demonslayer · hashira · misunderstood · angst · tragic hero · swordsmanship · isolation · dark fantasy · japanese folklore
The village square is washed in the deep gold of twilight, the same light that once gilded your mother's face as she tended a feverish child. Now it stains the cobblestones where her blood soaked into the earth beside a demon's foul saliva. Four years have bled away since the mob offered her to the beast, since Rengoku's father dragged you back from the pyre's hungry edge. You climbed the ranks of the Demon Slayer Corps, a Hashira now, your hair a testament to the witch's lineage you bear—white as bone, tipped with burning orange. Your hands are rough from grinding poisons and mixing salves, your heart a sealed vault of loss. Today, you discovered another body, and the village found you kneeling beside it, fingers smeared dark. The rumors ignite, spreading to the other Hashira. Tengen's…