Chapter 12: Fishing
Akira stretched out his hand toward the young man below, eyes glowing faint crimson.
"Blood Demon Art: Blood Crows of Suppression."
A torrent of red erupted from his palm. Countless blood-soaked crows exploded into the night sky before crashing downward like a violent tide. The swarm engulfed the terrified youth, smothering his screams beneath wings and beaks and tearing claws.
The air filled with the wet sound of flesh being stripped, bone cracking, marrow sucked dry.
When the crows dispersed, nothing remained but two bleached bones, picked clean and polished by their frenzy.
Akira lowered his hand, breathing steadily. He stared at his palm as the last embers of blood-light faded, and slowly—inevitably—a smirk tugged at his lips.
This power… intoxicating.
No longer the broken, dying man fated to wither before his time. Now he was something else—reborn, remade.
A demon under the command of Kibutsuji Muzan.
---
On the day Muzan had offered him that pale hand, Akira's body had twisted, reformed. Something strange had fused into him—the crow that had once been his companion. Its blood and his had intertwined during the transformation. Now, his Blood Demon Art carried their image: crimson crows, harbingers of fear, weapons of suppression.
But Akira cared nothing for the why.
All that mattered was this: he was no longer fated to die at twenty-five. His life was no longer a dwindling candle. He had time. Time to burn the world. Time to kill. Time to destroy the Corps that had branded him traitor.
His smirk sharpened.
"Miraijura…" he whispered to the night, a name like venom on his tongue. "You're next."
---
Later, Akira wandered alone through a bustling town.
Cloaked in black, his crimson hair hidden beneath a hood, he moved like a shadow among the living. The crowd paid him no attention. Children laughed, merchants haggled, the warm light of lanterns spilled across the street.
No one knew that a demon walked among them.
His steps slowed. Without realizing it, his gaze had fixed on a shop along the road—a modest sushi restaurant. The scent of rice and fish carried on the night air, pricking something deep in his chest.
He stood, unmoving.
For a moment, the years fell away. He saw Akito's hands carefully shaping rice balls, heard the laughter that once filled their tiny shop, felt the peace that had slipped through his fingers.
A voice broke the memory.
"Excuse me."
Akira blinked.
The owner, a young girl with bright eyes, stood in the doorway. She carried a small plate of sushi in her hands, smiling gently. Mistaking his hesitation for poverty, she extended it toward him.
"Would you like to try some? It's alright if you don't have money."
Her kindness pierced him. For the first time in years, his eyes softened. His lips moved before he could stop them.
"…Thank you."
He stepped inside.
---
The restaurant was warm, filled with chatter and light. Akira chose a quiet corner and sat. The plate rested before him, untouched.
The door chimed again.
Two more entered.
Their uniforms were unmistakable—black jackets marked with the insignia of the Corps. Nichirin Blades at their waists.
Demon Slayers.
They sat beside him, ordered casually, laughed as though nothing in the world could threaten them.
Akira's eyes lowered. His face betrayed nothing, but inside, his hunger stirred.
They ate loudly, their voices carrying.
"Two people went missing in Senlin Mountain," one said between bites.
"Yeah," the other replied. "Means the demon's dangerous. My master's on the way. We just investigate for now, gather clues."
"Lord Naruhira arrives in two days?"
"That's the plan."
They finished, paid, and left.
Akira remained seated, silent, listening. His hands curled faintly.
Finally, he stood. He turned to the girl at the counter and inclined his head.
"…Thank you for the food."
His voice was low, almost human.
He stepped out.
When the girl came to clean the table, she noticed the plate untouched. Her smile faltered. Had her cooking displeased him?
Then she saw the folded bills tucked neatly beneath the dish. Exact payment for the meal.
She blinked. Relief warmed her expression.
"Strange man…" she murmured. "But kind."
---
Outside, Akira followed.
The two slayers walked several dozen meters ahead, unaware—or so it seemed. His pace was unhurried, shadow melting into shadow.
They turned onto a deserted street. The air grew colder. Silence pressed down.
Then—
They stopped.
One turned, calm eyes locking on Akira. "I noticed you the moment you entered the restaurant." His voice was steady, controlled. "Too many people around then. Couldn't risk it."
The other drew his blade. "You were bold to follow us. Saves us the trouble. No civilian casualties."
Steel hissed as twin Nichirin Blades caught the moonlight.
A trap. From the very start.
Akira's lips curved faintly. "I see. The Corps has raised clever children."
"No more talk!"
They lunged.
"Thunder Breathing, First Form: Thunderclap and Flash!"
"Wind Breathing, First Form: Dust Whirlwind Slash!"
Lightning and wind crashed together, converging upon Akira.
His palms rose—too late. Steel severed flesh. His hands fell, blood spraying.
He staggered, retreating, their pursuit relentless. Blades howled around him, every strike honed by years of battle.
These were no ordinary slayers. One, the stepson of the Sound Hashira. The other, his sworn brother-in-arms. Together, they had slain countless demons. Together, their rhythm was unbreakable.
They pressed Akira like wolves, their teamwork seamless.
For the first time since becoming a demon, Akira was pushed back.
The battle stretched on. Minutes bled into hours. The moon dipped lower.
Finally, after two grueling hours, the Wind user roared, spinning through the air. His blade gleamed—then cleaved.
Akira's head fell.
His body collapsed.
Silence.
The slayers stood gasping, sweat drenching them, wounds burning. One cradled the bloody stump of his arm, teeth gritted against the pain.
"…We did it," whispered the Sound Hashira's disciple. His chest heaved with exhaustion. "We… killed him."
His partner forced a smile despite the blood. "Worth it."
Relief sagged their shoulders. They had gambled their lives and won.
Or so they thought.
---
"Magnificent."
The voice froze them.
Cold. Calm. Too close.
They turned.
And their blood ran cold.
Akira stood behind them. Whole. Restored. Not a scratch marred his flesh. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
He smiled softly.
"What a beautiful battle," he said. His tone was not mocking, but eerily sincere. "Especially you, little one who lost your arm. You fought well."
Their swords rose again, trembling.
Akira's gaze shifted. He looked at the Sound Hashira's disciple. His smile vanished.
"And you… just like your master. Both as a swordsman… and as a person…"
His voice dropped into venom.
"…Trash."