Chapter Text
As the applause died down, Takeshi tensed his muscles and readied himself for the next part of the show.
A recruitment campaign that utilized a Hashira on roller blades and pillars of fire lining the road had not been on his list of things to see in his lifetime. Let alone participate in. But he also understood: the people were fearful of Muzan’s growing expansion. They had to inspire hope, one way or another. Even if it meant hosting this show late into the evening.
The joint Demon Slayer-Marines parade had already roused the onlookers quite a bit, and Takeshi could sense the anticipation in the air. As the Prime Minister began his next set of remarks, Takeshi made sure he was firm on his skates and gripped the handles of his twin machetes strapped to his back. His shoulder plates gleamed with might, the polish still fresh, and the treble clef on his chest made a silent and proud declaration of his roots.
“And now, my friends, an even greater surprise!” the Prime Minister smiled at the crowd. “His first time in battle was at the Nerima Perimeter, when Muzan attempted to make his way even further into our beautiful country. He has since then slayed many demons, and has saved some of you personally!”
The music was beginning to crescendo. Takeshi readied himself.
“Please welcome, with appreciation and gratitude, Sound Hashira Takeshi Aiza!”
As he had planned, the Prime Minister’s statement ended right on the musical notes in the song that signaled Takeshi’s entrance. Leaning forward, Takeshi skated out of the curtains, onto the top of the small hill, then began zooming down the street like a dart.
The crowd went wild, with some members even throwing flowers as fire erupted from the pyrotechnics on the sides of the road. Takeshi kept his head down and his hands on his machetes, carefully watching the length of the road. Then, right as he arrived in front of the Prime Minister’s podium, Takeshi stood up and unsheathed his machetes. With the expertise of a doctor and the flawless grace of a break dancer, Takeshi twirled his machetes as he spun around and around, hyping up the crowd even more with his display of strength and skill.
“The best way to get more people to join the fight against Muzan is to show them the flashy side of things!” Kengo, his master, had said.
Takeshi continued skating around the stage and executed more spins and swings of his machetes to keep up the flair and flashiness of his performance. Eventually, his performance came to an end. But the crowd’s fervor did not.
“Join the fight!” the Prime Minister shook his fist from the stage. “We all have a place in this war!”
The crowd continued to cheer, with some members breaking off to line up at the Demon Slayer Corps and military recruitment tables. Takeshi paid them no mind as he replaced his roller blades with his boots and walked away from the stage. On one hand, he was glad to have had an opportunity to show his fiery determination and improved athleticism. On the other hand, many of the government officials running this campaign were old, out-of-touch fools.
“Well done, Takeshi,” Lady Tamayo smiled at him as he re-entered the dressing area.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I just wish my sister had been here to see it.”
“Your sister would be proud, Takeshi,” Tsubaki smiled at him, polishing another sword.
Takeshi, although tired, was grateful for their support. The past year had been taxing on all of them. And even Emi herself had volunteered to help with a raid on the same night this show was going on.
“Any word from Emi?” Takeshi asked.
“Yes, actually,” Lady Tamayo’s eyes brightened up. “It appears their raid was a success. The human parents of Demon Kaori have been rescued, and they are already back at Camp Kumotori.”
“So what’s next?” Tsubaki said.
“The other Hashira and I are still deliberating that,” Lady Tamayo replied. “But first and foremost is to allow them a full recovery. They are going to need it. This is the first time Muzan has ever allowed the parents of his demon servants to live, so we must be thorough in determining his motive.”
“Would I be able to help guard them?” Takeshi asked.
Lady Tamayo smiled. “I’m sure they’d be more than happy to be under your protection, Takeshi. Now come, all of you. We must return to camp quickly.”
………………………………………
Miike’s eyes began to feel heavy, and the cushioned seat underneath him suddenly began to feel unnaturally comfortable. He pinched his wrist, trying to stay awake. But try as he might, the allure of sleep was too tantalizing, and he succumbed to the relaxing force.
That is, it would’ve been truly relaxing, were it not coming from a Blood Demon Art.
The Illusionist hid a smile as he returned the young boy’s ticket back to his coat pocket. Humans were all the same. Never resisting a chance to eat, drink, and be merry. The same thing applied to sleep. Humans could never resist, being the weaklings that they were.
The Illusionist’s stolen work uniform provided a firm mask of professionalism over his malice, and his olive green eyes betrayed no ill intent as he continued with his task.
“Your ticket, please,” he said to the next passenger. The passenger obliged, and soon gave in to the same spell that was activated the moment he punched the ticket.
Down the car he went, putting all of the passengers into a simple and quiet sleep. Food preparation had to be done with great care, after all. He wouldn’t want the humans resisting his comrade’s feasting. Especially the Flame Hashira.
The Illusionist arrived at the last passenger, then stopped short.
Wasn’t this chair where the Flame Hashira had been sitting?
The Illusionist barely ducked in time as Watari’s blade barely skimmed his hat.
“Hello, demon,” Watari growled. “Release these people from your spell. Now.”
But the Illusionist just cackled, his mouth opening to reveal a distinct set of canine teeth.
“You fool,” he seethed. “My master’s will is law. Soon, you and these humans will be devoured by my comrade, the Dreamer, and our master will grant us more power!”
Watari narrowed his eyes as he zeroed in on the Illusionist’s neck.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said.
“Just try and make me, boy,” the demon’s teeth dripped with spit.
Watari obliged without a second thought, lunging forward and twisting his sword upward in a precise, surgical arc that cleared all the civilians on both sides. But the Illusionist dodged his attack, appearing behind him with his claws bared and his dagger in hand.
“Blood Demon Art, Contrition!”
All of a sudden, the air around Watari began to change and another figure appeared against a backdrop of a violet sky. Watari’s heart began to pound even harder in his chest, and not from battlefield exhilaration.
It was Kousei. Alive and whole. And human. No longer a demon.
“Hey Watari,” Kousei’s voice echoed as the visage smiled at him. “What’s up?”
Watari opened his mouth to reply. Then, he sensed the reality of the impending doom behind him.
“Flame Breathing, Second Form, Rising Scorching Sun!”
The Illusionist was unable to register Watari’s mental breakthrough in time as the flaming blade sliced his dagger arm clean off, the flesh disappearing and the dagger clattering to the ground. The Illusionist screamed and flailed his other clawed hand at Watari, almost grazing the young swordsman’s cheek. But Watari sidestepped in time, remembering his Hashira training with every tension of his muscle and swing of his blade.
“Flame Breathing, Third Form, Blazing Universe!”
The Illusionist’s fate was sealed as Watari’s blade slashed through his neck at a downward angle, decapitating him in one swift stroke. The Illusionist’s olive green eyes began to turn into a ghastly sky blue color as the Blood Demon Art magic left his body and his soul began to fade away.
“What? How?” he writhed as his head rolled towards the back door of the train car.
His head and body were both disintegrated by the time he reached the foot of the door.
Watari breathed in and out slowly, calming his nerves and recollecting his resolve. He then sheathed his sword and looked around the train car. All of the passengers were still asleep, and none of them had been injured. But that was the easy part. The second demon was still aboard the train. And if what the Illusionist had boasted was any indication, that demon was the true threat that had to be dealt with.
Looking through the passengers, Watari saw Miike’s head leaned back onto his grandfather’s left arm. His heart sank as he remembered Kousei’s first time meeting the young man. It had been at the Gala concert, when Kaori had been unable to show up due to a fall she had suffered. Miike’s disrespect of her skill had been what motivated Kousei to play in her absence.
By the mercy of the Lord above, Miike would be protected from his former friend’s vengeance.
“Stay still right there, young man,” Watari whispered. “You will be safe soon.”
Without another word, Watari departed the passenger car and continued towards the front of the train.
He had to find the Dreamer.
………………………………………
The Dreamer wanted to cry.
Not tears of sadness. But of joy.
Pure, sadistic, vile joy.
His subjects were all asleep, and soon the consumption would begin.
His dark gray cape flapped behind him, and his hands bore markings which read Lower Moon Three on the palms. His shoulder-length maroon red hair was soon to be stained an additional layer of red with the blood of his victims, and his purple eyes were alive with demonic menace and hunger. His tailored blue suit made him appear as another innocent citizen. But innocent was the last word anyone would use to describe this agent of chaos that reveled in the work Lord Muzan gave him.
“Silly little humans,” he chuckled to himself as he stood atop the lead car of the train. The driver and conductor were already fast asleep, their hands stuck in the position of driving the vehicle forward, and the pathetic ‘autopilot’ feature engaged.
Autopilot. What a joke. The humans of the Taisho period had been disgustingly weak as it was, but these humans of the modern era? Filled with artificial sweeteners and trapped in instant gratification?
“Truly a fascinating and fickle species,” the Dreamer continued droning on, enjoying the view as the train flew through the countryside. “One minute, slaving away in a gym or office like there is no tomorrow. The next? Gorging themselves on food preserved by ice boxes and wishing for more things to idolize.”
The Dreamer sighed as he looked to the sky and spread out his hands in glee. Muzan had bestowed the power of dreams upon him, and had warned him not to make the same mistake as the previous wielder of the power. The Dreamer had no need to worry about that. He’d gone over his flawless strategy numerous times. Instead of enlisting the help of untrustworthy, bickering children, he had just infected all the tickets straightaway and had his brother do the heavy work.
Two demons. Over a hundred morsels. And no Demon Slayer or military agents on board.
“Sleep, my little delicacies,” the Dreamer celebrated. “Sleep, and suffer no more as you enter into my eternal dream!”