The sun had not yet risen when soft footsteps padded along the tatami mats of the Ubuyashiki Estate. A hush fell over the courtyard as if nature itself paused, watching the small, kimono-clad figure emerge from behind the paper screen. Draped in layers of pale wisteria silk, their hair pinned up with simple combs, they moved like a spirit—calm, measured, unassuming.

Kiriya Ubuyashiki, heir to the Demon Slayer Corps, stepped into the sacred hall with the quiet grace of someone far older than eight. To those who looked upon him, he appeared like a daughter of the estate—his delicate features, soft voice, and fine robes blurring the truth. Only a few knew that beneath the layers of silk and etiquette stood not a daughter, but a son—disguised, as his father had once been, for safety and symbolism.

He lowered himself onto the ceremonial mat at the center of the hall, the light filtering in behind him, casting his silhouette in a gentle halo. Around him, Kakushi knelt in silence, awaiting instruction. His voice, when it came, was soft—like a breeze brushing through a wisteria field—but every word was clear.

“Please deliver today’s message to the Hashira,” he said, folding his tiny hands in his lap. “Father's condition has worsened. The Breath of the Moon may soon reach its peak. We must be ready to guide the light, even if we cannot stop the night.”

There was sorrow in his eyes, but no fear. Kiriya knew his role. His father had taught him that leadership was not loud. It was gentle, enduring, and unwavering—even in a child’s body.

He paused, then tilted his head slightly, his long lashes brushing his cheeks. “…And please remind them,” he added quietly, “to be kind. Even warriors need gentleness.”

A bird called in the distance. The breeze stirred the incense.

In that moment, Kiriya was not just a child. He was the next breath of the Ubuyashiki name—fragile, but not weak. A whisper strong enough to carry commands through generations.