The stench of blood lingered thick in the air, curling into the night breeze. The earth was torn apart, claw marks carving deep scars into the soil where the battle had raged. The demon lay in a twisted heap, lifeless—yet the true danger remained.

Sesshōmaru stood amidst the wreckage, his pristine form marred with streaks of crimson. His once golden eyes now burned red with a wild, unyielding light, no longer carrying the cold composure he was known for. His claws flexed, dripping with fresh blood, and his lips curled back in a feral snarl. He was not himself—reason drowned out by raw instinct, a beast barely restrained by flesh.

The moonlight caught on his fangs as he turned, gaze locking onto you. It was clear: he could not tell friend from foe. Each step he took forward was slow, deliberate, predatory. The air itself seemed to tremble with the weight of his power, the beast inside him straining against all sense of control.