It had been fifteen days since I returned from the Final Selection.
Fifteen quiet, uneventful days.
I had told Junjiro everything. How I survived. How many demons I killed. How I helped others. He didn't say much at first—just nodded, like he expected me to come back in one piece.
Then he made dinner.
It was a feast.
Grilled fish. Mountain vegetables. Pickled roots. Hot soup. Rice that steamed like clouds.
"I'm not celebrating your survival," Junjiro said.
He handed me a second bowl.
"I just happened to make enough for ten people."
"…Right."
That was the first time I saw him eat more than two bowls. That was his version of smiling.
Now, I was outside his house. Doing slow, steady sword swings.
Again.
And again.
Junjiro sat on the porch, sipping tea like some retired warrior monk. He didn't say anything for a while.
Then he looked up at the sky and muttered, "Any minute now."
"Any minute what?"
He didn't answer.
So I kept swinging.
Then I saw a small shape in the distance. A man. Walking slowly. With a giant cloth bundle on his back. His head was completely covered in a weird mask.
He looked like a walking accident.
"…What is that."
"That," Junjiro said, sipping his tea, "is your swordsmith."
The man walked straight up to us, dropped the bundle like it weighed a hundred kilos, and bowed stiffly.
"I AM HAGANEZUKA! MASTER SWORDSMITH OF THE DEMON SLAYER CORPS!"
He yelled like he was trying to wake up a mountain.
Junjiro muttered, "Here we go."
Haganezuka marched past me and stormed into the house.
"We're opening the sword in the living room! I'm not doing this outside like a common roadside peddler!"
Junjiro sighed. "Of course not. Come on, Ryo."
We sat around the small table.
Junjiro poured tea.
Haganezuka ignored it.
He slammed the wrapped blade onto the table like it owed him money.
"I put everything into this sword. Sweat, tears, rage, maybe even blood. Not mine though. Probably from the guy who dropped a hammer on my foot last week."
He began unwrapping it like it was the most dramatic birthday gift in the world.
"Before we begin," he said, narrowing his eyes through the mask, "we must pray."
Junjiro blinked. "Pray?"
"Yes. Pray that this sword does not turn BLACK."
He turned to me.
"If it turns BLACK, I will KILL you and I will personally bury you in the woods behind this house. HEADFIRST."
"Why?"
"Because I made a blade a couple of months ago for some kid with a forehead mark. The sword turned BLACK. I nearly passed out from rage."
"…What?"
He grabbed my collar.
"I'M SERIOUS. BLACK BLADES ARE A CURSE. I CANNOT STAND THEM. EVERY TIME I MAKE A BLADE, IT'S PERFECT—AND THEN THE COLOR APPEARS AND RUINS EVERYTHING."
Junjiro cleared his throat.
"Enough yelling. You'll scare the crows."
"There are no crows here," Haganezuka said, glaring at him through his mask.
Junjiro stared back, sipping.
They had a silent argument with their eyes for a good thirty seconds.
Then Haganezuka turned back to me and thrust the sword into my arms.
It was heavy. But perfectly balanced. Smooth to the touch. The handle was wrapped in deep grey threads.
"Go on," Haganezuka whispered. "Unsheathe it."
I took a deep breath.
Then I drew the blade.
The metal gleamed under the sun. For a second, it looked silver. Then—slowly—the color began to shift.
Bright.
Blue.
Light blue.
Brilliant. Cool. Clean. Like the sky before dawn.
It spread like waves across the surface.
I held my breath.
Haganezuka did too.
Then he screamed.
"IT'S NOT BLACK!!!"
He jumped in the air and spun around three times like a wild raccoon. "YES! YES! I'M A GENIUS! I KNEW IT! LOOK AT THAT COLOR!"
"…It's blue," I said quietly.
"A BEAUTIFUL BLUE! PERFECT FOR SOMEONE LIKE YOU WHO HAS BLUE EYES"
Junjiro raised an eyebrow.
"That's oddly poetic for you."
"I AM POETIC," Haganezuka shouted, pointing dramatically. "I AM A MAN OF PASSION."
I looked at the blade again.
The color was… beautiful. Light. Calm. It felt cool in my hands. As if the metal had its own breath. I traced the flat edge with my thumb.
It was the most perfect thing I'd ever held.
I couldn't stop looking at it.
"I'm glad," I said softly.
"What?" Junjiro asked.
"I'm glad it's not black. Or pink."
"Pink?"
"I don't know. I had a nightmare once. The blade turned pink and smelled like flowers."
"Get better dreams."
"Maybe after today."
The three of us sat inside the house.
Later that day, Junjiro handed me a fresh pair of clothes. Cleaner uniform. Fitted better.
"You've got your blade now," he said.
"Yeah."
"It suits you."
"…Thanks."
I strapped the sword to my side.
It felt natural. Like it had always been there.
Haganezuka watched me from the porch, arms crossed.
"If you scratch that blade," he said, "I will find you. I will climb the mountains. Swim through rivers. Dig under walls. And when I find you…"
"You'll kill me?"
"…You are Goddamn right…"
"Wait, really?"
He turned to leave.
Junjiro waved once.
Then the swordsmith disappeared down the hill.
That night, I sat outside again.
Stars blinked above like little candles.
I placed the blade on my lap.
Ran my hand down the scabbard.
"I think I'm ready," I whispered.
To Be Continued…