Chapter Text
The swish of his blade cutting through the air, sharp and solemn all at once, has grown to be one of Sanemi’s favorite sounds. Second only to the dull thud of a demon’s body hitting the ground, along with that distinct crackling noise of their flesh disintegrating to dust.
Sadly, it only lasts a fraction of a second. Hardly enough time to revel in the satisfaction of the kill before all evidence of it vanishes before his very eyes. And, often, hardly enough time to rest before it’s time to take off again.
Today, Sanemi has barely flicked the blood off his sword when the sky above him splits open with the piercing caws of a Kasugai Crow.
“TO KYOTO! SHIMABARA, KYOTO!”
Sanemi’s mouth wrings, halfway between a laugh and a grimace. Barely a second after a demon crumbled to dust in front of him and he’s already being rushed off to the next.
The bird lands on his shoulder, claws digging into the fabric of his uniform. Sanemi tries to bat it away, snapping that he doesn’t have any treats on him, but still it refuses to budge.
“What the fuck’s your problem, huh? I got the message, I know where to fuckin’ go, you piece of—”
Sanemi falls silent when he spots the scrap of parchment paper tied around its left leg. Without another word, he lifts his hand, takes the edge of the paper between two fingers, and tugs it free. The moment it slips loose, the crow takes off with one last squawk of “SHIMABARA, KYOTO!” and disappears beyond the treeline.
After sheathing his sword and wiping his hands partially clean on his pants, Sanemi unrolls the note. The seal at the bottom tells him it’s from Oyakata-sama, so he redirects his eyes to the top of the letter and reads every word with careful attention.
Sanemi,
I apologize for sending you off again so soon after your last assignment, but I am afraid that certain circumstances now force me to ask a favor of you.
Two months ago, Tomioka Giyuu traveled to Kyoto under disguise to investigate a new surge of demon activity. The last we heard from him, he said he had narrowed the demon’s operations to the red light district.
We have not heard from him since last month. I have hope that he is still alive, but unable to communicate the status of his mission.
I recognize that you and Tomioka do not have the best relationship. However, I would not be so hasty in my request if it were not urgent. I hope you will find him safe and well, and assist him in eliminating the demon.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sanemi’s first reaction is to sneer. Is Tomioka really so incompetent he can’t send a few letters while undercover? His fingers tighten around the paper until it starts to crease, and he wills himself to relax his grip before it tears.
Sanemi reads the letter again as he starts to process his next assignment. He knows the reason he was chosen was likely based on pure coincidence, and if there were someone more appropriate available they probably would’ve been sent in his stead.
Like Rengoku. Him and Tomioka seem to get along swimmingly—Sanemi always sees them hanging around each other after pillar meetings, though mostly in the form of Rengoku chasing Tomioka down to ask how he’s doing, if his last mission went well, if he ate any good food recently. Tomioka usually never responds, lowering his head and walking faster until they both disappear beyond the grounds of the estate and Rengoku’s voice slowly fades off into the distance.
Regardless, he’d be a way better fit for this rescue initiative than Sanemi. But between the two of them, it looks like Sanemi’s the only one free right now to search for Tomioka.
He hardly likes the guy, but he isn’t petty enough to disregard the severity of his situation. If Tomioka really is in trouble, then it’s best that Sanemi makes it to Shimabara as soon as he can before the situation worsens. And if Tomioka is dead and there really is a demon within the district, then he needs to finish the job before more casualties stack up. Either way, a demon slayer gone radio silent is never a good sign, let alone a pillar.
Besides, it’s rare for the Master to send personal letters. By now he’s grown so weak from illness that even lifting a brush to write such a letter would be taxing on his body. With that in mind, even if there truly was bad blood between him and Tomioka, Sanemi feels obligated to at least check it out.
Rolling up the note again, Sanemi tucks it away inside his belt and looks to the sky. The first signs of the sun are beginning to peel across the horizon, unfolding the curtain of the night to let in a new day. If he sets off now and travels without rest, he estimates he can reach Kyoto by the next sunrise.
Heaving a sigh, Sanemi shakes the fatigue off his shoulders and starts a new journey barely off the heels of his last.
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Sanemi beats his estimate by a few hours. It’s still dark when he stumbles into Kyoto and finds an inn to settle down in for the short remainder of the night, squeezing in as much sleep as he can before his internal clock wakes him up at six a.m. sharp.
As tired as he is, his entire body protesting the strain of getting out of bed after the exertion he put it through the day before, there’s no time to waste. With breathing techniques, he can easily keep the exhaustion at bay until he can afford to rest.
To blend in, Sanemi swaps his dirty uniform for something more civilian-like—a kimono and hakama, purchased from the store just down the road. And to conceal his sword, strapped along his back, he wears a longer haori over his clothes. As opposed to his trademark white, this one is a darker grey, much more suitable for mingling in the streets of the markets and, come nightfall, the entertainment district.
Kyoto isn’t a small city by any means, though, so Sanemi doesn’t dawdle around before setting out. He has to familiarize himself with the layout of the city before it gets dark—he’s only passed through the capital a handful of times, and usually only to catch a quick bout of sleep before he moves onto the next stop.
According to the Master, Tomioka determined that the demon’s territory was within Shimabara. It’s a likely possibility, considering that yūkaku are cesspools of debauchery and anonymity for demons to exploit, but Sanemi still wants to cover all his bases while he has the chance.
He starts from the outskirts of the city, then works his way inwards—hour by hour he lingers around the gossip of the market stalls, wanders into various izakaya to eavesdrop on the conversations of other patrons, and asks indirect questions under the guise of an interested traveller.
He can be reckless and impulsive at times, but this preliminary stage of demon hunting is most critical. One wrong move, too sudden and too rash, could give him away and end his mission before he has the chance to draw his sword. If it found out he was here, the demon might scurry away to start over somewhere new, lying low so as not to be caught a second time. And if it was thorough enough in covering its tracks, it could take months for someone in the Corps to pick up its trail again. That means more casualties, more injuries, more death.
All the more reason to take this first part slow. As much as Sanemi would like to cause a commotion and shake up the whole city to force the demon out, it’s worthwhile for him to spend some time gathering as much intel as he can before he makes a move. Gain the advantage and minimize the losses.
It might be tedious, sometimes even boring, but it’s all part of the job. So he continues his slow examination of the city by ducking into the shops on his way, starting up small talk that hurts his cheeks from the smiles he has to fake, and sitting atop the stone walls that divide rows of houses to silently observe the scenery for anything out of the ordinary.
Unfortunately, by the time the sun sets on his first day in Kyoto, Sanemi is no more informed than he was when he arrived. But as the night unveils itself, so does a secret slice of the city—the center of the floating world, otherwise known as the red light district.
It’s a fitting name for such a place. From the moment he passes through the gate leading into Shimabara, everything that lies within the district—the glowing lanterns hanging from the ledges of the buildings, the shimmering shade of kimonos and fans and lipstick, the translucence of the paper-paneled windows—all of it is red. Orange red, ruby red, blood red. Pinpoints of artificial fire burning, flickering, spreading out across every corner of the city to bring it to life in the middle of the night. So bright that every time Sanemi blinks he sees an afterimage of scattered lights, following him wherever he looks.
It’s overwhelming at first. Too noisy, too crowded, too vibrant. But once Sanemi has gone down a couple of streets, it’s easier to catalog his surroundings and focus on the task at hand. He’s honed his senses to the point where he can detect the presence of a demon the second it’s within range, but no matter how hard he concentrates, nothing tips him off.
Only hours later does Sanemi remember he’s supposed to be looking for Tomioka too. He should be operating within this district if what he said in his reports still holds true, so Sanemi makes a mental note to keep an eye out for his face as he screens the crowd around him. He weaves in and out of the streets, through narrow alleyways, all the places where the light doesn’t quite reach. Even peeks down a couple of sewage pipes, listening intently for any unusual noises in case that’s how the demon is getting around the city. Still nothing.
In the teahouses, he tries his luck with the clerks, asking if they’ve noticed anything suspicious around the city at this time of night or if they’ve ever seen a man matching Tomioka’s description swing by. He’s always met with the same generic responses—no, a shake of the head, or a shrug. No matter how much he prods, they don’t budge. They don’t even look him in the eye.
Sorry, no, they say. Haven’t heard anything. Haven’t seen him, either. Would you excuse me? On and on like a broken record, so repetitive it almost seems rehearsed.
Once he’s circled the entire sector thrice and the stream of people in the streets has started to thin out, Sanemi has no choice but to call it a night. He’s finally exhausted the remaining reservoirs of his energy, the last few drops of his fuel sputtering out of existence after running on nothing but a couple measly hours of sleep over a grueling day of travel and another grueling day of exploring almost an entire city.
So Sanemi drags himself back to the inn, lays down for a quick power nap, then picks up right where he left off. Another day spent nosing around in Kyoto, another night prowling the depths of the yūkaku. He ventures into some of the brothel houses this time, pretending to be one of the many customers here to peruse his options, but no one he encounters shows any signal of being a demon or being under the influence of a demon. And, just like the people out on the street, they all tell him the same thing—that they know nothing.
In other words, it’s perfectly normal. At a first glance, it seems that nothing is amiss—that it would be reasonable for him to conclude there is no demon here and move onto a different mission.
But, at the same time, that’s exactly what tugs at the strings of Sanemi’s suspicion. Why his gut is telling him no, something is amiss. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but something about this entire operation makes him uneasy. Tomioka’s sudden, complete disappearance; the stiff, stagnant replies from the locals. Even the air in this section of the city seems off. Thicker, somehow. A sliver away from suffocating.
One more day. One more night. Sanemi tells himself if he can’t dig anything up after another twenty-four hours, he’ll call for help. It’s a blow to his pride as a pillar, but a dead end is a dead end, and even someone as stubborn as him has to know when to admit defeat when it eclipses all other options. For every day he spends here, roaming aimlessly around the city without any leads, the greater the chance that Tomioka really is dead and the demon is still at large.
Part of him can already tell it’s hopeless to wait another full day, that he won’t be able to come up with anything working by himself. Still, he allows himself that last chance—only to prove himself right when he watches the sun run across the sky while he runs across the city on a wild goose chase for something that might not even exist.
It’s the end of that third day that finds Sanemi shut up in his room at the inn, hunched over a table as he prepares a letter for Oyakata-sama. Short and simple—he’s been in Kyoto for a few days now. No luck. No sign of a demon nor Tomioka. He’ll continue investigating, but he’ll need some backup. Some fresh eyes, fresh minds.
Once he’s satisfied, Sanemi folds the paper into a neat rectangle and slips it under the sash of his hakama. He’ll have to find a safe place to send it off, somewhere outside the city so it won’t be tracked.
He glances out the window. It’s dark already, but he can’t delay any longer; he needs the letter to reach Oyakata-sama and for backup to arrive as soon as possible. If his instinct is correct, then every day—every hour—that they waste could mean another life lost.
Sanemi stands up, secures his sword at his belt, and hustles out the door. The quickest way out of the city is through the red light district, so he takes the shortcut without a second thought. By now it’s a breeze for him to navigate these quarters, eyes focused straight ahead as he walks briskly through the sea of people, veering around stalls and signposts and entertainers who try to divert his gaze.
He’s one block away from exiting Shimabara when the telltale rattle of rings up the street brings him to a halt. It announces the arrival of a procession, blocking the direction he needs to go in, so Sanemi swallows down his annoyance and follows the rest of the pedestrians off to the side to make room for whoever it is.
Not even a minute goes by when impatience starts to rumble inside him. The parade is moving at a snail’s pace, creeping forward in miniscule increments with each metallic clang of those rings, and Sanemi is on the verge of turning his back and pushing his way out of the curious crowd when the head of the procession finally comes into view and he realizes what it’s here for.
So, out of respect, he stays where he is to let them pass. It isn’t often that he stumbles upon a spectacle like this—the last time he remembers witnessing one for himself was when he was a child, sent to the city with a few measly coins to see if he could afford something from the markets. Gradually, blot by blot, the vague outline of that memory blends into the present, and before he knows it the procession is passing by right in front of him.
It’s an oiran-dōchū, held only for the most highly ranked courtesans. At the front of the line are attendants, young girls in formal red kimonos who lead the way down the center of the road with small, precise footsteps. Next are two male servants, one ahead to offer his shoulder for support and the other holding a large umbrella a few steps behind. The display tapers to an end with yet more attendants, likely courtesans in training, walking with the same deliberate rhythm set by the rest. They move slowly, almost sluggishly, purposely drawing the eye of everyone within sight.
The main attraction, of course, is the oiran. Bare feet clad in absurdly tall lacquered shoes alternate between sliding across the stone pavement, tracing figure eights across the pavement in a practiced loop. Dressed in layered kimonos, the outermost of which is made of a silk brocade with a heavily padded hem that drags along the ground. Everything is lavishly decorated, intricate designs embroidered with gold, extravagant enough to outshine everyone and everything else on the street. All Sanemi can think about is how stiff and uncomfortable it must be to parade the district dressed in such an ensemble, let alone the hassle of putting it all on in the first place.
But that’s not all. Above the neck, the oiran’s glossy dark hair is pulled up in an ornate style, arched high above the head and dressed in various accessories—long, delicate hairpins, gilded combs, flowers of folded silk. Most are brightly colored, designed to attract attention, but one in particular draws Sanemi’s eye more than most.
A simple tsumami kanzashi flower, shades of royal and navy blue, easily missed where it’s nestled between layers of black hair. Glass beads string from the petals to dangle over the oiran’s face, swaying slightly with every step. Strangely, the color of the satin reminds him of—
Those eyes. Deep dark eyes the gradient of the ocean staring right at him, trapping him like a fish between the ropes of a net. Eyes belonging to the very person he was sent here to find. Eyes so striking that if it weren’t for them Sanemi wouldn’t have recognized him at all.
Tomioka is here after all. But never in a million years could Sanemi have predicted what position he’d be in—dressed as an oiran, flaunting himself in the middle of the red light district. It’s so bizarre that for a moment Sanemi thinks he’s been struck by some obscure demon blood art technique and sent to a parallel universe, because surely this can’t be the reality he knows. Surely this can’t be the Tomioka Giyuu he knows.
The second their eyes meet, Tomioka falters. His careful step wobbles; his knee bends slightly out of place. A chink in the performance. It’s unacceptable, so Tomioka fixes his posture without a pause and averts his gaze ahead. Like nothing happened. His next step is perfect, and so is the next.
Sanemi forces his eyes to the ground. By the time he dares to look up, Tomioka has already disappeared around the corner.