𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗦𝗧. kimetsu no yaiba.

𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐢 ; part iv. morning.

Sunrise is the new beginning. Humanity lives after the dreadful dance of demons.

But the gift of light wouldn't bless shielded corners. It would be ironic for a human –demon hunter- to dwell within darkness for longer than necessary. And yet, they are limp on the floor ; dust, a crown upon (already awake) head. Murky eyes peer at the minimal sunrays that dare invade their serene kingdom. Except, serenity isn't what should be used to describe it. Maddening hours spent without a purpose tug at their consciousness. Merely two and a half turns of a clock indicated enough rest. What is left is spent in anguish of lacking duty.

Limbs already rid of lethargic movement rise to lift the body. Their bedroom is a vast, empty space. Considering their pillar title, the Demon Slaying Corps provided more than enough for them to live in better conditions than this.

But what is the point? One day, the might not even return here.

Barriers, in form of worn-out curtains are removed and the early sun finally fills the room. It causes itching sensation into their eyes. Rough digits are tasked to lessen it.

Black stands out like a sore thumb in the canvas of blue skies. Silent cries of a messenger crow aren't something that is rare at all. It even sparked traces of excitement. Anything to leave this place.

Another mission? They might have hoped too early.

Upon closer inspection, they conclude that the kasugaigarasu isn't even their own. Yet, they open the window, as if to let it have easier access -not like it wouldn't have found another way around the obstacle, but they'd rather avoid inevitable repairs of objects damaged in the process, thank you very much.

With ever-present gracefulness, the (now) familiar crow lands upon their windowsill. It takes its time getting comfortable ((Y/n) was already getting impatient), before finally speaking.

'THE FLAME PILLAR, RENGOKU KYŌJURŌ, HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU.'

'Okay.'

This comes as no surprise. As soon as the bird closes its beak, it's harshly swatted away from its spot. With an unsatisfied creak, it disappears into the sky. The Storm Pillar follows it with their gaze. They should get ready, then.

The smell of ramen is, in most cases, considered pleasant, but it makes a striking difference against the stale air of (Y/n)'s house or the pleasant morning breeze. It flies up against the nostrils and leaves a scorching aftertaste. It would be useful for those who aren't early risers, they supposed.

It doesn't take long for the stand owner to notice the duo ; he immediately goes to prepare the food for them. After all, it wasn't the first time the ventured out in such early hours. And it's always the same aged cart with the same person working in it ; an old man, with an ashy yukata and shaky hands. He never says a word. Age-stricken face would never move from its usual mournful expression (it would seem like that, to any ordinary person. But hunters aren't ordinary people, so they didn't miss the slight widening of tired eyes, whenever the two pillars enter his vision).