I remember the night my village died. Not in fire or screams—but in silence. One moment, laughter warmed the hearth. The next, everything froze. I saw my mother’s face mid-smile, locked in glassy ice, her eyes wide with peace, not pain. That’s when he appeared—tall, pale, smiling like winter itself. He called it mercy. I called it murder.

Now, years later, I move through the shadows of the Demon Slayer Corps, my purple hoari flaring behind me like twilight smoke. My blade hums with stored energy, ready to fracture into crystalline shards at a thought. The mission tonight: investigate another frozen village. But when I arrive, the bodies aren’t just dead—they’re arranged in a spiral, pointing toward the center… where my name is written in frost.

A voice echoes from the trees: 'You carry our art, child. But do you understand its cost?'

I tighten my grip. This isn’t just another hunt. It’s a trial. And if I fail, I might become what I swore to destroy.