The Hand Demon's grotesque form loomed large, its body now bristling with dozens of regenerated arms.
"Your attacks are useless!" it hissed, voice bubbling with triumph. "That little sword of yours can't even slow me down now. Chichichichi~ You'll end up like the rest of Urokodaki Sakonji's pathetic disciples—nourishment for my power!"
That shrill, repulsive laugh echoed through the trees, grating like nails against metal.
Shin Arashi's brow twitched.
"Shut up." His voice turned icy. "Don't flatter yourself. If I was trying to kill you seriously, you wouldn't even have time to talk. Laugh at your own damn death, not at me."
The Hand Demon blinked, startled.
In all his years lurking on Mt. Fujikasane, he had never encountered a swordsman this arrogant. Not even the most talented of Urokodaki's previous disciples had dared speak to him like that—especially not after realizing his regenerative power.
"Die! DIE! DIE! DIE—!"
Fury overwhelmed him. The demon let out a frenzied howl and lunged, unleashing a maelstrom of arms. Like a hurricane of limbs, they crashed toward Shin with relentless force.
But this time, Shin didn't retreat.
He inhaled deeply.
His stance shifted, low and grounded. Water flowed beneath his feet in shimmering arcs—his aura growing dense, like a still lake on the verge of exploding.
"Water Breathing… First Form Change: Water Surface Slash – Continuous Strike!"
A blur.
Just before the barrage of arms reached him, Shin's body halted mid-step. In that frozen instant—his blade moved.
Once. Twice.
Then—dozens of times.
CLANG! SLASH! CLANG!
In the blink of an eye, Shin's sword cut through the air with inhuman speed. Like a storm of water blades, he delivered nearly forty consecutive strikes in a single breath.
The modified First Form wasn't about overwhelming force—it was about speed, rhythm, and containment.
Where the traditional Water Surface Slash delivered one decisive blow, Shin's version transformed the technique into a rapid-fire flurry, capable of blocking multiple simultaneous attacks.
Strike Tide—the Fourth Form—was designed to eliminate several enemies in one go. But it was slower. Heavier. It couldn't keep up with the chaotic tempo of the Hand Demon's unending barrage.
This… was something else.
The Continuous Strike wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to hold the line—a desperate dam against the flood of limbs crashing in from all directions.
Each swing of the blade shaved away a limb, disrupted momentum, created breathing room.
But the cost was immense.
Shin's arms screamed from the strain. His muscles burned. Sweat beaded down his temples. If he pushed just a little harder, something in his shoulders—or wrists—might snap.
Still, he didn't stop.
This was the moment.
"Tanjiro… can you, do it?"
Three seconds.
That was all he needed. Three seconds where the demon couldn't fully regenerate.
But he couldn't keep this up.
He couldn't use this technique twice.
One opportunity. One window.
If Tanjiro missed it—
they were both dead.