Sara's awakening wasn't something the world was prepared to witness.

Among vampires, the Calamity Class appeared only once in a century—born not from bloodlust, but from understanding one's own worth. And as she rose, the faint blue glow of thin mana flickered around her like dying embers brought back to life.

Her eyes were empty, hollow—yet frighteningly calm.

She watched Elga and Allen clash in the distance. Elga's punches were undeniably the strongest among them—raw, ferocious power meant to shatter mountains. But Allen received them like a bored child batting away toys. Each strike that should've broken him only made him grin wider.

Allen's gaze shifted when he felt Sara stand again.

"Well, now… this is interesting," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "I didn't expect you to awaken mid-fight, Sucking bat."

Before Elga could react, Allen kicked her with such speed that she blinked out of sight. The others thought she'd vanished—until the explosive crash echoed across the arena. Elga was launched into a distant wall, blood erupting from her lips as her body crumpled.

Allen descended slowly from the sky, landing in front of Sara with the confidence of someone who believed the outcome had already been written.

Sara lifted her hand.

Her voice was cold, steady, almost inhuman.

"Blood Art: Leviathan Bind."

The ground shuddered as a towering mass of crimson surged upward. Dozens of monstrous tendrils erupted from the blood-soaked floor, coiling around Allen's arms, wings, and legs. The monstrous form resembled an ancient sea demon—vast, suffocating, impossible to escape.

At first, Allen smirked, thinking it a mere distraction.

But the more he struggled… the weaker he felt.

"What—what is this art?" he growled, shock cracking through his voice.

Sara's lips curved into a tired, bitter smile.

"I used my soul to anchor it," she said. "It won't let you go."

Allen's eyes widened. Using one's soul wasn't a technique.

It was suicide.

"Why?" he hissed. "Why would you go this far for humans?"

Before he could break free, a shadow loomed behind him.

Elga—barely standing, limbs shaking—grabbed Allen's arm and forced his chest forward.

"Now, Fiona!" she roared.

Fiona, who had been waiting with her eyes shut, felt the moment strike her like lightning. She gripped her sacred blade, whispered the name of her ultimate technique, and the air around her snapped with holy thunder.

"Divine Judgment: Dawnpiercer."

A pillar of lightning enveloped her as she lunged, moving faster than human sight. In a single blinding instant, her blade plunged straight into Allen's chest.

His scream tore through the stadium—raw, primal agony that echoed for miles.

Golden cracks spread across his body, light flooding from the wound like a star breaking apart. Sara collapsed to her knees, gasping, the soul-art draining everything from her. Elga, thrown back again by the backlash, smashed into another wall. Only then did she realize the truth—Allen had been holding back the entire time. She wasn't even worthy of his full strength.

And yet… his pride had led him into this trap.

Allen's voice distorted with pain and disbelief.

Fiona stepped close, whispering coldly, "Didn't I tell you? One day I would find you… and make you regret sparing me."

Recognition flickered in Allen's fading eyes as he saw Holy sword in his chest.

Allen's breath hitched as a memory forced itself through the dull, spreading ache in his chest. It wasn't the pain of Fiona attack that unsettled him—it was the echo of a voice he had hoped to forget. A deep, steady tone, shaped by discipline and sharpened like steel. The voice of a Japanese samurai… and a demon slayer unlike any other

A voice forged through countless battles, sharpened by conviction, and carried with the authority of someone who had faced death far too many times.

The voice of the strongest demon slayer Japan had ever produced:

Kisaragi Yoruichi.

Year: 2011

Location: Yakushima Forest, Kagoshima

Yakushima at night felt like a place forgotten by time.

Ancient cedar trees—some older than entire kingdoms—rose like towering pillars into the heavens. Their branches swayed gently under a sky overflowing with stars, each one flickering like a distant spectator. Moss glimmered faintly under the moonlight, draping fallen logs in a soft green glow. Normally, the forest pulsed with the sounds of cicadas, rustling leaves, and distant waterfalls.

But tonight, the silence was absolute.

Not peaceful.

Not tranquil.

It was the kind of silence that felt alive—

as if the entire island was holding its breath, waiting for something monstrous to stir.

Something had gone wrong tonight.

A lone man moved through the forest with slow, deliberate steps.

He wore traditional hunter's garments—dark, silent, practical. The bamboo kasa hat cast a deep shadow across his eyes, hiding the sharpened intensity beneath.

But his weapon destroyed any illusion of normality.

It wasn't a katana.

Not even close.

Strapped to his back was a Roman-style longsword—broad, heavy, scratched from past battles. It did not belong to Japan. It did not belong to this era. Yet Yoruichi carried it like it weighed nothing, as if the blade itself had chosen him.

Even among samurai demon slayers, he was an anomaly.

The faint metallic scent drifting through the air led him onward.

Blood.

Fresh.

Thick.

Undeniably demonic.

He had left his car kilometers behind, choosing the forest's shadows over the convenience of roads. He wasn't here for work or duty.

He was here on a mission of revenge.

The monster he hunted was no myth.

No rumor.

No bedtime story.

A demon whispered about in old shrines.

A being the government refused to acknowledge.

A nightmare that wore a human smile.

The Demon King—Allen Manster.

Yoruichi stopped walking.

The temperature dropped sharply, biting against his skin.

Shadows stretched unnaturally between the trees.

Even the stars seemed to withdraw from the sky, as if unwilling to witness what was about to unfold.

His hand slid toward the hilt of his longsword.

The stench of blood was overwhelming now—metallic and violent.

For the first time in many years, a faint chill crept down the back of the strongest samurai demon slayer Japan had ever trained.

This wasn't a hunt.

This was vengeance.

Allen's subordinate—Xemon, an Upper Demon Rank—had tortured Yoruichi's wife beyond recognition, breaking her body and soul long before death claimed her. Yoruichi had come here tonight to kill Xemon.

Instead, he found something far worse.

Allen himself.

Killing Xemon would've been mercy.

Killing Allen would be justice.

And Yoruichi was ready to carve that justice into the world with his own hands.

The forest opened into a moonlit clearing.

Yoruichi stepped forward.

The shadows moved.

A tall figure emerged from the darkness, followed by a hollow-eyed man—Allen's puppet, a mafia boss stripped of free will and turned into nothing more than a silent servant.

Allen stepped into the moonlight with a serene smile, so calm it felt like mockery.

Yoruichi straightened his posture, spine rigid, chest steady. He stood not as a broken husband, but as a warrior facing destiny.

With controlled precision, he unsheathed his longsword. The steel glinted coldly in the night breeze.

He spoke his name—not as introduction, but as a declaration.

His voice cut through the clearing, firm, unwavering.

"Demon King… it's an honor to meet you.

I am Kisaragi Yoruichi, demon slayer of the Japanese Agency of Spiritual Security."

His stance lowered.

His eyes hardened into steel.

"And tonight… I have come for your head."

Allen laughed—a deep, unhurried sound that rolled through the quiet forest like a mockery carved into the night itself. His hand rested casually on his coat pocket, as if the samurai before him wasn't a threat, but a brief entertainment.

"What made you think you can take my head, human?" Allen asked, amusement curling at the edges of his smile.

"You're just a weak little man."

Yoruichi stood still, unshaken.

The wind tugged at the ends of his hunter's coat, his bamboo kasa casting a shadow across his eyes. He met Allen's mocking gaze with quiet resolve.

"I may not be strong enough today," Yoruichi said softly, "but my sword will find you one day. Maybe not through my hand… but through someone else's. Justice always reaches its target."

Allen's laughter grew louder. It echoed off the ancient cedar trunks, shaking loose bits of bark.

"Justice?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief.

"Are you actually serious? You came all the way here to preach justice to a demon?"

Yoruichi didn't answer.

He simply watched.

Listened.

Allen took a slow step forward, shadows bending around him like obedient serpents.

"Justice…" he murmured. "Let me teach you something, Samurai. Listen carefully, because even demons rarely bother explaining truths to humans."

He lifted a single finger, the gesture eerily patient.

"There is no justice in this world. Only power, and the illusion of fairness crafted by those who own that power."

He spoke as if reciting an ancient law of nature.

"Look at the humans you protect. The rich commit crimes, and the courts bathe them in mercy. A wealthy murderer gets a lifetime sentence—yet lives in a prison with TV, books, private rooms, even special meals. They call it punishment; I call it a weekend retreat."

Allen tilted his head, eyes glinting.

"Meanwhile a poor boy?" Allen continued. "A starving kid who steals medicine for his sick sister? They beat him, drag him through courtrooms, treat him as if he were the monster. He gets no mercy. No understanding. Your justice only has teeth when it bites the weak."

Yoruichi's grip on his sword tightened—but he remained silent.

"The justice system bends the moment money enters the scene," Allen continued. "Judges are not saints. They have debts, careers, political favors. Their pens serve wallets, not truth."

He gave a small laugh.

"And don't forget women, Yoruichi. Many preach morality and standards. 'A real man should be kind. He should be loyal. He should be gentle.' But the moment a wealthy man enters the room—suddenly every standard melts like snow in fire. Morality becomes flexible. Principles become decorations. Justice? A ghost."

Allen's voice deepened, almost philosophical.

His voice dropped lower, colder. "Your courts delay cases for years until victims break down, give up, or die. Justice isn't served; it's buried beneath paperwork. Police brutality? Covered up. Files vanish. Videos disappear. Committees protect their own officers." He leaned in, whispering, "Corporations poison rivers. Destroy forests. Kill families and Animals with negligence. And what do they face? A fine. A pathetic amount of money. They pay, then walk home laughing, Where is the justice for Animals who lost their home and families."

Allen straightened and looked Yoruichi directly in the eyes. "Tell me, Samurai. If justice exists, why do the poor suffer punishment instantly… while the powerful choose their punishment?" His lips curved into a cruel smile. "Justice is nothing but a bedtime story for the powerless. A lie they whisper to themselves so they can sleep at night. A cage built from hope."

"Tell me, Samurai… have you ever heard of a billionaire receiving a death sentence? Ever? Has any powerful family been punished equally for the crimes they commit?"

He spread his hands.

"You haven't. Because the system is built by them, for them."

The forest seemed to bow beneath the weight of his words.

"Police protect the rich. Courts protect the rich. The media protects the rich. Even your agencies"—Allen smirked—"filter their cases based on political cost."

Yoruichi still didn't respond.

Allen walked past him slowly, like a teacher circling a naive student.

"Justice," he said, "is a story told to the weak so that they continue obeying the strong. It's a collar. A leash. A myth that prevents rebellion."

He glanced back, eyes sharp as blades.

"If justice truly existed, then evil wouldn't roam freely. Corrupt leaders would fall from power. Innocent people wouldn't die alone in alleys. Your agencies wouldn't hide crimes committed by your officers."

He lifted his chin.

"People want to believe in justice because it comforts them.

But comfort is not truth."

His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and absolute.

"Justice is merely the costume worn by power. Remove the costume… and you find the same ugly beast underneath."

The moon overhead dimmed behind drifting clouds.

Allen's final words hung in the air like a curse:

"In this world, only strength decides what is right.

And I… am stronger than your justice."

Yoruichi did not flinch, not even when Allen's shadow twisted around his feet like a serpent. He let the demon's words fade into the forest, absorbed by ancient trees that had listened to centuries of storms and centuries of lies.

Only when silence completely settled did he finally raise his head, the rim of his kasa hat lifting just enough to reveal his eyes. They were calm. Deep. Unshaken. The eyes of a man who had seen death, touched despair, and walked through both without losing himself.

"You talk too much for someone who fears the truth," Yoruichi said quietly.

Allen blinked—not in confusion, but in irritation. Humans were supposed to tremble. They were supposed to stutter or pray. They were not supposed to speak as if addressing a misbehaving child.

Yoruichi stepped forward, the sound of his sandal brushing the moss-covered ground echoing like a drumbeat. "You say justice is an illusion," he murmured.

"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps in this world, the strong twist the rules, and the weak are forced to bow."

He lifted his sword, the Roman blade sliding free with a metallic sigh, its edge catching the faint moonlight.

"But justice isn't something written in books or judged in courts. It exists in the hearts of those who refuse to bow."

Allen scoffed, but Yoruichi continued before the demon could interrupt.

"You speak about wealthy men escaping their crimes. You speak about courtrooms bending. Police lying. Women changing their standards. Power consuming truth."

His blade leveled outward, steady as an unwavering horizon.

"But justice is not meant to protect the wealthy. That is corruption. That is cowardice. Justice is what happens when someone stands up—knowing they cannot win—but fights anyway."

A faint wind rustled the cedars, as if the forest itself leaned in to listen.

"You killed my wife," Yoruichi said softly, the calmness in his voice somehow more terrifying than rage.

"You destroyed a mother. A daughter's world. A family." He took another step. "If true justice existed, you would have been erased long ago. But since the world failed to punish you… I will."

Allen's grin hardened. His aura spiked like a venomous wave. "You think you alone can do what nations failed to? What armies failed to?"

Yoruichi exhaled slowly.

"I never said I would kill you."

Allen paused.

Yoruichi's grip tightened on the sword hilt. "I said my blade would. If not today, then one day. If not through me, then through someone else. Someone who carries a heart strong enough to finish what began tonight."

The forest trembled.

The first cedar leaf fell.

And with no further warning—no call, no shout—Yoruichi moved.

A single step.

A single breath.

A single slash that tore through the night like lightning splitting the sky.

The battle that would be remembered as Yakushima's Silent Night had begun.

To be continue.....

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