New Mission

The shoji screen slid open with a sharp, echoing snap. Inside the quiet tatami room of the Ubuyashiki estate, Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat with his usual serene, unreadable smile. But the gravity in the air was heavier than usual.

Sanemi Shinazugawa knelt, his hands pressed to the floor, his violet eyes fixed forward. He could handle blood, demons, and broken bones—but the Master’s words just now didn't make any sense.

"A mission... to another world, Master?" Sanemi’s voice was a low, raspy growl, vibrating with barely contained impatience. "With all due respect, Muzan Kibutsuji is here. In our world. My blade belongs on his neck, right now."

"I understand your frustration, Sanemi," Kagaya replied, his voice a soothing balm that somehow managed to quell the Wind Hashira's rising temper, if only a fraction. "But we are missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. The keys to his absolute defeat lie beyond our current reach. You must travel forward into a world vastly different from our own to find the knowledge we lack."

Sanemi clenched his fists, the fabric of his uniform straining against his muscles. "And what happens to the corps while I'm gone? If Muzan attacks.

"Time will behave differently for you," Kagaya interrupted gently. "You will not age a single day while you are there. And the very moment you step back into our world, you will return to this exact second. Not a single breath will have passed in our time. But you must go blindly, Sanemi. I cannot tell you when or how you will find your way back. Only that you must succeed."

Sanemi gritted his teeth, his jaw working as he processed the sheer absurdity of it. But this was the Master. If Kagaya said the fate of humanity rested on this bizarre gamble, Sanemi would plunge into hell itself without a second thought.

"Understood," Sanemi muttered, bowing low. "I will return with his head on a platter."

A strange, blinding distortion of light enveloped him before he could even stand. The scent of wisteria and old wood vanished, replaced instantly by a suffocating wave of heat, exhaust fumes, and a chaotic cacophony of sounds he had never heard in his life.

Sanemi blinked, his hand instantly flying to the hilt of his Nichirin green blade. His instincts screamed danger, but as the dust settled, his surroundings left him entirely disoriented.

He wasn't in a forest. He wasn't in a traditional village.

He was standing on a paved street in a small, bustling town in West Bengal. The air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of spicy street food, burning incense, and petrol. Strange, metallic boxes on wheels roamed the streets, honking loudly. Towering concrete buildings with tangled black wires stretched across the sky.

Sanemi's fierce, scarred face contorted into a deep scowl. His white haori, proudly bearing the kanji for "Kill" on the back, fluttered in the hot breeze. His chest was exposed, revealing the deep, jagged scars of a hundred battles.

He looked like a phantom of war dropped into a peaceful, modern afternoon.

The reaction from the crowd was instantaneous. People froze on the sidewalks. Rickshaw drivers slowed down, staring open-mouthed. Whispers erupted like a sudden swarm of cicadas.

*"Ei, dekh! Look at him!"*

*"Is that... Sanemi? From Demon Slayer?"*

*"Oh my god, the scars look so real! Is this a cosplay? Who is he?"*

Sanemi didn't understand a single syllable of the language they were speaking, but he understood the fear and confusion in their eyes. He scoffed, his gaze sweeping over them with utter disdain. *Weaklings,* he thought. No fighting spirit. No total concentration breathing. Where the hell am I?

Ignoring the gasps, the pointing fingers, and the kids pulling out small glowing glass rectangles to take photos, Sanemi adjusted his sword and began to walk. His stride was heavy, aggressive, and entirely unbothered by the spectacle he was causing. He didn't care about these strange people. He had a mission.

Through the sea of bewildered onlookers, one person wasn't murmuring or whispering. She was frozen.

Navikaa stood a few paces back, completely paralyzed as the world around her seemed to blur into a dull static. Her medium-dark hair was pinned up in a neat, casual bun, a few loose strands framing a face that was, without exaggeration, breathtaking. Sweeter and taller than most of the girls in the neighborhood, her slim yet elegantly curvy figure was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the afternoon sun.

But right now, she wasn't thinking about how she looked. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

For years, since her early school days and now into her late teens, she had been utterly fascinated by him. She knew his story, his pain, his brash demeanor, and the fierce loyalty hidden beneath his terrifying exterior. To everyone else, Sanemi Shinazugawa was a fictional character from a Japanese anime.

The raw, lethal gravity of a real Hashira was terrifyingly alive right in front of her.

She couldn't move. She couldn't even call out. She just watched him, completely mesmerized, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and a deep, long-standing adoration that had suddenly stepped out of her imagination and onto the streets of her hometown.

Sanemi’s sharp eyes flicked across the crowd as he walked past. For a fraction of a second, his gaze brushed past Navikaa. He noticed she wasn't holding up one of those glowing glass rectangles like the others; she was just staring at him with an intensity that stood out from the crowd's idle curiosity.

But Sanemi didn't pause.

He muttered, " pathetic brats."

He didn't have time for distractions. With a quiet, dismissive click of his tongue, he averted his eyes and walked straight past her, his white haori billowing behind him as he disappeared down the crowded street, leaving a stunned town—and one completely overwhelmed girl in his wake.

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