In the suffocating darkness of night, a lone figure sprinted through the wilderness, stealing glances over his shoulder. Fear and determination warred in his eyes as he pushed forward, knowing death was stalking him relentlessly.
Zechuan had been running for what felt like an eternity.
He rode atop his beloved companion, Soumaru, the demon dog's powerful form cutting through the night air. The experiences of recent weeks had carved away the last traces of childhood from his face, leaving something harder and more resolute behind. The naive boy who had once dreamed of simple pleasures was gone, replaced by someone who understood the harsh realities of this world.
Whoosh!
Suddenly, a streak of blazing fire erupted from the darkness, slicing through the air with deadly precision toward Zechuan's torso. His reflexes, honed by countless nights of pursuit, kicked in instantly. He jumped from Soumaru's back just as the flaming blade passed through the spot where he had been sitting.
The demon dog wasn't as fortunate. The sacred fire of the Nichirin blade carved through his limbs as if they were paper, sending the creature tumbling across the rocky ground in a spray of dark blood and demonic essence.
Zechuan hit the earth hard but rolled with practiced ease to absorb the impact, then sprang back to his feet. But before he could create any meaningful distance, cold steel touched his throat.
The blade's edge hovered mere millimeters from his skin, ready to part flesh from bone.
Zechuan's pupils contracted to pinpricks. Without hesitation, he grabbed the razor-sharp blade with his bare hand and felt it slice deep into his palm. The Nichirin sword's holy properties burned his demonic flesh, but his expression remained unchanged as if pain were an old friend.
Like a grasshopper launched by a spring, he bounded more than ten meters into the air and landed gracefully beside Soumaru.
The demon dog's body was grotesque, with chunks of rotting flesh held together by supernatural will and blood pooling beneath him like spilled ink. Yet, even as Zechuan watched, new limbs began to sprout from the wounds, muscle and bone regenerating with wet, organic sounds. Moments later, Soumaru stood again, saliva dripping from his fangs as a low, threatening growl rumbled from his throat.
Man and beast turned to face their pursuers: two figures emerged from the shadows with the fluid grace of master swordsmen, the
The Demon Slayer Corps.
Before fleeing the palace after assassinating the shogun, Zechuan had never known of their existence. It was only after leaving his former life behind that he encountered them, along with other demons who served under Muzan Kibutsuji's banner. These encounters had provided him with a clearer understanding of the world he now inhabited, a world far more complex and dangerous than he had ever imagined.
Since then, he'd been careful, avoiding populated areas and keeping to the shadows. He'd also known that killing a nation's ruler would have consequences. He'd prepared for this inevitability.
These two Hashira had been hunting him for weeks, and tonight wouldn't be their first deadly dance:
The Flame Hashira, Rengoku, and the Water Hashira, Giyu Tomioka.
Both pillars studied the boy and his demonic companion with serious expressions. They'd spoken with Zechuan during previous encounters and confirmed what their investigation had suggested: This demon hadn't been created by Muzan Kibutsuji. During their research, they also discovered the trail of bodies he left behind, dozens of people consumed to fuel his rapid growth in power.
While many of his victims had been corrupt officials and criminals, the Demon Slayer Corps couldn't overlook the fundamental truth that they were still human lives, and no demon had the right to judge them.
More troubling was the boy's appetite. Most demons have natural limitations; they can only consume so much human flesh before their bodies reject it. But Zechuan and his companion showed no such restraint. They devoured everything they could catch, digesting frantically to increase their strength. They were completely unchecked by normal demonic limitations.
Under ordinary circumstances, eating ordinary people provided minimal power gains, which is why most demons preferred rare blood types or specific victims. But this boy was different. His growth rate was unprecedented, even when feeding on ordinary humans.
This anomaly challenged everything Rengoku and Giyuu thought they knew about demon physiology.
After pursuing him for so long, they had witnessed his escape from their grasp once before. He now possessed strength rivaling that of the lower-ranked members of the Twelve Demon Moons, yet he bore no numbers in his eyes. Based on his previous statements, it was clear that he operated independently of Muzan's control. He spoke the Demon King's name freely and drew clear distinctions between their goals.
"I've told you countless times," Zechuan's voice cut through the night air, grim and unwavering. "I have nothing to do with Muzan Kibutsuji, and I don't kill indiscriminately. Those I consumed were parasites, cancers that made this world sicker with every breath they took. The man you call Tokugawa was among them."
Rengoku and Giyuu positioned themselves strategically, one in front and one behind, trapping the demon between them.
"Did someone order you to assassinate the shogun?" Rengoku asked, his voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air.
"It was divine will," Zechuan replied, his expression as blank as carved stone. "God guided my hand in this righteous act."
His voice carried an unsettling certainty. "This world is diseased, and most people are infected by that sickness. Someone must stand up and cure it. Look around you. Wars rage everywhere, and people suffer endlessly. Humans have forgotten their humanity, and demons have lost their way. I act only to end the suffering quickly and grant this world rebirth." Only a handful have died because of me. If I do nothing, countless more will perish in the coming chaos.
Besides, those I devoured deserved their fate. They have no place in the new world I'm creating."
Giyuu frowned, recognizing the unshakable determination burning in the boy's gaze. It was hard to believe that such words could come from someone who was barely past childhood. Yet, the conviction behind them was frighteningly real.
Both Hashira had heard these arguments before during their previous encounters.
"Did that man, the one called Oboro, tell you this?" Giyuu asked quietly. "The entire country has fallen into chaos because of your actions. If you hadn't murdered the shogun, none of this would be happening."
"Pain is only temporary," Zechuan said, his expression twisting into something more bestial. "What matters is the rebirth that follows destruction."
His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "You are also forbidden from speaking that lord's name so casually."
The moment those words left his lips, Soumaru began flowing like liquid mercury. His form dissolved and streamed up Zechuan's arm, merging with his master's body.
Blood Demon Art activated!
Zechuan knew there would be no escape this time. The chase had gone on too long, and the Hashira had grown too familiar with his patterns.
This would be a fight to the death.
As Soumaru's essence flowed into him, Zechuan's body began to expand under the horrified gaze of the two Demon Slayers. In mere seconds, he doubled in height, then tripled, transforming into a towering, wolf-headed monstrosity nearly five meters tall. Dark energy radiated from his form like heat waves, and his presence alone seemed to make the air itself recoil.
His hands had become massive claws, each palm as large as a millstone and tipped with obsidian talons as sharp as katana blades.
"ROOOOOAAARRR!"
The bestial cry that erupted from his throat generated a physical shockwave that flattened the grass and shook nearby trees.
"Total Concentration Breathing, Constant," the Hashira whispered in unison. Their bodies immediately tensed as their enhanced respiratory techniques flooded their systems with power.
Giyuu moved first, lowering his blade until it nearly touched the ground. His movements became fluid and graceful, as if he were gliding across the surface of a perfectly still lake.
"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm."
As he spoke, the very air around them seemed to transform. Ripples appeared in space itself, as if reality had become liquid. The peaceful surface suddenly erupted into a devastating tsunami of sword strikes, with each wave representing dozens of cuts aimed at the monster's vital points.
Every droplet of water was a flash of steel.
This was Giyuu's personal creation: a technique born from years of perfecting the Water Breathing forms and pushing them beyond their traditional limits.
The massive Zechuan roared at the approaching tsunami and charged forward with earth-shaking steps. Despite his size and power, however, the dense network of water-like strikes proved impossible to evade completely. The ground beneath him rippled and flowed like a turbulent river, making it nearly impossible to find solid footing.
CRASH!
On the opposite side, another figure danced across the liquid battlefield. Flames wreathing his blade seemed to make the air boil with steam and superheated vapor.
"Flame Breathing, Ninth Form: Rengoku!"
As Zechuan staggered under the relentless assault of water, Rengoku's technique erupted skyward: a pillar of fire that seemed to pierce the heavens themselves. The pillar engulfed the demon's massive form in sacred flames that burned away corruption and evil.
"You're not the only one who's been granted power by forces beyond this world," Giyuu murmured as he watched the dark shadow writhe and scream within the inferno.
At the same time Zechuan was facing his greatest trial, Oboro sat peacefully in a traditional walled courtyard miles away. Steam rose gently from the cup of tea in his hands as he observed the scene before him with calm interest.
A woman knelt in the courtyard's center, her clothes torn and bloodstained. She gripped a katana in her trembling hands. Her exposed skin bore the marks of prolonged abuse: whip marks, burns, and partially healed wounds that spoke of months, perhaps years, of suffering.
Around her lay the bodies of her former captors, their blood slowly seeping into the earth.
She stared at the carnage with hollow, disbelieving eyes.
Chiyoko and Rina, Oboro's faithful attendants, stood silently at his sides, their expressions as serene as his.
"Your actions have already given you the answer you've been seeking," Oboro said softly, taking a measured sip of his tea. His voice carried the gentle warmth of someone discussing the weather. "Look at what you've accomplished. When you finally acted, everything changed. You found your freedom."
"It really wasn't that difficult, was it?"
However, this freedom is only temporary," he continued, setting down his cup with deliberate care. As long as the world remains the same, you'll inevitably face the same situation again. They'll call you mad for what you've done. But I have to ask: Who is truly insane here? You or the society that created the need for such actions?"
Suddenly, Oboro's expression shifted slightly. Something tugged at his consciousness, a distant sensation that made him look toward the horizon.
He could feel it through the blood connection he'd established, something had happened to Zechuan.
"Excellent," he murmured. Despite the dire implications, a satisfied smile crossed his features.
Whether Zechuan lived or died tonight mattered less than what his fate represented. If the Demon Slayer Corps killed him, it would prove that their strength was growing. If one of the Twelve Demon Moons did the deed, it showed that Muzan's forces were evolving as well. Either outcome confirmed that the difficulty of this world was escalating, exactly as Oboro had hoped. All the pieces on the board were becoming stronger, more capable, and more interesting.
The broken woman before him suddenly collapsed to her knees with a wet thud. Her katana clattered to the ground as she finally released her death grip on its handle. Her head bowed low and her shoulders shook with exhaustion and the overwhelming weight of what she had done.
A pale, perfectly formed hand entered her field of vision. The skin was as flawless as porcelain and radiated an almost supernatural warmth that seemed to promise comfort after so much pain.
"Go ahead," Oboro said in a voice like silk and honey, full of understanding and acceptance. "Prove to yourself and everyone else that you're not the crazy one. Show them that you're the only one who truly sees this world clearly."
The woman's pupils dilated as she slowly raised her head and met his knowing smile with desperate, grateful eyes.
With trembling fingers, she reached out and grasped his offered hand.