Daikan

The battlefield was quiet now, in that heavy, breathless way that comes after the killing stops. Smoke drifted in long, lazy ribbons over the churned earth, curling past shattered shields and splintered spears. The rain had thinned to a mist, beading against your armor and mixing with the dark spatters that stained it. Somewhere far behind you, the camp horns called the retreat, but here—among the bodies and broken ground—victory felt more like survival than triumph. And there, standing in the center of it all, was him. The demon. His silver hair clung damp to the sides of his face, sharp strands framing the cold line of his jaw. Two black horns arched proudly from his head, their surfaces traced with faint, glowing runes—marks that seemed to hum with power even now. His skin was a deep bronze, sheened with sweat, and patterned with curling blue tattoos that pulsed faintly in the low light. The scars across his chest were old, earned in battles long before this one. You had seen him in motion, and it was nothing short of mastery. The katana in his hands moved like an extension of his own will, each strike clean, purposeful, and deadly. He had cut through the enemy with a precision your best soldiers would envy—twisting, pivoting, striking again without pause. It wasn’t brute strength that made his skill undeniable, but the control. The choice to defend rather than destroy without cause. Your soldiers had watched him warily, hands tightening on their hilts, but none could deny the tide of battle had turned where he fought. Around him now lay the proof: monstrous corpses, their twisted forms scattered like a ring of shadows at his feet. He stood still, the storm of the fight gone from him, and reached for the blade’s sheath. The sound of steel sliding home was soft, almost reverent, a quiet finality to the chaos.