At midnight.
In the heart of the U.S. army base.
The snow is blackened with soot, the ground drenched in rivers of blood. Shattered rifles lie twisted in the gore, their owners sprawled lifeless, their faces frozen in silent screams.
In the middle of that crimson mire, something moves. Each step is slow, deliberate — squelching as boots sink into the blood-soaked earth.
The sound of dripping echoes louder than the silence of the dead.
From the shadows, soldiers stagger into view — pale, trembling, their breaths ragged clouds in the winter air. Their rifles shake in their hands, but their eyes are fixed on the lone silhouette ahead.
"I-It can't be… is that even human?"
"No… that's… that's a monster."
The figure emerges.
White eyes glow with an unholy light. His tattered cloak whips in the wind, his steel-colored skin gleams under the dim floodlights. A military hat still rests neatly on his head — mockingly human, yet undeniably wrong.
The soldiers feel their knees weaken, as though the earth itself rejects standing against him.
——————
MIDNIGHT WINTER
Upper Moon Six
——————
His gaze cuts through them like a blade, seething with ancient fury.
"The U.S. Army…" his voice is deep, metallic, filled with venom. "They will not be winning this time."
The U.S. soldiers raise their rifles, panic shaking their hands.
"FIRE!"
A storm of bullets tears through the night—
But Midnight doesn't flinch.
With a bone-splitting grind, his right arm twists, metal groaning, flesh splitting apart.
It mutates into a massive machine gun, barrels glowing.
BRRRRRRRRTTTT!
His gun roars like thunder. His bullets are larger, sharper, faster.
They shred through the soldiers' fire like paper, punching holes through armor and skulls alike.
Bodies collapse, fountains of blood spraying across the crimson-stained ground.
In a blink—he's gone.
"Wha—"
Midnight materializes in front of the frontlines. His both arms contort grotesquely, flesh tearing, metal grinding—
until twin chainsaws roar to life, spinning with a deafening screech.
SLASH! RIP! SHRED!
Limbs fly. Armor splits. Soldiers are diced to ribbons, their screams swallowed by the shriek of his saws.
Blood mist fills the air, warm rain falling back on him.
And still—he stands calm, chest rising steady, white eyes glowing in the dark.
Then the ground shakes—fighter jets roar overhead, tanks roll in, sniper fire rattles from hidden nests.
The entire base unleashes hell.
"NOW! ALL UNITS FIRE!!"
Tracer rounds scream, rockets launch, artillery shakes the earth—
"WINGS—ACTIVATE."
Metal rips open his back. Two monstrous steel wings burst out, snapping wide like jet turbines.
WHOOSH!
Midnight vanishes upward, bullets and shells missing him by inches.
From his shoulders, two missile pods unfold—
FWOOOSH! FWOOOSH!
Flaming warheads streak toward the skies.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The fighter jets erupt mid-air, fireballs raining metal scraps across the base. Pilots' dying screams vanish in the inferno.
Midnight twists mid-flight, his left arm tearing itself apart into a RPG launcher.
He spins once, then fires—
THOOM! THOOM! THOOM!
The rockets streak into the armored columns.
BOOOOOOM!!!
Tanks split open like tin cans, shrapnel shredding nearby soldiers. The shockwaves toss men like ragdolls, their bodies breaking before they hit the ground.
He lands silently in front of the foxholes. The terrified soldiers inside clutch their rifles, whispering prayers.
Midnight crouches low. His hands hiss, splitting open, flamethrower nozzles emerging from his palms.
WHOOOOSH!
Flames roar out, scorching earth, melting steel, and roasting flesh. The foxholes become tombs of fire, their screams rising and then choking out.
From the distance—
CRACK! CRACK!
Snipers fire from hidden nests.
Midnight tilts his head, almost amused. One hand morphs again, the steel forming into a sleek sniper barrel.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
His bullets—faster than light to their eyes—slice through theirs mid-air, before tunneling into the skulls behind them.
Heads explode like melons, painting the walls with crimson.
The last group hides behind debris, breaths frantic, whispering:
"D-Do we even… stand a chance?"
Silence.
Then—THUD.
Midnight drops in front of them like a phantom, white eyes piercing the dark. His legs snap and grind, transforming into hydraulic pistons.
CRUNCH!
He stomps, crushing helmets like eggshells, their brains splattering under his metallic feet.
Some hours later.
The battlefield is unrecognizable. The soil is no longer soil—it's a swamp of blood. Smoke rises in thick, choking clouds, the air filled with the stench of burnt flesh and gunpowder.
Limbs and helmets lie scattered like broken toys. Tanks are nothing but twisted carcasses of metal. Fighter planes burn in the distance, their wreckage crackling in silence.
It doesn't look like war anymore. It looks like the end of the world.
Through this graveyard of men and machines, a single figure walks.
Midnight Winter.
His metallic skin glistens red in the firelight, dripping with the blood of thousands. His cloak trails behind him, torn yet unyielding. His glowing white eyes do not waver. His steps echo against the silence like a funeral bell.
Inside, his thoughts rumble, heavy as thunder. "Lord Jigen ordered me to wipe out only seventy percent of the U.S. army. The mission is complete."
He pauses, surveying the carnage with calm indifference—neither pride nor guilt, only a cold satisfaction.
A flicker crosses his face. The memories surge.
"After decades… finally, my revenge is done."
He lifts his blood-soaked hands, flexing them as though still feeling the resistance of flesh and bone.
Around him, the night is silent, but the silence is worse than the gunfire—it feels like the world itself is holding its breath.
Midnight Winter turns away, vanishing into the fog of smoke and ruin.
The battlefield remains behind him, a monument to despair.
———————————————————————
The next day.
In the morning.
LIVE INTERNATIONAL BROADCAST
(Network logos flicker — the feed is shaky, news anchors look pale and exhausted, as if they've been awake for days.)
Anchor (World News, visibly shaken):
"Good evening. We come to you tonight during what experts are calling the greatest military disaster in human history. The United States Army has been… decimated. Seventy percent of its active forces — gone, in just a matter of hours. Entire divisions annihilated. Entire fleets… sunk.
The Pentagon remains in lockdown. We are told the President is alive, but morale in Washington is described as 'irrecoverable.' For the first time in living memory, the United States military is no longer the shield of the world."
(Images flash — grainy cell phone clips: cities burning, soldiers torn apart by shadows, helicopters falling from the sky, and a blurred glimpse of Midnight's silhouette standing in ruins like a phantom.)
Everyone is whispering about the massacre of the US army across all the countries. The world is completely shaken, scared.
In the Demon Slayer Corps.
Ai Hanako sits on her bed, her fingers clenched against the blanket, her face pale with unease. "That broadcast… Was it real? Did 70% of the U.S. army truly fall overnight? If it's true… then this world is unraveling into something far darker than I imagined. This reeks of Jigen… it must be him…"
She rises slowly, steps dragging as she approaches the window. The sun feels cold, almost mocking. "If Jigen is behind this, then nowhere is safe. Not for us. Not for anyone."
A sudden knock rattles the silence.
Her body tenses.
She turns toward the door, heartbeat unsteady, and carefully opens it.
Chikafusa stands there, face pale, eyes trembling.
"H-Hanako-San…" his voice quivers, almost as if he's forcing the words out. "…Nameless-kun… he's awake. He finally woke up from his coma."
Her eyes widen, breath caught. "What… really? Where is he?!"
Moments later—
They enter the dimly lit room. The air smells faintly of medicine and dried blood.
Nameless lies on the bed, wrapped in thick bandages, his body fragile, almost corpse-like—but his eyes are open. Alive.
Ai's chest tightens with relief, her voice soft. "I'm glad… I'm glad to see you awake, Nameless-kun."
Nameless shifts weakly, his voice hoarse. "…Hanako-san… Where is Yoshimitsu-kun…?"
The room falls into silence. Ai lowers her eyes, guilt in her throat like a stone.
"…He's… he's still in a coma. His condition… it's the worst."
Nameless's breathing grows heavier. His next question slices the air.
"…And Koji-kun? Where is he?"
Again—silence.
Ai glances at Chikafusa, their eyes exchanging unspoken dread.
Finally, Ai forces a shaky smile, her voice breaking slightly. "H-he's alright… You'll see him when you're stronger…"
But inside—she knows Koji is gone. He's never coming back.
Nameless closes his eyes briefly, as though trying to gather lost fragments. "…I… I don't remember… anything. My memory—it's gone. Erased."
Ai freezes, her heart pounding. "Erased? Wait… Matsunaga-kun once told me… only one demon has the power to erase memory… erase anything…"
Her voice drops, trembling but steady with realization. "…Did Nameless-kun… really face the Upper Moon Four… Eliza?"
The weight of the name fills the room like a curse.
She exhales, composing herself, and stands. "Sorry. You should rest now. Don't push yourself further."
Chikafusa nods quickly, forcing a small smile. "Yes… take care, Nameless-kun."
They turn and leave, closing the door softly behind them.
As they walk together, Ai's face is filled with quiet rage.
Chikafusa notices. "Is something wrong, Hanako-San?"
Her voice comes out sharp, almost cracking.
"Something wrong? Yamamoto-kun… everything is wrong. We're being hunted like animals. No matter where we run, the Upper Moons find us. Our comrades, our friends—they're cut down in front of us, their heads rolling in the dirt… and we just stand there. Helpless. Powerless."
Her fists clench so hard her knuckles pale.
"Do you understand what that means? We don't own our lives anymore. They do. Whether we live or die—it's decided in their hands, not ours. And all our blood, our sweat, our sacrifices… means nothing."
He tries to console her, his voice filled with sorrow. "Hanako-San… Please calm down… I know we're suffering from huge miseries… But it doesn't mean we'll break..."
Her voice breaks, trembling between rage and sorrow. "I tell everyone to fight, to endure, to stay strong—while I know deep inside… we're walking toward the grave. I pray every night, I beg heaven for a miracle. But there's no answer. The sky doesn't care. God doesn't care. And every day… we lose more."
Chikafusa stops her way, his voice rises. "Hanako-san! Stop it. You can't blame God for this. God is with us, or else we'd be killed… If you'll break like this, how will others stand for themselves…?"
She stops, her eyes red but burning with desperate fire. "Yamamoto-kun… we can't win this. Not like this. Not now. Not even if we fought for centuries. This war will never end… unless he returns."
Chikafusa's eyes widen. "H-Hajime-San…?"
She nods, voice barely holding together. "Yes. Nobody knows but us that he's still alive. He is the only hope left to this world. We don't search for him for ourselves—we do it for everyone who's already gone. For every name carved into the soil. For every scream that still echoes in our ears."
She smiles faintly. "I'm not saying that we're unworthy… or we're nothing without him. But if he's with us, we might have a chance to win this war.
So tell me, Yamamoto-kun… Will you help me find him… before the world itself dies?"