When Hikaru opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was an endless stretch of dark night sky—silent, heavy, and suffocating. Above him, a blood-red moon hung low, casting an eerie crimson glow over the world below.
He slowly pushed himself up without saying a word.
…This place was—a forest.
Silent. Lifeless.
In the distance, mountains loomed like shadowy titans. Somewhere between the trees, a sorrowful wolf's howl echoed, thin and ghostly under the moonlight.
Around him, the leaves whispered quietly as the night breeze slid through the woods.
His consciousness was still blurry. His head felt heavy, like a rusted old machine that had been left unused for years, only now creaking back to life. As if gears were scraping against each other deep inside his brain, his thoughts slowly started to sharpen. And with that clarity—came memories.
And not just his.
Hikaru lifted his hand, eyes drifting over his own body. After a moment of stunned silence, he let out a slow, shaken breath.
"…Did I just get isekai'd?"
His voice was flat, but there was no mistaking the shock behind it.
It didn't make any sense.
Just a moment ago, he'd been at home—sitting in his room, thinking about the upcoming school exams. Stressed about the future, overwhelmed by uncertainty.
And then—darkness.
Now, everything was different.
The world had changed.
So had his body.
He was still "Hikaru" in mind… but the body he now inhabited clearly wasn't his own.
He had been transferred into someone else.
And with this body—he had inherited all of its memories.
Strangely enough, the original owner's name… was also Hikaru.
Maybe that's why his consciousness had ended up here.
But why? How?
"Demon Slayer Corps, Rank: Kanoe. Died during a mission. Fatally wounded in combat and bled out while escaping…"
Hikaru lowered his gaze.
A black-and-white uniform hung off his frame—its buttons loose, revealing a torn white undershirt beneath. A deep gash marked the chest area, stained with dried blood.
The scent of iron still clung to the fabric.
And yet—strangely—though the memories were clear about how this body had died…
There were no visible wounds now.
There was blood—but no injury.
His fingers pressed against his chest.
His heart was still beating.
Hikaru narrowed his eyes.
Weird, yeah. But compared to the whole "I've been isekai'd and taken over someone else's body" thing, this was barely worth stressing over.
Besides—
Getting isekai'd was already the most absurd thing that could've happened.
Even so—
There was no excitement.
No time for confusion.
Being transported into another world wasn't a blessing. More likely, it meant he was now in serious danger.
Just like now.
The body he'd inherited had belonged to someone from the Demon Slayer Corps—a secret organization founded for one purpose only: to hunt down and kill demons.
But these so-called demons weren't just wandering spirits or cursed ghosts like in old folklore…
They were real, living monsters that stalked the night. Creatures that fed on humans, possessing power far beyond any ordinary person.
To join a group that existed to fight such beings…
Of course it was dangerous.
And it was because of that danger that this body had died on the battlefield.
And now Hikaru had taken its place.
But that didn't mean—
—the danger was gone.
The wind stirred the trees once more.
In the pale red light of the moon, a faint sound drifted in from the trees.
Something moved.
A shadow passed swiftly through the forest.
Hikaru's hand instinctively reached for the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist.
Something deadly was watching him.
As a normal person, he should've been panicking right about now. But strangely, his body moved differently—automatically.
This body remembered its training.
The original Hikaru had undergone brutal discipline that had carved combat reflexes deep into his flesh. And now, those reflexes responded on their own.
Even if Hikaru's heart trembled in fear—his body knew how to remain calm in the face of death.
But he understood—it wasn't truly his calm.
It was just muscle memory.
If given more time, maybe he could fully synchronize with this body—become the new Hikaru in every sense.
But right now…
Time was the one thing he didn't have.
He had only just arrived in this world.
And death was already closing in.
He wanted to run.
Wanted to escape—anywhere but here.
But…
Logic stopped him.
The gaze lurking in the darkness…
…belonged to the very demon that had killed the original owner of this body.
The inherited memories never captured the demon's full face. The slayer never got a clear look.
And somehow—that made it all the more terrifying.
Too fast to track.
Too strong to defeat.
Its unseen attack had ended a demon slayer's life in an instant.
From the start… escape was never an option.
Turning your back on an enemy like that was suicide.
The only path left—was to fight.
Even if he had no idea why he was sent to this world, Hikaru refused to die without a reason.
He steadied his breathing, forcing his nerves to stay calm.
He pushed his brain to think.
He combed through the inherited memories—desperately searching for experience, for tactics, for any technique that might give him an edge.
His hand gripped the sword tighter, drawing it just slightly from its sheath.
The cold glint of the blade shimmered under the blood moon, like a mist drifting through the night.
And then—he began to breathe.
Not just any breath.
This was the sacred art that all Demon Slayers had to master.
Breathing Techniques.
By controlling the rhythm of one's breathing, slayers could enhance their heart and lung function—flooding their bodies with oxygen and unleashing a physical power that rivaled even that of demons.
But even with this technique…
Demon Slayers could only fight.
Not destroy.
Because demons had near-limitless regenerative abilities.
To actually kill them…
…you needed a special sword.
The blade now resting in Hikaru's hand.
Nichirin Blade.
Forged from ore that absorbed the sunlight—the only force that could erase a demon completely.
Hikaru's grip tightened.
His breath flowed evenly.
His thoughts locked into place.
Within the shadows of the forest…
Beneath the red light of the moon…
Footsteps approached.
The demon closed in—fast!
"Mist Breathing… First Form—"
Hikaru murmured in his heart.
Whether it was the merging memories, or simply the effect of the breathing technique itself…
The fear vanished, like morning mist scattered by wind.
The closer death loomed—
—the stronger his will to live burned.
His mind became still.
He could feel it—
Energy swirling around him, as if born from every breath he took—gentle, quiet, and veiled in mist.
And from within that mist—
The enemy came.
"You damn slayer… Die!"
A growl tore through the darkness—a demon's bloodthirsty roar.
In that moment—
Hikaru's eyes widened.
"Mist of the Moon—!"
He completed the chant inside his mind.
His breath paused for a heartbeat.
His hand twisted—and he drew the blade.
A pale flash burst from the sword's edge, slicing through the night like a curtain of fog tearing apart the world.
White light shimmered—cold and quiet, scattering the shadows.
A violent clash.
Steel met claw in a collision that shook the air.
And so—
The battle began.
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