Meiji 40 (1907) — Early Winter
Kai — Age 15
The mountain breathed.
Mount Fujikasane rose beneath a canopy of wisteria, its blossoms pale and ghostly under the moonlight. The scent was heavy—sweet enough to rot the air. It clung to the throat, seeped into the lungs, and masked something far worse.
Blood.
Kai stood still at the edge of the forest, oni mask secured over his face, the hollow eyes staring into the dark. Around him, dozens of candidates waited in tense silence. Some trembled. Some whispered prayers. Others stared forward with empty bravado.
The girls stood close.
Not clinging.
Not hiding.
Ready.
Each of them held a standard Nichirin blade, freshly forged, unmarked by color or history. Simple weapons. Honest ones. They were lighter than the blades they had trained with—temporary, almost humble.
For now, Kai thought.
A voice echoed through the night, explaining the rules. Seven nights. Survive. Kill demons. Or die.
When the gates opened—
Screams followed.
The candidates scattered like startled birds, vanishing into the trees.
Kai did not move.
He turned instead, lowering his voice so only they could hear. "Remember," he said calmly, "they are weaker than you."
Mitsuri swallowed hard.
Shinobu's grip tightened on her sword.
Kanae nodded once.
"But," Kai continued, "this is the first time your blade is meant to end something."
That landed.
"Fight," he said, "and I will watch."
Then he stepped back.
Not abandoning them.
Trusting them.
---
The forest changed quickly.
The deeper they moved, the quieter it became. No insects. No wind. Only the soft crunch of leaves beneath their sandals and the slow rhythm of their breathing.
Mitsuri felt it first.
A pressure—like being watched by something hungry and stupid.
"Something's wrong," she whispered.
Before the words fully left her mouth—
A shape dropped from the trees.
It hit the ground on all fours, bones cracking loudly as it straightened. Its skin was gray and stretched too tight. Veins bulged beneath the surface, black and swollen. Its mouth split into a grin far too wide for its face.
"Humans," it crooned.
Mitsuri froze.
Her heart slammed so hard it hurt.
That's a demon.
Not a story.
Not a warning.
It smelled wrong. Like rust and decay and old meat left in the sun.
The demon lunged.
Mitsuri screamed—not in fear, but in instinct—and swung.
Her blade bent with terrifying speed, slicing through the demon's arm at the shoulder. Black blood sprayed across the leaves, hissing where it touched the ground.
The demon howled.
Not in pain.
In rage.
"Oh—oh—OH!" it shrieked. "You hurt me!"
Mitsuri's stomach turned.
It's still moving.
She had trained to strike. To overpower. To break.
Not to kill.
The demon charged again.
Before it could reach her—
A blur of white and steel flashed past.
Kanae stepped in, her expression calm, eyes focused with frightening clarity.
"One strike," she said softly.
Her blade cut cleanly through the demon's neck.
The head rolled.
The body collapsed.
Silence fell.
Mitsuri stared.
The body didn't dissolve immediately. It twitched, clawing weakly at the dirt before turning to ash.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"I…" Her voice shook. "I killed it."
Kanae exhaled slowly.
"Yes," she said. "You did."
Shinobu stood behind them, pale but composed, eyes fixed on the remains.
"So this is what they are," she murmured. "No soul. Just hunger."
From the shadows behind them, Kai watched.
He said nothing.
This was theirs.
---
They didn't have long.
More came.
Two demons emerged from opposite sides—one tall and skeletal, the other short and bloated, dragging its knuckles across the ground.
The short one laughed.
"So many pretty girls tonight!"
Shinobu felt something cold settle in her chest.
Disgust.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something sharper.
The tall demon lunged for Kanae.
Shinobu moved.
She slipped past Kanae's shoulder, feet light, breathing controlled. Her blade flashed—not powerful, but precise. She stabbed through the demon's eye, twisted, and leapt back.
It screamed, clutching its face.
"Annoying little—!"
"Die," Shinobu said calmly.
She slashed its neck with a clean, practiced cut.
The head fell.
The second demon turned, startled.
Mitsuri was already there.
Her blade curved unnaturally, wrapping around its defense and slicing through its spine. The demon collapsed in two pieces, howling until its voice cut off abruptly.
The forest went quiet again.
Mitsuri's hands were shaking now.
Shinobu wiped her blade with practiced efficiency—but her lips were pressed tight.
Kanae closed her eyes for a moment.
So this is the reality, she thought. No mercy. No hesitation.
She looked down at her sword.
If we hesitate… we die.
Kai stepped forward then.
"You did well," he said.
Mitsuri turned to him sharply. "That was— that was horrible."
"Yes."
"They were weaker than us."
"Yes."
"They still almost—" Her voice broke. "They talked."
Kai nodded. "Some will beg. Some will laugh. Some will remember pieces of what they were."
He met their eyes through the mask.
"You cannot afford to care more than you already do."
Shinobu inhaled sharply. "If we stop caring completely, we become monsters too."
A pause.
Then Kai said quietly, "That balance is what separates slayers from demons."
Kanae straightened.
"We continue," she said.
Not a question.
They moved deeper.
---
By the second night, the shock faded.
Not the horror.
But the paralysis.
They learned the weight of killing—the resistance of flesh, the smell of burning blood, the sound of bones separating. They learned to move after the strike. To breathe through the aftermath.
Kai stayed with them.
Always close.
Never intervening.
Once, when a demon nearly caught Mitsuri off-guard, Kai's presence flared—pressure, sharp and lethal—and the demon recoiled long enough for her to finish it.
He never drew his blade.
This was still their trial.
By dawn, they were exhausted.
But alive.
Mitsuri sat beneath a wisteria tree, staring at her stained hands.
"I don't think I'll ever forget their faces," she whispered.
Shinobu sat beside her. "Good."
Kanae looked toward the pale sky. "If we remember," she said softly, "then every strike has meaning."
Kai watched the sun rise through the flowers.
This is where it begins, he thought.
Not legends.
Not strength.
But resolve, carved in blood.
---