WAIT FOR KENJI'S HELP Suddenly, Kokushibo's darkness was slashed open — a tear in the suffocating void of malevolent energy that had swallowed us whole — and through that jagged rupture came a flash of silver steel and a thunderous gust of life-giving wind; Kenji stood tall behind him, his blade still vibrating from the force of the strike, the eerie black blood of the demon flinging into the void like ink spattered across a scroll, and Valois and I stumbled from the rift, coughing, lungs desperate for air that wasn't choked by the putrid aura of ancient malice, the reek of centuries-old death that had wrapped around us like a burial shroud in the belly of Kokushibo's dimension, that terrible otherworld stitched together from the bones of fallen demon slayers and the cries of the devoured, and before we could even fall to the ground, the demon turned, six golden eyes burning like celestial furnaces, narrow with fury and disbelief, his voice booming like collapsing mountains, "YOU DARE INTERRUPT MY FUN?!", the words lashing through the air like claws, vibrating through our ribs and freezing our hearts mid-beat, but Kenji, unshaken, slid his foot back in perfect stance, sword lowered but his spirit ablaze, his presence cutting through the gloom like dawn through fog, and for a heartbeat, even the shadows recoiled as if remembering a light long forgotten, for Kenji was not merely a swordsman — he was the blade itself, tempered in sorrow and vengeance, the last heir of the Hayashi line, trained beneath waterfalls where lightning danced across the sky, trained in forests so silent even the crows dared not caw, and now, here in the belly of this cursed place, he was not here to save us, not yet, not fully — he was here for balance, for retribution, for a promise whispered over a brother's grave, and Kokushibo recognized him, not just by the blade, but by the eyes, by the resolve, and for the first time in centuries, the demon tilted his head not in mockery but in something far colder: acknowledgment, and his six eyes blinked slowly, calculating, remembering the last Hayashi who stood before him — a boy too small to fight, yet too proud to flee, and Kenji lifted his sword, twin-ringed tsuba catching the pale glow of Kokushibo's cursed moon, and he said nothing, for words had no place here, only steel and silence, and then everything erupted — darkness shattered as the two blurred forward, blades clashing with the scream of tortured air, each blow sending shockwaves through the void, reality itself groaning under the pressure of their wills, and Valois dragged me behind a jagged stone pillar that had formed from nowhere, the ground trembling beneath us as sparks and blood flew in equal measure, and I looked at Kenji — no, stared — unable to blink, because what he did wasn't fighting, it was something purer, something sacred, like he and his blade moved as one entity, a celestial force summoned from the past to end a nightmare birthed from hatred, and Kokushibo, ancient and monstrous, snarled with frustration, his slashes growing wilder, less elegant, as Kenji's form became more fluid, a dance that defied physics, the echoes of every fallen slayer guiding his hand, and I whispered, "He's… winning," though I didn't know if I believed it, because for every inch Kenji gained, Kokushibo unveiled a new horror — mouths opening along his arms, shrieking swords of bone emerging from flesh, each scream vibrating into our skulls, but Kenji adapted, cutting faster, feet never touching the ground for long, leaping, parrying, weaving through strikes that could've bisected a mountain, and then, impossibly, he got in close, slamming the pommel of his sword into Kokushibo's middle eye, causing the demon to stagger, a roar ripping through the dimension that cracked nearby stones, and Kenji spun midair, blade glinting with an ethereal flame — not of fire, but of memory — of his family, his brother, his clan, the very soul of those who had fallen to Kokushibo's blade centuries ago, and he struck — a full arc, perfect, beautiful, and final — and Kokushibo screamed, more in rage than pain, because he knew what this was: the death knell, the beginning of the end, and his form began to unravel, shadows boiling away, bones crumbling into dust, yet even as he fell, he lashed out one last time, a desperate, final attack, and Kenji took the hit — willingly — shielding us, taking the brunt of that cursed strike into his side, the black blade piercing clean through his ribs, but even as he staggered, he smiled, because he knew he'd won, because Kokushibo was disintegrating, fading into howls and echoes, his voice splintering into static, his presence vanishing from the plane, and the moment his body collapsed into nothingness, the void shuddered — the false sky cracked, revealing glimpses of the real world above, the suffocating air thinning, warmth flooding back in, and the prison he had built — this nightmare realm — began to collapse in on itself, and Kenji turned to us, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and said, voice hoarse but steady, "Run," and we didn't hesitate, grabbing him, dragging him as the world fell around us, sprinting toward the shatter in the sky where the light of dawn spilled through like a promise, and with one final push, we broke through — falling into the grass of the real world, coughing, gasping, bleeding — but alive, and as I turned back to the closing rift, I saw Kokushibo's final glare, those six eyes dimming forever, and in their place, only silence remained, broken by the soft wind over the hills and the birds slowly returning to song, and I looked to Kenji, whose breathing was shallow but steady, and I knew then that legends were not born — they were forged, in darkness, in fire, in the silence between heartbeats where death waits — and Kenji, our brother, our blade, had been tempered by it all and emerged unbroken, and though scars now painted his skin and shadows lingered behind his tired eyes, he had done what no one else could: he had ended the nightmare, and for that, the world — our world — could breathe again.
