The night was still.
The moon hung high—blood-orange, casting a sickly glow over a twisted mountain fortress.
At the heart of the shadows, deep beneath stone and silence, two demons knelt on one knee. Their faces pale.
Their forms tense.
Doma and Akaza.
Before them, a figure sat on an obsidian throne of bone and silk.
Kibutsuji Muzan.
Not in his guise of a nobleman.
But in his true form.
Cold.
Empty.
Eyes like voids—piercing them through, waiting for a reason to kill.
Akaza's fists trembled against the floor.
Doma's smirk was gone.
Finally, Muzan spoke.
"Say it again."
Akaza clenched his jaw.
"…He disarmed every Hashira… without striking back. He let them hit him, and nothing hurt him. When he moved—they couldn't touch him."
Silence.
Muzan leaned forward, barely perceptible.
"And you're certain… he is not a Breather?"
Doma interjected quickly, cautiously cheerful. "Oh, Lord Muzan, I saw it with my own eyes—no breathing techniques. No Demon Blood Arts. No tricks. Just… raw power."
He shuddered. Actually shuddered.
"It felt like watching death… move."
Muzan's eyes narrowed.
Doma swallowed.
Muzan stood.
And for the first time in centuries, Muzan Kibutsuji felt… something ancient and primal stir in his spine.
Fear.
Not of failure.
But of extinction.
"You will not approach him," he ordered sharply. "Not until I command it."
Doma opened his mouth. "But—"
Muzan was in front of him in a flash.
His hand gripped Doma's throat. Not hard. Just enough.
"Disobey," Muzan hissed, "and even your soul will not escape me."
He let go.
Doma collapsed, smiling—but sweating.
Muzan turned.
Staring toward the east.
Toward the Slayer's last known location.
"He is not of this world. Not one of us. Not one of them."
He clenched his fists.
"He is something else entirely."
Meanwhile… back at the Slayer Corps HQ
The sun began to set.
A quiet hum buzzed through the barracks, the training fields, the sleeping quarters.
"Did you see the way he caught Gyomei's mace?"
"Sanemi got humbled like a brat."
"He didn't even break a sweat."
The Kakushi, the young trainees, even the Crows—they all whispered of the man in green, the silent juggernaut, the walking war.
The Slayer.
In his quarters—though the word was a joke considering the broken doorframe—the Slayer sat.
Helmet on the table.
Half-cleaned weapons laid out like sacred relics.
He didn't speak.
He didn't rest.
He just sat.
The wind blew in gently through the broken doorway.
Tanjiro, from outside, looked in quietly, carrying a tray of food again.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "the next demon assignment comes in. I don't know where yet, but… they'll ask you to come."
The Slayer didn't look at him.
Tanjiro smiled anyway.
"…Thank you. For not hurting them."
Still silence.
But there was something softer in the air.
As if the Slayer heard more than words.
Far, far away…
A castle began to tremble.
A demon hissed in a pit of blood.
The Upper Moons—even those who had not yet seen him—felt it.
A shift.
A ripple in the food chain.
A predator of predators.