Just as the ice spikes were about to strike, the demon reacted at the last possible moment. Driven by pure instinct, it twisted its body and dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack.
The ice spikes slammed into the ground with dull, heavy thuds.
The demon did not immediately counterattack. Instead, it crouched low, scooping up a handful of blood-soaked soil and bringing it to its nose. A twisted, almost delighted expression spread across its face.
Unable to resist the scent, it shoved the dirt into its mouth.
After chewing briefly, it paused—then spat it out with irritation.
The taste was wrong.
It tried again, greedily stuffing more soil into its mouth, only to reject it once more. Finally, it spat everything out and slowly lifted its head.
Its gaze locked onto Cold Cry.
A bone-chilling hunger flickered in its eyes.
It had realized—the true source of that intoxicating scent was not the ground… but him.
Cold Cry frowned slightly.
He had intended to use his blood as a distraction, to create an opening. Instead, he had only sharpened the demon's craving.
The creature began advancing toward him, step by step.
Cold Cry shot a glance back toward the mountain path.
The trainer still hadn't appeared.
How long was this supposed to go on?
Did he intend to wait until his life was truly in danger before intervening?
That brief distraction nearly cost him everything.
The demon suddenly kicked off the ground with explosive force. The earth beneath its feet caved in, leaving a shallow crater as it launched itself forward.
Its speed had increased.
Its strength had increased.
The scent of blood had driven it into a frenzy.
Cold Cry had no choice but to continue fighting.
Pain throbbed in his chest where he had been struck earlier, each breath sharp and uneven. His condition was worsening.
At first, he had chosen to stall—evade, conserve energy, and wait for help.
But now…
Something felt wrong.
What if this wasn't a test?
No one had told him there would be demons here.
He had only assumed.
If this demon had appeared by chance, then continuing to stall would only lead to one outcome—
Exhaustion.
Death.
Cold Cry exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
No test.
No rescue.
No one was coming.
From this point on, he would fight as if his life truly depended on it.
Because it did.
---
The demon vanished into the surrounding brush.
The tall weeds swayed as it moved, its presence betrayed only by faint rustling sounds that shifted unpredictably from one spot to another.
Cold Cry tightened his grip on the wooden staff, his eyes scanning every direction.
Any movement—
Any sound—
He reacted instantly.
But even that wasn't enough.
The demon burst from the bushes behind him.
Cold Cry turned—but too late.
He was slammed to the ground.
The demon roared, its jaws opening wide as it lunged for his throat.
Cold Cry raised the wooden stick horizontally, wedging it between them. The demon's claws pressed down while its fangs snapped forward, inching closer.
With a grunt, Cold Cry drove his foot into its abdomen.
The impact forced the demon back with a snarl.
Seizing the moment, Cold Cry twisted his body, throwing it off and scrambling to his feet.
"Shattering Drizzle."
He swung the wooden staff.
Ice spikes shot forward.
The demon dodged again—faster this time—darting erratically from side to side as it closed the distance with terrifying speed.
Cold Cry retreated, striking repeatedly, but his stamina was fading.
The cold aura surrounding him weakened.
The demon noticed.
Its attacks grew more aggressive—yet calculated. Instead of reckless assaults, it began wearing him down, forcing him to react, draining his energy bit by bit.
Like a predator toying with prey.
After several exchanges, both bore injuries.
But the difference was clear.
Cold Cry's body was in far worse condition.
His clothes were torn, his body smeared with dirt and blood. The bandages across his chest had been shredded, exposing fresh wounds now caked with mud.
His face was pale.
His breathing ragged.
Every inhale burned.
The demon, meanwhile, bore frozen wounds across its body. A deep puncture wound gaped at its waist, rimmed with ice—damage that would cripple a human.
But not a demon.
As described in Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba, demons possessed unnatural regeneration and limitless stamina.
Fatigue did not exist for them.
Cold Cry understood this all too well.
If this dragged on—
He would lose.
The demon understood it too.
That was why it had changed tactics.
It circled him.
Pressed him.
Waited for weakness.
---
And then—
It came.
A single misstep.
Cold Cry's foot landed on a loose pebble.
He slipped.
His body fell backward.
The demon's eyes gleamed.
In an instant, it leapt high into the air, descending toward him with jaws wide open, aiming straight for his throat.
Cold Cry did not panic.
Instead—
He smiled.
Cold.
Calculated.
"Swift Ice Thorn!"
In his right hand was a broken piece of the wooden staff.
Encased in ice, it resembled a crude spear.
He thrust upward with everything he had.
The technique was inspired by a thrust he had seen before—similar in principle to a concentrated, single-point strike like those used in sword forms within the Corps.
All his strength—
Focused into one point.
The earlier slip?
Intentional.
A trap.
Mid-air, the demon had no footing—no leverage to adjust its body.
It fell straight into the attack.
The frozen shard pierced through its throat.
A shrill, inhuman scream tore through the forest.
The demon writhed violently.
Cold Cry slammed into the ground, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Gritting his teeth, he tried to fling the demon away—
But the ice had fused the weapon to its flesh.
When he finally hurled it aside, the broken staff was torn from his grasp as well.
The demon crashed into a tree and rolled into the bushes.
Silence followed.
Then—
Rustling.
The demon staggered back out, clutching at its throat, desperately trying to pull the embedded weapon free. A wet, gurgling sound escaped its mouth, blood bubbling as it struggled.
Cold Cry forced himself upright.
His vision swam.
He retched, his body trembling from the strain and impact.
He didn't have time.
His strength was nearly gone.
One attack.
That was all he had left.
He fixed his gaze on the demon.
Before it could remove the weapon—
He had to strike again.
Even if only to buy a few seconds…
To escape.