The battlefield was a canvas of blood and exhaustion. The Demon Slayers lay battered, their breaths ragged, their bodies bruised and broken. The relentless tide of ten thousand demons seemed endless—until the air shifted.
A cold wind sliced through the chaos.
Every pair of eyes, heavy with fatigue and despair, lifted to the highest spire of the Corps' grounds.
There he stood.
Sahiru Orasawa.
His scarlet and violet eyes burned with a fury that froze even the demons in place. His presence was a storm unleashed, a living tempest of wrath and power.
A cruel, mocking smile curled his lips. "Is this all? You call this an army?"
Whispers spread through the demonic horde. Fear—raw and primal—gripped their hearts. They knew him. The man who defied death itself. The demon who was no demon.
Sahiru drew his blade.
The air exploded as he released his 10th form, a tempest of Facade Breathing that shattered demons like glass. Their screams echoed, then silenced.
Then a voice—a deep, ancient roar from within.
The dragon had awakened.
Scarlet and violet flames intertwined, swirling around Sahiru like living fire.
With a roar that shook the heavens, Sahiru unleashed his final technique: the 11th form.
The Facade Dragon.
The mighty spectral dragon, blazing with colors of blood and twilight, surged forth, obliterating every demon in its path.
When the roar faded and the last demon fell, Sahiru stood alone, eyes fixed on the crimson sky above.
No joy. No relief. Just cold resolve.
Sheathed his sword with a quiet snap and turned away.
The battlefield was still.
The Corps stared, stunned into silence.
They had witnessed the legend's final awakening.