3 Vol. III Demon Slayer: Floating Comment

"Huh? What's going on? Why is everyone leaving?"

Mitsuri Kanroji finally lifted her head from the pile of snacks in front of her, cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk as she glanced around in confusion.

Shinobu Kocho tilted her head slightly and whispered, "So cute, like a little hamster."

"...But," Haruto muttered, struggling to find the right words, "what's with her outfit?"

He averted his gaze, feeling awkward about the gaping neckline of Mitsuri's uniform.

"It's definitely that guy Masao Maeda again," Shinobu sighed, furrowing her brows. "He's a seamstress in the Corps' hidden unit. He has a habit of purposely tailoring revealing outfits for female members. Everyone calls him the 'Perverted Four-Eyes.'"

"What? Always?" Haruto's eyes widened in disbelief as he turned to Shinobu.

"Unfortunately, yes," Shinobu replied through gritted teeth. "I got one of those uniforms too. The day after I received it, I took it back to him—with matches and lamp oil—and burned it right in front of him.

"This poor girl must've been tricked by him. She's way too trusting."

While the two exchanged hushed complaints, Mitsuri suddenly waved excitedly at the approaching Kyojuro Rengoku.

"Rengoku-san!"

"Mitsuri!" Kyojuro greeted her enthusiastically, sitting down in front of her to discuss their upcoming mission.

Haruto noticed Obanai Iguro lingering nearby, staring intently at Mitsuri.

No way... This quiet, unassuming guy? Could he really be such a silent perv?

With a raised eyebrow, Haruto got up and headed to the kitchen.

Inside the cramped kitchen, several chefs were busy passing out trays of sweets and desserts through the service window. A confectioner in the corner was meticulously spreading red bean paste onto mochi skins, placing a strawberry inside, and folding it expertly into a soft, plump daifuku.

Haruto overheard two chefs whispering to each other:

"That pink-haired girl must've eaten close to a hundred daifuku by now."

"More than that. She took a whole stack of red bean buns earlier, and it looks like she's not slowing down anytime soon!"

"It's scary—how can someone that slim eat so much?"

"That's Mitsuri Kanroji. I heard she's Rengoku Kyojuro's disciple. No wonder—they both have bottomless stomachs. Are your hands sore yet?"

"Don't remind me. There are so many swordsmen to feed today—I'd better start kneading dough again."

"Mitsuri and Rengoku... We're not getting a break today, are we? Wait, isn't there a Hashira meeting today?"

"!"

The two chefs froze, then exchanged panicked looks before turning their eyes toward Haruto, who stood casually leaning against the wall with a cheerful smile.

"Haruto-san!" they cried in unison.

"Caught you badmouthing me!" Haruto smirked, lifting his chin.

"We'd never!" The two shook their heads vigorously.

Haruto snorted, hefting a massive tray of food with both hands and carrying it away effortlessly. The pastry chefs, their supplies suddenly depleted, groaned and resumed spreading red bean paste on mochi skins.

After downing thirty daifuku in one go, Haruto noticed Obanai Iguro finally gathering the courage to approach Mitsuri.

Obanai hesitated for a long time, his hands hidden in his sleeves. Even as the white snake coiled around his neck nudged him insistently, he only managed to stammer out a single sentence once he reached Mitsuri's table.

"This is for you," he muttered, quickly setting a gift bag down before nodding at Kyojuro and walking off with his own lunchbox.

Mitsuri blinked at the gift bag, clearly baffled.

"Should we… open it?" Kanae Kocho asked with a soft laugh, glancing at Obanai's flushed ears as he retreated.

"I think it's probably something very thoughtful," Kanae added.

"Absolutely," Kyojuro nodded. "Iguro doesn't talk much, but he's a kind and steady person."

Encouraged by the group's curious stares, Mitsuri opened the bag.

Inside was a pair of brand-new green striped stockings that matched the green tips of her pink hair perfectly.

"How cute!" Shinobu said with a bright smile. "He must've chosen them with a lot of care."

Mitsuri, her cheeks reddening, cupped her face in delight.

"I didn't expect this at all! He was standing there so long—I thought he might be a bad guy or something!"

Shinobu, clearly charmed by Mitsuri's cheerful and slightly naive personality, found herself growing closer to her as Kanae's warm encouragement bridged the gap between the three women.

"Mitsuri, your hair color is so beautiful," Shinobu remarked, running her fingers through Mitsuri's pink-to-green ombré locks.

Tengen Uzui, munching on a piece of sashimi, added under his breath, "Indeed… that hair is flamboyantly infuriating."

"Well, my hair wasn't always like this," Mitsuri admitted, scratching her head shyly. "It turned this color after I ate 170 sakura mochi every day for eight months straight!"

Shinobu's hand froze mid-stroke.

"Seventeen… thousand sakura mochi?" she whispered, stunned.

"That's forty thousand eight hundred," Haruto chimed in, leaning in thoughtfully. "I could eat maybe 250 sakura mochi in one sitting, but even I'd get sick of them after a week."

"Two hundred and fifty?! That's incredible!" Mitsuri gasped.

"Not at all! My record was 316 onigiri in one meal when I was thirteen!" Haruto replied smugly.

"Three hundred and sixteen?! Does that mean eating rice balls can turn your hair white?!" Mitsuri exclaimed in awe.

"Not quite—it's natural," Haruto chuckled.

Caught in the chaotic discussion of food, Shinobu found herself trapped between a whirlwind of rice balls, sakura mochi, and Kyojuro's booming praises for their culinary excellence.

What kind of organization is the Demon Slayer Corps, anyway? she wondered with a wry smile.

Beneath the table, a warm touch interrupted her thoughts.

Haruto's hand gently covered hers as he gave her a bright, teasing grin before diving back into his food debate with Mitsuri and Kyojuro.

…He's worried I'll feel bored?

Shinobu pressed her lips together, hiding a smile, and laced her fingers with his under the table.

Listening to you… I could never feel bored.