In the Depths of Hell
The throne room burned crimson. Lava cracks ran along the obsidian floor, casting jagged shadows across the ministers gathered.
At the center, the Dark Lord sat—horns curled, tendrils of smoke hissing from his body.
The report ended with silence. The minister who had vouched for victory… was gone.
The Dark Lord's clawed hand clenched the arm of his throne. The stone groaned, then shattered under his grip. For a moment the whole hall trembled.
"Impossible," one of the ministers hissed. "That one had the Beacon. His wounds should've never held him back."
"Not even the Beacon saved him," another muttered. "Which means—our enemies have grown more dangerous than we thought."
The Dark Lord's eyes burned like molten cores, but then his breathing steadied. Fury gave way to thought.
"Strength was expected. But this failure…" His voice scraped like chains on steel. "It will be answered."
The ministers shifted uneasily, whispering. That minister was no weakling. If he fell, then the coming war wasn't going to be simple.
The Dark Lord leaned forward, voice low.
"Prepare more. The Beacons will not be wasted again."
Back at Demon Slayer HQ
The nightmarish battle had left scars everywhere. Broken walls, scorched courtyards, and too many graves marked by simple wooden planks.
Kakushi moved silently through the morning light, carrying bodies wrapped in cloth to the cremation pits. Smoke rose, heavy with the smell of ash and incense. A quiet chorus of prayers followed.
The Slayer sat apart from the rest. On a stone near the edge of the yard, he worked a jagged rock against the blade attached to his armor. Sparks flickered as metal hissed on stone. He didn't look up. Didn't need to. He knew everything around him without glancing.
A few Kakushi glanced his way, whispering. To them he was both comfort and terror.
Kratos was at work nearby. muscles taut, he carried logs thicker than a man's waist. He dropped them down with a thud that rattled the dirt, then hefted another as though it weighed nothing.
The Kakushi froze mid-step, jaws slack. Even Sanemi stopped to watch, a smirk tugging at his mouth."Tch. Look at him, throwing around timber like it's firewood," Sanemi muttered.
One Kakushi nearly dropped a stack of planks. Kratos didn't notice—he just kept working, chopping, carrying, stacking. His movements were efficient, no wasted effort.
Atreus leaned on a fence, bow in hand but not strung. He watched quietly. A small smile crossed his face. It wasn't often he saw his father working without a fight behind it. Just… helping.
The Hashira moved among the wounded and the workers. Rengoku shouted encouragement as he carried stones to rebuild the courtyard wall. Mitsuri tied cloth around an injured slayer's arm while Obanai stood behind her, silent but steady.
Gyomei guided Kagaya's household toward the safety of the rebuilt bunker. His voice was calm, his steps steady despite the exhaustion.
And Thor?
Thor sat alone on a worn bench near a quiet corner of the yard. His hammer rested against his leg.
His gaze was far away, fixed on nothing in particular. He didn't drink, didn't move. Just… sat. As if he was listening to something no one else could hear.
The chaos of rebuilding moved around him, but no one disturbed him. Not even the Hashira.
The HQ lived. Broken, scarred, burned—but alive.
And for the first time in days, the sun rose over it without blood falling alongside.
The fires from the cremation pits still lingered in the air. A bitter smoke clung to everything, mixing with the clean bite of fresh-cut wood.
Slayers moved like ghosts through the courtyard. Some carried tools, others carried bodies. Most said little.
Near the half-broken wall
Rengoku's voice cut through the silence.
"Lift it higher—yes, there! One more push!"
Three young slayers struggled to haul a stone slab into place. When they nearly dropped it, Rengoku darted forward, his laugh booming.
"Haha! You've got more in you than that—don't let the stone win!"
One of the boys muttered, breathless, "It weighs more than I do!"
"Then you'll grow stronger," Rengoku said, smiling wide despite the bandage across his cheek. "Let the stone teach you!"
The boy groaned, but managed to shove the slab into place.
By the training yard
Sanemi leaned against a broken pillar, arms crossed. His eyes tracked Kratos casually tossing logs into neat stacks.
"You know," Sanemi said, "some of us train our whole lives just to barely move a thing like that."
Kratos didn't look up. He split a log clean in half with one swing of his axe.
"Then train harder."
Sanemi snorted. "Tch. Bastard." But there was a flicker of respect in his eyes he didn't bother hiding.
Nearby, Atreus gave a small grin. "He's not trying to show off. He just… doesn't know how to do things halfway."
Sanemi raised an eyebrow at the kid, then barked a laugh. "Sounds familiar." His eyes flicked toward the Slayer sharpening his blade alone.
Atreus followed the glance, quieting.
By the infirmary tents
Mitsuri sat cross-legged beside a slayer whose arm was bound tightly. She smiled as she adjusted the bandages.
"It'll heal. You'll swing a sword again. Don't pout."
The boy bit his lip. "I… I killed one. Just one demon. But I lost two of my friends doing it."
Her smile softened. She reached out, brushing his hair back gently.
"Then you honor them by living. By fighting again. Not by giving up."
Obanai stood just behind her, silent. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, his snake coiling lazily around his shoulders. His mismatched eyes lingered on the boy—steady, quiet. He didn't speak, but the weight of his presence was grounding.
At the bench
Thor sat still, staring down at Mjolnir. The scars on his arms were darker in the morning light. His paladins had already returned to Asgard. He was the last of them left here.
Kratos approached, heavy steps crushing gravel beneath his boots. He stopped at the bench, folding his arms.
"You look as though the war has ended," Kratos said.
Thor's mouth twitched into a humorless smile. "If only. This realm burns like all the others. It will not stop until one of us falls."
Kratos grunted. "Then don't sit."
Thor looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "You speak as though you've not felt the weight of endless battle."
"I have," Kratos said simply. "And I still stand."
Thor's gaze lingered, then drifted past Kratos—to the Slayer, sitting alone, grinding steel on stone. For the first time, his voice lowered.
"That one… he unsettles me."
Kratos followed the look. The Slayer didn't glance back. Didn't need to.
Thor's jaw tightened. "What is he?"
Silence. Kratos didn't answer. The Slayer didn't move.
Thor's grip tightened on Mjolnir. "Does he even speak?"
The Slayer's head turned slightly, just enough for the faint reflection of sunlight on his visor to meet Thor's eyes. Nothing else.
Kratos finally said, "You'll not find words from him. Only deeds."
Thor exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning back on the bench. "Hmph. Deeds, then. We'll see."
At the courtyard fire
Rengoku gathered a few of the younger slayers who'd survived, his voice warm and steady.
"You fought. You bled. You lived. That is victory."
One boy asked quietly, "But we lost so many…"
Rengoku's smile dimmed, but his voice stayed firm.
"Loss is part of battle. But look around—" he gestured to the rebuilt walls, to slayers working side by side, to the smoke rising from the cremation pyres—"and see what still stands. See what you protected."
Their faces lifted just a little.
And through it all, the Slayer said nothing. He sharpened, stood, checked his weapons, and walked the perimeter like a shadow.
But the sound of his blade on stone still echoed in the silence, sharper than any words could be.