Through the haze of bloodlust, a memory surfaced—sharp as winter’s first frost.

  "Kawagishi, what will you be when you grow up?"

  Young Kie had cradled him, her breath warm against his temple. The boy—no older than six—pondered with comical seriousness.

  "I don’t want anything... Just to stay with you. When I’m big and strong, I’ll guard you all better."

  His mother covered her mouth, eyes crinkling. "Then I’ll wait. When my hair turns gray, you’ll be my shield."

  "I will. I swear it."

  Even then, his hands had balled into tiny fists.

  "A shield for them…?"

  The memory dissolved into ash. I failed...

  Through the haze, Kawagishi's clawed hand groped blindly until it closed around the blood-slick axe. With a guttural roar, he slammed the iron-clad handle against his own fangs.

  Crack.！Crack！Crack！

  The fledgling demon's teeth—still brittle compared to steel—snapped into splinters. He spat out the shards, now mingled with blackened blood. Agony erupted through his jaw, nerves screaming as if doused in molten lead.

  Pain, blessedly, overpowered hunger. Stumbling back from Kie's lifeless form, he tripped over another small body. Rokuta's vacant eyes stared upward, still clutching a whittled wooden sparrow.

  "Focus. ....." Kawagishi dug nails into his palms. The cabin reeked of copper and voided bowels. Nezuko's half-torn kimono. Hanako's scattered hairpins. Takeo's splintered practice sword.

  "Mother... everyone... I swore—" His voice fractured. "Swore to protect you."

  A humorless laugh escaped him. What good were human vows against primordial demons?

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  Only one thought anchored him: Tanjiro's scent wasn't here. He lives.

  Dawn's first light crept through shattered windows. Kawagishi watched it illuminate the carnage—every broken promise, every unfulfilled "I'll guard you," now etched in viscera.

  The cabin had become a crucible of carnage—a newborn demon’s worst temptation. Kawagishi knew with visceral certainty: another minute here, and the ravenous hunger would claim what remained of his humanity. Already, his shattered fangs were regenerating, the emerging points sharper, hungrier.

  Tears mingled with still-warm blood dripped onto the splintered floorboards.

  Run！

  He couldn’t bury them. Couldn’t even close their eyes. Every instinct screamed to feast.

  "Tanjiro…" His claw carved into the wall, splinters embedding under his nail:

  TANJIRO—LIVE！WAIT FOR ME！

  The door exploded outward in a shower of kindling. Snow swallowed his crimson tracks as he fled—not daring to glance back, not trusting his resolve.

  He’d fled blindly, choosing direction by the absence of bloodscent. Hours? Days? Time blurred with the howling wind. When he finally collapsed, dawn revealed an alien landscape: gnarled pines stood sentinel like frozen mourners.

  No hearth smoke. No laughter. Only the wind’s hollow dirge.

  Kawagishi curled into himself, fangs buried in his own forearm. The pain was cleaner than grief.

  "Starving…"

  The absence of bloodscent had cleared Kawagishi's mind, leaving only the gnawing void in his gut—a searing emptiness worse than any blade.

  He examined his arms, once shredded to crimson ribbons, now whole. The reconstructed fangs beneath his gums throbbed with newborn potency. Demonic regeneration—a cursed miracle.

  Memories surged unbidden—his mother's cooling palm, Nezuko's half-smile frozen in death. Agony, yes, but he let the images carve deeper. Salt on wounds clarified purpose.

  Energy conservation. The concept from his past life surfaced. His mended flesh had consumed reserves, leaving this all-consuming hunger.

  Behind closed eyelids, the top-hatted specter materialized—Muzan Kibutsuji, his very presence warping the air like heat haze. Kawagishi's new claws pierced his palms, black blood welling.

  "I know nothing of you," he rasped to the snow-laden pines. "Not your name. Not your lair."

  The wind carried his oath:

  "But this I swear—every scream you've harvested, every family shattered, I'll return tenfold. In blood. In time."

  Snowflakes caught in his lashes. How different this vow felt from childhood promises whispered by the hearth—those soft pledges of protection, now ash.

  The Kawagishi who'd carried siblings piggyback through sun-dappled woods was gone. What remained wore his face like a poorly fitted mask, its edges sharpened to blades.

  Yet one truth endured: Tanjiro breathes.

  He pressed a clawed hand against his chest, where human warmth once pooled. Now only a hollow ache pulsed—the shape of a family's absence.