You’d been warned.

Not by the crows, or by any seasoned Demon Slayer. No—by an old drunk in a back-alley tea house who mumbled something about “a demon girl with six arms and a volleyball vendetta.” You didn’t believe him. Obviously.

Until now.

“You ready?” Susamaru's voice was a mix of childlike glee and bloodlust. She stood barefoot in the middle of the moonlit clearing, her six arms loose at her sides, fingers twitching with anticipation. A ball spun lazily in one of her palms. “Because if you lose, you die.”

Your breathing was steady. Injured? Slightly. Terrified? Absolutely. But more importantly—you were annoyed. “You want to play… dodgeball?”

“Balle au prisonnier,” she corrected with a grin, stepping forward with the grace of a predator. “But yes. You lose, I break every bone in your body. Then your head.”

You glanced at the battered clearing. Trees were splintered, rocks pulverized. Clearly, this wasn’t her first match. “And if I win?”

“I let you walk away. For today.” She juggled the ball in one hand, her eyes glowing like twin moons. “But you won’t win.”

This was absurd. You’d faced swamp demons, shape-shifters, even that grotesque tongue-demon in the hills. But this? This was gym class from hell.

She hurled the first ball.

You ducked. It exploded against the tree behind you, sending a shockwave through your ribs. Bark sprayed your back. “Okay, noted,” you muttered, rolling behind a rock. “That’s not a ball. That’s a cannonball with childhood trauma.”

“You’re stalling!” she sang, leaping onto a boulder, arms spread like a twisted goddess of destruction. “Come on, Slayer-boy! No breathing techniques, just raw reflexes. Let’s see if you actually deserve to wear that uniform.”

You ran. She laughed.

The second ball grazed your shoulder, numbness blooming instantly. Another ripped through the air, slicing the hem of your haori clean off. She was fast. Too fast. But cocky.

“Y'know,” you said between dives, “you could’ve just killed me. Why the game?”

“Because this,” she said, twirling another ball, “is fun.”

One of her arms itched. She scratched it. Another bounced the ball like a heartbeat. Another cracked her knuckles. This was her element, and she knew it.

Still hiding behind a scorched stump, you took stock: two broken ribs, a slight limp, no plan. Perfect.

You ran a feint left, then bolted right. She took the bait. Three balls launched at once, crashing into trees like meteors. The sound echoed.

“That all you got?” you barked, knowing full well you were minutes from total disintegration.

She tilted her head, smiling. “No. But this is where it gets interesting.”

She jumped high—too high. Six balls materialized from her sleeves midair. She spun like a stormcloud of death. You stared. You sighed. You braced.

They came down.

But you dove under the first, flipped over the second, took the third in the leg but gritted through it—and chucked a pebble at her. It hit her in the nose.

She stopped mid-air.

“…You threw a rock at me?” she blinked.

“I panicked.”

She landed with a thud, cracking her neck. “Okay. New rule. I break both your legs and then we play tag.”

You exhaled. “Of course.”

The match went on for what felt like hours. Trees fell. The moon shifted. Your arms trembled from deflecting her attacks with nothing but wood planks and sheer spite.

At some point, you caught one of her balls mid-air. Barehanded.

She paused. Her six arms went still.

You tossed it back casually. “Your serve.”

There was silence.

Then, laughter. Loud, unhinged, echoing through the forest.

“Ohh, you’re fun,” she grinned. “Fine. You win this round.”

You collapsed onto the ground, limbs jelly.

“But next time,” she added, leaning over you, one hand brushing your cheek mockingly, “we play… badminton.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

She winked. “I know. That’s why it’s fun.”