Panic erupted in the village below. The single scream multiplied into a chorus of terror, a symphony of fear that echoed through the valley. Kenjiro, who had spent his life on the periphery, felt an unfamiliar surge of adrenaline. He was no warrior, no hero, but the thought of the villagers, the very people who had shunned him, being slaughtered was unbearable. He grabbed a wood-cutting axe, its weight a small comfort in his trembling hands, and plunged into the snow, racing towards the chaos.
The scene that greeted him was one of carnage. A grotesque demon, its form a twisted mockery of a human, was terrorizing the village square. It had elongated limbs, razor-sharp claws, and eyes that glowed with a malevolent hunger. The snow was stained with blood, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of death. Kenjiro's stomach churned, but his gaze was drawn to a small child, no older than six, who had tripped and fallen in the demon's path. The creature loomed over her, a cruel smile twisting its lips.
Time seemed to slow. Kenjiro knew he was no match for the demon. His axe was a mere toy against such a monster. But as he stood frozen, a blur of motion shot past him. A figure clad in the distinctive uniform of the Demon Slayer Corps landed between the child and the demon. The slayer, a man with a weathered face and a grim determination in his eyes, drew his Nichirin Blade, its steel glinting in the moonlight.
"Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel," the slayer commanded, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of chaos. He spun, his blade creating a circular torrent of water that deflected the demon's attack. Kenjiro watched, mesmerized. It wasn't just a sword technique; it was an art form, a dance of power and precision. And in that moment, something within him clicked. His mind, always so adept at deconstructing and understanding, latched onto the slayer's movements. He saw the flow of energy, the precise muscle contractions, the subtle shifts in balance. He understood it. He understood it all.