Just then, Murata keenly sensed something amiss.
It wasn't murderous intent, but a long-lost, chilling coldness.
That coldness didn't come from the wind, but from some long-extinct fluctuation in the air. Murata abruptly turned, looking into the shadows of the courtyard.
There stood a young man.
He wore an outdated, old-fashioned black stand-up collar uniform, a long sword without a hilt hanging at his waist. But what made my pupils contract most was the look in his eyes.
That wasn't the look of a human.
It was the look of hunger.
"Hey, old man," the young man's lips curled into an exaggerated smile, revealing two sharp canines, "I heard you used to be in the Demon Slayer Corps?"
That wasn't an illusion.
Decades had passed. Since the dawn of that final battle in the Infinity Castle, since Muzan turned to ashes, such a thing shouldn't exist in this world anymore.
Murata suppressed the gasp that threatened to burst from his throat, glancing inside the house. His grandson and granddaughter were sleeping soundly, emitting soft snores. He couldn't drag them into this.
"Who are you?" Murata tried his best to make his voice sound like an ordinary, stubborn old man, even though his palms were sweating. "In the middle of the night, playing tricks in someone's yard, these young people have no manners."
The young man laughed.
His laughter was like two rusty pieces of iron rubbing together, gratingly harsh.
"Playing tricks? Ha..." He took a step forward.
Just one step.
Murata's body reacted faster than his brain—an instinct honed from countless brushes with death. I lunged to the side, and in that instant, the spot where Murata had been standing was torn apart by some unseen claws with a "boom," sending dirt flying and leaving a deep trench.
Murata took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound like a stern elder. "Young man, trespassing is a serious crime. Before I... " Heh... heh heh heh...
The young man let out a bellows-like laugh, his lips widening until the soft flesh deep inside his mouth was revealed. His two jagged canines gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
He stuck out his scarlet tongue and licked his dry lips. "Old man, I know you think we're extinct. But as long as darkness exists in this world, we will always exist." He didn't explain why, nor how he was born. His eyes held only pure hunger and a murderous urge.
It must be quick!
My daughter-in-law and grandson are inside!
Murata didn't waste words, inhaling deeply. Though old and frail, though his lungs burned like fire, at this moment, the man who had survived Mount Natagumo, who had survived the final battle in the Infinite Castle, had returned. Murata shattered the floor tiles beneath his feet, his broken sword seemingly carrying a faint yet resilient current of water, aimed straight for the demon's throat. "Too slow!"
The demon's pupils contracted sharply, and he swung his tsuba-less longsword down.
Clang!
A deafening metallic clang echoed through the night. Murata's hand split open, blood streaming down. The broken sword, already fragile, was now further weakened by Murata's diminished strength, and was knocked away by the blow.
"Is that all?" The demon laughed maniacally, kicking Murata in the chest.
"Thud!"
Murata felt as if he'd been struck by a raging bull; the sound of his ribs breaking was clearly audible. He was sent flying like a rag doll, crashing through the yard fence and slamming into the wooden wall of his neighbor's—the old blacksmith Sato's—warehouse.
"Cough cough... Ugh..."
Murata lay sprawled in the rubble, coughing up blood, stars flashing before his eyes.
The demon, sword in hand, strode over the rubble, as if savoring the final moments of its hunt.
"It's over, old man. Take your old era with you to hell."