Demon Slayer : Heir to the Moon

The breeze smelled like river water and pine.

I blinked up at a tree, sunlight flickering through the branches. The leaves were whispering something, though I couldn't tell what. For a second, I didn't move. Just listened. Just breathed.

Peace.

I sat up slowly, brushing dust from my robes.

My muscles didn't ache. My clothes weren't torn. My blade was neatly at my side.

Strange.

But not unpleasant.

A soft splash caught my attention.

There, waist-deep in the river, was a familiar shape—half-soaked, hands darting beneath the surface like claws. Fish leapt away, but not all of them were lucky.

"Use the fishing rod," I called. "We brought it for a reason."

Ichiro glanced back, soaked to the elbows, grinning like a wild dog.

"Oh, you're finally awake," he said. "Fishing rods are boring. This is fun. Tests reflexes too."

Same old Ichiro.

He was three years older than me, broader in the shoulders, hair tied messily behind him. The kind of guy who looked like he could punch a horse and win.

Ichiro had lost both his parents before he turned ten. His mother to illness, his father to war. My father took him in last spring as a helping hand around the house.

But he wasn't just a helper.

He was family.

I stood up and dusted off my knees. "You could just use your spear."

Ichiro reached down, pulled out a wriggling fish, and held it up like a trophy. "Would ruin the meat. The bones shatter. Not worth it."

Hard to argue.

He stepped back onto the bank, clothes dripping, then turned to me with that same crooked grin. "Let's have a match. First to catch the most fish wins."

I frowned. "No."

"You sure?" He casually dangled something from his sash.

A folded sheet of paper.

Oh no.

My poems.

Poems written for Yuki written by my Dirty hand writing.

I don't know what my dumbass brain was smoking and decided to write those.

If Yuki or anybody else saw those, It will be a lifetime worth of embarrassment.

Ichiro grinned like a man who had already won the war. "You left it under the table of your room. Honestly, it's a miracle the ink didn't walk off the page out of shame."

"I swear to the gods—if you ever show those to Yuki—"

"Then fish," he said brightly. "You win, the poems disappear forever. You lose, I frame them and send them to Lady Yuki."

"…Fine."

Thus, I was blackmailed into fishing.

Ichiro leapt back into the water like it was home. He'd done this a hundred times. His arms moved like he was born for it.

I, on the other hand, stood there like a confused heron.

Still… I had my senses.

Even the tiniest splash echoed like thunder in my ears. My eyes tracked the ripples. I focused, dropped all thought, waited for the moment—

Then struck.

Fish after fish flew into the air.

But Ichiro wasn't slacking either. His technique wasn't refined—but it was brutal. He caught two at once at one point and shouted like he'd won a war.

Time passed.

Splash. Grab. Toss. Repeat.

We kept going until the river practically begged us to stop.

When we counted, I had 27. He had 25.

But his fish…

Were huge.

"We said number, not size," I reminded him.

"Quality over quantity," he countered.

We bickered for five solid minutes before I finally gave in.

Somehow, I had lost.

We returned half the small fish to the river. They darted away, free again.

Packing up our spoils, we started the long walk home.

Ichiro nudged me with his elbow. "You're too sharp, you know that? I bet even sneezes sound like explosions to you."

"You think that's a blessing?"

I scoffed.

"Try walking past a rotting well with heightened smell. Try sleeping next to a snoring bear. Try eating next to someone who slurps soup."

Ichiro laughed. "Alright, fair. I'll stick with normal human problems."

We passed through a grove, just starting to turn golden with the season.

That's when the boar came.

It was massive—tusks like knives, fur bristling like a porcupine. It charged.

We leapt in opposite directions.

"Seriously? We just caught dinner!"

But the boar wasn't after us.

Not really.

It kept looking back into the woods, then at us, then stomped in place.

"What is it doing?" I asked.

"Not sure," Ichiro said, gripping his spear.

The boar turned and ran into the trees.

We followed.

Eventually, we found it—a smaller boar stuck in a crevice between two rocks, leg caught under a fallen log. It couldn't move.

No predator could help with this.

But humans could.

Ichiro wedged his spear under the log. I pushed with all my weight. With a crack and a shove, the log gave way.

The young boar scrambled out, limping slightly.

The bigger one let out a snort—grateful, almost soft.

It didn't bow. Didn't wag its tail.

But it didn't need to.

We understood.

Ichiro turned to me. "Think boars eat fish?"

"Let's assume yes."

We left a few of the smaller ones nearby.

As we returned home, the sky turned copper and violet.

Our house sat near the edge of the town—a wooden roof, warm lights inside, the smell of dinner already cooking.

Mother opened the door, eyes widening at the buckets of fish.

"We had a competition," I explained quickly.

She blinked. "I see."

We gave some to the neighbours—especially the families who didn't have much. Fish tasted best fresh, after all. No need to hoard.

That night, we all sat around the table—me, Mother, Father, Hina, and Ichiro.

The hearth glowed. Chopsticks clinked. Laughter warmed the room.

Ichiro talked about the boar like it was a military general.

Father told him to stop talking with his mouth full.

Hina asked if the fish were friends with each other before we caught them, and Mother told her not to make everyone sad.

And I—

I just sat there, listening.

Smiling.

Happy.

The dream began to fade.

The warmth dissolved.

The light cracked.

I opened my eyes…

And the cold air of reality returned.

To Be Continued...