Branches from the forest whipped across the demon's face, stinging sharply. The demon, its face twisted into a greenish-purple snarl, ran desperately. Blood seeped continuously from its injuries as it exerted itself.
"Huff… huff… huff…"
Gasping for breath, the demon felt its exhaustion growing heavier with each step.
Normally, demons do not feel fatigue—but that is only when uninjured. When the body is wounded, energy is prioritized for healing the injuries.
For a demon, wounds aren't usually a problem; even if its arm is cut off or its heart pierced, it can heal quickly. But if the blade causing the injury is a Nichirin Sword forged from sunlight-absorbing materials like Scarlet Crimson Iron Sand and Scarlet Crimson Ore, the situation changes.
A Nichirin Sword has the special ability to limit a demon's regeneration, making wounds heal extremely slowly.
For a demon unaccustomed to fatigue, the sudden sensation of exhaustion is terrifying, triggering panic.
This is the feeling of approaching death.
Run. I have to run.
The thought surged through its mind, but deeper inside was a sense of frustration. It had sensed Soma nearby; if they had fought together, perhaps things wouldn't be so dire. They could even have counterattacked these Demon Slayers. Yet Soma, sensing the situation, had left without hesitation, treating it neither as a comrade nor as a fellow being.
How foolish!
Do you really think these slayers will spare you just because they killed me?
How pathetic.
Whoosh!
A blade appeared from behind. The fleeing demon screamed, rolling to the ground.
A Demon Slayer had thrown their Nichirin Sword without hesitation, striking the demon's running thigh. The demon lost balance and fell instantly.
Hiroshi Furukawa didn't waste the advantage his teammate created. With swift, decisive movements, his blade flickered like flowing water.
Now!
"Flame Breathing, Second Form: Rising Scorching Sun!"
Hiroshi Furukawa gripped his Nichirin Sword with both hands, sprinted forward, and leapt, unleashing a powerful slash. The speed of his strike surged explosively, and the blazing blade cut toward the demon's neck.
The demon sensed the danger and tried to evade—but it was too late. The sharp blade was already at its neck.
The demon only felt its neck lighten suddenly, as if it had been lifted into the air—but immediately, it saw its own familiar body, the neck without a head spraying blood like a fountain.
Ah... it's my head that was cut off.
The head fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Hiroshi Furukawa landed from his leap at the same time, one hand on his blade, half-kneeling, gasping heavily.
His comrades arrived as well, witnessing the demon's execution and unconsciously smiling.
One Demon Slayer looked at the severed head that Hiroshi Furukawa had cut off. Seeing the grotesque face and remembering their fallen comrades, the swordsman stepped forward and angrily stomped on the head repeatedly, teeth gritted:
"Demons… these cursed creatures have no place in this world."
Hiroshi Furukawa and the others were all panting heavily and made no attempt to stop this venting of rage.
Although the head was severed, the demon's strong vitality meant it didn't die immediately. Its eyes could still move, ears still hear, and nose still breathe.
But the Demon Slayers present paid little attention. No matter how strong a demon's life force, once its neck is severed by a Nichirin Sword, death is inevitable. They watched the demon's head slowly dissipate under their feet.
As the demon's body vanished, a foul stench began to linger in the air.
"These damn demons… even in death, they stink like this."
The swordsman, with the demon's severed head under his foot, kicked it away in disgust.
The head rolled among the grass as it gradually dissipated, exuding a foul stench. The demon's life force was fading away bit by bit.
As its life slipped away, the memories of being human—once slowly lost—began to return. Before becoming a demon, it had a beautiful family: a gentle wife, an obedient child. But when it turned into a demon, all that happiness was destroyed under the taste of blood.
Its loving wife had held him tightly, watching as him devoured her flesh, crying and pleading for it to spare their child—just take her, she begged…
These memories, once fading under the curse of becoming a demon, now resurfaced in the mind.
Agony. Infinite agony. Sorrow.
Bottomless grief.
All of it arose with death in the demon's heart.
Tears mixed with blood silently fell from its eyes. Those moments of happiness, those joys once belonging to it, were all destroyed by the transformation into a demon.
The sorrow spread outward with the demon's death—but the Demon Slayers present could not sense it. They only smelled the foul stench left behind. If Tanjiro Kamado were here, perhaps he could perceive the grief lingering in the air, feel the sadness.
But ordinary people could not—they could only detect the unpleasant stench of a dying demon.
"The mission is finally over."
One swordsman, panting heavily, began tending to his wounds. His face carried both sorrow—for the comrades who had died—and relief—that he had survived.
"Captain, I heard after the mission ends, you're taking Lord Kyojuro for a meal."
A swordsman with a limp approached Hiroshi Furukawa, eyes shining with anticipation. That was the Flame Hashira—a figure admired by all the Demon Slayers.
"Mm."
Hiroshi Furukawa nodded, the tension in his face easing slightly into a faint smile.
"Can we come along too?"
The limping swordsman pleaded earnestly. The others looked over with eager faces as well. After all, it was Kyojuro Rengoku—the Hashira who had slain the Flute Demon of the Twelve Kizuki.
"No problem." Hiroshi Furukawa replied without hesitation.
"But… will Lord Kyojuro mind? He only agreed to go with you alone."
The limping swordsman looked a little concerned.
"Don't worry. He'll be happy that I'm taking you all along."
Hiroshi Furukawa shook his head. In his heart, Kyojuro Rengoku was like a caring older brother—always smiling, passionate, guiding and supporting his juniors. There was no need to worry.
Hearing this, everyone relaxed and smiled.
Only Hiroshi Furukawa remained pensive, his gaze lowered as he observed his surroundings carefully.
"Captain, what are you looking at?" The limping swordsman asked with a smile. "When we get back, we should go to the pleasure district for drinks. I heard a new courtesan just arrived, and she's supposed to be beautiful…"
Hiroshi Furukawa suddenly crouched down, touching the ground with his hand and inspecting a footprint. He then lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowed.
"Captain, what is it?"
The limping swordsman frowned at Hiroshi Furukawa's serious expression.
"I'm afraid... this mission isn't over just yet."
Hiroshi Furukawa's hand rested on the hilt of his Nichirin Sword. His gaze was sharp as a blade, piercing the night.