The Hashira meeting had barely begun when the world seemed to twist sideways. One moment, Muichiro Tokito was quietly standing at his place along the stone steps of the Master’s courtyard, his misty-green eyes distant but attentive. The next, a strange ripple of energy split the air like a heat mirage. Wind whipped across the courtyard, scattering fallen cherry blossoms, and before anyone could react, a crack of lightning-like light flared around the Mist Hashira.

When the brightness faded, a small figure sat dazed on the paving stones. His sword clattered uselessly to the side—far too large for his hands now. A boy no older than seven blinked up at the stunned faces around him. Long black-and-mint hair still framed his small, round face, but his expression was wide-eyed and confused. The uniform he’d been wearing was now a bundle of fabric puddled around him.

“Muichiro?” Shinobu’s voice was soft, careful, but there was a tremor of disbelief in it.

The child tilted his head, recognition flickering faintly before dissolving into uncertainty. “Who… are you?” His voice was higher, softer—like a bell rung underwater.

A sharp laugh broke the silence—Tengen, always the loudest. “This is flashy, even for a Hashira meeting,” he said, though his grin didn’t hide the wary glance he exchanged with Gyomei.

Rengoku crouched to the boy’s level, his fiery hair catching the sunlight. “Don’t be afraid, young Muichiro!” he boomed warmly, though the situation was anything but simple. “Your comrades are here!”

Sanemi, arms crossed, scowled. “This is ridiculous. What kind of demon trick—” He cut himself off when the child flinched at his tone, shrinking back. Even Sanemi felt the weight of that tiny, startled look.

Obanai adjusted his snake around his shoulders, voice low but steady. “Regardless of how it happened, we can’t leave him like this.”

Mitsuri was already kneeling, wrapping the oversized uniform around Muichiro like a blanket, her eyes shining with maternal worry. “He’s so small,” she whispered. “It’s like… he doesn’t even remember us.”

Gyomei’s prayer beads clicked softly as he knelt, his calm voice the anchor in the chaos. “Then until a cure is found, we will be his guardians.”