Late into the night, the moonlight was cold as frost.
Deep within Kyogoku House, the candles in that luxurious private room had been changed to a warm, suggestive red.
Shifting bamboo shadows fell across the door, and the air was filled with the cloying sweetness of incense and powder.
When Soma slid the door open, a figure was reclining behind the curtains upon a brocade mattress.
Warabihime had already removed the elaborate kimono she had worn earlier and changed into a thin pink robe as light as cicada wings. The fabric was so soft it seemed about to slip from her skin.
Her long black hair spilled behind her like a waterfall, with a few strands falling over her collarbones and shoulders, making that already peerlessly beautiful face appear even more bewitching.
Her brows were drawn long and fine, arching high. The corners of her eyes tilted slightly upward, and her gaze was bright with a watery sheen as she looked at the man at the door, a teasing smile playing on her lips.
Her slender waist looked as though it could be grasped in one hand, loosely gathered by a slack sash.
Below that, the curve of her hips flared suddenly, and beneath the hem of her robe, a pair of straight, slender legs were exposed. Her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, glowing with a soft, pearly luster beneath the candlelight.
Her entire figure was graceful and alluring, every curve exquisite, every inch just right.
Most dangerous of all was her chest. The collar of her pink robe hung wide open, with nothing worn beneath. Her full curves trembled slightly as she rose, as though they might spill out of the fabric at any moment.
"Sir, please come sit."
Warabihime's voice was soft as melted honey. She raised one arm, the sleeve sliding down to reveal a smooth, jade-like forearm, and lightly patted the brocade cushion beside her.
Every movement seemed carefully calculated. The sway of her waist, the angle of her gaze, even the depth of her breathing all displayed her every advantage with perfect precision.
This was not seduction.
It was a hunt.
Soma stood at the doorway, his gaze falling on her, his pupils widening slightly.
His throat moved, and his breathing grew heavier at that moment. He took a step forward, his pace somewhat eager, his gaze burning as if he wished to swallow her whole.
Warabihime was secretly delighted.
It never fails. It's always exactly like this.
These Demon Slayer Corps swordsmen—no matter how calm and composed they act in daily life—become even more pathetic than ordinary men the moment they stand before me… the moment they reach this bed.
She had seen far too many eyes like that.
Those so-called Hashira had entered this room one after another with righteous, imposing expressions, as if nothing could pierce them.
But once she took off her clothes and revealed her skin, nothing remained in their eyes but desire.
Then, when they were at their most relaxed and most defenseless, all she had to do was gently reach out, place her hand on their necks, and apply the slightest pressure with her fingers.
With a crack, their lives would end beneath their stunned, unwilling, disbelieving gazes.
Even powerful Hashira were not much different from ordinary people.
Compared with fighting desperately outside, killing people this way was far too easy.
Warabihime withdrew her thoughts and watched Soma approach step by step, the smile on her face deepening. She even deliberately pulled her collar a little lower, revealing a deeper curve, while the tip of her tongue lightly swept over her upper lip.
"That blade at your waist, sir… It looks so frightening."
Warabihime's gaze fell on the Nichirin Sword, her tone coquettish. "I am timid. The sight of a blade makes my heart uneasy. Could you… take it off first?"
As she spoke, she shrank her shoulders timidly, putting on a pitiful, delicate appearance.
Soma stopped and lowered his head to look at the Nichirin Word at his waist, seeming to hesitate for a moment.
Very soon, he obediently nodded and reached out to undo the sword belt.
A trace of satisfaction flashed through Warabihime's eyes.
However, Soma did not place the blade aside.
He gripped the scabbard, his thumb pressing against the guard, and slowly drew the blade out.
Clang!
A clear ringing sound echoed as the blade slid free.
Candlelight glinted off the blade, revealing a strange dark-red sheen, like frost soaked in the light of sunset.
A Nichirin Sword—crafted solely to slay demons.
Faint ripples ran along its surface, shimmering like water, yet concealing a lethal killing intent beneath.
Soma lowered his head. His left hand gently brushed along the blade, his fingertips sliding slowly from the guard all the way to the tip.
To a swordsman of the Demon Slayer Corps, a Nichirin Sword was almost like their very life.
Warabihime also understood what a Nichirin Sword meant to a swordsman, but she was in no hurry. No matter how precious a Nichirin Sword was, no matter how much it was like his life, surely he could not keep carrying it while they were tangled together.
Sure enough, Soma merely brushed his hand lightly over the blade before seeming ready to put it down.
As expected, all men are the same.
Deep in Warabihime's eyes was disdain, but in her heart, there was also pride. Her perfect, delicate body was far too tempting for these people.
This was the advantage of being a demon.
If she were human, perhaps in only a few decades her skin would grow loose and wrinkles would sink deep into her face. No matter how beautiful she was, time would eventually destroy that beauty and turn her ugly.
But demons were different.
Demons did not age. They did not need to earn money to support themselves. They would not fall ill, and they would not die. They would lose nothing. Daki believed that beautiful and powerful demons could do whatever they wanted.
Just as Warabihime was thinking this, she saw the man raise his head.
And she saw his eyes.
They were calm.
There was no greed in them at all, no desire.
Warabihime froze slightly. Then she immediately realized something was wrong and almost instinctively tried to retreat.
But it was already too late.
Soma drew his blade in that instant. The strike was so fast it reached its peak, and before Warabihime could react, it had already severed her head.
Clean and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.
Only after her head fell to the floor did Warabihime realize that this hateful man had cut her down.
She could not understand why at all.
How could he have been so obsessed with her one moment, yet so cold the next?
In that instant, the confusion in her heart even surpassed the pain and anger of being beheaded.
"Why? Why?" Warabihime's severed head questioned him in fury.
"You are a demon. A demon slayers using a Nichirin Sword to cut off a demon's head—why would that need a reason?"
Soma sheathed his blade. He did not relax in the slightest after severing Warabihime's head, because he knew very clearly that merely cutting off her head could not truly kill this demon.
As one of the twin demons, killing them required both heads to be severed at the same time. As long as the other remained alive, the beheaded body would not die like an ordinary demon, and would instead regenerate.
"You knew I was a demon from the very beginning? You were doing this on purpose from the start?"
Warabihime's severed head was filled with shock.
"Are you really that stupid? You only understand now?" Soma looked at Warabihime, his hand brushing the blade, his gaze calm.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
Warabihime's beautiful face twisted with rage. She was almost crying as she screamed, "You bastard! You bastard! Brother! Brother, come out! This man is bullying me! I want to kill him! I want to eat him! Aaaah! Brother…!"
Along with Warabihime's sharp, tearful cries, the patterns on her back began to writhe. Then, a demon with a bare upper body and loose blue pants on his lower half, red-and-black ribbons wrapped around both arms, suddenly appeared in front of her.
This was the other half of the Twin Demons — Gyutaro.
...
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