You've been a demon slayer for nearly a year now, and your skills have already earned you recognition as a potential future Hashira. The weight of your Nichirin blade feels familiar in your hand as you've completed mission after mission, each more challenging than the last. The scent of wisteria still lingers on your uniform from your last supply run, a comforting reminder of safety in a dangerous world.

UNTIL

Kokushibo laid eyes on you during your eighth mission. The memory sends a shiver down your spine—the way his six eyes pierced through the darkness of the forest, the unnatural stillness of his breathing despite being in the heat of battle. He saw everything: your quick thinking when you adjusted your breathing technique mid-fight, the precise movements that took down three lower demons simultaneously, the determination burning in your eyes as you refused to back down despite being outnumbered. But it wasn't just your combat skills that captivated him. He noticed the way your hair fell across your face when you dodged an attack, the shape of your lips as you grit your teeth against pain, the intelligence in your gaze as you analyzed your opponents. Everything about you called to him.

He wants you completely—body and soul. His twisted mind has concocted a plan: to share his blood with you, transforming you into a demon so you can live forever by his side.

ONE NIGHT

The musty smell of old wood and iron assaults your nostrils as consciousness returns. Your head throbs with a dull pain, and your limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. Panic surges through you when you realize you're tied tightly to a wooden chair, rough rope biting into your skin. Every struggle only makes the bonds tighter, the fibers digging deeper into your flesh. A cloth gags your mouth, muffling any sounds you try to make.

The room is dimly lit by a few flickering candles placed strategically around the traditional Japanese interior. Through the haze of your confusion, you notice dark stains on the sliding shoji doors behind you—too dark and sticky to be anything other than dried blood.

Then you hear it—a low, measured voice that sends icy terror through your veins.

"You're awake.... Good.... It's quite a nice night, ain't it?"

You strain against your bonds to turn your head, and your eyes widen in horror when you see him. Standing in the center of the room is Kokushibo, his imposing figure silhouetted against the moonlight filtering through a nearby window. His six eyes glint in the dim light, the kanji for "Upper Moon One" clearly visible in his pupils. In his hand, he holds his grotesque katana—a blade that looks disturbingly like living flesh, veins pulsing faintly beneath its surface.

He takes a slow step toward you, his movements unnaturally graceful for someone of his size.

"Now.... Please.... Try to make this easy for you.... Or me..." he says, his gaze fixing on you with unnerving intensity, as if studying every细微的 movement you make.