Chapter 5 - FIRST BATTLE

As the twisted demon Gyutaro snarled with glee, his grotesque grin stretching unnaturally wide across his sickly face, he raised one clawed hand and hurled a swirling orb of black flame straight toward the young warrior Kenji with a scream that echoed through the shattered ruins of the old village: "Die, child!" The fireball roared as it raced through the air, distorting the space around it with a choking darkness that pulsed with raw malevolence, its flickering edges seething like angry shadows trying to escape their master's control. But Kenji stood his ground, his eyes locked onto the attack with steely resolve. In that moment, time seemed to slow. Memories of his fallen family, the warmth of his sister's hand, the laughter of his father before the war, and the bloodstained sword that had been passed down through generations—all of it surged through his mind in a single heartbeat. He tightened his grip on his blade, the newly awakened power within it humming to life, a silver glow outlining its edge with an otherworldly shimmer. With a swift breath that steadied his soul, he channeled everything—pain, loss, hope, fury—into a single strike. In a blur of motion, he stepped forward and slashed through the fireball, the blade cutting not just the flames but the very darkness within, dispersing the attack with a shockwave of energy that shook the ground and sent debris flying. Gyutaro's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth twitching with a mixture of rage and fascination. "Interesting," he hissed, baring his sharpened teeth. "Maybe you're not as weak as you look." But Kenji didn't respond with words. He rushed forward, sword raised, his movements a blend of precision and instinct, as if guided by something far older and deeper than mere technique. Gyutaro darted back, his body twisting unnaturally as he dodged the initial strike, retaliating with a barrage of poison-laced sickles that curved through the air with whistling menace. Kenji spun mid-air, deflecting one, then another, the third grazing his shoulder—but the pain only sharpened his focus. Every beat of his heart resonated with the power coursing through his veins, the legacy of his clan awakening with each clash. As the battle raged, the skies darkened further, as if the heavens themselves were mourning the conflict below. Thunder cracked in the distance, and the faint smell of rain mingled with ash. Kenji launched into a flurry of attacks, his blade slicing through air and demon flesh alike, driving Gyutaro back step by step, though the demon laughed even as he bled, enjoying the chaos, feeding on it. "You think you can beat me with a fancy sword and righteous fury?" Gyutaro snarled, his eyes glowing red. "I've slaughtered entire villages before breakfast, boy!" With a roar, he summoned a circle of dark fire that spiraled outward, threatening to consume everything in its path. Kenji responded not with fear but with determination. He planted his feet, raised his blade skyward, and called upon the ancient technique his master had only shown him once—the Final Form: Moonlight Severance. The blade glowed brighter, the silver light expanding until it was blinding, and as he brought it down in a single, arcing slash, it cleaved through the firestorm like dawn breaking through night. The force of the strike knocked Gyutaro back, the demon crashing through a ruined building with a shriek of pain. For a moment, silence reigned. Kenji dropped to one knee, panting, sweat dripping down his face, the weight of his power and exhaustion pressing on him. But the quiet didn't last. The rubble exploded as Gyutaro emerged again, this time more monstrous than before, his form shifting into something less human, more nightmare—multiple limbs sprouting, his back cracking as bone wings burst forth, his aura blacker than pitch. "Now I'm angry," he growled, charging like a beast unleashed. Kenji barely had time to react as the demon tackled him through a stone wall, claws raking across his chest. He cried out but retaliated instantly, driving his blade into Gyutaro's shoulder and rolling away, blood mixing with dust in the air. The two combatants circled each other, bruised, bloodied, breathing hard, their eyes locked with unspoken understanding—only one of them would walk away. The battle surged once more, a storm of fury and light against darkness and madness. Kenji tapped deeper into the ancestral energy of his lineage, every slash of his blade resonating with spiritual echoes, the voices of warriors long past seeming to whisper in his ear. "Protect them," they said. "You are the last." And Kenji obeyed. He ducked under a swipe, slashed upward, then spun into a rising strike that carved a deep gash across Gyutaro's chest, sending ichor spraying like ink. The demon roared but countered, driving his claws into Kenji's side and hurling him across the battlefield. Kenji crashed to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs, vision swimming, but he forced himself to rise again. He could feel the fire within dimming, his strength ebbing, but he thought of his sister—her laughter, her courage, her final breath as she protected him from the very monsters he now fought—and he rose once more. Gyutaro approached slowly, dragging his sickles, a twisted grin on his face. "You're strong, kid. Stronger than most. But strength doesn't save you here." Kenji wiped blood from his lip, lifted his sword, and replied, voice hoarse but firm, "I'm not fighting for strength. I'm fighting for everyone you took from me." And with that, he dashed forward again, launching a final desperate assault, every step powered by memory, every strike driven by vengeance and hope. The battle reached its crescendo—light clashing with shadow, screams mixing with silence, the air vibrating with the raw energy of their war. In one final, explosive clash, Kenji channeled all he had left into a downward strike, aiming straight for the heart of the beast. Gyutaro met him head-on, sickles raised, but in that final moment, Kenji's blade blazed brighter than the sun, and with a scream that was both a cry of pain and a song of victory, he brought it down—through sickle, through flesh, through evil. The light consumed them both. When the dust settled, only one figure remained standing.