Mitsuri slumped onto the dirt, her whole body trembling as she gasped for air. The fear had drained her strength more than any exertion. Her wide eyes stayed fixed on the spot where the wounded Demon had fled into the woods.
A moment later, she forced a smile. Turning to Yukishiro, she flashed him a playful grin and raised her fingers in a V-sign of victory. Her expression seemed to say, See? I told you I could protect you.
But she never noticed the second shadow.
From behind a jagged rock, a black figure launched upward—its leap carrying it more than ten meters into the night sky before plummeting straight toward her. Its limbs were tucked in tight, its form bent like a coiled spring released.
For now, it could only be called the Bouncing Demon.
It had been waiting for this exact moment, patient as a hunter, lurking until Mitsuri let down her guard.
Yukishiro, however, was also waiting.
He had sent Mitsuri down not simply to "test her strength," but to draw this hidden demon out.
The coward hiding behind the rock would never expose itself unless it believed its prey was vulnerable. His plan worked—but the creature's movement revealed something unexpected.
It can jump that high?
Yukishiro narrowed his eyes. He had read of cases where a demon's blood mutated, granting it strange, almost supernatural abilities.
And tonight, fortune—or misfortune—had allowed him to meet one firsthand.
He shifted his stance.
"Ice Breathing, First Form: Phantom."
His voice was quiet, but the instant it left his lips, his figure vanished. A trail of afterimages rippled outward from the stone platform, gliding toward Mitsuri like cold moonlight scattering across water.
Mitsuri blinked—and Yukishiro was suddenly behind her.
Her head whipped around. "What a fast speed! Yukishiro, what breathing method is that? It's so beautiful—eh? Why is it so cold?"
The air around her was heavy with frost, but she hadn't yet noticed the real danger. She staggered to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees, still oblivious to the figure falling from above.
Yukishiro, however, stood poised. Left hand steady on the scabbard, thumb nudging the guard. Right hand curled around the hilt, ready to draw in a single flash.
"Ice Breathing, Fifth Form: Swift Ice Spike."
A hiss like shattering glass split the night. White light streaked the air, dazzling and sharp. Mitsuri flinched and shut her eyes against the sudden brilliance.
The Nichirin Blade sang, whistling like fireworks tearing into the sky—but sharper, deadlier.
The thrust caught the Bouncing Demon midair, piercing its descending palm.
For an instant, everything hung suspended. The demon's clawed hand impaled, its eyes glaring down in shock. Yukishiro's cold gaze locked upward, unmoving.
They recognized each other in that frozen heartbeat: predator and opponent, neither willing to yield.
Then the Demon moved.
With grotesque grace, it pressed its legs against the blade itself, clamping the steel between its feet. Muscles coiled, and with a burst of strength it wrenched its claw free from the frosted steel.
The creature flipped backward, spinning in the air. Its body bent like a gymnast's, twisting until its feet slammed neatly into the ground. It landed perfectly upright a few meters away, silent and balanced in the pale moonlight.
Its form was grotesque yet… athletic.
A hairless skull gleamed with sweat, its naked torso sculpted with overlapping muscle. Only a pair of ragged shorts clung to its hips—remnants of its human life. The flesh shone slick, as though polished with oil. Its legs were long and coiled tight, each muscle compact, built for explosive power.
Behind that body lurked the inhuman strength of springs wound endlessly taut.
Mitsuri finally noticed it. She gasped, realizing belatedly that Yukishiro's intervention had saved her from certain death. Scrambling upright, she drew her Nichirin Blade and hurried to his side, trembling but determined.
Now, under the silver glow of the moon, they saw their foe clearly.
"It looks like… like a human athlete…" she whispered, voice breaking with fear.
"No," Yukishiro corrected coldly. "A mutated Demon."
The creature glanced at its injured palm.
Frost still clung to the wound, misting white in the night air. Its lip curled, and it cast a sharp look at the two slayers standing opposite.
For a moment, Yukishiro wondered if it would attack. But instead, the Bouncing Demon crouched low. Muscles bunched, and in an instant it launched itself upward again, soaring more than ten meters into the air. It vanished into the forest canopy with terrifying ease.
Mitsuri's mouth dropped open. She stared after it, too stunned to move. "It… it jumped like a bird. How can it—how can it be so fast?"
She turned slowly to Yukishiro, realization dawning with a chill that sank deep into her bones. If he hadn't drawn his blade just then, if he hadn't intercepted… she would already be dead.
Yukishiro exhaled slowly and sheathed his sword with a sharp click. He turned toward her. She was still gawking, lips parted. Without thinking, he reached out, hooked a finger under her chin, and pushed her jaw shut.
"You've eaten enough rations tonight. Don't start trying to eat flies too."
The crisp clack of her teeth meeting jolted her back to reality. She flushed red, glaring at him even as she hurried to follow.
"What… what was that just now?" she asked breathlessly.
Yukishiro gave no reply. The answer was obvious. He wasn't in the mood to repeat himself.
"A Demon? But… how can a Demon look like that?" Her voice quavered, her blade hand shaking slightly.
The two of them returned to the stone platform, Yukishiro leading while Mitsuri followed close. She pressed herself near him, her chest brushing his arm as she looked up anxiously for an explanation.
Yukishiro moved away slightly, keeping his eyes ahead. She really doesn't know… but then again, neither do I. Not fully.
"What do you think a Demon looks like?" he asked instead of answering.
The words caught her off guard. She blinked, lips parting. "I… I don't know. I've only heard stories. I imagined they looked like… like humans, just pale and strange…"
Her voice dwindled. The sight she had just witnessed shattered her childish illusions.
Yukishiro spoke quietly. "Some mutate. When starved enough, they devour their own kind. Cannibalism warps their blood, twists their bodies, gives them new abilities. Demons are unstable life forms. Unpredictable."
The thought silenced her.
Yukishiro narrowed his eyes at the trees. He had entered this assessment eager to test his training, to measure the sharpness of his blade and the steadiness of his breath.
But the reality was harsher. If mutated demons like this roamed Mount Fujikasane, survival itself was already an achievement.
And somehow, fate had bound him to this troublesome girl. He had planned to use her recklessly as bait, yet when the moment came, he had stepped forward to protect her without hesitation. Tch. Uncharacteristic.
Mitsuri broke the silence, her voice tentative. "By the way… the breathing you used. It sounded like you called it 'Ice Breathing'? Is that… also one of the five great styles?"
Yukishiro's eyes flicked toward her. "Something like that."
"And mine—'Breath of Love.' It's a derivative of Flame Breathing," she explained, puffing up a little with pride. "Our family's women are… unique. We have strong hearts and lungs, we eat a lot, and our blood runs hotter than most. That higher body temperature lets us channel flame into something softer, more… flexible."
Yukishiro listened in silence.
She continued, warming to her explanation. "Of the five majors—Water, Flame, Thunder, Stone, and Wind—Water is easiest, since anyone can practice it. The others demand… special bodies. Flame requires strong lungs and high heat. Thunder demands exceptional legs for speed. Rock demands sheer strength, so few can wield it. Wind needs powerful arms to carve the air. Most of us can't meet those standards, so… derivative styles are born. Breaths of Love, of Flowers, of Serpents… 'derivative methods,' people call them."
She gave a wry smile. "But in truth, they're not as strong. More like… degraded versions."
Yukishiro thought briefly of Hashira—Rengoku with his blazing strikes, Gyomei's raw might, Tomioka's quiet but relentless water. They stood on a different plane altogether. For now, he held his tongue.
The night wind rustled through the trees, cold and heavy with the scent of damp leaves. Somewhere deep in the forest, a distant cry echoed. Both slayers knew the night was far from over.