The valley was quiet after the first wave of samurai. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying the scent of iron and burning wood. PK walked through the debris, his katana dripping with blood, eyes scanning but never resting. He spoke little, almost never. Words were unnecessary. His mind had no space for human thought—only one instinct ruled: kill.
A rustle of movement caught his attention. A boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, stepped from behind a toppled cart. He held a small practice sword, wooden and chipped. His eyes burned with defiance.
"You! Yeah, you!" the boy spat at PK. "1v1 me!"
The soldiers PK had slain yesterday would have been shocked by such insolence. PK did not flinch. He did not speak. The demon's power stirred in his veins, dark and cold, and his katana slid out of its sheath without hesitation.
The boy raised his wooden blade, trembling but proud. PK's eyes were empty. His movements were calm, deliberate. A single step forward, a swing of the blade—and the boy screamed as PK sliced clean through his hand, leaving the wooden weapon useless.
The boy fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding hand. PK tilted his head slightly, as if observing, then did nothing more. A warning. That was all.
The other villagers froze, eyes wide, some whispering prayers, others running. No one dared step closer. PK did not speak. He had no human mind to reason, no morality to follow—only the constant hunger of the demon's order.
The boy, trembling and panicked, stared up at him. Fear mixed with stubborn courage. PK said nothing. He didn't need to. Every moment he paused was a silent threat.
I am the blade, the demon whispered inside his mind.
I obey. I kill. All else is meaningless.
From the distant hills, more samurai and soldiers could be heard—reinforcements responding to the slaughter. PK lifted his katana, motionless, like a predator waiting for the next wave. The boy scrambled back, limping, realizing this was no ordinary enemy.
PK took a step forward. The ground trembled under his power. His katana glinted in the dying sunlight, promising death without mercy.
This was only the beginning. The humans of Japan would learn quickly: resisting PK meant nothing. Surviving meant obeying—or dying.
And PK would kill again, wordlessly, endlessly, until the Demon Lord's order was fulfilled.