"Where... am I?"
The words never made it past Ethan's lips. Instead, he choked on air that tasted like hot iron—thick, copper-scented, and heavy enough to clog his lungs.
Ahead, the merchant street was a narrow, uphill climb of weathered timber and sliding paper doors. It was a chaotic blur of motion. People in tattered kimonos lunged past him, their wooden sandals hammering against the packed dirt in a desperate, uneven rhythm.
What is happening? Is this... a festival? The thought was stupid, and he was aware of it. You don't see that kind of raw, wide-eyed look on people at a festival. These people weren't just running; they were fleeing something. He needs to run as well.
Move.
His brain sparked, but the gears didn't turn. His heart was hammering against his ribs—a frantic, hollow thud that felt too fast for his chest. Ten seconds ago, he'd been slumped on his bed, the familiar blue light of his laptop screen flickering with the opening credits of the Entertainment District arc. He could still almost feel the ghost of his duvet against his skin.
Now, his bare feet were rooted to freezing, mud-slicked earth. The transition was so violent it made his head swim.
This isn't right. I was just... I was just at home. He blinked, trying to clear the static from his vision. Above, a pale, sickly moon hung over the jagged silhouette of the surrounding mountains, casting long, distorted shadows across the low-eaved houses. The smell of woodsmoke from evening fires still lingered in the air, but it was being drowned out by something sweeter. Something metallic.
Ethan looked down at his hands. They were small. Too small.
Wait, no. No, no, no.
Then, the night was shattered. It wasn't a scream—not at first. It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of something massive leaping across the thatched roofs, followed by the sound of a structural beam snapping like a dry twig. Dust and shingles rained down onto the dirt road a few yards away.
Ethan froze. The air suddenly felt ten degrees colder. Through the panicked crowd, a high-pitched, warbling shriek tore through the air, silencing the sound of the wind.
A shadow blurred over the rooftops and slammed into the tail end of the fleeing crowd. A woman was thrown against a wooden cart, her spine snapping with a sound like dry kindling. Ethan watched, paralyzed, as the attacker rose.
It was a Demon.
The creature was a twisted mockery of a man, its skin a sickly, bruised purple and its eyes glowing with a frenzied, scarlet light. It didn't waste time with words. It plunged its claws into the woman's shoulder and tore, shoving a hunk of flesh into a mouth filled with jagged, mismatched teeth.
Ethan's stomach turned. This wasn't the polished animation of a screen. This was the wet, metallic reality of a slaughterhouse.
The Demon turned, its throat bulging as it swallowed. Its gaze locked onto Ethan.
"A small one," the Demon laughed after seeing Ethan, its voice a wet rattle. "I like the ones that can't run."
Ethan tried to scramble back, but his balance was gone. He looked down and his heart nearly stopped. His hands were tiny—small, pale, and trembling. He was wearing a cheap, dirt-stained yukata that hung off a frame that hadn't seen a full meal in weeks. The realization hit him hard.
I'm a child.
The realization triggered a landslide of memories. He wasn't Ethan anymore. He was a nameless kid in a backwater village, a "fiancé" to a girl who lived in a house of silence and violence. He remembered watching from behind a fence as her parents beat the light out of her eyes. He'd done nothing to help her.
Pathetic.
"Heh... heh..."
The Demon was stalking him now, low to the ground. It wasn't rushing; it was enjoying the sight of a child trembling in the dirt.
Ethan's hand struck something cold.
He looked down. A man in a dark, high-collared uniform lay face-down in the mud, his body twisted at an impossible angle. Beside his limp hand lay a sword. The hilt was wrapped in black cord, and the guard was a simple iron ring.
Ethan grabbed it.
The weight nearly pulled his shoulder out of its socket. The Nichirin Katana was forged from ore that soaked up the sun—it was incredibly dense. To a child's undernourished arms, it felt like lifting a lead pipe.
He dragged the blade from its scabbard. It didn't glow or hum. It was just a cold, sharp length of black steel that shimmered faintly under the moon.
The Demon paused, its scarlet eyes narrowing. "A Slayer's sword? In the hands of a brat who can barely stand?" It threw its head back and laughed, its laughter sounding like glass breaking in a blender. "Go on then. Swing it!"
The creature lunged.
Ethan didn't have a System. He didn't have a Breathing Style. He only had the raw, animal terror of a cornered rat. He heaved the sword up with both hands, using his entire body weight to swing with the blade.
The Demon's claw missed his throat by an inch, its nails whistling through the air. Ethan swung—not a clean strike, but a desperate, clumsy hack.
The blade bit into the Demon's forearm. It didn't cut through; the Demon's flesh was as tough as steel. But the "Sun-Steel" scorched.
The Demon shrieked, jumping back and clutching its arm. Smoke rose from the wound as the Nichirin steel reacted with the Demon's cells.
"You little brat..!"
The monster's face contorted, veins bulging across its forehead. It was no longer playing.
Ethan stood his ground, his breath coming in ragged, shallow stabs. His arms were already burning from the weight of the sword, but he didn't drop it.
Then he saw her.
Huddled in the shadow of a collapsed fence was a small girl. She was as still as a statue, her pale violet eyes staring at the Demon with a terrifying lack of emotion. She wasn't even shaking. She was just... empty?
The memories clicked. The coin. The silence. The Butterfly Mansion.
This was Kanao Tsuyuri.
Before the demons, before the Hashira, she was just a slave waiting for the end. And if he died here, she'd be the Demon's next meal.
Ethan's grip tightened on the hilt until his knuckles cracked.
"I'm not dying here," he whispered, mostly to convince himself. "And neither is she."