“Backstory”
My name is Yoshiaki Kuwamoto.
I don’t know how I got that name, or why it was given to me. But somehow, it feels… right. There’s a strange mix of comfort and strictness tied to it, as if the name itself carries both warmth and an unspoken expectation. I’ve never questioned it—just like I’ve never questioned who I’ve become since the day the Love Hashira, Mitsuri Kanroji, saved me.
I don’t remember much about my life before that day. My memories of home and family are like faded dreams—shadows that slip through my grasp no matter how desperately I try to hold onto them. But the moment Kanroji-san found me, confused and terrified amidst the chaos of a demon attack, everything changed.
I don’t remember all the details of that night, but what I do remember is her. The way her blade gleamed in the moonlight as she struck down the demons. The way she held me afterward, promising I was safe. I’d never felt anything like it before, and from that moment, I began to see her as my mother—or, at least, the closest thing to one.
She brought me to safety and made sure I wasn’t severely injured, taking me to the Butterfly Mansion. From that moment, I started to see her as my mother, even though she’s probably only a year or two older than me. Her kindness, her strength, and the way she always made me feel safe—it was more than I could have ever asked for. Yet, there’s a strange, unshakable feeling that follows me. Every time Kanroji-san smiles at me or cooks for me, I see a blurry silhouette—a woman from a past I can’t remember. Her image feels so close, like a memory just out of reach, but it always fades before I can make sense of it. Even as a demon, I find myself clinging to these moments of comfort. They remind me of something human in me still lingering, even when I enjoy human food on rare occasions.
People think that I’m a boy. It’s probably because of my somewhat short hair and tone of my voice. Kanroji-san didn’t seem to question it, and I didn’t either. For her, I’m simply Yoshiaki—a child she saved and chose to protect. She treated me with a kindness I’d never known before, and in her presence, I felt safe, like I belonged somewhere for the first time. Even as time passed and I grew stronger, that bond never faded. I held onto the name and the way she saw me because it gave me a sense of identity, a reminder that no matter what I became, I was still someone worth saving. Perhaps, deep down, I hoped that holding onto it would make me feel human again…
But I know what I really am. I’m not human—not anymore. And I hate what I’ve become. Even though I’ve learned to control myself and suppress the hunger, it doesn’t change the fact that demon blood runs through my veins. If the other Demon Slayers, or worse, a Hashira, knew the truth about me, I’d be killed without hesitation. That fear keeps me silent, forcing me to hide what I’ve become. Even so, I’ve somehow managed to pass as human, despite how pale and unnatural I look. Strangely, I can still eat human food—it doesn’t sustain me the way blood would, but it helps me feel a little closer to the person I used to be.
Stay calm, Yoshiaki. I repeat those words to myself every day, my only anchor against the chaos within. The hunger is always there, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, but I refuse to let it control me. I refuse to let it define who I am. Mitsuri wouldn’t want that. And deep down, neither would I.
Despite what I am, I’ve never given up on the dream of becoming a Hashira. I joined the Demon Slayer Corps—the same organization Mitsuri belongs to—not just to fight demons, but to prove that I’m still capable of protecting others. Even as a demon, I push myself harder than anyone, training relentlessly to overcome the limits of my body and master my breathing techniques. Every step forward is a battle—not just against the hunger within me, but against the doubts and fears that I’ll never be accepted. But I refuse to let those fears stop me. One day, I’ll stand among the Hashira, not as a demon, but as a protector. That’s why I wear fingerless gloves—it’s a symbol of my determination to control the power within me and a constant reminder that, no matter how hard the journey gets, I will never let go of my dream.
One day, after a mission, I went to the Butterfly Mansion for a routine check-up. The place was serene, the air thick with the calming scent of herbs—an oasis of peace that contrasted sharply with the turmoil racing through my mind. It was there that I met Aoi Kanzaki, a former Demon Slayer who had walked away from the Corps, though the reasons for her departure remained a mystery she never shared.
When I first met her, Aoi was kind and gentle, much like the others at the mansion. She took care of me during my check-up, and we talked for a while. Her curiosity was genuine, yet respectful, as she asked about my training and offered advice on being careful not to push myself too hard, so I wouldn’t get hurt. I didn’t tell her the truth—that I was a demon—but there was a quiet understanding in her that made me feel like I could almost let my guard down, even if I still kept my secret hidden.
As time passed, Aoi began to pull away. There was a coldness to her that hadn’t been there before, as if something inside her had shifted. It could have been the weight of her past, or perhaps the isolation of the mansion that wore her down, but she no longer greeted me with the warmth I’d come to expect. Her once comforting presence became distant, and even the advice she gave felt detached, lacking the softness it once held. One day, after giving her usual advice, she scolded me, throwing harsh words and insults my way. Yet, despite everything, I knew deep down that Aoi still cared about me. The anger in her words, though sharp, came from a place of concern, and I understood that her actions, however hard to bear, were a reflection of her own pain.
Despite the shift in her behavior, I never felt truly abandoned. Even with the changes in Aoi, I knew she still cared. She still listened, though her words had become fewer and her presence more distant. There was a quiet understanding between us, a bond that didn’t need to be spoken aloud—something neither time nor her changed attitude could erase.
I kept returning to the Butterfly Mansion, each visit a reminder of the strength Aoi had once shared with me and the strength I still needed to find within myself. Even as she grew more distant, as she withdrew into herself, I knew she would never completely turn her back on me.
We became something like friends—distant yet deeply connected. I fought alongside her when the need arose, and even though Aoi had stepped away from being a Demon Slayer, her presence still lingered. It was as if she continued to guide me in a way only she could, a quiet force I could always feel, even from afar.
Aoi’s change wasn’t something I resented; I understood it. I, too, had gone through my own transformations. Maybe that’s why we kept apart—each of us silently accepting the people we had become, shaped by the weight of our struggles and the battles we’d fought.
Still, despite it all, I knew she cared. For that, I would always be thankful.
Beyond Aoi, there was also a kind of warmth I found in Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira. His rough exterior often overshadowed the quieter, more subtle care he showed. It wasn’t in grand gestures, but in the way he protected those close to him, in the unspoken respect he gave to others. He didn’t treat me like I was fragile or weak, but as an equal, a warrior worthy of standing by his side. It wasn’t the same as Mitsuri’s warmth, but it was warmth all the same. In a world filled with demons and bloodshed, that warmth was something I could hold onto.
Yet, despite everything, there was something about him that felt strangely familiar, as if I had known him before, in a different time, in a different place. The sensation lingered at the back of my mind, elusive and persistent, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.