The Slayer stood alone.
Only his Praetor armor clung to him—worn, battle-scarred, but far from weakened.
Over his shoulder, a tattered fury-colored cape waved gently in the breeze. It bore no emblem, no crest—just the silence of a storm not yet broken.
He didn't wear his weapons.
He didn't need them.
The Hashira circled him, seven of the strongest swordsmen in the world. And they weren't holding back. They couldn't afford to.
Then, Giyu Tomioka's eyes narrowed.
He noticed something—something that hadn't been there… or perhaps had always been there but revealed itself now.
Right over the Slayer's chest plate, beneath the scratched layer of worn paint, was a glowing, blood-red symbol—a mark etched into the very soul of the armor.
The Mark of the Slayer.
A crimson Rune.
Pulsing like a heartbeat from hell itself.
"...That symbol..." Giyu muttered, involuntarily stepping back, eyes locked on it.
It was ancient. Violent. It radiated hatred—but not against the living.
It was a war-cry etched into steel.
"Go!" Sanemi shouted.
And they did.
Obanai and Shinobu struck first, darting low and high, trying to create an opening.
But the Slayer didn't flinch.
Their blades met metal.
Not a scratch.
Not a dent.
Then Mitsuri, spinning through the air like a tornado of silk and death, swung her blade down with all her might.
CLANG.
Her blade snapped back, her arms shuddering from the sheer recoil.
"It's like hitting a wall," she gasped, midair.
Muichiro followed, blade swiping for a blind spot—but the Slayer turned his head ever so slightly.
The blade scraped across his neck-guard.
And did nothing.
Gyomei roared.
Swinging his chained flail—a weapon heavy enough to crush boulders—he spun it overhead like a storm hammer and brought it crashing down.
WHAM.
Inches before impact—a hand caught it.
A single hand.
The Slayer grabbed the spiked metal ball mid-swing.
The chain snapped taut. The air went dead.
Gyomei's eyes widened as he struggled to comprehend the impossible.
The Slayer's grip tightened.
CRUNCH.
The iron ball deformed under his fingers like clay. Then with an effortless heave, he hurled the entire weapon downward.
BOOM.
The mace buried itself into the earth like a meteor, stuck deep in the ground.
The crowd watching gasped.
Tanjiro's jaw dropped. "He… he caught it."
"He stopped it like it was a child's toy…" said Zenitsu, trembling.
Kagaya Ubuyashiki, watching silently from the shade of his veranda, closed his eyes and smiled softly.
"There is no arrogance in him," Kagaya whispered. "No hate. Only purpose."
The Slayer hadn't struck once.
He let them attack.
And they did—again and again.
Rengoku charged, flames wrapping his blade like a comet. Sanemi tried to coordinate with him, darting at his flank. Giyu came next, water breathing, fifth form—twin currents, a pincer maneuver.
It didn't matter.
Every swing, every stab, every desperate scream of steel—
Met armor.
Met doom.
Met the Rune.
No blood was drawn. Not from him.
But they could feel it—the heat, the pressure, the invisible wall of power that surrounded the Slayer.
Like standing too close to a collapsing star.
He wasn't fighting back.
He was just… existing.
And his existence was a weapon of its own.
Nezuko, in her human form now, crouched by the fence, wide-eyed.
"He's teaching them," Tanjiro said, a chill running down his spine. "Showing them what real war is."
And in the trees, watching from the edge of the forest—two demons stared.
Doma, smirking nervously. Akaza, fists clenched.
"I-It's him…" Doma whispered, hiding behind a branch like a child behind a curtain. "The Slayer."
"He saw us yesterday," Akaza muttered. "Without turning. Just looked at us."
And just as he said it…
The Slayer's head turned.
Eyes like ancient blades looked straight at them—through trees, leaves, and shadow.
From a hundred meters away.
Akaza and Doma froze, like hunted animals.
Then, without a word spoken, they vanished into the forest.
Back on the field, the dust settled.
The Hashira stood panting—some bruised, some breathless, none victorious.
The Slayer stood still.
Helmet on the bench.
Face calm.
Not a single mark on him.
Not even a scuff.
Then he turned—and walked back to his helmet.
Picked it up.