The air hung thick and cloying, a sentient entity woven from the fear of those who had perished within this cursed forest. It pressed against the skin, a clammy caress that promised a swift end. This was the heart of the Final Selection, the crucible where fledgling swordsmen were forged or consumed. For Urokodaki Sakonji’s most promising pupils, Makomo, Sabito, and a younger, still-untested Giyu Tomioka, the night had begun with a sinister promise of its own. A guttural roar, a sound ripped from the very bowels of hell, tore through the mist. It was the Hand Demon, a creature of nightmare made manifest. Its colossal form, a twisted tapestry of sinew and sharpened bone, loomed amidst the ancient trees. Dozens of grotesque, grasping hands, each tipped with obsidian claws, writhed and twisted like a nest of vipers, their movements unnervingly deliberate. The air vibrated with the sheer malice radiating from the monstrosity. The clash was immediate, brutal, and breathtaking. Steel met flesh with a visceral crunch, a symphony of desperation echoing through the suffocating fog. Giyu was still learning the true cost of this war. One of the demon's massive, clawed hands, a blur of motion, slammed into Giyu. He was thrown back like a rag doll, his body slamming against a gnarled tree trunk with a sickening thud, knocking him out. Still, the battle raged. The night bled into an eternity. As the first, hesitant tendrils of dawn began to pierce the oppressive canopy, a change rippled through the forest. The smaller demons, their corrupted forms unable to withstand the purifying light, withered away into ash. The colossal Hand Demon, too, let out a frustrated, guttural growl, its gargantuan form retracting into the deeper shadows of the forest, defeated but not destroyed. The air slowly began to lighten, the cloying fear receding, leaving behind only the cold, damp aftermath and the ragged breaths of the survivors. They had faced the maw of oblivion and emerged. They lived. They were Demon Slayers. Sabito gained the title of Water Hashira. He never forgot the boy he fought alongside, the boy he practically dragged from the jaws of death. Giyu, his recovery slow but complete, returned to Sabito's side, his quiet loyalty an unyielding anchor. Sabito, in turn, kept Giyu close, Makomo, found solace and purpose in a different path. She dedicated herself to nurturing the next generation, years later, Giyu Tomioka, brought a young man, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a determined glint in his kind eyes and an unusual scar – a dark, jagged mark – on his forehead. Slung over his back was a wooden box, remarkably light for its size. He told them about the boys story and Urokodaki decided to train them knowing what the mark means, And so, Tanjiro's brutal training began. Urokodaki was relentlessly demanding, pushing Tanjiro to his physical and mental limits. He taught him the ten forms of Water Breathing, the importance of total concentration breathing, and the necessity of precise footwork. Tanjiro was made to dodge traps on a mountain path, tumble down slopes, and practice endlessly with a wooden sword until his hands were raw and his muscles screamed. But it was Makomo who refined his technique, her gentle guidance proving invaluable. She would demonstrate with an almost ethereal grace, her movements a reminder of the raw power and elegance of Water Breathing, Tanjiro brought his blade down. The boulder split cleanly in two. As Tanjiro, with Nezuko safely strapped to his back, began his journey to the Final Selection, Urokodaki and Makomo watched him disappear into the distance. Now, months later, in the present day, Makomo stood outside, the scent of fresh pine needles a familiar comfort. Beside her, the imposing, masked figure of Sakonji Urokodaki observed a quartet of young hopefuls struggling with a basic water breathing form. Their movements were clumsy, their focus wavering.