The wind stopped.
That agonizing curse, which had endured for a thousand years, dissipated into the morning light along with the Demon Progenitor's ashes.
An eerie silence, almost like a vacuum, settled over the battlefield.
The surviving members of the Demon Slayer Corps, from the battered Hashira to the ordinary slayers who had escaped death, stood rooted in place like puppets whose souls had been drawn out. Adrenaline and the will to survive had drained their bodies to the limit. Now that their minds had relaxed, they no longer had the strength even to move a finger.
Golden sunlight broke through the last trace of gloom on the horizon, spilling warmly and impartially over the ruins that had been razed to the ground. It illuminated the shattered walls, the lovers who had died in each other's arms, the monk who had passed into nirvana seated in meditation, and the expressions of tears, blood, and bewilderment on every survivor's face.
Had they won?
Yes, they had won.
Kyojuro Rengoku knelt on one knee, propped up by his broken Bright Red Nichirin Sword, gasping for breath as his chest heaved like a worn-out bellows. He gazed at the brilliant morning sun, but there was not a trace of joy in his eyes, only endless grief and exhaustion.
With his sole remaining left arm, Giyu Tomioka supported the nearly unconscious Sasuke. Sasuke's body was frighteningly cold. The Rinnegan that had once looked down upon the world and dominated the battlefield had now lost all its light and was tightly shut, dried blood still clinging to its corner. He had exhausted everything.
Zenitsu and Inosuke, both covered in blood, supported each other and shivered like two small animals soaked through by the rain. Zenitsu had cried himself so hoarse that he could no longer