A few months later.
January, 1962.
Far away from the trio… far from the Demon Slayer hideout… a different kind of terror seizes the world.
The world is no longer the same.
Nations tremble. Cities lie under a constant, invisible pressure like the sky itself is being crushed by something colossal, something hateful, something alive.
People wake up screaming in the middle of the night without knowing why.
Animals flee toward oceans and deserts in blind terror.
Hospitals overflow with citizens.
And for the first time in history… Humanity feels hunted.
Global World News:
Seventy percent of the world's military is gone within a year. Not a single survivor in entire battalions… No bodies… no clues… only silence. Some blame a new plague. Some whisper the word supernatural. And in the darkest corners of America, new cults bloom like poison.
They kneel in abandoned churches, chanting, 'The Devil walks the earth… He has returned…'"
Governments begin to collapse under pressure.
Riots explode everywhere.
"Why is the world collapsing?!"
"What are you hiding from us?!"
"Tell us the truth!"
And yet… the governments remain silent.
Terrifyingly silent.
Finally, the US president, John F. Kennedy appears on a worldwide broadcast.
He smiles, but the cameras catch the tremor in his jaw.
"Don't worry, everyone," he says, voice forced calm. "There is no devil. No supernatural threat. What you are witnessing is a pandemic. Nothing more."
He pauses.
"And if someone is behind this…" His eyes harden. "I challenge him to face me first!"
The world erupts in applause.
For the first time in months, people dare to hope.
The Next Day.
A second broadcast begins without warning.
The world tunes in.
John F. Kennedy sits alone in a cold, dimly lit room. His skin is pale. His eyes are empty. Like someone reached inside him and silenced the soul.
He exhales softly.
"…People of the world… I'm… I'm sorry." His breathing is shallow.
"I cannot save you. No one can. What is coming… cannot be fought, cannot be stopped."
(He swallows hard.)
"This world is about to change in ways none of us can resist…"
He reaches into his coat.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence across the planet.
Kennedy pulls out a pistol.
Before the guards even react–
BANG.
The shot echoes like a crack in the universe.
Blood blossoms across the podium. He collapses.
The camera keeps rolling.
Millions. Billions of people witness it live.
All at once, the world screams.
The next day.
A newsroom.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Staff whisper in panic behind the cameras.
A journalist sits stiffly at the desk, visibly pale. He clears his throat.
Anchor says in a quiet, strained voice.
"Good evening… This is a special emergency broadcast. Yesterday… the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, died after shooting himself during a live address. Authorities have not released any official explanation. However—"
He pauses, his eyes glassing over for a moment.
"Sources inside federal security claim he… witnessed something moments before he pulled the trigger. Something no one has yet been able to describe without breaking down."
He swallows hard, composing himself.
"Within the same twenty-four hours, coordinated military collapses were reported across the globe. Current estimates indicate that over seventy percent of active military personnel worldwide are deceased. Entire battalions… wiped out. No known method. No known weapons. No survivors to debrief."
A long silence. He forces himself to continue.
"And if that weren't enough… reports of entities — non-human entities — have surged to unprecedented levels. These sightings used to be dismissed as hoaxes or folklore, but now… too many witnesses, too many simultaneous incidents."
He looks down at his notes but seems unable to believe what he's reading.
"In Point Pleasant, West Virginia… a couple reported a dark, winged humanoid figure hovering above the Silver Bridge. The media now calls it 'Mothman.'
Multiple regions in Japan have filed police reports from people claiming to have seen a woman with a slit mouth — the alleged 'Kuchisake-Onna.'
Maryland authorities have cordoned off an entire forest after dozens reported a horned humanoid — the so-called 'Goatman.'
And in Scotland, surveillance teams swear they captured a serpent-like silhouette in Loch Ness."
His voice lowers, almost a whisper.
"These creatures… these legends… should not exist. And yet, all of them have been documented in a single year. The same year the President took his own life after challenging an unidentified entity."
He exhales shakily.
"The world is in a state of panic. Governments are collapsing. People are fleeing cities, stockpiling food, praying, rioting. There is widespread belief that reality is… unraveling."
Suddenly, shouts erupt off-camera. The anchor turns. The studio lights dim.
In New York City.
A massive crowd has gathered, frozen in place.
A procession of figures in black cloaks moves down the street, each wearing a single one-eyed mask. Their steps are synchronized. Mechanical. Inhuman.
People record them with shaking hands.
At the front of the formation, their leader stops. He removes his hood but keeps the mask on — one cold, unblinking eye carved into it.
When he speaks, his voice carries not through volume, but through weight.
The cult leader says in a calm, icy voice. "Do not fear."
The entire street goes silent.
He continues. "This world is diseased. Corrupted. Our God has chosen to cleanse it."
He lifts a hand, as if blessing the terrified crowd.
"The despair you feel… is temporary. But the change he brings will be eternal."
He tilts his head slightly, the mask gleaming under the sun.
"Only those who rot this world will perish. The righteous will live in peace under his shadow. Trust him. Trust the order he will create. And trust yourselves, for you will witness the birth of a new era."
A shudder runs through the crowd.
In Japan,
Somewhere in a small apartment.
Ai Hanako watches the livestream. Her hand covers her mouth. Her eyes widen, pupils trembling.
"…The hell… No. No way. X… X has reached this far?"
The next day.
In North Korea.
Thunder twisted through the black clouds like chains dragging across metal, and icy rain slashed down as if the heavens themselves were grieving.
Every official, soldier, and citizen forced to gather in the courtyard trembled — not from the cold, but from the suffocating dread pressing against their lungs.
All heads snapped upward.
One hundred feet above the ground, illuminated by the violent flashes of lightning—
Kim Jong-il's corpse hung in the air.
[Kim Jong-il is the father of Kim Jong Un, the current dictator of North Korea]
His limbs dangled lifelessly.
His abdomen was torn open as if pierced by an unseen spear.
Blood streamed from his mouth in thin, steady ribbons, dripping into the storm in dark spirals.
His eyes were wide. Staring. Forever locked in the final terror of what he saw.
A general collapsed to his knees, "Our… our God… has died—! Our God has—!"
Thunder silenced him.
Another bolt split the sky, outlining the corpse in a ghostly, white-blue glow.
For a split second, his silhouette looked like a broken puppet held up by invisible strings.
The crowd wailed.
And then—
A voice.
"HE WAS NEVER A GOD."
Above the clouds, unseen by every human eye, a shadow drifted through the air.
Not a shape. Not a body.
A presence.
A silhouette outlined only by lightning — black against black — floating higher than the corpse, unmoving, watching with the patience of something ancient.
His crimson eyes burned faintly, the only color in the storm, like two dying stars.
Jigen.
Silent. Emotionless. A judgment passed by an angel of death.
When he spoke again, his voice was colder than the rain, each word cutting into the world like a divine execution.
"This is what a god looks like…when he lies about being one."
And yet, no one can see him, no one can hear him.
Lightning struck again — blinding, deafening — and for a moment, the entire world felt as if it cracked.
A few days later.
At night.
In a vast, windowless room swallowed by darkness.
Candles burn like terrified eyes around a pentacle soaked in blood.
The sacrificed chicken lay in the center, its blood flowing in slow, deliberate lines…
as if the floor itself was drinking it.
Dozens of cult members waited in kneeling rows.
Not praying. Not chanting.
Just waiting.
Then the air warps.
A pressure settles over the room, crushing, ancient, merciless.
The darkness moves. It folds inward, swallowing the candlelight—
and from the void, a silhouette steps forward—
Jigen.
Jigen walked forward, expressionless, the air around him warping as if the universe itself recoiled.
His crimson eyes opened like two divine punishments—cold, pitiless, void of all godhood.
Every cult member dropped to their knees at once.
Jigen's voice sliced through the room. A calm, winter blade.
"Why have you dragged me here…? Speak. Mortals."
Their leader forced himself forward like a worm, pressing his forehead to the blood-slick floor.
"Lord… We exist by your grace. We formed this group for you. To summon you, to receive your blessing. We wish to cleanse the world of evil—
to protect this world in your name. To help you make this world… better."
Silence.
Jigen stares at him. Expressionless. Unimpressed. Dead.
Then, in a voice colder than the grave. "…Is that so?"
The leader dared to look up.
Hope flickered in his eyes—
And that was the final thing he would ever feel.
In one instant—
a blur, a whisper of black—
Jigen moves.
When the candles flicker again, the room is no longer silent. It is filled with the sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Limbs torn. Skulls split. Blood painting the walls like a macabre mural.
Jigen stands alone in the center, untouched, unfazed.
"Do not mistake your delusions for my intentions."
Hours later.
In the early morning.
A quiet farmland stretched beneath a pale dawn, but even the sunrise felt muted, hesitant, as if afraid to shine too brightly in his presence.
Jigen walked through the wheat fields, his black robe soaked in drying blood but never touching him, never staining him.
His face remained an empty canvas — expressionless, unreadable. His long obsidian hair flowed like liquid night in the cold air.
No birds sang.
No insects stirred.
The wind itself halted mid-breath.
The scarecrow toppled over without a sound.
The wheat bent away from him, bowing or recoiling, as he passed.
Suddenly, he heard a noise—
A faint rustle.
He paused.
Slowly, he turned his head.
A young girl — around four years old — peeked from behind a tree.
Her face was round and soft, her eyes huge with a purity untouched by the world's cruelty.
One hand held the tree trunk. The other was in her mouth, thumb tucked between her lips.
She stared at him with open fascination, not fear.
Jigen blinked once.
A rare flicker of confusion crossed his eyes.
He turned away and began walking.
But then—
Tiny footsteps.
Light. Chaotic. Warm.
The girl ran toward him with a bright, unburdened grin, the kind that belonged only to creatures too new to understand danger.
He stopped.
His eyes widened — barely, but undeniably.
"…She can see me?"
She reached him, panting softly, her cheeks flushed pink from the run.
Jigen looked down at her. His crimson eyes were too cold, too ancient, too wrong beside her innocence.
I did not permit her to see me…
The girl sucked on her finger, staring up at him with curiosity instead of terror.
Then, with great ceremony, she extended her tiny hand.
In it was a little white flower.
Fragile. Pure. A gift.
Jigen stared at it.
Why… isn't she scared? Why approach me? I look like death. I am drenched in blood…
But the little girl was too young. Too innocent.
She had not yet learned what fear was meant to protect her from.
And then it struck him.
Only the dead can see me.
For an instant… something in him paused. He could not name it.
He extended his hand carefully, as though reaching toward a memory he didn't know he possessed.
He accepted the flower.
It withered instantly.
Petals curled in on themselves, losing color, collapsing into dust.
The girl didn't understand. She only blinked, confused.
He placed his cold, slender fingers on her cheek. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft.
But then—
"Stay away!"
The scream shattered the stillness.
A woman sprinted through the wheat, terror twisting her face.
Jigen lowered his hand.
The woman grabbed the girl, pulling her close.
"Sweetie, are you okay? What did I tell you about strangers? And that—" her voice broke, "—that thing isn't human."
The girl didn't answer.
She didn't move.
Her eyes were empty now — frozen, unblinking, lost.
Her mother shook her gently. Then harder.
"Sweetie…?"
The girl slipped from her arms—
and fell.
The mother froze. Her breath hitched, sharp and broken.
"No… no no no—"
She looked up at Jigen, tears trembling down her cheeks.
Suddenly— her heart shuddered.
Stopped.
She collapsed beside her daughter.
Jigen walked on. Behind him, the wheat field curled into ash, life folding itself away in reverence or fear. No one survived to witness him leave — only the dying wind, whispering a prayer the world had long forgotten.
"Even those who love me… die."
A black feather falls though no bird is in the sky.