The silence of the forest was broken by deliberately hushed voices and the sound of earth being turned.
A dull thud echoed as a shovel sank into the moist soil, mixed with the rustle of fabric brushing against grass roots, weaving a web of faint sounds beneath the shadowy trees.
Three Demon Slayer Corps members crouched by the edge of a shallow pit, efficiently cleaning up the scene.
They bundled the demon’s tattered, bloodstained rags together and tossed them into the freshly dug hole, then poured a grayish-white special powder from pouches at their waists, sprinkling it evenly over the remains.
A scent, tinged with the greenness of grass and the sharpness of minerals, spread quickly, gradually dispersing the thick, cloying stench of blood in the air.
Though their hands busied with refilling earth, the three couldn’t help but cast furtive glances to the side.
Shi Hanfeng was leaning against a sturdy oak, eyes closed in rest.
His posture was relaxed, right leg bent, left hand in his dark trouser pocket, right hand hanging loosely at his side. Occasionally, his fingertips would tap unconsciously against the hilt of the long blade at his waist.
Moonlight, thin as gauze, filtered through tangled branches, dappling his platinum hair with metallic light. His hair, an unnatural shade unlike any ordinary person’s, shone with an unusual luster in the faint glow.
The clothes he wore were sharply tailored, lines clean and crisp, the dark-gray collar standing upright, cuffs fitted close. The material looked dense and tough—not cotton, not silk, and entirely unlike any Demon Slayer Corps uniform they knew.
But what drew their attention most was how this unfamiliar man had killed the demon.
It was a fiend that had nearly overpowered all three of them together.
The team exchanged glances, their eyes briefly meeting on Shi Hanfeng before darting away, as if the man bore some edge they dared not face.
They lowered their heads, voices dropping so low the wind nearly carried them away, speaking only loudly enough for each other to hear.
“Who do you think he really is?”
The team member on the left, his face scratched, pressed down the dirt at the pit’s edge with his shovel, glancing up furtively, confusion in his voice.
The dark-skinned member on the right pursed his lips, grip tightening on the shovel, knuckles paling.
“Could he be a demon?”
“Don’t talk nonsense!”
The leader immediately hushed him, eyes darting again to Shi Hanfeng. Seeing no reaction, he exhaled in relief.
“If he was a demon, why would he help us kill one of his own?”
Their guesses scattered like pebbles on the forest floor, but none found answers.
They feared this powerful stranger, yet curiosity burned within them about his true identity.
Shi Hanfeng could clearly feel the stares falling upon him, could catch fragments of their whispered words and even the faintly quickened pace of their breath from tension. Still, his focus remained undisturbed, as though the outside world had nothing to do with him.
Only the faint crease between his brows betrayed that he was not truly at rest.
His mind was racing, running simulations and refining his next moves.
How could he maximize his strengths?
How best to lure in high-value targets?
The spoils from that demon just now were hardly worth the effort. The rewards from low-tier demons in this world meant nothing to him. Only the limited drop-rate bonus of the Twelve String Moons was tempting.
But that presented another problem. Ordinary demons didn’t matter, but each Twelve String Moon was under Muzan’s watch. Eliminating one too quickly might draw Muzan’s suspicion.
That guy talked a big game but was cowardly when it mattered. The moment he sensed a real threat, he’d vanish without a trace, impossible to find again.
But if he didn’t hunt the String Moons, he’d be missing out on the limited-time drop rate.
There was only one shot at luring out Muzan—how to balance rewards and mission requirements? He had only a basic idea for now.
Many details remained shrouded in fog, needing more information to clarify.
And a key part of the plan would have to wait until he met the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, the Yashiki Patriarch who bore a deep-seated grudge against Muzan.
With the cooperation of the Demon Slayer Corps, many operations would go much smoother.
Soon, hurried footsteps approached from behind, crackling dry leaves underfoot.
“Sir Jingyuan,”
The leader stopped in front of Shi Hanfeng, voice laced with respect and a subtle tension, head bowed, gaze fixed on Shi Hanfeng’s shoes.
“The Crows have returned with news. The Kinoe-sama is on her way and should arrive soon.”
Shi Hanfeng opened his eyes slowly. For an instant, a blade-sharp glint flashed in them, cold and piercing. But it faded in a heartbeat, replaced by a gentle smile, as if the earlier sharpness was just an illusion.
“Thank you. Well done.”
His voice was calm and warm, neither distant nor overly familiar.
His gaze swept over the three team members nearby. They instinctively straightened, eyes flickering, uneasy under his look.
Shi Hanfeng noted this, and spoke naturally.
“While we wait, why don’t we talk? I’m interested in the demons you mentioned, and the state of this area. The more I know, the sooner we might stop them from hurting others.”
Information was the basis of every decision. Even if these ordinary team members couldn’t offer anything critical, a simple conversation could bridge distance and lower their guard.
As long as he didn’t become a Giyuu Koyori—where people’s sense of justice overflowed just by looking at him.
His manner was open, with nothing hidden, his reasons both logical and sincere. The uprightness and responsibility in his words flowed naturally, like a warm current—persuasive without effort.
The three members’ tense nerves eased somewhat under his gentle tone.
The leader hesitated, glancing subconsciously at his two companions.
The young member on the left nodded slightly, curiosity in his eyes. The dark-skinned one on the right pursed his lips but nodded as well.
Seeing no objections, the leader steadied himself and replied.
“Al…Alright.”
His voice was still stiff, clearly not used to speaking as equals with such a mysterious powerhouse.
They found a dry patch of ground thick with fallen leaves—a soft enough spot to sit.
Shi Hanfeng sat first, casual and without airs.
The three team members followed, keeping a cautious distance, still a bit uneasy.
Through their halting, sometimes fearful recounting, Shi Hanfeng became a patient puzzle solver, piecing together the shadowy outlines of terror haunting the region.
Lately, this area on the forest’s edge had become troubled.
Disappearances had grown frequent—at first only drunks and lone travelers at night, vanishing without a trace on mountain paths.
Then it worsened, with even villagers at the forest’s edge falling victim.
“Usually, only a pool of dark blood and deep marks of struggle among the earth and grass are left at the scene.”
The leader spoke, unconsciously clenching his fists, knuckles white.
Their team had patrolled here for days, nerves taut and unrelenting. By day they questioned villagers, gathering clues; by night they hid in the woods, waiting for the demon to appear.
Only tonight did they finally track down the target—the demon destroyed by Shi Hanfeng.
“It had just transformed and acted recklessly out of hunger, leaving traces behind.”
The young member added, his voice relieved yet shaken.
“It was cunning…or perhaps just driven by survival instinct.”
The leader reached up, wiping a claw mark scabbing on his face. Pain stabbed as his fingers brushed the wound, and he grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath.
“We almost had it three times—nearly severed its neck—but it broke free each time thanks to terrifying regeneration. The first time, I hit its shoulder; it turned and fled as if nothing happened. The second, Aming pierced its abdomen; it healed in seconds…If not for your intervention this time, we might still be struggling—or worse…”
He didn’t finish, but his relief and unspoken gratitude were clear.
Shi Hanfeng nodded slightly, steering the topic, gaze intent.
“Are they all like this? Acting on pure instinct, without awareness? Feeding and fleeing?”
“Most low-level demons are like that—more beast than human, mindless.”
Another young member took over, his voice hoarse, tinged with anger born from fear and hatred. Bloodshot eyes spoke of sleepless nights.
“They follow the scent of blood to prey, hide after feeding, and only emerge when hungry. No reason. But some, who survive longer or eat more people, change. They awaken powers called ‘Blood Demon Art’—bizarre and terrifying, more cruel than anything.”
His throat bobbed, suppressing something dark.
“They stop hunting just to feed—hurting others becomes entertainment. I heard of one that lured children into the deep woods just to watch them cry for their mothers…for amusement…”
A shudder of memory crossed his face, pale in the moonlight, lips trembling. Fingers gripped his uniform tightly, the fabric wrinkling beneath his hold.
“But the most terrifying are the Twelve String Moons.”
The leader’s voice dropped, heavy as stone, nearly suffocating in its despair.
“They’re the strongest twelve under Muzan, the demon progenitor—divided into Upper Moon and Lower Moon. Each could destroy an army. For us ordinary members—anyone beneath the Hashira—even encountering one means death.”
His words weren’t dramatic, but raw with hopelessness, chilling as midwinter wind. The other two were infected by it in an instant.
The younger’s head bowed lower, while the dark-skinned one clenched his Nichirin Blade handle tight on his knees.
The woods fell silent, save for the wind’s whisper in the leaves and the soft sound of bandages wrapping wounds.
This silence wasn’t empty. It was filled with something weighty, years of battle-forged powerlessness settling like dust on each heart.
Shi Hanfeng’s gaze swept over their young yet weathered faces, over white-knuckled grips on their blades, over old wounds not fully healed.
This was the Demon Slayer Corps’ cruelest reality over centuries—a chasm of power that bred despair.
Apart from the era of Kokushibo and the final age of Tanjiro’s nine Hashira, the Corps’ threat meant nothing to Muzan.
Images rose in his mind of the twisted, towering pyramid of demons beneath Muzan—a black pyramid looming in the world’s shadow.