Anime Crossover: Oni Samurai Artifact System — Chapter 205

Chapter 205: Yoriichi and Michikatsu, The Temptation of Returning to the Village

The thick smoke lingering over the wilderness finally began to dissipate. Morning light crested the eastern horizon, bleeding slowly across the sky and gilding the scorched, cratered grassland in a layer of pale gold.

Kobe Hikaru blinked, withdrawing his perception.

The extremely fine thread of demonic power that had been extending miles into the distance from his Crimson Demon Eyes snapped back, sinking deep into the dark depths of his pupils. The oppressive crimson glow faded from his irises.

Yes, there was still one ‘anchor’left for his Soul-Chasing Archer Transformation. When all the ash settled, of all the’demons’ in the world, only Tamayo remained. She had broken free from the Demon King’s absolute control long ago, but she was still a demon at her core. Naturally, she remained firmly within Hikaru’s lock-on range.

However, Hikaru had no intention of killing her. Instead, he had given her a strict order: guard that single bead of blood, the ‘residue of the Celestial Elixir’.

The fleeting system notification he had received earlier still echoed in his mind, bringing a rare sense of genuine shock to the deadpan Oni Samurai.

The Demon King’s final, most vital core blood undoubtedly originated from the very medicine that had mutated Kibutsuji Muzan into a monster centuries ago. Yet, merely the residue of that flawed, incomplete medicine was classified by the system as a broken ‘Divine Tool’.

Coupled with the ominous note that it was not a ‘unique item’…

Hikaru could not simply walk away and ignore it.

The only issue was the vast distance. Kyoto was currently a powder keg fraught with crises. If not for that, he would have sprouted wings and flown over immediately to retrieve the medicine himself. But precisely because of the distance and the unpredictable danger, he had left Tamayo behind. By locking onto her soul, he forced her to stay hidden at Honnō-ji Temple to guard the elixir, allowing him to monitor its exact coordinates at all times.

Eventually, he would go and claim it.

He wanted it for the potential abilities it could grant, but more, he needed it for investigation. Judging solely from the brief system panel detailing the Celestial Elixir, Hikaru could easily deduce the extraordinary, terrifying nature of the ‘doctor’ who had prescribed Muzan that medicine in the first place. There was a massive, unseen conspiracy lurking behind the birth of the Demon King.

He could not afford to walk into the future blind. Some truths were better dragged into the light.

…Well, that’s just one more reason to visit Kyoto later, Hikaru thought, his expression flat.

But he couldn’t go right now. He had far more pressing matters to attend to.

Hikaru lowered his gaze to the Yomikiri gripped loosely in his right hand.

The blade of the Nichirin sword shimmered with a faint, icy silvery-white under the morning sun. Yet, beneath that bright reflection, the dark, suffocating color of the underworld coated the steel, stretching from the razor edge all the way to the spine.

A translucent panel popped up in his vision.

[Nichirin Blade · Yomikiri: Favorability +31]

[Current Favorability: 72 / 100 (Trust)]

Overnight, the sword’s affection had skyrocketed from a meager 41 to a solid 72.

The reason was brutally simple—it had fulfilled its purpose. It had slain a demon.

Under the massive amplification of his Asura Transformation, the Yomikiri had pierced through the grotesque, ultimate flesh-abomination formed by dozens of Muzan’s converging clones. It had delivered a flawless slash that united the burning properties of the sun with the freezing death of the underworld. That single strike, carrying dual attributes, had simultaneously pierced, scorched, and frozen all five of Muzan’s brains and seven hearts.

Shortly after, separated by hundreds of miles, that same residual power had snuffed out the newborn Demon King, Onigumo.

It was the most perfect, absolute ‘demon slaying’ the Nichirin Blade had ever experienced since its forging. Its deepest, truest wish had been violently satisfied, and its favorability soared in response.

But 72 was not enough.

He was still 28 points short of perfection.

Hikaru did not sheath the weapon. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the scorched earth beneath the only dead tree left standing in the ruined wilderness, placing the Yomikiri horizontally across his knees.

Seeing this, Tsugikuni Yoriichi did not sheath his own crimson blade. The red-haired swordsman simply took a few steps back and stood guard in absolute silence, his eyes scanning the horizon.

Hikaru closed his eyes.

The Breath of the Demon activated.

His breathing slowed, becoming deep, continuous, and heavy, mimicking the relentless pull of the ocean tides. The dark Yao Qi retracted from the surface of his pale skin, acting as a vacuum that drew the scattered Turbid Qi from the surrounding air directly into his body.

The foul, impure air rushed through his mouth and nose, plunging straight into his dead lungs—the one organ that had yet to truly ‘come alive’ since his transmigration.

His Yao Qi flared.

The inhaled Turbid Qi began to rotate, condensing and swirling violently within the withered, hollow structure of his lungs.

The Breath of the Demon was no longer just the simple inhalation of oxygen; it had evolved into a method of breathing the very essence of heaven and earth. Using his dead lungs as a roaring furnace, the Turbid Qi as raw fuel, and the rhythmic pulse of his demonic energy as the bellows, he began the cycle: inhaling, refining, circulating.

With every completed breath, the freshly refined Yao Qi surged out from his chest, flooding the meridians throughout his entire body.

Simultaneously, he directed that surging energy outward, pouring it directly into the Yomikiri resting on his knees.

But this time, the infusion was different. Before, he had simply forced his energy into the blade, like a faucet blindly pouring water into a cup.

Now, it was true resonance.

The heavy rhythm of the Breath of the Demon and the dormant power of sunlight contained within the Yomikiri’s steel began to oscillate at the exact same frequency.

When Hikaru inhaled, the black-purple light running along the Yomikiri’s edge dimmed.

When he exhaled, the dark light flared brilliantly.

Dimming and brightening. Exhaling and inhaling.

It mirrored the waxing and waning of the moon, the rising and falling of the tides. In this perfect, synchronized resonance, the boundary separating the Oni Samurai and his weapon began to blur.

The system panel flickered rapidly.

[Yomikiri Favorability: 73]

The number ticked upward with every single breath.

The Yomikiri, the Undying Slash, had already reached its physical limit during the battle; all it lacked was this final, spiritual resonance with its master. And the Breath of the Demon was the perfect catalyst. They shared the same source, the same body, and the same bloody destination.

Just one point left.

Hikaru exhaled his final, deepest breath of the underworld.

A thick light resembling purple mist spilled from his lips, cascading downward and completely enveloping the space beneath the dead tree. Within that glowing fog, the blade of the Yomikiri suddenly erupted with an unmatched, blinding radiance.

Black-purple.

A shade of black-purple so absolute and pure that it appeared almost transparent. The color of the underworld devoured every single inch of the steel, spreading from the razor edge to the hilt, bleeding into the scabbard, and seeping into the very texture of the metal.

The sword was glowing. In the chill of the morning, it cast its own dark, sovereign light.

[Nichirin Blade · Yomikiri: Favorability 100 (Unity / Can be fused)]

[Unlock Full Favorability Talent: Yomikiri · Undying Annihilation — The dual attributes of sunlight and the underworld carried by the slash will completely negate the target’s regeneration ability. No matter how fast the regeneration speed, that which is severed by this sword will never recover.]

[Note: This talent is only effective against the regeneration of ‘demons’ and similar immortal existences.]

Full favorability achieved. Talent unlocked.

But the evolution did not stop there.

At the exact microsecond the Yomikiri hit maximum favorability, something deep within Hikaru’s chest violently detonated.

There was no pain. Only the sensation of something ancient and dead finally blooming into life.

Those long-silent, withered lungs—upon the Yomikiri reaching its peak—were finally completed by the last missing piece of the puzzle. A brilliant, internal radiance flared between his ribs.

It lit up. It burned steadily.

Shura Lungs. Projection, formed.

Using the Breath of the Demon as the foundation and the Yomikiri’s new talent as the guiding blueprint, his dead lungs were entirely replaced by the projection of the Asura Transformation. They became a perpetual, autonomous core, capable of operating independently to constantly inhale and refine the world’s Turbid Qi.

In an instant, the heart, kidneys, and lungs of the Asura Transformation’s visceral projection linked together, achieving a perfect internal circulation.

The heart pumped the Yao Qi. The kidneys accumulated and purified the energy. The lungs refined the raw Turbid Qi.

The three organs formed a flawless closed circuit. His Yao Qi no longer relied on crude, external infusion; it could now be generated, circulated, and multiplied entirely within the Asura Transformation itself.

Three organs complete. Circuit complete.

The reckless, damaging method he had used when slashing Muzan—forcing raw, unrefined Turbid Qi directly into the gaps of his skeletal armor—was completely obsolete. With the Shura Lungs acting as the furnace, the Breath of the Demon finally had a proper vessel to carry its immense weight.

From now on, the Asura Transformation was no longer just a hollow suit of bone armor cast by a projection. It was a true second body, possessing its own autonomous circulation system.

It was still missing two organs, and it still had minor flaws, but in that single moment, Hikaru’s Yao Qi and raw demonic power skyrocketed. His energy reserves easily shattered the limits of an eleventh-transformation demon, rapidly approaching the terrifying threshold of the twelfth transformation.

, he now possessed internal changes governed by three distinct attributes: the fire of the heart, the water of the kidneys, and the metal of the lungs. Ice belonged to the metal element; much like freezing mist, his energy could now coat a target, freezing their regenerative cells and literally severing their immortality.

Hikaru slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his hands.

Beneath his pale, cold skin, the Yao Qi flowing through his veins was visibly thicker, pulsing with a dark, heavy red light that flickered at his fingertips.

He slowly clenched his fist. Raw, cataclysmic power filled every inch of his muscles.

He relaxed his grip and let out a long, quiet breath.

The Yomikiri lay silently across his knees. After reaching full favorability, the blade had become incredibly docile. Unlike the temperamental, bloodthirsty Onikiri, the Yomikiri felt like a cold, distant moon hanging quietly in the night sky. It didn’t fight for attention; it simply existed. Waiting to be drawn. Waiting to sever things that had no right to exist.

[Yomikiri (Demonic Tool / Full Favorability)]

It had evolved from a semi-Demonic Tool into a complete, flawless Demonic Tool after fully inheriting Hikaru’s demonic power.

Hikaru stood up, sliding the Yomikiri smoothly into its scabbard, and secured it to his right hip.

With the Onikiri resting on his left and the Yomikiri on his right, the two scabbards bumped gently against each other as he moved, producing a very faint, crisp metallic clink. It sounded almost like they were greeting one another—or perhaps sizing each other up.

[Yura of the Hair expresses: Very unhappy.]

Hikaru sighed inwardly. Without a doubt, the comb hidden in his robes had been triggered again by the new arrival’s promotion.

He casually patted the spot where the red comb was tucked away. “Don’t be impatient.”

He tapped it again. “Seriously, don’t be impatient. Your time is coming.”

It was time for him to leave.

His Crimson Demon Eyes shifted, gazing far toward the direction of Musashi Province. Over there, his most beloved shrine maiden had been waiting for him for an entire month. Over there was Kaede Village. Over there was his home in this chaotic world.

But just as he took his first step…

“Mr. Hikaru.”

The quiet voice came from behind him.

Yoriichi.

The red-haired young man stood at the far edge of the wilderness. His crimson Nichirin Blade was already sheathed, the golden heat mist that usually clung to him having long since dissipated into the morning air.

His deep, calm red eyes were fixed intently toward the north.

From the northern road, the faint, rhythmic thud of hoofbeats and the murmur of human voices drifted on the wind, steadily growing louder.

Yoriichi’s Transparent World had already locked onto them. It was a small troop, roughly a dozen riders, carrying a tall banner with a striking blue background. The family crest embroidered in the center of the banner was a distinct, sun-like pattern.

The crest of the Tsugikuni Clan.

Yoriichi’s grip tightened imperceptibly on his scabbard. His usually placid expression shifted, clouded by an extremely complex, heavy emotion that even he could not properly articulate.

“Someone is coming,” Yoriichi said, his voice dropping low.

Hikaru’s Crimson Demon Eyes swept casually toward the northern road.

With his Shura Lungs completing the three-viscera circulation, the normal coverage range of his Soul-Chasing Archer perception network had expanded exponentially. He easily captured the detailed information of the approaching troop.

The man leading the riders was older than Yoriichi, appearing to be in his early thirties. His facial structure was strikingly similar to Yoriichi’s—perhaps five or six parts identical—yet his features were noticeably colder, harder, and sharper. A heavy, suffocating gloom, accumulated over years of bitter obsession, pressed deeply between his brows.

His posture in the saddle was excellent. No, ‘excellent’ was an understatement.

The man’s physical fitness, muscle density, and center of gravity were already at the absolute peak of what an ordinary human samurai could achieve. He even vaguely possessed an extraordinary, almost unnatural control over his body movements that mirrored Yoriichi’s own breathing techniques.

It was just vastly weaker. He possessed neither the Transparent World nor a true Breathing Style.

But that primitive, unpolished talent was obvious. Looking at the two of them was like looking at two fruits born from the exact same branch; one had grown effortlessly while bathed in brilliant sunlight, while the other had grown in the cold, bitter shadows, gritting its teeth to survive.

Hikaru glanced sideways at Yoriichi.

“Your brother?”

Yoriichi remained silent. The pause lasted longer than the time it took him to answer all of Hikaru’s usual questions combined.

“…Yes.”

He finally spoke a single word. His voice was softer, more fragile than Hikaru had ever heard it.

Tsugikuni Michikatsu.

The eldest son of the Tsugikuni Clan. Yoriichi’s older brother. The rightful heir who, through sheer, agonizing effort and dark obsession, had molded himself into one of the most outstanding swordsmen the clan had ever produced.

It was just that being ‘one of the best’ was never enough when compared to the absolute, god-like perfection of his younger brother.

That was the very reason Yoriichi had left home in the first place. He had never wanted to cast a shadow over Michikatsu. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass the brother he loved. So he had remained silent for over a decade, wandering far away from his family.

Until today.

Perhaps the apocalyptic commotion from last night’s battle had simply been too massive to ignore. The Earth Barrier had swallowed the land across three entire provinces, and the terrifying shockwaves of Yao Qi from Hikaru’s Asura Transformation had shattered the clouds for hundreds of miles. No competent samurai stationed in the vicinity could possibly ignore such a blatant anomaly.

Let alone the standing army of the Tsugikuni Clan, who guarded the tense border between Musashi and Kozuke Provinces on behalf of the Hojo Clan. Let alone Michikatsu himself.

The riders were getting closer.

Hikaru reached out and patted Yoriichi firmly on the shoulder.

“Your business. Handle it yourself.”

Without another word, the Oni Samurai turned on his heel and strode toward Musashi Province, his posture radiating absolute refusal to get involved. He was pragmatic enough to know that stepping into the middle of a messy, decade-old family drama between two superhuman brothers was a terrible idea.

However, just before he vanished over the ridge, Hikaru paused and looked up at the sky.

High above, a jet-black Kasugai Crow was flapping its wings aggressively, banking away toward the distant horizon.

Yoriichi watched Hikaru’s gray-clad figure disappear into the morning mist.

Once he was alone, Yoriichi slowly turned back to face the northern road.

In the pale morning light, the small troop finally crested the hill and appeared fully in his field of vision.

The man at the lead rode a massive black warhorse. He wore dark gray samurai hunting clothes, a finely crafted tachi secured tightly at his waist. The scabbard of that sword was heavily worn and nicked—the obvious scars left by years of brutal, life-or-death combat.

His face was carved from cold stone, the deep lines around his mouth highlighting the uncanny resemblance to Yoriichi.

Michikatsu saw the red-haired young man standing alone in the middle of the dirt road.

His horse immediately slowed its pace.

Then, it came to a complete halt.

The two brothers stared at each other through the drifting morning mist, separated by a mere distance of several dozen steps.

Michikatsu’s dark, intense gaze instantly locked onto the flame-shaped birthmark resting on the left side of Yoriichi’s forehead. His pupils contracted sharply, a micro-expression of complex, painful recognition.

His lips parted slightly. His jaw worked as if he wanted to speak, to yell, to demand answers.

But in the end, Michikatsu only tightened his leather reins until his knuckles turned white. He said nothing.

Yoriichi did not speak either.

His deep red eyes calmly, quietly looked up at his older brother—the solitary figure he had looked up to and worshipped since childhood. The brother who, one day, had simply stopped looking back at him.

Even though Yoriichi possessed a divine talent that no mortal could ever hope to rival, in his own heart, he had always been the little brother looking up at Michikatsu.

The morning light warmed the dew-covered grass between them. The wind howled softly.

Neither of them dared to speak first.

At that exact same moment.

Far away, at the hidden headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps, within the Ubuyashiki estate.

In the quiet main hall, the oil lamp had burned down to its very end. The final, desperate flame of the wick struggled against the melting wax, casting Ubuyashiki Rikiya’s frail, trembling shadow onto the plain white shoji doors.

Ubuyashiki Rikiya was kneeling formally on a silk cushion.

His hands rested palms-down on his knees.

Although his eyes were completely blind, he could feel a deep, impossible change occurring within his own flesh.

On the backs of his hands, which had long been covered by the grotesque, rotting purple corrosion of his family’s disease, the markings were receding.

It was happening extremely slowly—so slowly that if he hadn’t been paying absolute attention to his own pulse, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

But the purple rot was undeniably fading.

The curse of the Ubuyashiki family.

That vile, blood-bound curse that had tortured his lineage for five hundred agonizing years, imposed upon them by the heavens simply because they shared the same origin and blood as Kibutsuji Muzan—it was finally breaking.

Rikiya’s frail body began to tremble violently.

He could feel it in his soul. That heavy, rusted bloodline chain that had bound the Ubuyashiki family to early graves for over twenty generations… one end of it had just shattered into dust.

Muzan was dead.

At the very least, the specific, monstrous existence known as ‘Kibutsuji Muzan’, the progenitor demon who had personally carved this curse into the Ubuyashiki bloodline five centuries ago, had been erased from the world.

The source of the chain had been severed. The curse had lost its anchor.

It would not disappear overnight. The dark toxins accumulated over five hundred years had already seeped deep into his bone marrow, into his blood, into every single cell of his body. To completely purge it might take years, perhaps even the rest of his natural life.

But it was receding. It was no longer consuming him.

Rikiya’s right hand slowly clenched into a fist, then relaxed.

His fingers had regained sensation.

His fingertips, which had been entirely numb and dead to the world for over a decade, were now itching fiercely, burning with the painful, glorious tingling sensation of flesh recovering from severe frostbite.

He slowly raised his head.

His cloudy, dead eyes actually managed to vaguely register the flickering, dying candlelight sitting on the low table in front of him.

Although it was nothing more than a blurry, indistinct mass of warm light and dark shadow, he had truly seen it.

Rikiya’s pale lips parted. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a very subtle, trembling arc.

He wore an expression that even he himself could not put into words. It was the face of a drowning man who had been holding his breath in the crushing dark for far too long, finally breaking the surface of the water to take his first, agonizingly sweet breath of air.

Five hundred years.

The Ubuyashiki family had bled and waited for five hundred years.

Those countless ancestors who had died young, generation after generation. Those who had withered away in bed, coughing up blood, generation after generation. Those who had forcefully passed down their bitter hatred and their impossible mission to their crying children, generation after generation.

The day they had all prayed for had finally arrived.

“…It is over,” Rikiya whispered.

His voice was incredibly soft, so fragile that even the loyal maid kneeling just outside the sliding door barely caught the words.

But she saw the expression on her Master’s face through the crack in the door. She saw the tears. So she asked nothing, merely bowing her head and silently stepping back to give him peace.

However…

“Pass down my orders.”

Rikiya opened his eyes again. His voice was still weak, still raspy from disuse, but the perpetual, underlying tremble of pain was gone. It was calm. It was steady. It was the voice of a man who had finally stood up after a lifetime of illness.

“Abolish the upcoming Final Selection at Wisteria Mountain.”

“And immediately summon all active Demon Slayer Corps members to return to headquarters.”

He took a deep breath. “For those who wish to lay down their swords and leave the Corps now that the progenitor is dead, provide them with enough money to live comfortably. Let them go with our deepest gratitude. But for those who are willing to stay… tell them to sharpen their blades. Tell them to continue searching, continue hunting.”

“The demons of this world… are not all dead yet.”

Yes. Although Kibutsuji Muzan was dead, the lingering instincts tied to his bloodline told Rikiya that there were still evil demons running rampant, hiding in the dark corners of the human world.

Evil had to be eradicated completely, down to the last root.

Over the long, bloody centuries, the true goal of the Demon Slayer Corps had evolved. It was no longer just about killing Muzan; it was about protecting the weak from the dark. Today was merely the end of a brutal phase. There was still a future to fight for.

The maid bowed deeply, acknowledging the heavy orders, and quickly retreated down the hallway.

Rikiya was left alone in the quiet main hall.

The candle flame finally burned through the last of its wick and flickered out with a soft pop, plunging the room into darkness.

In that dark room, Rikiya’s right eye, which was miraculously regaining its sight, shimmered with unshed tears.

He whispered a single sentence into the empty air—words meant only for the ghosts of the ancestors who were no longer there to hear them.

“The hardest step has already been taken for us.”

“The remaining path… we will walk ourselves.”

He lowered his head. “I await your guidance… Kobe Hikaru-sama. No, that is incorrect…”

“Kishin Mitama no Mikoto-sama.”

In his blurred, recovering vision, Rikiya slowly unfolded a small, crumpled letter he had been hiding in his palm.

It was the final message sent by Hikaru via his Kasugai Crow.

The letter detailed the existence of the Celestial Elixir’s residue. More terrifyingly, it explicitly mentioned the system’s warning: it was not a unique item.

Since the elixir was not unique, it proved that in other lands, or perhaps in the future, there might be similar Demon Kings. And where there were Demon Kings, there would be ‘Demons’.

To slay demons, the world still needed the Demon Slayer Corps.

From this day forward, the Demon Slayer Corps would remain the sword that protected humanity, and the Ubuyashiki family would remain its leaders. But behind the scenes, standing in the shadows above them all, there would undoubtedly be one more ‘person’ guiding their blades.

Or rather, one god.

Naturally, many things would have to adapt and change with the shifting times.

Outside the bustling headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps, the young Kakushi, Butterfly, suddenly paused in her duties. She dropped the basket of medical supplies she was carrying and looked up at the clearing sky.

She stared intently toward the distant north, the exact direction where Kobe Hikaru had departed.

“Kobe Hikaru-sama… Master Hikaru…” she murmured, her small hands clenching into tight fists. “The next time we meet, I will definitely become stronger. Strong enough to at least be of some help to you.”

Beneath the morning sun, the young girl made her silent vow.