At the base were the lowest demons, driven only by hunger.
They lacked intellect or special powers, yet possessed strength and speed beyond humans, with astonishing recovery. Except for sunlight and wounds from Nichirin Blades, they had almost no weaknesses.
To ordinary people, they were unbeatable monsters.
Even for Demon Slayer Corps members, just handling these lowest demons required at least two well-trained fighters, often at the cost of injury or even death.
This was merely the bare minimum—the first barrier every slayer faced.
Above them were those who had awakened strange and varied Blood Demon Arts.
Some had survived decades, or devoured hundreds of humans, awakening powers through endless slaughter and hunger.
Blood Demon Arts were unpredictable—some manipulated fire to incinerate all, others wielded threads to trap prey in invisible webs, and some twisted space itself, creating illusions that bewildered the mind.
Such enemies turned battle from a test of swords to a deadly game of unknowns.
Against these, ordinary members’ survival rates plummeted. Hard-earned sword skills and teamwork became meaningless before such supernatural force.
Hunting these demons became the domain of the Hashira.
Only those who had mastered Breathing Techniques and gained great strength could confront them head-on.
At the pyramid’s apex stood the fearsome Twelve String Moons.
Between Upper Moon and Lower Moon was an unbridgeable gulf; a Lower Moon was already a nightmare to most, while an Upper Moon could snuff out a Lower like crushing an ant.
Between Lower Moon and ordinary members was an even greater chasm.
It was overwhelming superiority in strength, speed, regeneration, and Blood Demon Art—like clouds to mud.
When a normal member met a String Moon, only one ending awaited.
No time to warn, no time to draw a blade—obliteration so complete that not even bones might remain.
If it was an Upper Moon, even some Hashira were instantly destroyed.
Just like the Kinoe approaching now—rushed arrival and surprise attack, even double buffs couldn’t force out the enemy’s Blood Demon Art before she was slain.
Shi Hanfeng knew well that every Demon Slayer Corps member bore a hatred and obsession for slaying demons.
This faith drove them forward—knowing the path led only to death, yet refusing to retreat.
But faith alone did not become power. Facing invincible enemies over and over, watching comrades fall like autumn leaves—how could courage to fight on not also bring deep fatigue and shadows?
It was the awareness of one’s smallness, the fear of endless darkness, the questions about sacrifice that haunted solitary nights.
“Can we really win?”
“Are these sacrifices truly worth it?”
“As long as Muzan lives, when will this tragedy end?”
These questions coiled like vipers in every member’s heart, sometimes surfacing in the quiet night to gnaw at their will.
This powerlessness, like a cancer in the bone, was a demon every slayer—and even some Hashira—had to fight within themselves.
It was more terrifying than any demon, for it silently wore away resolve and made one surrender to despair.
Even the current stalemate between humans and demons was largely due to Muzan’s own arrogance and foolishness.
That man saw all demons as his tools, snuffing out any who displeased him, blind to the need for loyalty.
He feared sunlight, feared death, yet was so arrogant he disdained destroying the Demon Slayer Corps himself—always thinking his Twelve String Moons would suffice.
Had Muzan possessed even a fraction more emotional or strategic intelligence, understood loyalty, or simply let his subordinates act independently, this world would likely not be called , but .
Yet even so, against overwhelming odds, these young men in black uniforms pressed on with iron wills, overcoming fear of death, and in the original story, finally reversed fate to slay Muzan.
Such courage and resolve deserved respect.
“So,”
Shi Hanfeng spoke, breaking the stillness.
His voice was steady and clear, a stone dropped in still water—light, but enough to ripple in their hearts.
“You’re still fighting. You know the tiger’s in the mountain, yet you climb the mountain. Knowing you can’t win, you still draw your blades.”
The three started, looking up at him, as if surprised by his words.
Shi Hanfeng’s eyes held no pity—for warriors who placed life and death on the blade’s edge, that would be insult.
Only recognition, grounded in truth.
“That’s remarkable,”
He continued,
“The path against monsters is always thorny, hope faint, darkness endless. But someone must walk ahead, against the current, lighting a little hope for those behind, carving out a space to live.”
“Clang—”
A metallic chime. One young member had unconsciously gripped his Nichirin Blade, letting guard and scabbard meet.
Their tense shoulders eased, then straightened again—not from fear, but from a sense of duty and pride awakened from deep within.
Though wounds still ached, their backs unconsciously stood taller.
Shi Hanfeng watched their renewed spirit, thinking his words had healed more than he expected.
He hoped it would last.
The waiting didn’t last long.
Suddenly, a presence swept quietly through the forest.
She’s here.
Shi Hanfeng’s senses sharpened, gaze locking deep into the woods.
The three team members hadn’t noticed the shift; their attention lingered on Shi Hanfeng’s words, immersed in newfound resolve.
Not until Shi Hanfeng turned suddenly, eyes fixed beyond the trees, did they too follow, rising to their feet.
Their faces became filled with respect and awe, eyes shining as if beholding a hero. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a brilliance, as if seeing the rarest treasure.
A figure glided forward, draped in a Butterfly Patterned Haori, with a butterfly-guarded Nichirin Blade at her waist. Her features were as lovely as art, eyes gentle yet resolute like violet crystals, able to see through the heart—a presence as much a part of the moonlit night as the shifting shadows.
It was Kochou Kanae, the famous gentle sister of Demon Slayer.
She stood in the center of the clearing, gaze first on the three team members bowing in respect.
Her eyes paused on their wounds, genuine concern in her look, as if feeling their pain herself.
Then she spoke, her voice soft and clear, like a mountain spring, filled with warmth.
“Well done. Are you alright?”
Her concern was not mere politeness or empty comfort—it was a sunbeam in winter, warming them to the core, soothing nerves that had been taut with pain.
Such a beauty, with a kind soul, it was little wonder she was the silent admiration of so many in the Demon Slayer Corps.
“Kinoe-sama!”
The three replied in unison, voices trembling with emotion but full of unwavering respect.
“We’re fine! Just scratches! Thank you for your concern!”
Shi Hanfeng, standing aside, watched their reaction and muttered inwardly.
Seems these three are her loyal fans too. If that demon they killed rose again, they’d probably crush it back into the dirt together, no questions asked.
He shook his head lightly, but couldn’t deny that this Kinoe-sama possessed a unique charm that could inspire even the most battle-hardened warriors.
Kochou Kanae nodded gently, a trace of relief in her eyes. She could feel the sincerity in their words, and the rekindled flame of their fighting spirit.
She said nothing more, only nodded, then turned her gaze fully to Shi Hanfeng.
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