Chapter 1: The New Reality
The air in the small, one-room hut smelled of dried earth and old straw. It was a suffocating scent, heavy and unfamiliar. Kaito's first real memory in this new place was the ache in his ribs, a dull throb that had been there for what felt like forever. He felt the phantom pressure of a bandage that wasn't there, a ghostly reminder of a wound he couldn't recall receiving. His eyes fluttered open to a ceiling of warped, dark wood, the beams crisscrossed and uneven, like the skeletal remains of some ancient beast. Dust motes danced in a thin, lazy column of sunlight that slanted through a single, grimy window. It was the absolute antithesis of his old life—no glowing screens, no air conditioning, just the oppressive stillness of a bygone era, punctuated by the faint hum of insects outside.
He sat up, a groan escaping his lips, and that's when it happened. A translucent, blue rectangle shimmered into existence a few inches from his face, a holographic overlay that pulsed with a soft, ethereal light. He blinked. It was still there. Words, stark and white, were arranged in a clean, sans-serif font he'd never seen in any real world text editor. It was a [System], a term he knew only from the countless fantasy stories he'd consumed. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
"Okay, this is either the wildest acid trip of all time, or I've finally gone completely insane."
He opened his eyes again. The screen was still there, the words now shifting.
"Seriously? A 'System'? Like some trashy webnovel?"
His voice was a raw, reedy thing, barely a whisper in the quiet room. It didn't even sound like his own voice. Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw its way up his throat. He reached a hand up, his fingers passing through the screen's light without resistance. The feeling of it, the impossible reality of a digital interface in this world of dirt and wood, was so alien it made his stomach churn. This wasn't some dream. The dust, the smell, the phantom ache in his ribs—it was all too real. His mind, the same one that had spent years dissecting plots and characters, now went into a detached, analytical mode to cope.
First, assess the threat. Threat level: self. Am I hallucinating? Unlikely. Too many sensory inputs. The wood smells real, the dust is real, the pain is real. Second, assess the situation. I'm in a hut. A hut in what feels like old Japan. And there's a glowing screen in my face. Conclusion: I've been transmigrated. Or I'm in a coma. God, I hope it's a coma. A coma means there's a way back.
Just as he was about to give in to a full-blown existential breakdown, a new sound cut through the silence. A dry, rustling sound, like leaves skittering across a stone path. It was a bird, he realized, but not one he'd ever seen. It was a crow, but something was off. Its beak was too sharp, its eyes too intelligent, and its feathers seemed to shimmer with a faint, unnatural sheen. It hopped onto the sill of the grimy window, a small, paper scroll clutched in one of its talons.
"Caw! Kaito Ishiguro! You are a Demon Slayer! Your first mission awaits! A minor demon plagues a village to the south!"
The crow's voice, a raspy, booming baritone, was so comically out of place that for a brief, fleeting moment, Kaito felt a flicker of something close to amusement. It was a laughably absurd situation. A talking crow. A [System]. A demon hunt. This was the kind of thing he'd read a thousand times, and now he was living it. The crow let the scroll drop, and it landed with a soft flutter on the tatami mat.
"It's a mission. Right. Of course it is. This is a game, isn't it? I'm the new guy. The noob. The one who's supposed to die horribly in the first ten minutes."
He watched as the crow took flight, its large black wings beating a silent rhythm against the pale sky. The hut felt more confining than ever. The quiet stillness, which had initially been a sign of his isolation, now felt like the calm before a storm. A breeze, a faint whisper of air, ghosted through the hut's open window, and for a split second, the [System] screen flickered, a jumble of corrupted data flashing across its surface.
The message vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the standard, stoic interface. But the words lingered in his mind. Unseen threads. Was that a hint at a larger conspiracy? A fourth-wall break? Or just a dramatic way of saying something went wrong with his transmigration? He had no answers, and the only path forward was the one the talking crow had laid out. Survival was no longer an abstract concept; it was a mission objective. With a grim sigh, Kaito stood, his muscles protesting the movement. He had to go. He had to face whatever this world threw at him. His mind, still reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, was a jumble of analytical thoughts and frayed nerves, but a single, undeniable truth remained. He wasn't home. And if he wanted to get back, he had to play the game. He grabbed the scroll, his hands trembling slightly, and pushed the door open, the wood groaning a sad protest.
The village was a collection of small, thatched-roof houses huddled together, their frames hunched against the encroaching night. The air was heavy, not with the familiar scent of woodsmoke, but with a different kind of stillness, a tense, oppressive quiet. It smelled of damp earth and something acrid, a metallic tang that made Kaito's stomach clench. His nerves were pulled taut as he moved through the deserted streets, his hand hovering over the hilt of the sword at his hip. The sword felt alien and cumbersome, a blade he had no skill with. A low, mournful wail reached his ears, and he knew he was in the right place.
He found them in a small, cramped shed—a young family, a mother clutching her two children, their eyes wide with terror. A grizzled old man with deep claw marks raked across his face was slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and ragged. The fear in the air was so thick it was almost tangible, a suffocating blanket that muted every sound. It wasn't the cinematic, stylized terror of an anime; it was raw, primal, and deeply human.
"Stay back," Kaito said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I'll handle this."
The mother, her face a mask of desperation, could only nod, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Kaito drew his sword, the cold weight of the blade a shock to his palm. He held it awkwardly, a man who had only ever used a keyboard now holding a weapon designed for death. Just as he fumbled for a proper grip, a sudden, brutal wind slammed into the side of the shed, and the demon was there.
It was a brute, a hulking mass of twisted muscle and bone, its face a distorted canvas of rage and hunger. Its eyes, small and red, focused on Kaito. A low growl rumbled in its throat, a sound that shook the very ground. Kaito's heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't some cartoon villain; this was a monster, a creature of nightmare made flesh.
The message was a cold slap of reality. The rules of a game superimposed on a brutal, life-or-death fight. He watched the demon's form, and in that moment, the years of watching action sequences came to a head. He knew the theory, even if his body had no idea how to execute it. He dodged a wild, clawed swipe, the wind of the attack ruffling his hair. He tried to mimic a basic sword form, a Water Breathing stance, but his body just wouldn't cooperate. His movements were clumsy, inefficient. He was a fraud.
"This is so much worse than the anime. There's no music. No cool visual effects. Just the sound of my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest."
He stumbled back, narrowly avoiding another blow. The demon lunged, its teeth bared, and Kaito, with a panicked surge of adrenaline, swung his sword blindly. It was a desperate, ungraceful strike, but it found its mark, a shallow cut across the demon's arm. The demon howled in pain and rage, the wound smoking. That was a detail the anime never fully conveyed—the sickening, visceral reality of a demon's wound, the stench of its burning flesh, and the wet, guttural scream.
He tried to steady his breathing, to find the inner calm that the protagonist would in this situation, but his mind was a storm of fear and analytical thought. He saw the "Legacy" stat, a small, locked icon on his [System] interface. It was a pay-off event, a breadcrumb trail for a story he was now the star of. But at that moment, it felt less like a promise and more like a cruel joke. He was a fraud, and this [Legacy] was a title he didn't deserve.
With a final, desperate lunge, he aimed for the demon's neck, a last-ditch effort to survive. The blade connected, a brutal, ugly sound of steel meeting flesh, and with a terrible shriek, the demon's head went flying. It was over. The demon dissolved into ash, and the oppressive silence of the night returned. Kaito stood there, panting, the fear slowly giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion. He was alive, but the victory felt hollow. He had won through sheer luck and a Hail Mary swing. He looked at the terrified family, and he knew they saw him not as a hero, but as a dangerous, unpredictable thing. The true horror of this world wasn't just the demons, it was the raw, visceral reality of a life of constant violence.
The sun, a tired, weary orange, began its slow ascent, casting long shadows across the village. The quiet that had followed the demon's defeat felt like a false sense of peace. Kaito, his body aching, his uniform caked in dirt and something else he didn't want to think about, finally took a moment to breathe. The air smelled of woodsmoke again, and the villagers, slowly emerging from their homes, looked at him with a mix of awe and fear.
He inwardly sighed. A video game reward for an act of brutal violence. He sheathed his sword, the sound of steel on scabbard a little too loud in the stillness. A villager, a woman with kind eyes, came forward and bowed. "Thank you, Slayer-san. You saved us."
Kaito just nodded. The words were a bitter pill. He wasn't a slayer. He was a guy from a different world, playing a deadly game he hadn't signed up for. He tried to find the right words, something to reassure them, but his mouth felt dry. "I just... had a hunch. Call it instinct." He cringed inwardly at his own terrible line. It sounded like something from a bad action movie. He had to keep the secret. He had to keep the [System] a secret.
A new ability. A new tool. He felt the cold, calculating weight of it in his mind. He could now see the numbers, the weaknesses, the stats. It was a secret weapon, something that would give him an edge he couldn't possibly earn on his own. The burden of this secret was immense, a heavy cloak draped over his already-shaking shoulders. He couldn't share it. No one would ever understand. They would call him a demon, a fraud, a monster. He was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
He tried to walk away, to leave the village and the memory of this brutal night behind him, but his legs, still shaky from the fight, failed him. He tripped on a loose stone, sprawling forward, his sword clattering to the ground with a loud, metallic ring. He scrambled to pick it up, his face burning with a mortified flush.
"Seriously? This is not in the montage. This is the 'protagonist is a clumsy idiot' scene. The training montage is supposed to make me cool, but I guess I skipped it."
He finally stood, brushing the dirt from his uniform. He was no hero. He was just a guy with a cheat code who couldn't even walk in a straight line. With the last dregs of his dignity, he bid the villagers a silent farewell and walked toward the horizon. The sun was fully up now, its light cold and unforgiving. He was a survivor, but survival had a price. The road ahead was long, and he had to keep moving, his mind racing with new possibilities, but also the cold weight of his isolation. He had to find his place in this new reality. And he had to do it alone.