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T’was over. The battle was won, and the Wish Fox’s pale body lay on the floor of the mansion, slowly disintegrating into an almost invisible dust. The men and women standing around the corpse sheathed their weapons as they breathed a sigh of relief, their identical black haori fluttering in a gentle, cold breeze which entered through the room’s open window— a relief from the lingering heat of the summer night. Soft beams of moonlight crept in through it as well, landing on a small boy who lay on the floor, slowly bleeding from a large, albeit packed gash on his chest. Kanjo, like his comrades, wore a Slayer uniform and a black haori bearing the ornate crimson cross that had been the symbol of his organization for a century. He carried a sword at either side of his waist, and even in his injured state he sat slightly upwards in order to see the actions of those under his command.
Simply acting as a spectator irked him so. He hated to be what he saw as useless or ineffective, yet for all his hatred of it the condition seemed to be quite a commonality. This is not to say that he was unskilled— indeed, in terms of pure technique there were few better save for the illustrious Hashira. Kanjo had studied the Way of the Longsword and practiced unceasingly, mastering it to such a degree that he could create his own techniques— the Silver Forms, as he called them— based solely on what his mother had told him concerning the traditions of Malabar, his father’s home. Alas, technique is not everything in combat, and so he was often pushed away from danger, forced to remain immobile by injury, or was ineffective in his attempts at killing a formidable demon. Now was no different— he lay off to the side as his soldiers sheathed their weapons, and all seemed calm for the moments after the dust of battle settled.
Just as they prepared to leave, an eerily cold wind rushed throughout the mansion, sending shivers down the spines of the men and women already recovering from battle. There was no time to react— t’was an instant before they stood in the presence of an imposing figure known to the Demon Slayer Corps only as Upper Moon Two. The demon was tall, towering especially over the supine Kanjo.
The demon dressed himself almost regally, with a hat, robe, and orarion reminiscent of a religious order’s clerical garments. His countenance held a small, charming smile that any unfamiliar with his true being would naturally confide in, and his eyes held the sheen of an illuminated prism. His appearance, combined with the icy air, caused the Slayers to freeze in their places, their gazes locked upon the demon before them, though he was not scared in the slightest of the many armed fighters that surrounded him. In fact, he closed his eyes, let out a small, teasing chuckle followed by a smirk which was somehow more frigid than his aura.
“Why’d you stop?”
Grinning maliciously, the demon leaned in beside a trembling Slayer, his eyes alight with twisted joy as he used a finger to push her hair out of the way of his voice. He whispered just loud enough for all to hear…
“Run.”
The Slayer darted out of the mansion, followed by her comrades. It was as if they had suddenly forgotten about their injured young commander, who could only gaze upon the demon as he tapped his foot, hands covering his eyes. The air was too frigid for Kanjo to even think about using a breathing style— even if he could, it would simply be to keep himself alive.
A sickly sweet voice escaped his lips, counting down like his murderous desires were but a simple children’s game.
“Three, two, one! Ready or not, here I come!”
The demon uncovered his eyes, his laugh echoing through the halls as he darted after the Slayers, bringing back their bodies and piling them on the floor one by one. Kanjo scooted back against the wall in horror as the last body was laid on the floor, the shuffling noise of his movement causing the demon to perk up.
The boy’s brown eyes widened, beholding the doom that walked calmly towards him with its same eerily charming smile.
“Miyoko, ente karale… Kiriko-chechi… I’m sorry.”
The demon froze as Kanjo muttered the last name, his eyes having widened at its very sound. For a second, he even shed his cheery façade, looking in the boy’s eyes with a genuine curiosity as he sat cross-legged in front of him.
“What did you say?”
The cold was beginning to affect him, so the demon, his piqued interest betraying his cruelty, let some warmth creep into the room.
“I might as well tell you, since I’m going to die…”
Kanjo coughed up some bloodstained mucus.
“She’s my older sister in all but blood. I swear it, with God as my witness.”
The demon’s grin returns as he hears this, giving way to a hearty laugh.
“Ahaha! So, it appears that my little girl has continued the chain of adoption, and to a Shōkajin, no less!”
He furrowed his brow as the demon smiled knowingly.
“How did you-?”
“It’s really not that hard, at least not for me. Your hair is quite the luxurious sheen of black exclusive to the men of Tenjiku, whom you share that language with. And that symbol on your haori…”
Kanjo remains silent as the demon looks down contemplatively for a second, the mention of the symbol seeming to affect him. There is no doubt that he’d had run-ins with the Brotherhood in times long past…
“I should know, really. The first of them arrived when I was a young boy, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never get those zealous-” He says the word with a slight yet obvious venom. “-individuals to join the Eternal Paradise Faith…”
His gaze noted the injury on the boy’s torso, a scheming grin crawling across his face. With an almost pleading spirit, the demon’s rainbow gaze connected with Kanjo’s own.
“…but that can change now, if you’d allow your dear father to let his prodigal son back into the family.”
Kanjo shot a glare at the demon’s presumption, his usual aversion to demons beginning to show itself once again.
“I already have a father, you insolent-“
A cold finger pressed itself against the boy’s lips, a giddy “Bup bup bup” interrupting his would-be tirade. “Don’t you see? Kiriko is your big sister, and she’s my daughter, so that makes me…”
Kanjo rolled his eyes, more disappointed than anything at his predicament— although the point was interesting.
“Come on, say it!”
“You’re not my father,” he growled, scowling once again at the demon, who simply laughed.
“Wow! You’re a feisty one— and to think, I expected a bit more willingness from one so… useless.”
There is a pang in Kanjo’s heart at these words, his scowl faltering for a second.
“Don’t you see? Your comrades, they just ran once I told them to, not giving you a second thought. That, I think, speaks enough to your value. Besides, you’re very small, and even I wouldn’t really be interested in devouring you.”
An exaggerated sigh leaves the demon’s lips as he rises, beginning to turn away.
“Oh, but what do I know? Well, ta-ta, my dear boy…”
Kanjo began to think, recalling all the times he had been saved, helped aside, or was even a detriment to a mission. They had been too many to count; on one occasion, a senior Slayer pushed him out of harm’s way, taking a demon attack head-on. More recently, he had not heard the orders of a senior through the intensity of his Silver Forms, and the same one who had once saved him was endangered. Here again he lie, caught in this vicious cycle of liability with no escape in sight.
Frankly, he was sick of it.
“Wait.”
The normally faithful boy, in his final moments, committed his soul’s final perfidious act. Like Judas, he forsook his halo for a power which shone like silver before him— the power of demons.
“You can make me a better warrior, right? If you can, I’ll join your godforsaken Eternal… whatever.”
The demon’s face shows itself towards the boy as he picks up a sword still tainted with the Wish Fox’s blood. A tender smile covers his face as he returns to the boy, standing over him as he cuts his palm with the blade.
“Oh, my child… I thought you’d never ask. Now, what is it your people say?”
A beat. The demon holds his cut hand over the sword’s tsuba, looking expectantly down at it as the blood trickled off of his wound.
“Oh, right.”
“This is my blood of the new covenant, my covenant, given for you…”
Once the red liquid had flowed down to the tip of the sword, the demon drove it through the sitting boy’s chest, and he let out a scream of pure, unfiltered agony. However, his cries did not call to God, to the saints, not even to the family he loved so much. He simply screeched like a wild animal as his body began to deform itself.
“Go, my little priest, and prepare a great feast in my name… I hope your sister will be here to enjoy it.”
At that moment, the skies of two lands, though separated by vast seas, wept together for their lost son.