The first light of day crept across the shattered horizon, brushing over the smoking remains of the Demon Slayer Corps' headquarters.
It wasn't the same gentle sunrise people wrote about in poems. This one bled through a sky still streaked with ash and ember, sunlight trying to fight its way past the thick residue of war.
The main courtyard was unrecognizable. Charred craters marked where Barons had stood. Entire sections of walls were torn open, some still smoldering. The smell of demon ichor mixed with the sharp tang of gunpowder and scorched stone. Pools of blackened blood steamed faintly in the cool morning air.
A low wind rolled through, carrying dust, smoke… and the faintest, stubborn scent of steel and ozone.
Thor stood at the far end of the courtyard, leaning against Mjölnir, his armor darkened with demon blood and ash. His Asgardian paladins—what few remained—stood in formation nearby, their divine glow dim but not extinguished. They looked tired, but proud, each one gripping a weapon slick with black gore.
Kratos rested by a broken pillar, silent, the Leviathan Axe buried into the ground beside him. His chest rose slowly, but his eyes were still sharp—watching, listening.
The Doom Slayer stood alone. His armor was scratched, dented, smeared with fluids that didn't belong to him. He was motionless, visor reflecting the light of the burning debris around him. The others had learned by now that his silence didn't mean passivity—it meant calculation.
The Rest of the Corps
Further back, Kakushi worked in coordinated lines, carrying wounded demon slayers into makeshift medical tents.
Gyomei and Rengoku returned from the bunker entrance, their breathing heavy but their expressions steady—they had successfully escorted Kagaya and his family underground during the assault.
Tanjiro sat slumped against a wall, his sword still in his lap. His uniform was ripped, blood staining the sleeves—most of it not his own. Beside him, Atreus cleaned his bow in silence, glancing occasionally toward his father, but saying nothing.
What Was Different This Time?
It was still a slaughter. The casualty count was brutal—too many names that wouldn't answer roll call ever again. But… there was a difference.
This time, the demons hadn't cut through them like paper.
This time, they'd been ready.
The training over the past months had paid off—formations held longer, hellspawn were dragged down in coordinated strikes, and civilians had been moved before the chaos reached them. The underground bunker had worked. The staff had survived.
The HQ was scarred, but it was still standing.
The Ground
Walking through the courtyard was like stepping through the memory of a storm. Shattered blades lay next to empty shell casings. Demon corpses—still twitching in some places—were scattered across the grounds, their once-feral eyes now glassy and void.
Cracks split the stone where Kratos had slammed a Marauder's head into the ground.
A massive trench showed where Thor had spun Mjölnir in a wide arc, tearing through an entire charging flank.
A jagged crater marked the spot where the Slayer had eviscerated the demon general's guard.
The Hashira gathered briefly at the war table, though most of them were bandaged and blood-streaked. Even Muzan was nowhere to be seen—having vanished into the chaos after painting the battlefield with tendril-torn corpses.
No one smiled. No one celebrated. Victory was too fragile a word here.
Still… they breathed. They were alive. And in this world, that was reason enough to stand back up.