Chapter 4

ｎｏｗ ｌｏａｄｉｎｇ．．．

“胡蝶の羽音”

Kochō no Haoto

「 ｖｅｒｉｆｉｅｄ」

The silence that followed Shinobu’s departure didn’t just sit in the room; it took up residence, unpacked its bags, and started judging the decor.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the empty broth bowl still heavy in your hands, staring at the spot where a literal icon had just been standing.

Your brain was currently a browser tab that had frozen while trying to load a 4K video on dial-up internet.

She’s real. She’s actually real.

The smell of the room-that earthy, medicinal, “I’m-definitely-in-the-Taisho-era” scent hit you again, sharper this time. It wasn’t just a backdrop. It was the smell of a world that didn’t care if you were a fan, a critic, or a victim of a very cliché automotive accident.

It was a world with sharp edges and very high stakes, and you were currently sitting in its hospital wing dressed in oversized pajamas.

“Okay,” you whispered, the sound of your own voice small against the polished wood. “Don’t scream. Screaming leads to questions. Questions lead to truth. Truth leads to being locked in a very pretty cage because you know too much about the local demon population’s retirement plans.”

You carefully set the bowl back on the tray. Your hands were shaking—not much, just a fine, rhythmic tremor that felt like your nervous system trying to reboot. You forced yourself to look at your hands. They were your hands, a few new scratches, a bit paler than you remembered, but yours.

You damn truck, you really did a number on the scenery.

A movement at the door caught your eye. It wasn’t the shoji screen opening this time, but three small heads peering around the frame, stacked vertically like a very adorable, very suspicious totem pole.

Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho. The trio. The “butterfly girls.”

They were staring at you with wide, dark eyes, their expressions a mix of professional concern and the kind of curiosity kids have when they find a weird bug in the garden.

“Is the patient talking to herself?” the middle one—Kiyo, maybe?—whispered.

“Maybe she’s still concussed,” the top one suggested.

“Shinobu-sama says talking is a sign of brain activity,” the bottom one added helpfully.

You managed a weak, lopsided smile. “I can hear you, you know. And I’m only about thirty percent concussed at this point.”

The “totem pole” collapsed as they scrambled into the room, seemingly emboldened by the fact that you weren’t currently dying. They moved with a synchronized efficiency that was frankly intimidating, fluffing pillows and checking your water cup before you could even say ‘hello.’

“You need to stay hydrated,” Sumi said, her voice a tiny, stern bell. “Aoi-san says patients who don’t drink water take twice as long to heal.”

“And you have to finish the broth,” Naho added, pointing at the empty bowl. “Oh. You did finish it. Good.”

“What’s your name?” Kiyo asked, leaning in close enough that you could see the reflection of your own confused face in her eyes. “Aoi-san said you didn’t tell her.”

You hesitated. The internal alarm bells started ringing. Keep it simple. Don’t be a protagonist. Be a guest who overstayed their welcome.

“It’s ______,” you said, using your real name. It felt strange in this air, like a foreign currency that no one would accept. “I’m just… from a very small village. Far away. Most people haven’t heard of it.”

“Is it past the mountains?” Naho asked.

“Way past,” you dryly chuckled. Like, past the concept of electricity and into the realm of the 5G network. “I got lost. Then there was a… noise. And then I woke up here.”

The girls exchanged a look. In this world, “getting lost” and “hearing a noise” usually ended in a funeral or a transformation, so your vague explanation probably sounded like a miracle.

“You’re lucky the Kakushi found you,” Sumi said solemnly. “Shinobu-sama says it was a miracle you didn’t have any broken bones. Just lots of bruises.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, looking at the samue sleeves. “Lucky.”

Lucky would have been the truck missing you and you going home to finish that dry cereal. This felt less like luck and more like a cosmic clerical error.

· · ─────── · 𓅪 · ─────── · ·

The next few days were a blur of “functional recovery”, mostly involving Aoi treating you like a particularly stubborn piece of laundry that refused to dry.

She was relentless. She had you walking the length of the ward, then the hallway, then the courtyard. Every time you tried to sit down, she appeared out of nowhere with a clipboard and a look that could melt lead.

“If you can walk, you can work,” she said on the third day, handing you a basket of medicinal herbs that needed to be sorted. “We don’t have room for idle hands at the Butterfly Mansion.”

“I’m literally a medical anomaly,” you argued, though you took the basket. “Shouldn’t I be resting? Observational study? Maybe a nap?”

“You’ve rested for two days,” Aoi countered, her hands on her hips. “The bruises are yellowing. Your pulse is steady. Unless you’d like to explain why your heart rate spikes every time you see a butterfly, I’m declaring you fit for light duties.”

You choked on your own spit. She noticed that? Of course, she noticed.

These were Slayers. Their entire existence was based on observing the minute details of their environment, so they didn’t get their heads bitten off.

“I just… really like lepidopterology,” you lied.

Aoi stared at you. “What?”

“Butterflies. I like butterflies.”

“Hmph. Just sort the mint from the mugwort. And don’t touch the purple jars. Those are poisons.”

“Noted. No touching the death-juice. Got it.”

As you sat on the engawa, sorting leaves and trying to ignore the way your muscles still ached, you looked out at the courtyard. The wisteria was in full bloom, a heavy, violet canopy that felt like a protective bubble. It was beautiful.

It was peaceful.

And it was a graveyard for anyone who knew how the story ended.

You saw them then, across the training grounds.

Three figures. One with a bright green checkered haori, one with a head of wild, yellow hair that seemed to be vibrating, and one who was… currently trying to headbutt a tree while shirtless.

Tanjiro. Zenitsu. Inosuke.

Your breath hitched. Seeing the girls was one thing, but seeing the core trio was like watching the screen turn into 3D. Tanjiro was laughing at something, that kind, earnest sound that made you want to both hug him and run in the opposite direction.

Because if they were here training, that meant the Rehabilitation Training Arc was in full swing. Which meant the Mugen Train was coming. Which meant Rengoku…

Don’t. You gripped the basket of herbs until the wicker creaked. Do not go there. You are a civilian. You are a nobody. You have zero breathing techniques, zero swords, and your physical fitness is currently ‘out of breath from sorting leaves.’

You cannot save anyone.

The realization was a cold, hard stone in your stomach. You weren’t a hero. You were an observer who had accidentally fallen into the lens.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

The voice was right behind your ear. You didn’t just jump; you practically launched the basket of mugwort into the stratosphere.

Shinobu was standing there, her hands tucked neatly into her sleeves. She looked like she’d been there for several minutes, or perhaps she had just materialized out of the scent of wisteria.

“You’re very jumpy today, ______-san,” she said, her voice like silk over a blade. She stepped up beside you, looking out at the boys. “Though I suppose watching Inosuke-kun attempt to fight the flora can be alarming.”

“He’s… high energy,” you managed, desperately trying to slow your racing heart.

“He’s a menace,” Shinobu corrected pleasantly. She turned her gaze from the courtyard to you. “Aoi says you’re a very diligent worker. But she also says you have a habit of staring into the distance like you’re watching a fire only you can see.”

You froze. Dammit. I’m being too obvious. Act normal. Act like a confused villager. Do the thing.

“I’m just… still trying to wrap my head around everything,” you said, looking back at the herbs. “The demons. The slayers. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I imagine it is.” She sat down on the wooden edge next to you, her movements so graceful they felt choreographed. “It must be strange, waking up in a place like this. Especially when you come from somewhere so ‘far away’ that no one has heard of it.”

She was doing it again. The “negotiation.” The way she phrased things wasn’t just small talk; it was a probe. She was looking for the cracks in your story, the places where the wallpaper didn’t quite meet the floor.

“Is it?” you asked, trying for a touch of that snarky, self-deprecating humor that usually served as your shield. “I figured strange was the baseline for this mansion.”

Shinobu laughed—a light, musical sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Touché. You have a very interesting way of speaking. It’s not quite the dialect of the northern provinces, nor the south. It’s… modern. Almost clipped.”

“I spent a lot of time alone,” you lied, the words tasting like copper. “Reading. Talking to myself. It ruins your grammar.”

“Mm. And what did you read, I wonder?”

“Travel logs,” you said quickly. “Geography. Things that don’t help me much now.”

Liar. Liar. Liar. Your brain was screaming at you. She knows you’re lying. She’s a Hashira. She literally smells the change in your pheromones when you’re stressed.

Shinobu leaned closer, the butterfly ornament in her hair shimmering in the afternoon light. For a second, the pleasant mask wavered, and you saw a flash of the woman who spent her nights brewing lethal concoctions and her days hiding a mountain of rage under a layer of silk.

“You know,” she whispered, “there is a specific kind of silence that people have when they are protecting a secret. It’s a very heavy silence. It makes the air around them feel thick.”

She reached out and plucked a stray leaf from your sleeve.

“You have that silence, ______-san. It’s very… loud.”

You couldn’t look away from her.

The violet in her eyes was deep enough to drown in. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to grab her by the shoulders and scream that she shouldn’t go to the Infinite Castle, that she shouldn’t let herself be consumed, that there was a way to win that didn’t involve her becoming a sacrifice.

The words were right there, pressing against the back of your teeth. Shinobu, please, I know what happens—

“I don’t have any secrets,” you said, your voice steady despite the hurricane in your chest. “I’m just a person who got hit by a very large ‘wagon’ and doesn’t know where home is anymore.”

Shinobu studied you for a long time. The silence between you was, indeed, very loud.

Then, she smiled. It was the same smile from before-pleasant, untouchable, the “butterfly-light” version.

“A wagon,” she repeated. “Well. It must have been quite a wagon to leave such a mark on your spirit.”

She stood up, the light catching the gradient of her haori.

“We’re having a tea ceremony tonight for the boys’ progress,” she said, reverting to her professional, Hashira-leader tone. “Aoi-san thinks it would be good for you to socialize. Since you’re so interested in ‘travel logs,’ perhaps you’ll find Tanjiro-kun’s stories illuminating.”

“I’ll be there,” you said, feeling like you’d just escaped a trap that hadn’t even been sprung yet.

“Good.” She started to walk away, then stopped. “Oh, and ______-san?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to look at the boys like they’re already ghosts. It makes the tea taste bitter.”

She walked away before you could respond, her footsteps silent on the wood, leaving you sitting there with a basket of mint and a heart that felt like it was made of lead.

She knows, you thought, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead. She doesn’t know WHAT I know, but she knows I’m hiding something fundamental. And she’s going to keep digging until she finds the root.

You looked at the mint leaves in your hand.

“I’m going to die,” you whispered to the empty courtyard. “I’m going to get killed by a butterfly, and I’m going to deserve it for being a terrible liar.”

From across the grounds, Inosuke let out a triumphant roar as he finally snapped a branch off the tree. Tanjiro clapped for him, his smile bright enough to rival the sun.

You looked away.

Don’t look at them like they’re ghosts.

It was the hardest instruction you’d ever been given. Because in this world, ghosts weren’t just memories. They were the inevitable conclusion.

And you were the only one who had already seen the ending.

꩜

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

大正コソコソ噂話 – Taishō Kosokoso Iwasubanashi

Aoi Kanzaki treats most patients like “stubborn laundry” that refuses to dry. She was actually quite impressed that you finished your entire bowl of broth, though she would never admit it.