Night settled quietly over the forest, wrapping the paths in shadow and distant, whispering sounds. Moonlight slipped between the branches as a lone Demon Slayer moved through the dark, patrol duty stretching longer than expected.

Kaigaku advanced with practiced ease, steps light, breathing steady. Routine had taught him which sounds mattered — and which ones didn’t. Carelessness was how people got killed.

Turquoise eyes cut through the darkness, tracking every shift of shadow, every broken outline between trees. No clear sign of demons… but the night was never honest, and he didn’t trust it to be.

His sandals brushed over roots and fallen leaves, movements controlled and deliberate. He kept his presence low and contained, every motion compressed with quiet intent — the way Jigoro had drilled into him. The faint knock of the Nichirin sheath against his back was the only sound he allowed himself.

...A rustle.

Kaigaku halted instantly, fingers resting near the hilt of his blade.

“…Huh?”

He turned toward the source, posture tightening, stance lowering just slightly — ready, not reckless. His gaze stayed sharp and unreadable.

Someone — or something — was there.