Kenji opened the bag, releasing a swirl of purple smoke that danced through the air like serpents in a storm, coiling and twisting with an eerie glow that lit up the dim room in an unearthly lavender hue, and as the tendrils of smoke thinned, dispersing like mist in the morning light, he saw inside the velvet pouch a single envelope—crisp, white, and old—with his name written in a familiar, almost ancient hand, and when he picked it up, heart thudding, a cold chill crept up his spine, because somehow he already knew who it was from; his fingers trembled slightly as he broke the wax seal, a symbol of a serpent entwined with a katana stamped into the blood-red wax, and inside the envelope was a letter, short but powerful: "These are Demon Slayer powers. Use them wisely. – Obanai Iguro," and as soon as he read those words aloud, the room pulsed with energy, purple lightning arcing from the bag and into his chest, and suddenly Kenji gasped as a strange, yet exhilarating sensation overtook him—like fire and ice racing through his veins simultaneously, burning and freezing, shattering and mending every fiber of his being, his senses expanding outward in all directions, hearing the flapping of bat wings miles away, smelling the iron tang of blood from a nearby alley, and even tasting the emotions in the air like flavors in a gourmet dish; his vision blurred momentarily, then sharpened with terrifying clarity, allowing him to see not only the texture of the walls around him but also the faint trail of demon scent, invisible to normal eyes, leading out of the room and into the night beyond, and he stumbled backward, overwhelmed, crashing into the wall as the bag dropped to the floor, releasing another puff of smoke that twisted into the form of a snake, which slithered around his ankles before vanishing into the shadows, and in that moment, Kenji understood—this was no ordinary power, it was a legacy, passed down from one of the greatest Demon Slayers in history, a man known for his serpentine breathing techniques, unmatched speed, and unwavering dedication to wiping demons from the earth, and now that burden—and gift—belonged to him, a boy who had never so much as held a katana, let alone faced a monster born from human blood and corrupted desire, and yet the power stirred within him like an ancient engine, humming and waiting, eager for purpose; he knew he had to learn fast, for something stirred in the city, a darkness deeper than night itself, and as if to confirm his intuition, a scream pierced the silence of the evening, distant but unmistakable—a cry of terror, of pain, of a life being stolen in the shadows—and Kenji, still panting, eyes wild, found himself drawn to it, as though the new instincts within him had awakened a compass guiding him toward danger, and perhaps, purpose, so he dashed out the door, feet carrying him faster than he'd ever run before, the world blurring around him as rooftops passed beneath his feet like stepping stones, and he reached the alley where the scream had come from just in time to see a hulking shape hunched over a body, blood pooling at its feet, its skin gray and mottled, eyes glowing red in the gloom, and before he could think, the demon turned, sniffing the air and grinning wide, its jagged teeth gleaming, "A fresh one," it growled, "and strong, too. I can smell the power in you," and without waiting, it lunged at Kenji, claws extended, faster than any human eye could track—but Kenji moved, not by choice, but by instinct, his body twisting, dodging the attack with an elegance that surprised even him, and before he knew it, a weapon had formed in his hand—a black katana, with a hilt shaped like intertwined serpents, pulsing with energy that felt alive, and he swung it, guided by intuition more than skill, the blade humming as it sliced through the demon's flesh, purple blood splattering the walls, and the creature howled, retreating with fury in its eyes, but Kenji didn't stop—he followed, relentless, his breath syncing into patterns he didn't recognize, movements that felt rehearsed in another life, and suddenly words came to his lips: "Serpent Breathing, First Form: Winding Slash," and his body moved with it, the blade curving through the air like a ribbon of steel, cutting through the demon's midsection, sending it flying back, its torso severed but still writhing, and with a final leap, Kenji brought the blade down, ending it, the body dissipating into ash, and silence returned, broken only by his panting breath and the faint hiss of the blade as he sheathed it—somehow instinctively knowing how to do so—while the weight of what he'd done settled on him like a fog, but before he could fully process it, another sound echoed nearby: laughter, not joyful, but mocking, slow, and deliberate, and he turned to see a figure perched on the rooftop above—a demon, taller than the last, with long black hair that moved like smoke, eyes like red moons, and a presence that made Kenji's knees weaken, but he stood firm, and the demon smiled, slow and amused, "So, the Serpent's heir awakens," it said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as broken glass, "I've waited for you," and with that, it vanished, leaving behind only a whisper, "We'll meet again, Kenji," and Kenji staggered back, the weight of those words wrapping around his heart like a cold chain, for he knew instinctively that this was no ordinary demon—this one had history, and perhaps a vendetta, and whatever had just begun, it was only the start of a war that had been brewing in shadows long before his birth, and as he returned to his apartment, adrenaline fading, fatigue crashing down like a landslide, he barely managed to collapse onto his futon before sleep took him, and in his dreams, visions danced behind his eyes—memories that weren't his, of battles fought long ago, of bloodied swords and fallen comrades, of a masked man with eyes full of sorrow whispering secrets in the dark, and he awoke the next morning with a start, drenched in sweat, the sun barely rising, and knew he had no time to waste, so he searched the bag again, finding a second scroll tucked beneath the false bottom, this one written in coded text that shimmered under sunlight, and with effort, he decoded the words, unlocking a set of training instructions, breathing techniques, sword forms, footwork patterns, and mental exercises, all written by Obanai himself—passed down for the one who would succeed him, and Kenji threw himself into the training, day and night, cutting through bamboo dummies, climbing mountains with weights strapped to his limbs, meditating under waterfalls, enduring cold and pain, until weeks passed and his body grew stronger, leaner, faster, more precise, his movements sharper than ever, and during this time, rumors began to spread—of a new hunter in the city, one who fought like a serpent and vanished before the dust settled, leaving only ash in his wake, and with each demon he slew, Kenji felt the pull grow stronger, like a thread tightening, guiding him toward something—or someone—at the heart of this darkness, and eventually he learned the name of the demon who had spoken to him that night: Akushin, once a human swordsman corrupted by Muzan's blood, now a twisted relic of the old war, said to have survived the final battle centuries ago, hiding in the deep recesses of cities, building strength, creating disciples, and seeking revenge on those who had nearly destroyed him—and now he wanted Kenji, either dead or broken, to destroy the legacy of Obanai Iguro once and for all, but Kenji wasn't alone for long, for others began to find him—descendants of former Demon Slayers who had also inherited fragments of power, drawn together by fate, forming a new corps in secret, and together they trained, fought, and learned the truth of the world they had entered: that the demons had never truly been eradicated, only scattered, waiting for a new generation to forget, but now they were rising, coordinated, vicious, hungry, and it fell to Kenji and his allies to rise in turn, to master their powers, and prepare for the reckoning to come, and though doubt still lingered in his heart, especially in the quiet moments when he remembered who he used to be—a boy lost in a city that never looked at him twice—he also remembered the fire that had awakened in his blood, the legacy that had chosen him, and the faces of those he now fought beside, and he knew, without a doubt, that he would never turn away, for he was a Demon Slayer now, bound by oath, blood, and blade, and this was only the beginning of his story.
