The road to Tokyo was long, but Sahiru walked it with purpose. His red haori fluttered in the wind, and the weight of his sword grounded each step. His violet eyes—once filled with sorrow—now carried quiet resolve.
Three years after the death of his parents, Sahiru stood before the gates of the Tokyo Demon Slayer Corps.
Unlike the main Demon Slayer Corps, this one was humble. It lacked Hashira, lacked prestige—yet it held courage in its foundation. No grand towers or shining armor. Just swordsmen—simple, dedicated, brave.
At the center of the headquarters stood an old man with a calm smile and warm, observant eyes.
"Welcome," he said softly. "You must be Sahiru."
The boy bowed respectfully. "I am."
"I'm Kenta," the elder said, voice steady with years of wisdom. "I founded this Corps to protect our corner of the world. We aren't blessed with breathing styles or master swordsmen… But we fight. We endure."
Sahiru nodded.
"But," Kenta continued, "If you wish to join, you must pass our trial. Show us your strength—not just in swordsmanship, but in heart."
Word spread fast.
By noon, every active member of the Tokyo branch gathered in the courtyard. About thirty slayers—all of them older than Sahiru—stood in rows. Some smirked, some scoffed, others simply watched.
"Is that the boy? With the red haori?"
"No nichirin blade either. What's he gonna do?"
Kenta raised his hand.
"Begin, Sahiru."
He stepped forward.
Eyes closed.
Breath drawn.
And then, his foot shifted.
"Facade Breathing, First Veil: Pale Fracture."
His blade danced in an arc so fast it blurred—scarlet and white light spiraled across the ground. The courtyard's stone cracked in elegant fractures, shaped like shards of shattered glass.
A gust of wind followed.
And then—silence.
Not a whisper. Not a breath. Even the scoffers sat speechless, eyes wide.
Kenta's mouth opened slightly.
"...That… was breathing technique?"
Sahiru slowly sheathed his blade.
"I don't know what to call it. But it's what I have."
Kenta stepped forward. "You have more than a blade, Sahiru… You have a gift."
He turned to the others. "From this day forward, he is one of us."
And the courtyard, still silent, slowly bowed their heads—not out of command, but in respect.