Death.
To Gyomei Himejima, it was an old companion. He had met it countless times, brought it down with the arc of his flail and the edge of his axe. He had felt demonic bones shatter beneath his blows, heard the sound of steel slicing through flesh, and breathed in the coppery stench of blood spilled onto the earth.
But death was not merely the end of a demon. It was not just the destruction of the creature before him.
It was the chance for the soul of a human to reemerge.
He could feel the sorrow etched into their last breaths, hear the grief of the families left behind, smell not the foul decay of the demon they had become, but the sweet, sacred blood of a mother, a brother, a child long lost.
For those pitiful souls twisted by darkness, death was repentance.
But what, then, was death to Gyomei?
To him, death was freedom. The greatest freedom imaginable.
A chance to be released from his burden—the never-ending path of the demon slayer.
In death, there would be no more war cries, no more battles in the night. No more hearing the desperate pleas of the dying, no more inhaling the rot of blood-soaked battlegrounds.
In death, there would be peace.
"Almighty Buddha," he had prayed while he died, lying down with one leg gone, head dizzy from blood loss. "If you are listening, this lowly one asks only this: grant me a world without demons. A world where I may truly live... and be happy."
He drifted out of awareness.
The sensation came first—wet sand clinging to his skin, the cold sea gently washing over his ankles. Each wave curled over his feet like a silent greeting. The wind swept his face with salt and freshness.
His eyes opened slowly.
Light.
Color.
Vision.
The sky above him was vast and achingly blue, streaked with strands of white cloud. The sun blazed with unmatched radiance, and beyond him stretched a sea of endless water. Its waves shimmered and rippled toward a horizon that seemed to never end.
He blinked, once, twice.
"I can see..."
The words left his lips like a prayer. Then they returned, louder, full of awe.
"I CAN SEE!"
His voice rang out across the shore, startling birds into flight. The crash of waves and the warmth of sunlight confirmed it: he was alive. And more than that, he was whole.
He sat up slowly, muscles weak but heart surging. He turned, and his eyes widened.
Trees lined the edge of the forest just beyond the beach, their bark dark and sturdy, their leaves a brilliant, flame-touched... red?
A memory stirred.
Kyojuro.
They had walked together once beneath trees like these. It had been autumn, and Kyojuro had laughed—bright, fierce, alive.
"The leaves look like fire," Kyojuro had said, eyes gleaming. "A beautiful fire that doesn't burn, but ignites in its own way"
Gyomei chuckled, blinking back tears.
"Of course," he whispered. "He loved this color. Not because it matched the intensity of his fire, but because it softened him. He was wiser than I ever knew."
His knees pressed into the sand as he offered two soft apologies to the wind, his head bowed low.
Then, with quiet determination, he stood and began to walk inland.
His new body was thin, weak from hunger or travel or death—he could not say which. But his sense of touch, honed beyond all mortal understanding, remained sharp. Every footstep upon the earth brought him knowledge: the tremor of a distant river, the hum of insect wings, the whisper of trees.
And farther still, he felt it—the pulse of human life.
A village.
He passed through underbrush and thickets, hands brushing aside vines and leaves. The red grass swayed gently around him, and wildflowers bloomed in pockets of color. A narrow river snaked through the valley, its waters clear enough to see fish darting beneath the surface.
And there, nestled between two majestic rocky mountains, was the village.
Houses built from smooth wood and pale stone, smoke curling lazily from chimney tops. Children's laughter echoed faintly, and the smell of warm bread and sun-dried herbs filled the air.
Gyomei stepped into the field just beyond it and saw her.
A young girl, no older than seven, knelt among the flowers. Her knees were scratched and dirt-streaked, her long brown hair woven into braids. Freckles danced across her cheeks like sunspots.
She turned.
Her eyes were red. A soft, glimmering red of a gentle tree leaf dancing in the sun.
"Hello!" she said brightly. Her voice was music, light and unburdened.
Gyomei stopped, stunned by her innocence. His senses told him everything: the strength in her bones, the purity of her blood, the softness of her hands unscarred by labor or pain.
He bowed deeply.
"Greetings," he said, voice hoarse with gratitude. "My name is Gyomei Himejima."
As he bent low, his arms straight by his side, vibrations told him the girl was studying him closely.
He straightened, smiling faintly.
"Would you... Would you be kind enough to share food and water with a weary traveler?"
The girl giggled and nodded.
And for the first time in a lifetime of battle, Gyomei felt something stir in his chest.
Hope.