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The next scene wouldn't play until the chime again, they noticed. This gave them ample time for a break as they took in what they'd experienced so far.
"I think it's ridiculous," Obanai mutters.
Rengoku hums, brewing up some tea for everything. "Oh," he laughs, when he remembers what was supposedly ridiculous. "Kochou's theory about the demon cure, right? It makes sense, even if far-fetched."
They had to admit. If anyone could achieve a cure in the corps, it would be Kochou.
"It's not about whether it's possible," Sanemi snarls at them, aggressively making ohagi, "why the fuck would she want to?"
Rengoku's face falls at that.
It hasn't been all that long since Kanae passed in battle with Upper Moon Two. It's jarring enough that Upper Moon One apparently showed up recently too— the demons that hacne't shown up in decades are suddenly showing up, one after another. How could anyone feel at ease? How could anyone not latch onto the hope that it'll end soon?
(But before every clean ending, there's always a big splash. It always gets worse before it gets better, doesn't it?)
"I only know the Flower Hashira peripherally," Rengoku treads carefully, "but I heard she was kind and sympathetic to demons, even if she never held back in battle."
He knows he's stepped on a landmine when Sanemi's hands still.
But he doesn't get shouted at. Obanai simply walks away, and Sanemi's hands resume a moment later as well.
"Shut the fuck up," Sanemi mutters, the vitriol in his voice just a hedge higher than usual.
Rengoku supposes that's fair.
But the question still remains. Why would Shinobu, who hated demons more than anyone else, be the one to create a demon cure? She held no interest in such things, simply dedicating her swordsmanship to more lethal poisons each day.
"There's no better apothecary than Shinobu in the corps," Rengoku says. "So it could only be her, right?"
Nothing else made sense.
The chime rang, and they convened instantly, putting the topic behind them.
━ ❖ ━
The episode begins with Tanjirou's careful brush strokes against the pages of his journal. The small stack of similar books laid beside his writing space.
