.
Gyokko and Hantengu hardly deserved consideration.
Gyutaro was still very young at this stage, and his sister Daki had not yet been born. His personality leaned heavily toward introversion and cowardice, traits that would undergo a fundamental transformation with Daki's eventual appearance. Her birth would awaken a fierce, protective side of him, reshaping his entire worldview.
For now, though, he was simply a child struggling to survive.
"Injured again," Oboro observed quietly, noting the fresh wounds visible beneath Gyutaro's tattered clothing. Gyutaro deliberately maintained his distance from them.
Gyutaro quickly tugged at his garments, attempting to conceal the evidence of his latest beating. His distance from Oboro wasn't born of fear; rather, he didn't want his offensive odor to drift over and disgust the nobleman. Similarly, he took care to prevent any of the filth coating his body from contaminating Oboro's clean clothes.
The boy remained silent, his hungry eyes fixed on the food package in Chiyoko's weathered hands. She stepped forward and offered it to him without hesitation.
After accepting the meal, Gyutaro offered a deep bow to Oboro. Then, he turned and fled barefoot down the street, clutching his precious sustenance.
"He could come here every day if he wanted. Why doesn't he?" Chiyoko asked, watching the boy's retreating figure with obvious heartache creasing her features.
Daily visits would ensure he never went hungry. For a child his age, surviving three days without food was almost miraculous. The fact that he was still alive defied explanation.
"Although he suffers from deep-seated inferiority, he still possesses dignity," Oboro replied thoughtfully. His gaze followed Gyutaro until the boy disappeared around a corner. "He's young, yet he's managed to survive three days of hunger through his own resourcefulness. That's remarkable! As he grows older, perhaps he'll be able to support himself and won't need to come here anymore."
Oboro turned away from the street and settled back into his contemplation.
"Should I perhaps, " Chiyoko began, but stopped, recognizing the particular way Oboro regarded Gyutaro, different from how he treated other children who occasionally sought help.
"Don't waste your energy. Everyone has their own destiny to fulfill."
"Yes, my lord."
Chiyoko bowed respectfully, though her eyes lingered on the path where Gyutaro had vanished. Some fates, she reflected silently, seemed far crueler than one deserved. But if her master believed in allowing destiny to unfold naturally, then she would trust his wisdom as she always had.
The afternoon sun continued its lazy arc across the sky, casting long shadows from the elegant architecture of the villa. Soon, the other children would return for their sword training, and the cycle would begin again. For now, though, in this moment of quiet reflection, Oboro wondered what role the wretched boy would ultimately play in the grander design slowly taking shape around them all.