Time waited for no one. The boy's instructions to Shirou had only taken a moment—barely two sentences. Just how long could that possibly buy them?
But for a demon who had already recovered, that was more than enough time to retrieve the weapon that had been knocked away with its severed arm.
Generally speaking, demons without Kekkijutsu—Blood Demon Arts—were relatively weak. A demon's strength depended not only on its own physical power but also on how much of that person's blood it had received.
The more blood it drank, the stronger it became.
That blood also conferred Kekkijutsu. Without enough of it, demons rarely awakened those abilities on their own.
But that didn't mean demons without Kekkijutsu were weaklings. Year after year, countless cultivators sent their disciples into Fujikasane Mountain for the Final Selection—but only a handful ever made it out alive.
Did those boys and girls not know Breathing Styles? Were they incapable of slaying demons?
To even enter Fujikasane, one needed a cultivator's approval—a sign that they'd met the minimum threshold of strength to qualify.
The trial was bloody by design. It existed to force them to confront, with their own bodies and lives, what kind of monsters they would face on the path ahead.
And yet, the demons caught inside Fujikasane were among the weakest—starved and desperate. Even so, the survival rate for trainees remained staggeringly low.
That was proof enough.
Even demons without Blood Demon Arts… could still kill Demon Slayers.
And compared to those feeble, underfed demons within the mountain, a demon outside—with ample energy and feeding—was far harder to handle.
Thud!
Before Shirou could even pull the boy's Nichirin Blade from the ground, the demon came at him like a panther—its entire body a blur as it surged forward at terrifying speed.
Fast. But not unmanageable.
At least it wasn't so fast that Shirou couldn't see it at all.
Thanks to his finely tuned vision, he could just barely track its movements.
For an archer, dynamic vision was far more important than static. Shirou hadn't trained just with stationary targets—he had plenty of practice with moving ones.
He had no trouble piercing apples that Fuji-nee tossed into the air.
He could even shoot them blindfolded while they spun mid-flight.
That's how confident he was in his archery.
But against a foe this fast, Shirou's biggest limitation wasn't perception—it was speed of movement.
He could see it. His mind could react. But his body simply couldn't keep up.
If only his reinforcement magecraft worked on his own body, things would be different. Reinforced humans could stand toe-to-toe with Servants—let alone some mid-level demon.
If he could enhance his body as easily as his weapons, he wouldn't stand a chance against a Heroic Spirit, sure—but this kind of demon? He'd be more than capable.
Clang!
Shirou managed to intercept one of the demon's strikes.
But the demon didn't linger. It immediately withdrew, a blurred black shadow flickering through the trees like a bat in flight.
Sometimes it leapt from branch to branch, using the rebound to fuel its next strike.
Other times, it dropped to all fours, twisting its body into bizarre postures as it crawled low across the ground like a beast.
Within the space of mere meters, the demon bounced like a rubber ball—ricocheting in all directions.
Each attack came quick and sharp, with no pause in between—leaving Shirou no room to counter.
The relentless flurry of slashes came from every direction, like a torrential storm. Shirou was pinned in place, unable to move.
All he could do was what the boy had done earlier—use every ounce of strength just to block, desperately adjusting his position to deflect each incoming blow.
The clash of blades echoed through the forest.
But now it was Shirou fighting one-handed—and the pressure was immense. His fingers had already gone numb from the vibration. His grip was slipping.
Even the half-kneeling boy could see that Shirou wouldn't last much longer.
"Wait for the right moment…"
The boy knew Shirou didn't have a chance to grab the Nichirin Blade in the chaos, and as an ordinary human, there was no way he could strike back at a demon this fast.
Which meant he had to do it himself.
With the last of his strength, he had to seize one opening—one moment—and end it in a single blow.
If he failed, neither of them would survive.
His blood was thin now. He felt like he could faint any second. Maybe that last attack had been too reckless—but it had taught him something:
How to swing a sword with his left hand.
His head drooped, lips curled slightly into a faint smile. Short, shallow breaths slipped between his teeth.
He had to mask his intent—make sure the demon didn't guess what he was planning.
He slowly raised his head, searching for the demon's position.
Shirou wasn't doing much better.
The demon's brute-force strikes had nearly numbed his arms entirely. He could barely apply any force to the katana in his hands.
The next blow—
He wouldn't be able to block it.
"Tch."
Perched on a tree branch above, the demon grinned. It knew Shirou's condition. It knew the next strike would be fatal.
But Shirou had never been its real target.
From the very beginning, its prey… was the injured boy.
The demon dropped to the ground, body low like a rat scurrying across the dirt. Its silver blade glinted like a ticking clock under the moonlight as it zipped past Shirou.
In the time it took to breathe—
—it had appeared behind the boy.
"Damn it!"
Shirou realized it too late. Every prior strike had been aimed at him. He'd assumed he was the target.
He never expected that the demon's true goal… was the heavily wounded boy kneeling beside him.
"DIE!!!!!!!!"