The morning air buzzed—not with tension, but with the grind of steel, the rhythm of training, and the heartbeats of warriors dedicated to survival.
Then he came again.
The Slayer.
Metal boots struck the earth, louder than drums.
But this time… it was different.
He stopped at the edge of the training field.
And removed his helmet.
The sharp hiss of disengaging locks echoed like thunder. Every eye turned.
The Slayer—this being of myth, of silence and violence—was showing his face.
He pulled the helm free, revealing a hardened, scarred visage. Sharp jaw, green eyes like molten glass, a face shaped not by time but by war. His short-cropped hair was the color of dark sand, sweat running down the bridge of his nose—but not from exhaustion.
From exertion withheld.
Gasps rippled across the training ground.
Even the most battle-hardened Hashira found themselves… speechless.
"He's…" Mitsuri muttered, blushing slightly. "He's so human-looking…"
"No," Iguro whispered. "That's not human. That's something that wore humanity as armor once."
The Slayer placed his helmet carefully on a wooden bench beside the yard.
Then his Shield Saw, still slick with demonic remnants, followed.
Then the Chainshot.
The Power Gauntlet.
Everything deadly… was left behind.
Now unarmed, he walked to the center of the open training ground.
His shadow stretched over them all.
The entire Corps—trainees, Kakushi, even passing crows—fell into silence.
And then…
He spoke.
For the first time, in front of all of them.
"All of you.""Fight me. At once."
A deep, gravel-lined voice that echoed like a death sentence in a cold tomb.
The silence cracked instantly.
"What…?" whispered Zenitsu from the sidelines, pale as paper.
Inosuke was already jumping over a fence. "YEAH! FINALLY!"
But the Hashira didn't move.
Not out of fear.
Out of knowing.
They knew what he could do.
He had ended Gyokko without drawing breath. Made Sanemi bleed just by existing.
Now he stood there, unarmed, and invited them to try.
Sanemi stepped forward, sword twirling, confidence flaring.
"Tch. He thinks numbers are enough to beat us?" he scoffed. "Fine. He asked for it."
But behind his teeth… something clenched.
He remembered how it felt to be powerless against him.
Gyomei Himejima, the Stone Hashira, walked forward next.
His massive frame faced the Slayer's, and yet—even Gyomei looked up.
"I accept," he said with calm reverence, prayer beads brushing his arm. "It would be a sin not to honor a warrior's challenge."
The others followed.
Giyu. Obanai. Mitsuri. Rengoku. Muichiro. Shinobu.
Even the Demon Slayers around them prepared, ready to join if the Slayer truly meant all of them.
From atop a nearby roof, Tanjiro watched, wide-eyed.
"He's not doing this to hurt them," he whispered. "He's showing something…"
Nezuko, crouched beside him, nodded in eerie understanding.
"He wants them to see the wall they need to climb."
The Hashira all took position around him, circling like wolves.
Even Sanemi, cocky as ever, realized this wasn't just a fight.
It was a lesson from a being who had nothing left to prove.
And yet, he had still come forward.
Still chosen to stand among them…
To bleed with them—if they could make him.