Demon Slayer: Rewriting Tragedies with Super Vision — Chapter 177

Chapter 177: Wind and Serpent: Constant Provocation

Aside from the three newly promoted members, the veteran Hashira had all, at one point or another, suffered through Giyuu’s miraculous “art of language.” They knew his track record. So, even though his blunt statement sounded like a broad-spectrum insult aimed at everyone in the room, the older members barely batted an eye. No veins popped; no hands reached for swords.

What else can we do? The collective sigh of the veteran Hashira was almost audible. There was simply no helping it.

Thus, everyone except Sabito fell into a synchronized, expectant silence. They leaned back, fully prepared to watch the drama unfold. Without anyone officially declaring it, surviving Giyuu’s conversational trainwrecks had essentially become a bizarre, unspoken tradition to “welcome” fresh blood into the highest ranks of the Demon Slayer Corps.

Muichiro blinked his mint-green eyes, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. The young Mist Hashira remained in his usual daze, the sheer arrogance of the statement flying completely over his head. Sanemi and Obanai, however, were a different story. Their eyes immediately locked onto Giyuu, radiating a chilling, unapologetic hostility.

Sanemi’s jaw locked. A vein pulsed violently at his temple. His scarred fingers twitched toward his scabbard, but a sudden memory flashed through his mind—Giyuu and Sabito fighting side-by-side to save his life in the past. Gritting his teeth, the Wind Hashira swallowed his explosive temper, though his glare could have melted iron.

Beside him, Obanai narrowed his mismatched eyes. The Serpent Hashira naturally despised drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He glanced sideways, noting that Sanemi was forcefully holding back and the air-headed Muichiro was still staring at the clouds. Worse, the veteran Hashira were watching them with poorly concealed amusement. Refusing to be the opening act for their entertainment, Obanai clicked his tongue and temporarily suppressed his venom.

Just as the veins on both Sanemi and Obanai’s foreheads threatened to burst, Sabito finally intervened. The peach-haired Water Hashira slammed his hand down onto Giyuu’s messy black hair, forcing his fellow disciple into a stiff bow.

“Sorry about him,” Sabito offered a strained, apologetic smile. “This guy’s brain doesn’t quite work right when it comes to talking. He really didn’t mean to say something so incredibly offensive…”

Before Sabito could even finish smoothing things over, Giyuu opened his mouth and delivered the killing blow.

“Is there a problem with what I said?” Giyuu asked, his tone perfectly flat. “They really are different from us.”

In Giyuu’s mind, this was a simple, obvious fact. Their personalities, their looks, their ages, their uniform modifications—everything was fundamentally different. What was the issue?

Sabito’s soul nearly left his body. Why the hell didn’t I just cover his mouth?!

The moment the words left Giyuu’s lips, the heavy pressure on his skull vanished. Giyuu blinked and looked up. Sabito had already retracted his hand, silently sliding several paces away to distance himself from the impending blast zone.

Left entirely to his own devices, Giyuu expressionlessly met the increasingly murderous glares of Sanemi and Obanai. His deep blue pupils reflected nothing but pure, unadulterated confusion. He truly did not understand why they looked ready to commit murder.

Muichiro tilted his head, still genuinely trying to decipher Giyuu’s bizarre train of thought. Sanemi, bound by his life-saving debt, was practically vibrating with suppressed rage, his breathing ragged. But Obanai? Obanai had absolutely no prior history with this socially inept fool. The Serpent Hashira’s grip on his scabbard tightened to the point his knuckles turned white. He was a hair’s breadth away from exploding.

“Am I not just stating facts?” Giyuu murmured, genuinely bewildered by the heavy atmosphere.

That single, deadpan sentence was the spark that hit the powder keg.

Giyuu was just breathing, existing in his own little world. Sanemi and Obanai, however, were thoroughly convinced this man had been mocking them from the very start.

The Wind and Serpent Hashira locked eyes for a fraction of a second. A silent agreement passed between them. They shifted their weight, preparing to stand up and beat some manners into their senior colleague.

Before their knees could even leave the tatami mats, a heavy, unyielding weight clamped down on both of their shoulders. Akira stood behind them, his hands pressing them firmly back into place.

Sanemi and Obanai whipped their heads around, shooting angry, questioning glares at the Sound Hashira.

Akira met their hostility with a calm, pragmatic look. “Don’t wreck the master’s house,” he whispered, his voice smooth but carrying an obvious weight. “There’s a sparring session scheduled at the end of the meeting. Save it for the courtyard.”

The two newly minted Hashira glanced toward the front of the room. Kagaya sat perfectly upright, a serene, gentle smile gracing his lips—though there was a faint, suspicious twinkle in his blind eyes, almost as if he, too, was enjoying the show.

Sanemi clicked his tongue, and Obanai gave a curt nod. Regardless of how infuriating Giyuu was, the man was a recognized Hashira. Taking him down wouldn’t be a simple task, and a brawl in these confined quarters would absolutely destroy the master’s estate. Out of deep respect for the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, the two men swallowed their fury, letting it simmer just beneath the surface.

With the crisis averted, the biannual Hashira meeting officially resumed.

Kagaya’s soothing voice washed over the room as he formally recognized the three newest pillars of their organization. Sanemi was officially titled the Wind Hashira; Obanai, the Serpent Hashira; and Muichiro, the Mist Hashira. A warm, proud smile spread across Kagaya’s face as he announced a monumental milestone. For the first time in the long, blood-soaked history of the Demon Slayer Corps, their highest ranks had surpassed the traditional limit of nine. They now stood strong with an unmatched eleven Hashira.

Following a stirring, heartfelt speech that reinvigorated everyone’s resolve, and the routine distribution of patrol regions, the formal proceedings concluded.

It was finally time for the sparring session. The exact moment Sanemi and Obanai had been ruthlessly anticipating.

The group relocated to the expansive, gravel-lined courtyard of the Ubuyashiki estate. The crisp morning air did nothing to cool the burning tension.

Before anyone else could even stretch, Sanemi snatched a heavy wooden bokken from the weapon rack. He marched straight into the center of the yard, pointing the blunt tip directly at his target.

“Hey! Tomioka Giyuu, right?” Sanemi barked, his scarred face twisting into a feral grin. “Let’s fight. Come down here and let me see exactly what makes us so damn different!”

Sanemi was a powder keg on a good day. Having his pride repeatedly trampled on by Giyuu’s deadpan commentary had pushed him to the absolute brink. The fact that he hadn’t just tackled the Water Hashira into the dirt was a miracle of self-restraint.

The veteran Hashira gathered around the edges of the courtyard, eager to gauge the combat prowess of their newest Wind Hashira. But true to form, Giyuu’s reaction instantly shattered their expectations.

Giyuu stood perfectly still, his expression as placid as a stagnant pond. He cast a mild, unbothered glance at the wooden sword leveled at his chest, then spoke in a slow, unhurried drawl.

“I won’t fight you. If you want to spar, go find Sabito.”

A collective, baffled silence fell over the courtyard.

In Giyuu’s mind, this was a perfectly logical delegation. Sabito was the one who loved crossing swords with new and diverse opponents. Giyuu was simply being a good friend, graciously offering Sabito the first chance to test the newcomers.

A few paces away, Sabito’s eye twitched violently. Gee, thanks a lot, you idiot.

Realizing he was about to be inexplicably dragged into Giyuu’s self-made mess, Sabito made a ruthless, split-second decision. He grabbed a wooden sword from the rack, shoved it roughly into Giyuu’s hand, and planted his other hand firmly between Giyuu’s shoulder blades.

With a powerful shove, Sabito launched his fellow disciple directly into the makeshift arena before Giyuu could even process the betrayal.

Stumbling forward a few paces, Giyuu was suddenly isolated from the crowd.

Sanemi didn’t waste a single breath. The moment Giyuu was in range, the Wind Hashira lunged. He had to attack now. If he spent even one more second trying to hold a conversation with this infuriating man, Sanemi was genuinely afraid he might suffer an aneurysm.

Caught entirely off guard, Giyuu was immediately forced on the defensive. Sanemi closed the distance in a blur, his bokken whistling through the air in a vicious, sweeping arc.

Clack!

Wood slammed against wood. Despite being pushed backward by the sheer ferocity of the Wind Hashira’s assault, Giyuu’s reflexes were flawless. He parried a rapid flurry of overhead strikes and sweeping leg sweeps, his movements fluid and unpanicked. As the seconds ticked by, Giyuu’s steady, flowing combat style began to shine. He absorbed the kinetic impact of Sanemi’s rage-fueled strikes, redirecting the force and gradually adapting to the blistering pace. Slowly but surely, the Water Hashira leveled the playing field, turning a desperate retreat into a masterclass of defensive footwork.

Trading blows in the center of the yard, Sanemi felt the heavy, unyielding resistance behind Giyuu’s parries. On the sidelines, Obanai watched the exchange with sharp, analytical eyes. Both men silently came to the same conclusion.

Giyuu’s mouth might have been a weapon of mass irritation, but his swordsmanship was the real deal. His strength and technique were absolutely worthy of the Hashira title.

Still, combat prowess was no excuse for walking around insulting people. The memory of Giyuu’s deadpan arrogance flared in Sanemi’s mind, fueling his aggression. The Wind Hashira roared, stepping into his strikes with even greater torque, his offensive becoming wildly ruthless.

Against any ordinary opponent, this overwhelming, storm-like assault would have forced a fatal opening. The sheer pressure would have caused them to flinch or misstep. Unfortunately for Sanemi, he was facing Tomioka Giyuu—the absolute pinnacle of defensive swordsmanship among the current Hashira.

Giyuu was a fortress of flowing water. Aside from the towering Gyoumei and the physically monstrous Akira—both of whom could shatter guards through sheer, overwhelming brute force—no one in the Corps could easily crack Giyuu’s defense through technique alone. The newly promoted Sanemi, despite his blistering speed and ferocity, was no exception. His wooden blade crashed against Giyuu’s defenses again and again, finding zero purchase.

However, a proper beatdown required a group effort. How could one man alone constitute a proper mobbing?

Spotting an opportunity for some prime entertainment, Akira casually strolled over to where Obanai was intensely analyzing the bout.

“Iguro,” Akira murmured, leaning casually against a wooden pillar. “You’re not going to step in?”

Obanai didn’t take his eyes off the sparring match. “I’m angry,” the Serpent Hashira replied flatly, his tone laced with venom, “but I’m not quite angry enough to abandon my pride and gang up on someone in a one-on-one spar.” He cast a sideways glare at Akira, noting the Sound Hashira’s poorly concealed smirk.

“Fair enough,” Akira chuckled softly. “But waiting until Giyuu is exhausted from dealing with Sanemi just to challenge him afterward isn’t exactly a badge of honor either. Are you really content to just sit on all that simmering anger and wait for some hypothetical future opportunity?”

Obanai’s grip on his scabbard tightened.

Akira leaned in slightly, expertly fanning the flames. “Besides, with those eyes of yours, you’ve probably already realized the truth. On your own, it would be incredibly difficult for you to break through Giyuu’s defense. But if you team up with Sanemi right now? You might actually get a hit in.”

Obanai fell into a heavy silence. As much as he hated to admit it, Akira was entirely correct.

Due to his innate physical condition, Obanai’s raw muscular strength was relatively weak compared to the other men in the Corps. He had clawed his way to the rank of Hashira purely by polishing his bizarre, slithering sword techniques to absolute perfection. But Giyuu’s nearly flawless, water-tight defense was the ultimate counter to a fighter who relied on precision over power. If Obanai faced Giyuu in a strict one-on-one, his strikes would be deflected just as easily. He wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of a prolonged, high-intensity clash like Sanemi was currently enjoying.

“Action speaks louder than words,” Akira whispered, his tone highly persuasive. “Go ahead. Every single one of us standing on these sidelines has been provoked by Giyuu’s mouth at least once. If you jump in and gang up on him now, I promise you, we will all completely understand. Not a single person here will judge you.”

Seeing the hesitation crack in Obanai’s mismatched eyes, Akira ruthlessly poured the last bit of fuel onto the fire.

Hearing this, Obanai slowly turned his head to look at the surrounding veteran Hashira. Akira hadn’t spoken loudly, but with their enhanced senses, everyone present had heard the exchange perfectly well.

As Obanai’s gaze swept over them, the veterans responded. One by one, they offered subtle, encouraging nods. They had all been victims of Giyuu’s disastrous communication skills. They deeply, spiritually understood the Serpent Hashira’s burning desire to smack the stoic look off his face. And since this was just a friendly sparring session, bending the rules for a two-on-one beatdown wasn’t entirely out of the question.

Seeing the unanimous silent approval, Obanai discarded his hesitation. He smoothly plucked a wooden sword from the rack, his mismatched eyes locking onto the swirling melee in the courtyard. Waiting for the perfect split-second opening, the Serpent Hashira darted forward, smoothly injecting himself into the fray.

And just like that, the beautiful, chaotic scene of a coordinated mobbing against Tomioka Giyuu was fully realized.

Watching the two newcomers relentlessly hound the defensive Water Hashira, Akira crossed his arms, a highly satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Perfect, Akira thought, his eyes gleaming with amusement. This is exactly what I wanted to see.