Tanjiro's first missions were a confusing, bloody blur.
He found himself in Asakusa, under the neon lights of the city, and finally caught the second scent. The cold, ancient, aristocratic scent of power. The smell of Muzan Kibutsuji.
He had run, screaming, only to be stopped by the demon's "family." But the encounter left him trembling for a different reason. Muzan was real. He was findable. And he was terrified. Tanjiro, with his perfect nose, could smell the fear rolling off the Demon King, a fear that made no sense until he remembered the other scent. The one that had overshadowed Muzan's. The one that had won.
His quest was clear. He had two nemeses. One to cure. One to kill.
Weeks turned into a brutal rhythm of missions. He was teamed with the lightning-fast coward, Zenitsu, and the feral boar-man, Inosuke. They fought a demon in a tsuzumi-filled mansion, a chaotic battle where the rooms spun and their new team was tested. They recovered at a kind old woman's Wisteria-crested house, their bonds forged in shared near-death experiences.
Then, the crow gave the order.
"CAW! CAW! URGENT! HEAD TO MOUNT NATAGUMO! A NEST OF DEMONS! MANY SLAYERS HAVE GONE MISSING! HEAD TO MOUNT NATAGUMO!"
The mountain was dark, a tangled mess of webs that choked the moonlight. The air was heavy with the stench of death and something... else.
Zenitsu, predictably, collapsed in terror. Inosuke charged in, laughing. Tanjiro ran after him, Nezuko's box strapped tightly to his back.
The moment he passed the tree line, he stopped, sniffing the air. The coppery reek of demons and blood was overwhelming. But... the other scent, the one of joyful, rotten fruit, was missing. A strange, cold relief washed over him. He was only hunting demons.
The mountain became a nightmare. They found Slayers, not dead, but trapped in webs. They were attacked by puppets—slain Slayers, their corpses manipulated by threads. The Father Demon crashed from the trees, and the two were separated. "GO, GONPACHIRO!" Inosuke roared.
Tanjiro pressed on alone. He found him. The source. A small, white-haired demon boy with red-dotted skin. Rui. Lower Moon Five.
The fight was on a different level. Rui spoke of "bonds" and "family," a "director" forcing a twisted "performance" on his terrified captives. Tanjiro was broken, his blade shattered.
Meanwhile
On another part of the mountain, a different kind of performance was already in session.
Shinobu Kocho moved like a butterfly, her feet never seeming to touch the ground. The scent of Wisteria and... demon... was thick. She was following the trail of the "Mother" demon, but something was wrong. The demon's trail was panicked, disorganized. It was running from something.
She landed on a branch, her gentle smile fixed in place, and looked down into a small clearing.
What she saw made her smile... tighten.
The "Sister" and "Mother" demons were there. They were not fighting. They were... serving.
In the center of the clearing, sitting on a log as if it were a throne, was a handsome, white-haired man. He was humming a cheerful, tuneless song.
The "Mother" demon was on her knees, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold the teacup. "Is... is this... to your... liking... Utsuro-sama?" she stammered, her voice thick with a terror that Shinobu had never heard from a demon.
"Hmm." Utsuro took the cup. It was filled with bloody milk. He sipped it, then made a face. "It's... bitter," he chirped. "You're still too scared. Your blood tastes like... old pennies. I thought we talked about this."
"I... I'm trying, sir..." the Mother whimpered, her face pale.
"And you," Utsuro said, turning his charming smile on the "Sister" demon, who was standing frozen, her arms held out. "How is your 'art' coming along?"
The Sister demon was holding a string of her own... skin... which she had been forced to peel from her beautiful breast. She was trying to weave it into the shape of a flower, as he had "requested." She was failing.
"It's... It's not working, Utsuro-sama," she sobbed. "It... it keeps... breaking..."
"Then you're not trying!" Utsuro snapped, his charm vanishing. "It's a simple request! I want a pretty flower made of you. Is that so hard? Am I working with amateurs?"
He stood, his red eyes cold. "Maybe... you two just need a new... lesson."
"My, my," a voice, light as a feather, called from the trees. "It seems I've stumbled upon a little party. And here I thought I was the only one who enjoyed... playing... with demons."
Utsuro turned. Shinobu Kocho landed in the clearing, her hand on her hilt, her smile bright and unwavering.
Utsuro's face lit up. Not with rage. With delight.
"Oh!" he clapped. "A new performer! And such a pretty costume! Hello!"
"Hello," Shinobu said, her voice a pleasant, musical chime. She tilted her head. "You don't smell like a demon. But... you're keeping them as pets. That's against the rules, you know."
"Rules? Oh, those," Utsuro said, waving a dismissive hand. "They're just... boring." He stepped closer, his red eyes scanning her from head to toe. He sniffed. "You smell... angry."
Shinobu's smile didn't waver. "Ara, ara? Angry? I'm not angry at all. I'm just here to do my job. Which... I suppose... now includes you."
"You're lying," Utsuro giggled, his "devil" charm in full effect. He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You smell furious. It's wonderful. It's... purple. Like a pretty, poisonous flower. You're... just like her."
The smile on Shinobu's face froze.
"Her?" she asked, her voice losing its lilt, becoming flat and cold.
"Mhm!" Utsuro said, tapping his chin. "A girl I met... a while ago. She was very strong. So, so angry. She had a... a butterfly pin, just like yours! But hers was... different." He thought for a moment. "Oh! I remember! She used 'Flower' breathing! She was so fast. Such a wonderful toy. I... I think I broke her, though. Shame."
Shinobu's hand gripped her hilt so hard her knuckles turned white. The smile... was gone. Her face was a mask of pure, cold, insectile rage. "What... did... you... say?"
"Ah! There it is!" Utsuro beamed. "The real face! The real performance! 10 out of 10! Now, show me... what can you—"
BOOM!
A massive, fiery explosion lit up the entire mountain. It was followed by a scream of pure, desperate rage.
"HINOKAMI KAGURA! DANCE!"
Utsuro paused. He turned his head, his charming smile replaced with... annoyance.
"Oh, for... can't you see I'm in the middle of a scene?" he hissed at the sky.
Another sound. A girl's scream. A familiar one.
"NEZUKO!"
Utsuro's annoyance... vanished. His head snapped in the direction of the fight. His face... became cold. Colder than Shinobu's. Colder than Muzan's.
It was the flat, cold stare of an artist whose masterpiece has just been defaced.
"Excuse me," Utsuro said, not looking at Shinobu. He turned to the two cowering spider demons. "This... 'playdate'... is over. Don't... move. I'll be right back."
"I don't think so," Shinobu said, her blade already half-drawn.
"Oh, little butterfly," Utsuro said, giving her a look of such profound, unhinged pity that it stopped her cold. "You're just the opening act. The main performance... is being ruined."
He vanished. Not fast. He just... wasn't there.
Tanjiro was going to die.
He'd cut Rui's head... but it was a fake. Rui was advancing, his blood-red threads forming an inescapable dome.
"Nezuko!" Tanjiro had screamed as Rui's other threads, the ones holding her, tightened, cutting deep into her flesh.
"It's over," Rui whispered.
...Clap...
A single, slow clap echoed from the trees.
...Clap... Clap...
Both Tanjiro and Rui froze. The blood-red dome stopped, inches from Tanjiro's skin.
"Bravo," a voice called out, dripping with delighted, genuine amusement. "Bravo! Oh, what a performance! What passion! The desperation! The 'Hinokami Kagura'!"
Utsuro stepped out of the shadows. He was... pouting.
"I... I can't believe I missed the Hinokami Kagura! I was busy! And you," he said, turning his glare on Rui. "You... are a terrible director. Just awful."
Rui, his composure shattered, turned in a fury. "Who... who are you? How did you get in here? This is my...!"
"Your 'stage'?" Utsuro interrupted, his voice full of charm. "Oh, yes. I know. I'm the critic."
His red-eyed gaze drifted from Rui... to Tanjiro... and then up to Nezuko, who was bleeding, suspended in the thread cradle.
His face darkened.
"And you," he whispered, his voice dropping so low it was barely audible. "You... dared... to touch... my... favorite... toy."
Tanjiro's blood didn't just run cold. It stopped.
He knew that voice. He knew that charm.
He sniffed. And the world ended.
Under the smell of blood, and demons, and wisteria... There it was. The scent that had been missing. The scent he had been hunting for two years.
The scent of joyful, rotten fruit.
It was him. Utsuro.
"You," Tanjiro choked, trying to push himself up on his broken arms. "YOU!"
"Shh, shh," Utsuro said, putting a finger to his lips, his eyes still on Rui. "The performers are talking. Don't be rude, little toy."
"I don't know who you are," Rui snarled, his rage at this interruption boiling over. "But you will die first!"
Rui's hand flashed. The blood-red dome of threads, the one that was meant for Tanjiro, changed direction, flying at impossible speed to disintegrate the newcomer.
"And... scene," Utsuro sighed, sounding bored.
He didn't move. He didn't dodge.
He just... lifted his hand.
The threads, harder than steel, the threads that had snapped Tanjiro's blade...
...hit his palm.
And stopped.
They didn't break. They just... hung there, limp, as if their concept of "cutting" had been erased.
Rui's eyes went wide. His blood dome... failed.
"See?" Utsuro said, examining the red threads on his hand as if they were a piece of lint. "This... is a boring trick. It's just 'pulling strings.' There's no... art... to it."
He clenched his fist.
And Rui screamed.
Not in rage. In agony.
Every thread connected to Rui's body... reversed. They tore from his fingertips, ripping back through his own flesh, shredding his hands.
"MY... MY THREADS!" Rui shrieked, falling to his knees, staring at his mutilated hands. "WHAT DID YOU...?"
"You're a terrible director," Utsuro said, his charming smile gone, replaced with the cold, flat stare of an artist who has seen a flaw. "You've been 'playing' with this 'family'... but you're not even good at it. You're just... loud. And repetitive. And boring."
He advanced on Rui.
He put his hand on Rui's head.
"This performance... is over."
Utsuro's smile was gone, replaced by a look of clinical curiosity. "Let's see... what's inside... a Lower Moon."
He didn't crush Rui's head. He... probed. His fingers sank into Rui's white hair, and the demon began to unravel.
Rui's form flickered. The white hair, the red-dotted skin, the mature, powerful body—it all began to recede. The demon's power was being siphoned, pulled apart, "deconstructed" by Utsuro's silent, impossible will.
"It... hurts..." a new voice whispered. A small, weak voice.
Rui was shrinking. The powerful Lower Moon was gone, replaced by a small, sickly human boy, no older than Tanjiro's slain brothers. He was pale and thin, his demon markings fading to reveal the frail child he had once been.
"Mother... Father..." the boy whispered, his eyes, now human and terrified, looking past Utsuro at something Tanjiro couldn't see. He saw... his real parents. The ones he had killed in his first demonic rage. "I'm... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
He was crying. He was just a child.
Tanjiro, broken on the ground, felt an impossible wave of pity. He'd just watched a monster murder a monster... and all he felt was sick.
"Oh," Utsuro said, his voice flat with disappointment. "A... child. How... dull. The toy inside the toy... is just a sad, broken little boy."
He had dissected the "performance" of the Lower Moon, only to find a boring human tragedy at its core.
"I'm cringing now," Utsuro announced.
And with a sound no louder than a pop, the boy... Rui... was gone. Not disintegrated. Not decapitated. He just... ended.
Silence.
Utsuro turned, his charming smile returning as if nothing had happened. He looked up at Nezuko, still bleeding in the threads.
"Oh, my," he tutted. "What a mess. That simply won't do."
He didn't move. He just... appeared... in the air next to her. He didn't cut the threads. He unwove them. With delicate, precise movements, his fingers danced, and the steel-hard threads unraveled like yarn.
He caught Nezuko's small, unconscious body as she fell. He landed on the ground, holding her with the gentle care of a doll collector.
"See, little toy?" he whispered, brushing the matted, bloody hair from her face. "All better. I told that mean director to stop breaking you."
He walked over and placed her gently beside the horrified, paralyzed Tanjiro.
"YOU!" Tanjiro choked, his voice a raw, hateful rasp. "You... monster..."
"My, my," a new voice, light as a feather, landed behind them. "It seems I've just missed the finale."
Utsuro stood up, turning to face Shinobu Kocho. She was standing there, her hand on her hilt, her plastic smile firmly in place. But her eyes were not on Tanjiro. They were locked onto Utsuro with an insectile, murderous intensity.
"You," she said, her voice a pleasant, musical chime that dripped with venom.
"Me!" Utsuro beamed, his charm radiant. "You're just in time for the curtain call. And I've saved a... special... gift, just for my newest, prettiest performer."
Shinobu's smile tightened, her eyes flicking to the two spider demons cowering at the edge of the clearing. "The demons. I'll take care of them."
"Ah, ah, ah," Utsuro chided, holding up a single, elegant finger as if stopping a child. "Please, allow me. Think of it as... a show of my sincerity." He turned his charming smile on the two demons. "Besides... they were terrible actors. And I always clean up my stage."
Before Shinobu's eyes could even track the movement, Utsuro moved.
He wasn't fast. He was... instant.
ZIIIP.
He was suddenly behind the "Mother" demon, his hand on her shoulder. "Your 'performance'..." he whispered. ZIIIP. He was now behind the "Sister" demon. "...was uninspired."
Both demons froze, their eyes wide. And then, as if they were made of dry paper, they crumbled. Not into ash, like a normal demon. They just... fell apart, into thousands of tiny, shredded pieces, as if they'd been run through an invisible machine.
Shinobu's smile tightened. She hadn't even seen him draw a weapon.
Utsuro turned back to her, dusting off his hands, his "devil" charm in full effect. He looked at her not with malice, but with a warm, sympathetic, knowing smile.
"Kocho Shinobu-san," he said, his voice dropping to a gentle, conspiratorial whisper. "You're so angry. I can smell it. You're looking for someone, aren't you?"
Shinobu's breath hitched.
"Your sister," Utsuro said, his voice full of pity. "Kanae. The one with the Flower breathing. The girl I broke.'"
Shinobu's hand shot to her hilt. "I will—"
"I lied," he cut her off, his smile unwavering. "I didn't break her."
He leaned in, his red eyes sparkling with a delightful, unhinged secret.
"I... kept her. She was... too pretty... to break. So I... put her away... somewhere safe." He tapped his temple. "And... I completely forgot about her... until just now, when I saw you! Isn't that... hilarious?"
Shinobu's world stopped. Her sister... alive?
"You... you're lying," she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thing, the mask completely gone.
"Am I?" Utsuro said, his charm overwhelming. "I'm an artist, little butterfly, not a liar. Lying is... boring. I 'collect' pretty things." He offered her a hand, as if asking for a dance.
"Help me... find a new stage... and I promise... I'll find her for you."