The hundred-plus demons Akaza had brought were thrown into utter chaos by the terrifying explosion, their ranks decimated in a scene of abject misery. Watching his subordinates wail, collapse, and scatter in panic, Akaza's fury and shock defied words. The devastating blast had reduced his forces by nearly seven-tenths, leaving only three-tenths with any fighting capacity.
Though demons possessed remarkable regenerative abilities, these ordinary demons, battered so severely, would need time to recover. Staring at the carnage, Akaza was equal parts enraged and bewildered.
He had never encountered anything like this.
Despite centuries of existence, explosives were a novel threat to him. In this era, few used bombs specifically against demons. Akaza had heard of and witnessed their power before, but being caught in one? That was a first—like a maiden's sedan ride, jarring and unfamiliar. Even now, he was still reeling, slow to realize he'd been ambushed. If it had been any other kind of trap, he'd have caught on instantly.
Amid his fury, he grappled with the question: What happened? Why the sudden explosion? Finally, his momentarily displaced wits returned.
An ambush? A trap?
The thought had barely formed when a sharp voice cut through the air from a distance: "Kill!"
The cry was followed by a chorus of battle roars. From hidden cover—shadows, barricades, and corners—scores of Demon Slayer Corps swordsmen emerged. Brandishing their Nichirin Blades, they charged with soaring morale and blazing resolve, shouting as they descended from all directions on the disoriented demons.
The nearly hundred swordsmen were electrified, their spirits and fighting will at a peak. In their memory, the Corps had never fought a battle with the upper hand, never held a clear advantage over demons. But now? The demons were reeling, battered into disarray, writhing in agony—ripe for the slaughter.
This was a perfect ambush, a golden opportunity. To not carve through the enemy, to not fight with relentless fury, to not make rivers of blood flow would be a disservice to themselves. The swordsmen, brimming with fervor, unleashed 120 percent of their strength, charging from all sides.
They targeted the weakest first—those demons hit hardest by the blast, barely clinging to life. These were easy prey, falling to a single stroke, their resistance all but gone. Next, the swordsmen turned to those moderately wounded, still struggling to heal. Seizing the moment, they struck while the demons were vulnerable, their diminished strength and panicked state making them no match for the blades.
Soon, only the least injured remained—those with minor wounds, already healed and retaining most of their strength. But how many were left? Fewer than sixty. From over a hundred, only a fraction remained combat-ready.
The Corps' nearly hundred swordsmen, fueled by high morale, surrounded and charged the remaining demons. The demons, refusing to go down without a fight, clashed with them. On the scorched, smoke-filled battlefield, a chaotic melee erupted.
Akaza stood at the center, watching his forces crumble, his rage boiling over. He finally understood: he'd been ambushed. Why had it taken Upper Rank Three so long to realize? Because this was new, unprecedented. For centuries, Akaza had operated alone or led demons in unchallenged victories. Today, fate dealt him a crushing blow—his greatest defeat, a catastrophic ambush. Still reeling, he only now grasped the truth.
The two Lower Moons, Ruiyo and Kamayue, also realized what had happened. Huddled near Akaza, they surveyed the dire situation with growing dread. Kamayue was rattled, Ruiyo outright terrified.
Kamayue, his expression uneasy, turned to Akaza. "Lord Akaza, what do we do?"
Ruiyo, nearly in tears, whimpered, "Maybe we should run. Something's wrong here!"
Akaza's fury exploded. "Run? No way! We fight! These swordsmen may be numerous, but they're nothing special. Wipe them out! Come on, kill!"
As his angry command echoed, a strange, distant melody reached his ears—an unfamiliar, theatrical song. "I'm watching the scenery from the ramparts…"
Akaza and the Lower Moons turned toward the sound. On a rooftop, three figures stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky: Horitake in the center, flanked by Tengen Uzui and Muichiro Tokito.
Horitake stood tall, the moonlight at his back, facing the chaotic battlefield. His voice, rich and rhythmic, carried across the scene, reciting a dramatic verse:
"I'm watching the scenery from the ramparts, hearing chaos beyond the walls.
Banners flutter, shadows dance in vain—Sima's troops have come to call.
I sent scouts to learn their aim, found Sima marching west to claim.
First, Ma Su's folly, lacking skill; then, discord lost us Jie Ting's hill.
Three towns fell by luck's thin thread, yet greed drives him to seize West City's stead.
Zhuge Liang awaits in the tower high, ready for Sima to come and try.
West City's streets are swept and clean, prepared for Sima's troops to convene.
Zhuge Liang offers no grand show, just lamb and wine to cheer your host.
Since you're here, come claim the town—why hesitate, why linger and frown?
I've two attendants by my side,"—Tengen and Muichiro exchanged confused glances—"no ambushes, no troops to bide.
Don't let your doubts cloud your mind. Come, come, come… ascend the tower, hear my zither's chime!"
It was, unbelievably, the Empty Fort Strategy from Chinese opera!
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