Into the Darkness (A Demon Slayer Fanfiction)

Chapter 50: Utsuro

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"..." = Dialogue

'...' = Internal monologues

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Blood.

Tears.

Death.

Among the hays of tall grass, the hitherto field of greenery was now smeared with a brush of red plaster.

Among this once-picturesque meadow, there now laid a heap of rotting flesh and the ignominious spoils of war that besmirched the name of all that was good in this sordid world.

Clouds of gray sequestered the rays of sunlight away from this land, as the gods held a requiem for the innocent lives lost in this frivolous affair.

Instead of pastures of agriculture, there were the remains of dismembered limbs and organs.

Instead of the melodic chirp of the songbirds, there were only the cries of tragedy and loss.

Indeed, all that was, and all that would have been, were now permanently gone.

Utsuro stared blankly at the scene before him: a tableau of the ravages of human sin, aided and abetted by a primordial spirit from the world that transcends this.

Hundreds of years of relentless fighting had taught him to ignore the ramifications of his evil deeds. In fact, he deemed it necessary in order to accomplish his goals—why worry about the fates of mortals in the affairs of the immortals?

Yet, once he had begun to question his very purpose, the maelstrom of war no longer felt like a force of natural occurrence; instead, with each successive battle he partook in, with each death precipitated by the slash of his katana, Utsuro began to feel more and more empty.

It was as if each maim was steadily sucking the spirit out of his soul—assuming he had one in the first place.

So great was this sentiment, in fact, that he had unconsciously assumed the name 'Utsuro' for himself, accepting the mockery of that old lady all those years ago.

Because, in essence, he truly was empty.

He watched as a mother wept in front of the lifeless body of what was her son.

He saw two children aimlessly searching for their father in the heap of corpses.

As Utsuro dragged the bodies into the expanding pile of rotting flesh, he couldn't help but examine each of their individual expressions. Everything from fear, anger, or even a gentle acceptance had manifested along the visages of these deceased men.

He felt a deep-rooted aversion to the spectacle of war, especially the images of young men dying and their loved ones crying their hearts out with inconsolable grief.