Having speed-cleared their first "side-quest boss," Chika and the siblings finally had some free time to breathe. Nezuko followed quietly behind her sister and brother as the three walked through the lively evening streets. Wherever they went, heads turned.
There was no helping it.
The beautiful and striking Chika.
The scar-marked yet gentle-faced Tanjiro.
The bamboo-muzzled, porcelain-cute Nezuko.
Put together, the trio was an instant spectacle.
Fortunately, none of them were particularly shy. Chika, despite once being called a "social-phobic," was the furthest thing from it. Her "social anxiety" stood for social terrorist—a natural disaster in human form, immune to embarrassment, allergic to awkward silence, and utterly indifferent to stares.
Tanjiro, ever the sunshine boy, was more self-aware, but his warmth and sincerity kept him from shrinking under attention.
As for Nezuko—she wasn't paying attention to anyone. Head bowed, she trailed behind, hugging her jar of konpeitō like treasure and thinking only of the moment she could remove her bamboo muzzle somewhere quiet and finally eat one.
Eventually, the three settled for a humble noodle stall by the roadside.
It was their first mission completed without a hitch—definitely worth celebrating. A simple bowl of noodles felt too plain, though, so Chika raised a hand and called to the cook.
"Boss, add an egg and a sausage to each bowl!"
"Got it!"
The sound of boiling water and sizzling oil filled the air. Soon, steaming bowls appeared before them, rich with broth, soft noodles, and golden egg yolks shining under the lantern light.
Chika twirled her chopsticks and grinned. This combo was classic—just like back home: egg noodles, mushroom noodles, pork-cutlet noodles, seafood noodles… She'd eaten them all before entering this world.
As the siblings ate, the stall owner observed them curiously. Their clothes were far from ordinary, and the swords at their waists—surely those were models, right? Who still carried real blades in the Taishō era?
With Japan's Sword Ban Edict in place, the samurai class had long faded. Still, some rich or eccentric kids liked to wear imitation swords for fun. The owner chuckled inwardly. Rich family, probably. Cosplayers, maybe.
As long as they didn't draw those blades, there was no problem.
"Night's getting late," the stall owner said, wiping down the counter. "You three should head home soon. If you're travelers, best find an inn early. Especially you, young miss—women have been going missing around here lately. Probably some sick pervert. Hope the police catch him soon."
He sighed, shaking his head.
Chika slurped up her noodles mid-sentence, replying vaguely through a mouthful. "No worries… from tomorrow… there won't be any more disappearances."
The old man smiled indulgently. "If only that were true."
To him, her words were just childish optimism.
Chika didn't argue. She just kept eating, savoring the broth. Can't exactly tell him I just killed the real culprit.
"Boss, your noodles are amazing!" Tanjiro said brightly.
"Haha, thanks! You've got good taste, young lady—you're very pretty too." The man leaned forward, squinting playfully. "Let me guess—the young man beside you is your boyfriend? Or maybe… your brother? No, you two look close—I'll bet he's your boyfriend!"
Crack.
The chopsticks in Chika's hand snapped clean in half.
Tanjiro blanched. "She's my older sister! Two years older!"
"Older… sister?"
The owner blinked, honestly surprised. Really?
Tanjiro was fifteen, Nezuko fourteen—so Chika, at seventeen, was naturally the big sister. Perfectly normal. But somehow, people always assumed she was younger.
And that—of all things—was the one line she would never let slide.
"I'm done eating," Chika muttered through gritted teeth, setting her bowl down a bit too sharply.
Tanjiro quickly followed her lead, placing his empty bowl beside hers. "Uh, Sis, should we head back to Master Urokodaki's?"
"Not tonight." She yawned, stretching. "Let's find an inn first. I'm beat."
"Right."
If they tried to return to Mount Sagiri now, they'd be walking until sunrise.
Finding lodging was simple enough. Their purse was full from Corps pay and mission rewards, so they picked one of the nicer inns in town—two rooms: one for the sisters, one for Tanjiro.
In their room, Nezuko was still full of restless energy. She clutched her training sword and mimed a few swings, repeating the breathing patterns Urokodaki had taught her.
But soon enough, her eyelids grew heavy. Within minutes, she'd curled up on the futon, fast asleep—no bamboo muzzle needed. With Chika there, there was no danger. Unless someone waved rare blood under her nose, Nezuko would never lose control.
Chika sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed in thought.
She hated to admit it—but if she just kept coasting along the plot, her current pace of growth wouldn't be enough. Not to change anything.
This world's power gaps were brutal.
Upper Moons: six monsters beyond comprehension.
Lower Moons: six lesser, but still deadly demons.
Even among humans, the hierarchy was sharp:
Upper Moons > Hashira > Lower Moons > Ordinary Demons > Standard Swordsmen.
She thought of the Mugen Train Arc—of Kyojuro Rengoku, who burned brighter than anyone, yet fell before the Upper Rank Three. He'd fought with every last breath, every fiber of his being, and still…
Chika clenched her fists.
If I go into that battle as I am now, will I really be able to save him?
Or will there simply be another body, lying beside his flame?
The thought lingered in the silence of the inn, the lanternlight flickering against her determined eyes.