The scent of blood clung to the air, thick and metallic.
Tanjiro Kamado's knees buckled as he stumbled through the snow, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands trembled—not from the cold, but from the horror seared into his mind. His family… gone. Slaughtered in the night. Only Nezuko remained, her small body limp in his arms, her breath shallow, her skin too pale.
No. No, no, no—
He choked back a sob, forcing his legs to move. The mountain path stretched endlessly before him, the snow swallowing his footsteps as if the world itself sought to erase his suffering.
Where do I go?
His thoughts were a storm of panic and grief. He needed help. A doctor. Anyone. But the nearest village was hours away, and Nezuko—
A growl cut through the silence.
Tanjiro froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Yellow eyes gleamed in the shadows between the trees. A figure stepped forward—unnaturally pale, its mouth stretched into a grin too wide to be human. Claws flexed. Saliva dripped between jagged teeth.
Demon.
The creature licked its lips. "What luck… fresh meat stumbling right into my—"
[Template: Roronoa Zoro (Peak Version) has been bestowed upon you.]
The voice was neither kind nor cruel. It simply was, reverberating through his skull like a thunderclap.
Tanjiro's vision split.
Memories—no, lives—flooded his mind.
A green-haired man standing atop a mountain of defeated foes. Three swords gleaming in the sunlight. The weight of steel in his hands, the thrill of battle in his veins. A will so unbreakable it could cut through the very heavens.
*Roronoa Zoro.*
The name seared itself into his soul.
And then—
His body changed.
Muscles coiled with power he had never known. His hands, once calloused from chopping firewood, now bore the scars of a thousand battles. His stance shifted, his balance perfect, his instincts screaming at him to move.
The demon lunged.
Tanjiro didn't think.
He cut.
His hand moved—not as flesh, but as steel.
The demon's head hit the snow before its body even realized it was dead.
Silence.
Tanjiro stared at his fingers, trembling. Not from fear.
From something else.
Something terrifying.
He had just killed a demon.
With his bare hands.
The scent of blood filled his nose—not just the demon's, but his family's. The memory of their bodies flashed behind his eyes.
And then, a new scent.
Smoke.
His head snapped up.
In the distance, a figure stood at the edge of the trees—cloaked in black, a sword strapped to his hip. The man's eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto Tanjiro.
No.
Onto Nezuko.
Tanjiro's blood turned to ice.
The man took a step forward.
And the world shifted again.
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