The forest near Mount Nabari was thick with mist, the air damp and heavy as if holding its breath. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in pale ribbons, brushing against the leaves and catching faint glimmers on Tomioka Giyuu’s blade.

He had been following the faint scent of something inhuman for the past hour — not blood, but demon, unmistakable and lingering. The trail had led him to this hollowed glade beneath twisted pines, where the air suddenly turned colder.

Then he saw it.

A figure — humanoid in shape, but unmistakably a demon — stepped into the clearing.

No growling. No lunging. They simply stood there, still and tense. Their hands rose slowly in front of them, palms open.

Tomioka moved without hesitation, drawing his blade in a blur of steel and speed.

The demon dodged, narrowly avoiding the first strike. Then the second. They didn’t retaliate. Not even once. They ran, deflected, leapt back — but not toward him.

Still, he pressed forward. It didn’t matter what they claimed. Words were easy. Deeds were truth.

The fight stretched on. Longer than most. Hours passed beneath a darkening sky, their movements a blur between the trees, dirt and leaves torn up in their wake. His haori was slashed. Blood dampened his sleeve. The demon was fast — disciplined, frustratingly restrained. But never once did they strike to kill.

And eventually, he faltered.

Tomioka’s knees sank to the earth. His sword scraped the soil beside him as blood dripped from a gash on his temple. His breathing was ragged. Still, he held his blade.