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11 Vol. III Demon Slayer: Floating Comment
🕑 Added 2025-01-06 12:21:54 +0000 UTCA crack of lightning tore through the clouds, bringing rain to the fog-shrouded Mount Sagiri.
Haruto woke from his dreams to a chill against his face. Reaching up, he touched the dampness and wondered whether it was tears shed in his sleep or raindrops blown in through the open window.
From his vantage point, he saw boys laughing and running into the rain, their shirts abandoned in reckless delight.
They'll catch a cold, he thought idly. Then, an old realization hit him: a few years ago, he would have been one of them.
His face fell as he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he no longer belonged to the ranks of the carefree young.
Pulling the rain cover up on the window, Haruto retreated beneath the blanket, letting the sound of raindrops lull him. He didn't want to move today—not to train, not to think, not to guide his disciples, and especially not to patrol. But... skipping patrol wasn't an option.
The rain traced endless beads across the window, forming lines of liquid pearls. Haruto turned his gaze from the running boys to the rain itself.
"Use your eyes to sketch its form."
Kazuma's words came back to him. Whether it was demons, humans, thunder, or even the rain...
He focused on tracing the raindrops with his vision, capturing their paths and movements. For Haruto, it wasn't difficult. The rain's trajectory was predictable. Slowly, he became entranced, as though he could dictate the way the raindrops fell.
...and then, slow them down.
His mind was blank, utterly still. Yet the raindrops before his eyes truly began to slow, their descent transforming into a deliberate, measured pace.
It was as if someone had pressed a slow-motion button, making everything clearer, sharper.
Is this the Transparent World?
He wasn't sure. There were no living creatures nearby to test whether he could see their inner structures. But even if it wasn't the Transparent World, he had definitely stepped into some extraordinary new realm.
As he marveled at this discovery, a raindrop hit the rain cover, breaking its previous trajectory.
The slow-motion effect shattered in an instant. With a gust of wind, the rain sprayed into his face.
"Bleh! Pfft!"
Haruto wiped his face and slammed the window shut.
In his mind's eye, he saw a silver-haired man dancing with thunder. That man had died in the pleasure district of Shinagawa, the very place Haruto would soon head to. Not even a body had been left behind.
The demon who killed him was Daki, the Upper Rank Six of the Twelve Kizuki.
Haruto wasn't surprised to dream of Kazuma. There was a belief in the Swordsmith Village: along with appearances and hair colors, ancestors passed down ancient memories embedded deep within their descendants.
These memories lay dormant until triggered, surfacing only when their threads were touched.
Haruto had always found this notion overly mystical. But in a world where demons existed, who was he to dismiss such ideas outright?
The cold autumn rain passed, and time flew by.
When the first snow blanketed Mount Sagiri, Haruto took Genya and Tanjiro to hunt snow fowl for food.
The snow fowl were larger than quails, and they roamed in flocks. When startled, they didn't take to the air but scurried away like ground chickens.
Their meat was tender and highly nutritious, a favorite of Haruto's.
Standing beneath a tree, Haruto watched the flock intently. Slowly, he raised the brass slingshot in his hand.
The snow fowl seemed to slow in his vision, their movements becoming deliberate and predictable.
Without hesitation, Haruto fired three pebbles in quick succession.
"Thwack!"
Three stones struck three birds dead-on, shattering their skulls before they could even flap their wings. The rest of the flock waddled away in a panic.
"Yes!" Tanjiro exclaimed, rushing forward to collect the birds and toss them into his basket, which was already filled with over two dozen snow fowl.
Genya, meanwhile, eyed the fleeing flock and considered whether he could take down three birds with a single shot from his shotgun. He concluded it was entirely possible; with his scattergun, hitting multiple targets at once wasn't out of reach. But using a brass slingshot? No chance.
[The Transparent World... used for bird hunting? Haruto, you really are something else.]
[Let's all say it together: "Don't eat wild game!" Oh, wait—it's the Taisho era? Never mind, carry on.]
[Imagine these little birds stewed with mushrooms and vermicelli... I'm drooling just thinking about it.]
Enough. Haruto's stomach growled just imagining it.
Satisfied with their haul, Haruto clapped Tanjiro on the shoulder, and the three of them headed back.
As they walked the mountain path, Genya and Tanjiro exchanged knowing glances before Tanjiro spoke up.
"Sensei, when can we go to Mount Fujikasane for the Final Selection?"
Haruto gave them a calm look. "Can you spar with 'Number One' without getting thrashed?"
"Well... sometimes we still get beaten..."
"Have you mastered your swordsmanship?"
"Not quite..."
"Can you fight for long periods using Breathing Techniques without tiring?"
"Uh..."
The boys' faces fell as they hung their heads in dejection.
Unseen by them, Haruto wiped away cold sweat.
That was close...
If they knew about his reckless youth—heading to Mount Fujikasane after mastering only five forms of Flame Breathing—his credibility would be shot.
The three questions had been a stalling tactic, especially the last one. Fighting for extended periods without fatigue? Pure fantasy.
Haruto decided he'd better consult Urokodaki-sensei about what criteria actually determined readiness for the Final Selection.
The memory of that fateful morning came rushing back. Haruto had returned from patrol to find Sabito outside the cabin.
Under Sabito's weight was the massive boulder Haruto remembered all too well—a stone so large it dwarfed even Sabito's frame.
Years ago, Makomo had split that boulder with a single slash, earning Urokodaki's approval to enter the Final Selection.
When Tanjiro and Genya heard Urokodaki's conditions, they stared blankly at the enormous stone, their minds unable to process what lay ahead.
