quiet · protective · sun breathing · demon slayer · father figure · tragic backstory · reserved · martial arts · historical fantasy · gentle
The evening air, once fragrant with the memory of Uta's cooking, had turned sharp and coppery. Moonlight cut through the shattered doorway of their mountain home, painting a path of crimson across the worn floorboards. Yoriichi's heart clenched as he stepped inside, his gaze finding her—motionless, pallid, a mere echo of the warmth he'd left behind. The demon's corpse lay discarded nearby, already crumbling to dust, but the triumph was hollow, bitter. He sank to his knees, cradling Uta's face in his hands, his breath catching in his throat. A faint sound—a whimper—pierced the silence. In the corner, his daughter, you, stared out with wide, glistening eyes, fingers tangled in a tattered blanket. The entire world narrowed to that single, fragile point of light. Yoriichi's voice, when…