Disclaimer:
I do not own nor claim all the rights to 鬼滅の刃 | Kimetsu no Yaiba | Demon Slayer; all rights are reserved to its respective creator, Koyoharu Gotōge. This is purely a work of fiction; names, characters, businesses, events, localities, and occurrences are all extrapolated from the author's writings and imagination or utilized in a fictitious manner. As such, any direct or indirect references to actual entities, dead or alive, or events do not, in any shape or form, resemble the opinions of the author.
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"..." = Dialogue
'...' = Internal monologues
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Sorry about this long-overdue update—and that it's not as long as my other chapters. I've literally had no free time since school's been keeping me hella busy.
As a result, I really have only the weekends to work on this.
This chapter was originally going to be longer. However, due to time constraints, I chose to cut it in half.
With that said, I'm going to make upcoming chapters shorter—but they will be just as meticulous as any other one.
But, I will try to update as often I can, so do be expecting that!
Also, just wanted to thank you guys for 100 views, cheers!
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Cold.
Unrelenting.
Merciless.
In the vastness of a great field, a stunning image of hay and tall grass enclosed this particular meadow. The late evening sunlight shone brilliantly as its majestic rays illuminated the locality with its galvanizing and illustrious blaze. The lush greenery and cultivated fields exuded an atmosphere of serenity and perpetual tranquility.
With such a remarkable scenery, one would anticipate for the physical characteristics and ambiance of this particular vicinity to be reflected upon the hearts and minds of any individual who happens to situate themselves here.
In other words, an evocation of peace and sobriety on behalf of this heath should intuitively facilitate such fervors within the wandering individual or the contemporary denizens.
However, on this particular occasion, no such feelings could be discerned by either the eyes or ears.
Only the odor of rotting flesh, the scene of a myriad of corpses prostrated on the mud, and blood splattered along every blade of grass and every square meter of the floor could be perceived; they were the only identifiable facets of this dark reality.
Among the dead, a single man stood with vigor in the moor. He stood indignantly with a solemn posture; with malice towards none, but no pompous attitude displayed towards all.
He stood, equipped with an unsheathed Katana on his right hand, bruises and lacerations protruding throughout his physique and a grim look on his face as he stared upon the endless streams of bodies that laid before him.
He stood in silence as a requiem for the fallen heroes, but also a curse directed towards the sinners and the delusional.
He stood in a position of strength and superiority, but he did not endorse such extravagant dispositions. He mourned, but he did not ask Kami-sama for forgiveness.
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