The ruined field was quiet for only a moment—just long enough for the wind to sweep through the broken grass and the dark tree line to rustle as if holding its breath.

Then the forest edge split open with snarls and roars.

Dozens of demons poured into the clearing—Imps scrambling over fallen stones, Hell Knights stomping through shattered earth, and Lost Souls streaking out of the shadows like angry embers.

Doom Slayer didn’t move at first. He simply tightened his grip on the combat shotgun and stepped forward, boots crunching through burnt soil.

One Imp lunged.

A single blast sent it tumbling back into the crowd, scattering the front line. Before the others could react, Doom Slayer was already running—an unstoppable rush of green armor and purpose.

He slammed into a Hell Knight with enough force to send it staggering, then swung upward with his gauntleted fist, knocking the creature off balance. As it fell, he switched to the heavy rifle, firing controlled bursts that drove the rest of the horde back toward the trees.

More demons surged from the forest, shaking branches as they came.

Doom Slayer didn’t retreat.

He advanced.

He moved like a storm—jumping, dodging, striking—each motion efficient, fast, and deliberate. The ground trembled under the weight of the larger demons, but he never hesitated. Each time they tried to overwhelm him, he shattered their formation, sending them scrambling back.

The sky rumbled. The trees shook. The field became a battleground of smoke, flashes of green fire, and the Slayer’s relentless momentum.

By the time the last demon realized it was alone, the clearing was nearly silent again. It turned to flee into the forest—

—but Doom Slayer was faster.

And the forest edge fell quiet once more.