There was no warning. No sound. No scent. No battle. One moment, the Hashira and the other Demon Slayers stood at rest beneath the soft canopy of Mount Fujikasane. The next, the air shimmered with light—subtle at first, then sharp, like the edge of a blade sliding through water. Space folded, twisted... and opened. They didn’t draw their swords. They didn’t need to. No demons came through the rift. They did. Not strangers. Not enemies. Themselves. Younger. Softer. Still unshaped by tragedy
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