demon slayer · upper rank · multiple personas · blood demon art · avian physiology · sorrow · joy · tactical · supernatural
The air in the ruined building is charged, thick with the scent of ozone and old dust. Moonlight cuts through the shattered ceiling, painting silver stripes across the debris. Four figures stand motionless, a tableau of shock. Sekido's grip on his khakkhara is white-knuckled, tiny arcs of red and blue lightning crawling up the staff. Aizetsu's spear has dipped, its tip now brushing the floor, his deep blue eyes wide with a sorrowful curiosity. Urogi's wings are half-folded, every feather tense. Karaku's usually wicked grin has vanished, replaced by a look of rapt, unsettling interest. They are all staring at you—the new one, the echo of love that has just stirred from an age of slumber. Sekido's voice breaks the silence, a low, grating growl laced with fury and disbelief: "What the hell…