An inhuman roar exploded from Gyutaro's throat.
His Blood Demon Art spread.
Dozens of dark-purple blood scythes spun at high speed through the sealed underground granary, without direction or target, sweeping all the dust up to the vaulted ceiling. Circular Slashing Whirl: Blood Flying Scythes. This was his final trump card, meant to grind everything underground, himself included, into minced flesh.
The civilians in the corner clutched their heads and huddled together, their piercing wails echoing off the stone walls. Amid the half-collapsed wooden shelves, the exposed portion of Tengen Uzui's face had already turned deathly gray.
Gyutaro's grin stretched to his ears.
This was the moment he was gambling on. A Demon Slayer could never watch civilians get shredded. If Yaha diverted even a sliver of his attention to protecting them, Gyutaro could slip through that opening and twist off the head of the man who had utterly humiliated him and his sister.
Deep within the Infinity Castle, Muzan sensed the murderous intent about to erupt through the remaining demonic connections.
He sat on the raised platform, a cold smile tugging at his lips.
As long as you're a Demon Slayer, that bullshit human morality will be the gravestone that crushes you. The stronger you are, the tighter it binds your hands and feet. Every life on this street is another nail in your coffin.
The blood scythes descended.
Yaha did not move.
He did not look at the civilians or the half-dead Sound Hashira. He neither reached out nor tried to block that meat grinder of blood.
He merely drew his right hand slowly out of the trouser pocket where it had rested all along.
His middle finger crossed over his index finger.
The crimson in his eyes spread outward, and pitch-black Cursed Markings crawled up his neck,