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Get in.
Get in
Get in!
Find an opening!
Crescent moons slash through the air like silver screams, each arc too close, too fast, too many. There’s no way through. Only death in motion. Leaving slayers struggling to find a break in the brutal onslaught. A way through the lethal attack. A way to keep fighting until this damn demon was dead. It felt impossible in the presence of so many flying obstacles.
Just closer! Get inside his reach!
Just before Himejima swung his iron weapon, that moment of distraction in the demon's focus. That was it. The opening.
A gut-clenching crunch shattered the air as the spiked iron ball mangled its way through the demon’s side, dragging sinew and bone in its wake. He didn’t wait. He drove his blade straight into the muscle— right where the flesh still remembered pain just as the severed limb began to regenerate.
Damn it! The blade didn't cut through the demon's carotid artery!
But he can't let go, even if he's cut, if he's diced. Damn it, won't that gun boy take the damn shot already?! Of course he’s taking his sweet time— what else is new?
Suddenly, a resounding bang echoed in the large room, causing the young slayer to jump subtly. His grip tightening on his blade as a brief annoyance flooded him because of his jumpiness.
The bullet, this flesh bullet carved into the upper moon's arm. Then another bang. Then another and another and another and another. Despite the demon's attempt to deflect them, they dug into his flesh and took root and grew. Sprouting out of the wounds like a macabre tree of flesh. He’d gag if there was time. If there was breath. If disgust could compete with survival.
But it held the demon in place. It wasn't attacking anymore, it's hands stuck above its head in a position to attack but he couldn't. It was mocking, almost.
Until he wasn't stuck.
The young slayer's heart dropped in dread as the upper moon broke free, sending a brutal, rapid attack in every direction.
He couldn’t feel his legs— only the phantom sting where flesh should’ve been, as if the cold air itself gnawed at the ragged edge of his torso. He tried to move. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. Then the pain hit him — not in his legs, but everywhere else. Like his body had become a mouthful of broken glass. Sharp. Wet. Wrong.
But what's wrong? How did that feel cold? Why couldn't he feel his legs? But he could feel the blood dripping from his body. Could hear a thud beneath him.
Oh...
Blades sprouted from the demon's body. Like a porcupine in defense. Only twisted, monstrous. The demon didn't even swing. The damn thing didn't even swing! The demon made as many attacks as he has blades!
He's failing, failing him. He's going to die.
He struggled so badly to get one sword in the demon, to get close. He really is going to die. Not that it matters. Not that it ever mattered. Not like...
What was left of his body slumped down, his legs no longer there to hold him up.
Himejima and Shinazugawa would kill the demon. No, they'd fight to their deaths. He had to keep fighting.
The demon above him raised his sword, setting up for another attack.
No. No. He’s still breathing. He’s still here. And if he’s here, the demon doesn’t get to move. Not while he's still alive.
His grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, thrusting it deeper as much as he could move the blade, which wasn't much with his one hand and lack of lower body. The blade... it turned red.
The demon's teeth grit together, pain. It was painful for the demon. A red blade hurt the fucking thing! The pain distracted it just enough for Shinazugawa to surprise him, going straight for the neck. Only for it to be deflected just in time. Himejima was close behind. Surely they could get an attack in there?
Another bang. Damn it— it scared the shit out of him every time. Why did it always have to be so loud?
A shot straight to the demon's back, sprouting another flesh tree, holding him in place. That's when Himejima's iron spiked ball comes crashing down on the demon's head. It had to be over, right? At least close to it. The young slayer was loosing it. The blood loss starting to get to him. But he had to power through it no matter what.
The axe on the other end of Himejima's weapon came up on the other side of the demons throat. It must be hard to cut. Shinazugawa's blade joins with a loud cry, crashing against Himejima's, the blades turning a vibrant shade of red. And before the young slayer new it, the demon's head was severed.
It was finally over. The demon was finally dead. A sigh escaped the young slayer's lips, one that he didn't even know he was holding in.
"Shinazugawa! Don't let up your attacks!" Gyoumei called out. The younger slayer's eyes shot open. It wasn't over, "Keep laying it on! No matter what, don't let Tokito's and Genya's lives go to waste!"
That's right. He's dying. His eyes weren't able to stay open for that long. He couldn't survive that long. The sounds of shouting and fighting turned into a distant lullaby.
The demon wasn't dead? It's head was cut off. That kills demons. But the feeling of the demons claws digging into the flesh of his last remaining arm, severing it was unmistakable.
With a pained gasp, he fell to the floor, blood and consciousness seeping out of his battered body. Death. A familiar feeling but never quite like this. Never this cold. Never this hard.
The continuation of the battle sounded like a soothing lullaby. The lullaby of battle. Of blood. Of dying men pretending not to cry. That was the only song he ever knew by heart. A welcome noise, a background noise. A grounding noise until it wasn't. Until the iron taste of blood became more clear. Before the pain in his body became more noticable. Until the shouts were heard more clearly. Until it went quiet.
Until footsteps, faint footsteps were heard approaching. Heavy footsteps. Himejima's. Then another pair, faster, more frantic but lighter.
"Aniki!" A voice. A panicked voice. Muichiro's voice. Muichiro was alive. Of course he was. He always would be. He was built for it— clean, soft, untouchable. Someone had to be. Someone had to carry the name— the Tokito name. Might as well be him.
He felt two strong arms pulling him closer. One hand, one nub where a hand should be. He was held. By arms stronger, thicker than his. Harder than his. Familiar. He used to carry Muichiro like this, didn’t he? When the nightmares came. When the cold got too much. When the world ended the first time.
And now… Muichiro was carrying him.
That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
He wanted to say something, anything. But his mouth wouldn’t open. His lungs wouldn’t fill. He couldn't move, what was left of his body wouldn't budge. Even his chest faltering in what was left of his slowing breaths.
Muichiro's words swam in his head. Confusing, jumbled, unclear. He couldn't make any sense of it. Any of it. All he knew is that Muichiro was here. His little brother was here, watching him die again. Hell, guess that means he's one bad brother, huh? Letting his little brother watch him die not once but twice.
"Mu-ich-i-ro," he barely mutters out, his voice breaking in each syllable, "I'm sorry," barely audible. Barely anything to hear over the ringing in his ears.
He felt warm droplets on his face. Not blood. No, it wasn't thick enough. Water. Tears. He wanted to yell, to scream, tell Muichiro to forget about him and get out of there, but he couldn't find the words. Couldn't find the energy to do anything other than lay there in his brother's arms.
His vision swam both with tears and blood loss. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. But he didn't. He couldn't.
His eyelids grew heavy. Sleep sounded nice. He was so tired. He’d rest. Just for a minute. Just long enough for the lullaby to end.