Faelyn, now dusted with a light scattering of glass shards like unexpectedly glamorous confetti, brushed off his jacket with a flourish that suggested he was conducting a symphony rather than just removing potentially impaling debris. “Well,” he declared, addressing the moon, the ocean visible through the now-jagged window frame, and the largely unresponsive Giyu, “that was… a bit draftier than anticipated. A midnight flight through a window for the demon – one wouldn’t want it to feel excluded from the airborne festivities, would one? Perhaps the sudden change in air pressure will exfoliate its… demonic complexion. One can only hope for minor improvements, naturally.” He punctuated this optimistic musing with a brisk nod, the kind one might give after successfully completing a particularly challenging Sudoku, not after launching a vaguely monstrous entity through a pane of glass and into the inky depths.
Giyu, a study in monochrome and unwavering stillness, remained a silhouette against the shimmering water, his back a testament to rigid composure. When he spoke, his voice was a study in monotone, each syllable measured and devoid of any discernible emotional tremor. “Demons don’t care about saltwater.” It was delivered with the same inflection one might use to state the obvious: water is wet, the sky is occasionally blue, and demons are persistent nuisances. “It’ll be back.” The implied *inevitably and to your personal detriment* hung unspoken in the salty air.
Unfazed by Giyu’s baseline gloom, Faelyn’s grin widened, the corners of his mouth crinkling with a cheerfulness that bordered on the clinically absurd, given the circumstances. “Oh, I’m aware,” he chirped, his voice a light counterpoint to Giyu’s somber pronouncements, like a jaunty flute solo against a cello dirge. “But mustn’t we seize the ephemeral joy? Let’s not squander this fleeting moment of demonic absence, shall we? For a few, precious, utterly stolen seconds, we are gloriously, blessedly demon-free. Quite nice, really. Almost… bucolic. If one completely ignores the rather pressing detail that it is, statistically speaking, almost certainly plotting my imminent demise and return engagement.” He let the dramatic pause linger, a theatrical beat before breezily dismissing the impending doom with a dismissive wave.
Giyu, if such a thing were possible, seemed to become even stiller. Then, with the verbal equivalent of a dry cough, he delivered his succinct verdict, still facing the vast expanse of the ocean. “You talk too much.” It wasn’t an accusation, merely a factual observation, delivered with the clinical detachment of a lab technician noting a specimen’s tendency to vocalize excessively.
With a sigh that sounded suspiciously like the deflation of a very old, very tired whoopee cushion, Giyu finally pivoted, his dark form turning to face Faelyn. His expression, as always, was an exercise in stoic inscrutability, a serene mask that revealed absolutely nothing of the slayer churning beneath. “You’re not taking this seriously.” The words were less a question, more a statement of mild disappointment, delivered with the quiet reprimand one might reserve for a particularly rambunctious but ultimately harmless puppy.
Faelyn met Giyu’s unwavering gaze with a shrug that was all breezy nonchalance, a masterclass in feigned insouciance. “But I am taking it seriously!” he protested, though his tone remained stubbornly light, almost bouncy. “One must, mustn’t one, inject a soup?on of levity into these… high-stakes situations? Taking it seriously with a side of perfectly timed humor, I find, makes the whole ‘existential fight for survival against nightmarish entities’ scenario considerably less… oppressive. Dare I say, almost manageable?” He gestured expansively, palms upturned in a silent offering of his coping strategy, a silent plea: “Surely, even you, oh stoic one, can appreciate the therapeutic value of a well-placed quip in the face of unspeakable horror?”
Giyu sighed again, a barely audible exhalation that spoke volumes about his weary resignation to Faelyn’s persistent, and frankly baffling, cheerfulness. “Humor won’t kill demons.” The pronouncement landed with the definitive thud of undeniable truth, a statement as unyielding and emotionless as granite.
But Faelyn, bless his oblivious heart, remained undeterred from his comedic path. A smirk, positively brimming with mischievous intent, played on his lips. “Precisely!” he agreed, tilting his head with a theatrical air of consideration. “But,” he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried surprisingly well across the small deck, “has one considered the possibility of annoyance? Demonic vexation unto death, perhaps?” He adopted a dramatic, slightly crazed glint in his eyes. “Imagine, if you will, the demon’s grand return. It rises from the briny depths, furious, incandescently enraged, tentacles a-flailing, ready to rend limb from torso, and I… I simply unleash a truly magnificent one-liner. A pun of such exquisite, devastating wit that it… it simply gives up! Plunges back into the ocean, defeated not by sword, nor by skill, but by… comedic genius!” He snapped his fingers with a flourish, the gesture a triumphant punctuation mark on his ridiculous theory.
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Giyu, in response to this elaborate display of delusional optimism, merely arched a single eyebrow. A slender dark crescent against the stark paleness of his forehead, it spoke volumes – skepticism, bewilderment, and perhaps, just a sliver of something that might, in a less stoic man, be construed as grudging amusement. “You’re strange.” It was delivered as a flat statement, bordering on clinical observation, yet, in the context of Giyu's usual monosyllabic pronouncements, it felt almost… chatty. And strangely, to Faelyn, almost… endearing.
Giyu then pivoted back to the ocean’s edge, his gaze once more fixed on the restless, dark water. His tone reverted to its usual dry, factual flatness. “The demon’s coming back.” No dramatic pronouncements, no theatrical warnings, just a simple, unwavering statement of impending doom, delivered with the weary certainty of someone who had seen this particular horror movie countless times.
As if on cue, or perhaps simply because demons had atrocious comedic timing, Giyu’s hand moved, almost instinctively, toward the hilt of his katana. His fingers, long and pale against the dark fabric of his uniform, tightened around the worn leather grip. “Stay behind me.” It was an order, not a request, delivered with quiet, understated authority. A silent promise of protection, perhaps, or simply a tactical instruction to keep the liability to a minimum. Either way, Faelyn, for once, wisely remained silent and obeyed.
Even as the quiet command hung in the air, punctuated only by the rhythmic sloshing of waves against the boat, the demon was upon them. One moment, the moonlit ocean stretched out, deceptively tranquil. The next, a grotesque, thrashing shape exploded from the inky depths, a monstrous silhouette against the pale moonlight, lunging directly toward Faelyn with terrifying, unnatural speed. But before Faelyn’s adrenaline-enhanced senses, still struggling to process the sudden onslaught of stimuli from his newly awakened skill, could even fully register the fully formed threat, before he could even pinpoint the demon’s grotesque trajectory, it was over. A blur of motion, a whisper of displaced air, the almost inaudible sigh of steel leaving and re-sheathing its scabbard, all happening faster than human perception could comfortably track. Then, the sickening, wet thud of something heavy and distinctly non-human impacting the wooden deck.
Faelyn blinked, his newly heightened senses struggling to process the sheer, brutal efficiency of Giyu’s attack. He stared, momentarily stunned, at the tableau now laid out on the deck before him. The demon, frozen mid-lunge in its final, fatal moment, lay bisected upon the wooden planks. Its hideously contorted head, severed cleanly from its equally repulsive body, rested a disconcerting few feet away, both halves twitching with lingering, gruesome animation before finally, mercifully, stilling. Giyu, with an almost unsettlingly casual grace, was already returning his katana to its sheath, the fluid, economical motion as commonplace, for him, as tying one’s shoes or politely declining a second cup of tea.
“Whoa,” Faelyn finally managed, the single word escaping his lips on a shaky exhale. Genuine awe had momentarily eclipsed his usual comedic bravado. “You’ve really got to teach me that.” He turned to Giyu, his earlier levity replaced by an expression of undisguised, almost childlike admiration. “Hey, are you, by any chance, taking on any disciples?” Hope, foolish and persistent, flickered in his chest once more. That speed, that precision, that utter, effortless lethality… it was breathtaking.
Giyu’s response was immediate, unequivocal, and delivered with his characteristic deadpan finality. “No.” Not a maybe later, not a perhaps under certain circumstances, just a single, blunt, utterly dismissive syllable. The door to discipleship, it seemed, was firmly, decisively slammed shut in Faelyn’s face.
“Please,” Faelyn tried again, the word stretched out, laced with a note of desperation that even he, in his less delusional moments, could recognize as faintly pathetic. He gestured wildly, encompassing the bisected demon corpse with one hand, Giyu’s silently gleaming katana with the other. “I mean, no formal training to speak of, arriving in a world filled with… these things, and yet, I somehow fended off… well, distracted… the demon. That’s gotta count for something, right? Potential? Raw, untapped… comedic potential, perhaps?” He was grasping at linguistic straws, clinging to the fading image of Giyu’s impossibly fast blade, the ghost of hope refusing to be entirely extinguished.
After a small eternity of increasingly insistent, increasingly ridiculous, and undeniably borderline humiliating pleas from Faelyn, Giyu finally yielded, though not in any way that resembled actual agreement. With another sigh, heavier this time, laden with a world-weariness that seemed beyond his years, Giyu offered a curt, albeit marginally less dismissive, suggestion. “Go to the mountains of Sagiri.” He paused, the silence stretching for a beat too long before he added, with a flicker of something in his usually impassive eyes that might have been reluctant encouragement, “There, you might find someone who would teach you to be a demon slayer.” It was, undeniably, a dismissal. But it was also, in its own gruff, taciturn way, a breadcrumb of hope. A grudgingly offered, minimally enthusiastic, but nonetheless existent, chance. And for Faelyn, adrift in a world of demons and stoic slayers, even the smallest crumb of hope tasted like a banquet.
