"Ohh, those young folks in black who used to come buy vegetables? Yeah, I know 'em. Good kids, all of 'em. But ever since the police and those armed soldiers started asking around about 'em, I haven't seen hide nor hair of those youngsters."
In the bustling marketplace, an elderly man with graying hair sighed regretfully as he spoke to the young man standing before his humble vegetable stall.
"Later, I heard there was some order from Tokyo or Kyoto—something about rounding up sword-carrying ronin, claiming they were a threat to public safety. But let me tell you, those kids in black were kind and upright. Sure, I don't know why they all carried swords, but I'd bet my life they weren't anything like those no-good, good-for-nothing ronin samurai."
Shinichi stood silently by the stall, listening to the old man's lament.
His clenched fists betrayed the turmoil in his heart.
After some time gathering information, Shinichi had pieced together what had happened to the Demon Slayer Corps during his absence.
The assault on the Corps' headquarters hadn't been carried out by Demons—but by military police, under the pretense of purging illegal sword-wielding ronin.
This was truly astonishing.
Although the Demon Slayer Corps was an organization not officially recognized, the existence of Demons was real.
The higher-ups in the government couldn't possibly be completely unaware.
Moreover, the Ubuyashiki Family with its thousand-year legacy, was no small fry—they undoubtedly had connections with the authorities.
But why had the government suddenly turned against the Demon Slayer Corps?
Shinichi couldn't comprehend it.
Fortunately, it seemed the Corps had received some forewarning before the attack and had managed to react in time.
The losses likely weren't too severe.
At the very least, Shinichi didn't find many traces of battle in the ruins of the headquarters—most of the damage appeared to be from violent aftermaths.
After secretly leaving some coins as thanks to the old man, Shinichi immediately changed direction and headed toward Tokyo.
If the Demon Slayer Corps was currently unreachable, the person most likely to offer assistance across the entire nation would be Chinatsu.
.....
Meanwhile, in a hidden estate under the control of Ryukawa Chinatsu's Moriki Conglomerate, the Demon Slayer Corps, having survived the sudden attack, was recuperating.
The once tranquil and luxurious estate had lost its usual serenity, replaced instead by a heavy, oppressive atmosphere.
Deep within the estate, in a spacious hall temporarily repurposed for their use, the surviving members of the Demon Slayer Corps gathered.
The air was thick with the scent of medicine and the lingering stench of blood.
Though Chinatsu's timely warning had allowed the Corps to prepare somewhat for the police and military's surprise attack, this was fundamentally different from battling Demons.
This time, the ones trying to destroy the Demon Slayer Corps weren't the vicious Demons they fought daily, but the very humans they had sworn to protect with their lives.
In this assault, many young and passionate Demon Slayers hadn't fallen in battle against Demons—instead, they had met their end in bitter frustration, gunned down by thier own fellow humans.
Inside the hall, the wounded took up most of the space.
They lay or sat, bandages soaked with blood, their eyes hollow as they stared at the ceiling or corners, their usual sharpness and fighting spirit gone.
Those who were unharmed mostly sat silently against the walls, mechanically and numbly polishing their Nichirin Blades.
The shouts from training sessions and the playful banter between comrades had vanished without a trace, replaced only by muffled coughs, pained groans, and the occasional murmur of confusion.
"Why... why would they attack us...?"
"We were only killing Demons... protecting them..."
"Those police bullets... were crueler than a Demon's claws..."
"Are humans like this really worth fighting for...?"
A profound, almost existential confusion and pain spread like a plague among the members.
They could face a Demon's fangs and claws without flinching, could charge into life-or-death battles without hesitation.
But to be hunted down by the very humans they had risked their lives to protect—betrayed by cold gun barrels and the authority of the government—this psychological blow was far harder to heal than any physical wound.
The meaning of their protection, the value of their fight, seemed to have been ruthlessly shattered in that sudden assault.
Upstairs in the estate, around a solid wooden round table, the atmosphere was even more suffocating.
The strongest of the Demon Slayer Corps—the Hashira—gathered with heavy hearts.
The room was devoid of movement except for the Wind Hashira, Shinazugawa Sanemi, who paced like a furious beast trapped in a cage.
In the center of the hall, his greenish windmill-patterned scars twisted with rage as he clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles cracked, nails digging deep into his palms until blood seeped out unnoticed.
"Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!!"
Unable to contain his fury, Sanemi suddenly lashed out, kicking a heavy wooden chair beside him.
The sturdy chair shattered instantly, splinters flying everywhere.
"Those bastards! Those damned police! This isn't the first time—those stupid pigs! We're out here risking our lives to slay demons, and they stab us in the back?!" Sanemi's roar was filled with bitter hatred and unbridled fury.
"Once I get out of here, I'll cut off every last one of their pig heads!!"
Despite his explosive rage, his anger dimmed slightly whenever his gaze fell upon another figure—one far more broken than him.
Not far away, the Flower Hashira, Kochou Kanae, sat quietly on a chair.
She wore a haori embroidered with butterfly patterns, much like her sister's, but her face was devoid of expression—no tears, only a deathly pallor.
Those violet eyes that always brimming with gentle warmth, now stared emptily at the table, as though her soul had departed along with her sister.
Her hands rested limply on her lap, fingers icy cold.
Shinobu… her only sister, the one who always smiled while coating her blade in poison, yet yearned to protect lives more than anyone else… was gone.
Kanae's world seemed to have lost all color and sound, leaving only an endless, frozen gray.
A silent storm of grief ravaged her from within, turning her into a fragile, hollow shell.
Meanwhile, the Maple Hashira, Tokito Yuichiro, leaned against the cold wall, his head buried between his knees.
He clutched his Nichirin Blade tightly, shoulders trembling—not from fear, but from overwhelming guilt and anguish.
The horrific scene of Shinobu stepping in front of him, only to be impaled by Maito and then engulfed in the explosion of a gunpowder sphere, replayed endlessly in Yuichiro's mind.
"It's my fault… all my fault…" His voice was hoarse, thick with unshed tears as he gritted his teeth.
"If I were stronger… faster… Shinobu-san wouldn't have…"
Silent sobs soaked the fabric over his knees.
He had failed to protect the person his master cherished most and the weight of that failure threatened to crush the young boy.
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