Demon Slayer: Guardian of the Forest

The peak of Shiraiyama was alive with movement.

Figures clad in black uniforms busied themselves across the bloodstained battlefield. Their attire resembled the Demon Slayer Corps' standard uniforms, but emblazoned on their backs was a bold character, "隱" (Hidden). Masks with white stripes and hooded caps concealed their identities.

These were the Kakushi, the Demon Slayer Corps' cleanup crew. Composed of individuals lacking swordsmanship aptitude or retired swordsmen unable to continue fighting, they devoted themselves to supporting the cause in other ways. The Kakushi handled post-battle recovery, medical aid, and evacuation efforts. Though their combat abilities were minimal, their contributions were indispensable. Without them, the Corps couldn't wage war against powerful demons so effectively.

Nearby, Kakushi carefully placed Kawachi's lifeless body onto a stretcher. The fallen swordsman's comrades were treated with equal care, their remains respectfully gathered. Even the innocent villagers who had perished under Rokuro's cruel rampage were not overlooked—the Kakushi mourned them silently as they worked.

One Kakushi stopped abruptly near a stretcher covered in a dark cloth. Beneath it, faint, labored breathing could be heard. Fresh blood seeped from the edges, staining the tarp. Alarmed, the Kakushi quickly fetched a medical kit, intending to administer aid.

But just as his hand reached for the cloth, a withered yet strong hand gripped his wrist firmly.

"E-Elder, what are you doing?" the Kakushi stammered. "Please, release me! Let me help this injured person!"

The one who stopped him was Mori Gensei, the elderly master wrapped in bandages. He cradled a weak, trembling Shiba Inu pup in his other arm, a faint green glow emanating from his hands. The glow was subtle, nearly invisible under the harsh sunlight.

"This is my disciple," Gensei said, his voice calm but resolute. "He is not part of the Demon Slayer Corps. You need not trouble yourself. His wounds have already been tended to by me. He just needs rest now."

"But, Elder—!" The Kakushi's voice grew impassioned, raising his arm in protest. "We don't only serve the Corps! Helping any human harmed by demons is our duty! Please don't dismiss our purpose like this!"

Gensei only smiled and shook his head gently. Before the Kakushi could press further, a large hand rested on his shoulder.

"Go," said a commanding voice behind him. "There are others who need your help more urgently. Leave this matter to me and the elder."

The Kakushi turned to see Kyojuro Shinjuro, the Flame Hashira, his presence unshakable. Respectfully, the Kakushi bowed and left, though he shot Gensei a disgruntled glance on his way out.

Shinjuro rested his hand on the hilt of his Nichirin blade, stepping closer to Gensei. He eyed the tattered uniform the elder wore, an artifact from a bygone era. "Elder, were you once a swordsman in the Demon Slayer Corps?"

Gensei glanced down at his worn attire. A flicker of nostalgia crossed his face, but it faded into a bitter smile. "No," he replied, "I was just a cowardly deserter."

"Slaying a Lower Moon demon hardly sounds like cowardice," Shinjuro countered. "Your achievements rival, if not surpass, many of today's swordsmen."

Gensei sighed deeply, his expression heavy with regret. Recognizing the sorrow in the elder's eyes, Shinjuro didn't press further and instead gestured toward the stretcher.

"Elder, under that cloth... it's a demon, isn't it?"

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. A sharp, fleeting aura emanated from Gensei as his hand, stroking the Shiba Inu's fur, paused momentarily.

"You truly live up to the title of Hashira," Gensei said with quiet admiration. "Your senses are as keen as ever. But tell me, Flame Hashira, if you know there's a demon beneath this cloth... why haven't you drawn your blade yet?"

Shinjuro's grip on his hilt tightened slightly, but after a tense moment, he released it. "I received a message from the Master," he said. "Though it was hard to believe, he approved your request and extended his blessing for Forest Breathing to rise again."

At the mention of the Master, Gensei's gaze softened, memories flashing briefly in his mind. He thought of a man with a kind yet frail face—a leader long gone, claimed by the Ubuyashiki family curse. Though Gensei didn't know the current Master personally, he wasn't surprised by the decision. Each Master of the Corps had always shared the same compassion and wisdom.

"You have my word," Gensei declared, his tone unwavering. "I, Mori Gensei, swear on my life that this child will master Forest Breathing and become a powerful swordsman."

Shinjuro remained silent. The truth was, he was merely following orders. Few knew about this arrangement—he was one of the only three entrusted with the secret.

A demon as a swordsman? The very idea was absurd. Demons were cruel, bloodthirsty creatures. Their existence revolved around slaughter and cannibalism. For most Demon Slayers, decapitating a demon was their only fate.

But out of respect for the Master, along with the reports of this demon aiding in slaying Lower Moon Four, and the elder's solemn vow, Shinjuro chose to allow it. He would keep this secret, though the burden of its consequences weighed heavily on him.

"I look forward to seeing a great swordsman emerge from your efforts, Elder," Shinjuro said. "But the Master wanted me to ask one last thing: slaying a Lower Moon grants you the right to a Hashira title. Will you not reconsider?"

Gensei glanced at his green Nichirin blade, his expression filled with self-reproach. "No," he said firmly. "I am unworthy of the title. From the moment I abandoned my comrades, I ceased being anything but a disgraceful deserter."

"I understand," Shinjuro replied. "Farewell, Elder. Until we meet again."

Pain.

Unimaginable pain pierced Shinichi's mind like a splitting axe. He felt trapped in a chaotic void, his skull on the verge of shattering. As he writhed in agony, a blinding green light emerged ahead of him, bright and searing.

The light gradually faded, revealing a familiar silhouette: a young man wearing a green haori, his black hair tied casually behind his head. A simple belt held a sheathed blade at his waist.

But this time, the figure turned. Shinichi's heart raced as he saw the man's face—a youthful, handsome visage with striking green eyes that seemed to pierce through him.

"Who are you?!" Shinichi shouted, unable to hold back his panic.

Before the man could respond, cracks began to spread across his flawless face like shattered porcelain. One of his emerald eyes dimmed abruptly, replaced by a crimson glow that burned like molten fire.

A silent explosion rippled through the void, sending waves of pressure crashing around Shinichi.

"This... this is Blood Rage?!" he gasped.