TOM FOGO

NOTE: - This is not a copy of 'Demon Slayer'; it is a series which can tell some hidden secrets about it. It also supports some fan theories.

Enjoy

… And then I was just coming back from school and … wait a minute, who the hell are you to read this! No, wait, I am writing a book—sorry, you… whoever you are! I forgot! Okay… so, how do you start a book again? Who cares? I'll just give an intro.

So, my name is Tom Fogo, and I'm about fourteen and a half years old. I live nowhere special, in a quiet village that's basically a dot on the map, surrounded by endless fields and the occasional annoying mosquito swarm. I have bright red hair that sticks up like I've been electrocuted, matching my fiery red eyes that people say look like they're plotting something mischievous. Blah, blah, blah. I'm not your typical kid—I've got an IQ that's off the charts, like 250 or something, which means I can solve math problems in my head while juggling oranges. And yeah, I can steal anything, even if you're sitting on it. It's not magic; it's just skill, observation, and a bit of luck. But hey, that's my secret superpower.

Okay, so if you've read this "Artemis Foul" thing and ever thought, "Oh wow! I want to be a criminal mastermind and find a world with fairies, pixies, and demons," THEN GET OUT OF HERE! RIGHT NOW! Sorry, I'm being so harsh, but I've been through a similar-type-ish experience, and it's the world's weirdest thing ever! Trust me; you don't want to mess with that stuff. It's not all fun and games—it's more like a headache wrapped in glitter and chaos, with a side of existential dread

Okay, so it all starts with me and my family. I'm just a normal kid, wait—you can't really define it as "normal" because of that IQ thing and the thieving skills. But who cares about that right now! Okay, so I was a kid who went to school and would sometimes fail history, algebra, and physics just for fun. You know, to keep things interesting. I'd ace the tests if I wanted, but where's the thrill in that? My teachers would glare at me like I was wasting potential, but I'd just shrug and say, "Life's too short for easy wins." All was going… basically well, when this strange thing happened to me.

So, one day, I was getting ready for school when I looked out the window and saw that it was literally SNOWING! And it was like the third week of June! I quickly calculated the depth of the snow in my mind—it was approximately three and a half feet deep. That's insane! June in my town is usually all sunshine, barbecues, and mosquitoes buzzing around like tiny helicopters. Not a winter wonderland. The flakes were huge, fluffy ones that piled up fast, blanketing the streets and turning our backyard into a frozen wasteland. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was some prank or hallucination from eating too many sugary cereals that morning.

I rushed to put on my clothes—I mostly sleep naked, but hey, that's my thing. It's freeing, you know? No tangled pajamas, just pure, unadulterated freedom. But then I noticed my clothes were soaking wet! I mean, drenched, like they'd been left out in a rainstorm overnight. My shirt clung to my skin, and my pants felt like lead weights. I managed to dry them in like ten minutes using the hairdryer and some quick thinking. (Okay, fine, I might have used the oven on low heat, but don't tell my mom—she'd freak out about fire hazards.) I blasted the dryer on full power, waving it around like a mad scientist, and tossed the clothes in the oven for a quick bake. They came out warm and toasty, with a faint smoky smell that I hoped no one would notice.

Then I headed to the door. I grabbed the handle, but it wouldn't budge. The door was stuck—probably from rust, the snow piling up outside, and maybe a bit of bad luck. I jiggled it harder, but nope, nothing. I didn't have time to mess around; school started in twenty minutes, and I hated being late. So, I did the quickest thing: I grabbed my dad's screwdriver from the toolbox in the garage, unscrewed the hinges, and let the whole door—and a massive avalanche of snow—fall right onto the living-room rug. Boom! Snow everywhere, melting into puddles on the carpet. My mom was gonna kill me for that, but hey, priorities. The snow cascaded in like a mini-blizzard, soaking the rug and sending icy water seeping into the floorboards. I could already hear my mom's voice in my head: "Tom, what have you done now?" But I shrugged it off—fixing it later was a problem for future Tom.

I stepped outside into the bizarre winter wonderland, which was, yesterday, my village. My boots sank deep into the fluffy white stuff, up to my knees with each step. The air was crisp, way colder than it should be, and I could see my breath fogging up like in those old movies where the hero trudges through the snow. The neighborhood looked like a postcard from the North Pole—trees bent under the weight of snow, cars buried up to their windows, and not a soul in sight. It was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that makes you whisper even when you're alone. I kicked a snowball experimentally, watching it explode into powder. Weirdest day ever.

With a heavy sigh, I resigned myself to walking the whole way to school. The sidewalks were slippery, and I had to pick my way carefully to avoid slipping on patches of ice that glittered like diamonds. My boots crunched through the snow, and the wind whipped against my face, turning my cheeks numb and red. It took me nearly an hour to reach the school gates, my breath coming in frosty puffs that hung in the air like ghosts. But as I approached, I noticed something odd—no other kids milling about, no teachers rushing in with their coffee mugs. Then, I pulled out my phone again and reread the notice more carefully. It wasn't just the bus that was cancelled; the entire school day was off due to the snowstorm. We didn't have to wait for the bus because there was no school at all!

Damn it! I was really frustrated. For most kids, this would be a dream come true: "Oh wow! No school! Let's build snowmen and have snowball fights!" But for me, it meant something entirely different. As soon as I got home, I'd have to tackle a mountain of chores. First, clean the house—vacuum the carpets, wipe down the counters, and scrub the floors that were probably already tracked with muddy snow. Then, fix the broken stuff, like that leaky faucet in the kitchen that's been dripping for days, or the loose shelf in the garage that's threatening to collapse. And don't get me started on clearing the snow: shovel the driveway, scrape the ice off the walkway, and—worst of all—clean off the snow from the car's windshield, which always seems to freeze into a solid sheet overnight. All while the snow keeps falling, making it feel like an endless, Sisyphean task. Plus, my parents would expect me to help with groceries or whatever else popped up. No lazy day for me.

I kicked at a pile of snow in frustration, sending a spray of white powder into the air. Why couldn't I just enjoy the day off like everyone else? Instead, I turned around and started the long walk back home, my mind already racing through the to-do list. Maybe I'd sneak in a quick hot chocolate break, but deep down, I knew the real work was just beginning. Snow days were supposed to be magical, but for me, they were just another excuse for the universe to pile on the responsibilities. Ugh. As I trudged back, I imagined what I'd do if I could control the weather—turn this snow into a sunny beach day. But nope, reality sucked.

I was just trudging back from school, my backpack slung over one shoulder, the snow crunching under my boots as I made my way home through the quiet streets. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows on the fresh powder, and I was lost in my thoughts—replaying the day's classes and wondering if I'd have time to finish my homework before dinner. That's when I noticed him: a random guy in a ridiculously thick bear-fur coat, the kind that looked like it belonged on a caveman in a blizzard. He was walking beside me, matching my pace step for step, his breath visible in the cold air like steam from a kettle. His coat was massive, with fur trim that swayed with each step, and he had a wild beard that was half-frozen.

I tried to ignore him at first, figuring he was just some eccentric neighbor out for a stroll. But then, without warning, he grabbed me tight by the shoulders and started shaking me real hard—like I was a soda can he was trying to mix up. My teeth rattled, and my vision blurred for a second. "FOGO!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the nearby houses. "FOGO FOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGO!"

I blinked in shock, my heart pounding. "Sir... is there something I can help you with?" I managed to stammer, trying to twist out of his grip. Who was this weirdo?

"I want FOGO! Well, do you know him?" he demanded, his eyes wild behind a pair of foggy glasses perched on his nose. Droplets of melted snow clung to the lenses, making him look even crazier.

"I'm Fogo, Tom Fogo," I replied, confused and a little scared. Who was this lunatic?

"YOU, A FOGO! THE LAST NATURE BREATHING USER!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with manic excitement. He released my shoulders only to jab a finger at my chest dramatically.

"Sorry?" I said, backing up a step. This guy was clearly unhinged—talking about "nature breathing" like it was some mystical art from a video game or anime. Before I could process it, he lunged forward again, pressing the right side of my forehead with his thumb like he was testing a melon for ripeness, and then poking my left cheek really hard with his index finger, over and over. "Oww, oww, sir, owwoww, it hurts, oww, oww, stop it, owch!" I yelped, swatting at his hand. The pokes stung like crazy, and I could feel my cheek turning red and throbbing. What the heck was his problem? Was this some kind of bizarre initiation ritual?

Then, just as abruptly as he'd started, he shoved me backward onto the snowy ground. I landed with a thud, my backpack cushioning the fall but not enough to avoid a mouthful of snow. He spun on his heel and bolted down the street, his bear-fur coat flapping like a cape. "I'll call the cops, you psycho!" I shouted after him, scrambling to my feet and brushing the snow off my pants. My forehead and cheek were still smarting, and I could see a few curious neighbors peeking out their windows. Who was that guy? And what did he mean by "nature breathing"? I pulled out my phone, half-tempted to dial 911, but hesitated—maybe he was harmless, just some delusional fan of whatever weird lore he was spouting. Still, I hurried home, glancing over my shoulder the whole way, my mind racing with questions. Was this the start of something bigger, or just a random freak encounter in the snow? Either way, I wasn't sticking around to find out.

I was really curious about what he was saying. I remember that once I went to a tennis tournament. It was the state-level finals, the pinnacle of my young career, held in a massive outdoor stadium under a blazing afternoon sun. The air was electric, thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, sweat-soaked clay, and the faint tang of ozone from the humid air. Stadium lights buzzed overhead like distant thunder, casting long, dramatic shadows across the red clay court that stretched out like a battlefield. Crowds packed the stands, a sea of faces—cheering fans, skeptical coaches, and wide-eyed kids like me—murmuring in a low hum that built into a roar with every point. Vendors hawked hot dogs and sodas, their cries blending with the announcer's booming voice over the speakers. This wasn't just a game; it was a spectacle, a test of wills under the gaze of hundreds.

My opponent was a beast—a towering figure named Ansh, a senior with a serve like a cannon and a reputation for crushing dreams. He'd demolished his way through the tournament, his powerful forehands leaving craters in the clay and opponents clutching their sides. Now, it all came down to this: the final set, tied at 5-5, with the championship on the line. We'd traded blows for hours—my agile footwork against his brute force, my drop shots dancing past his lunges, his thunderous smashes forcing me to scramble like a cornered animal. The score was 40-30 in his favor, and the crowd's energy shifted, a wave of anticipation crashing over us. Whispers rippled through the stands: "He's got this," they said of Ansh. "Kid's done for."

My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the cheers. Sweat stung my eyes, my muscles ached from the relentless rallies, and my grip on the racket felt slick and unsteady. I was terrified. What if I missed? What if I choked under the pressure? The ball arced high in the air as Ansh prepared his serve, his muscles coiled like springs, his eyes locked on me with predatory intensity. He bounced the ball twice, the thud echoing like a war drum, then unleashed it—a blistering ace that whistled past me before I could blink. The crowd erupted, but it was just a warm-up. Now, the real pressure mounted. One more rally, and the match—and my dreams of glory—would be decided.

I wiped my brow, trying to steady my breathing, but doubt crept in like a fog. I'm not ready for this, I thought. He's too strong. What am I even doing here? The umpire's voice crackled over the speakers: "Game point, Ansh serving." The ball was tossed, spinning into the sky. Ansh's serve came like a meteor—flat, fast, and deadly. I lunged, my racket slicing through the air, but it clipped the frame, sending the ball skidding wide. Fault. The crowd groaned, then hushed as he prepared again. Second serve: slower, but with topspin that made it dip and bounce unpredictably. I got to it, returning a weak slice that Ansh smashed back with a grunt, the ball rocketing toward my baseline.

Rally after rally, we battled. His shots were relentless—forehands that cracked like gunfire, volleys that pinned me to the backcourt. I dodged and weaved, my sneakers kicking up clay dust that hung in the air like smoke. The sun beat down, making the court shimmer, and the crowd's cheers swelled with each exchange. "Come on, kid!" someone yelled from the stands. "You've got this!" But inside, panic clawed at me. My arms burned, my legs trembled. This is it, I thought. One mistake, and it's over.

Then, in the midst of my panic, a voice echoed in my mind—soft, reassuring, almost like an echo of my own thoughts. Don't worry. It wasn't loud or commanding; it was gentle, like a whisper from within, cutting through the chaos. A strange calm washed over me, as if the world had paused to let me breathe. Suddenly, everything slowed. The ball's flight, once a blur, stretched into an eternity. I could see the seams spinning lazily, the way the air currents tugged at its fuzzy surface, the faint glow of sunlight refracting off its yellow-green hue. My body felt loose, unburdened, every muscle humming with potential. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with air that tasted of earth and ozone—too much, perhaps, but it energized me, sharpening my senses to a razor's edge.

"Nature breathing," I muttered under my breath, the words tumbling out instinctively, "first form, hurricane." It was a phrase I'd heard in a half-remembered dream, or maybe a story from my childhood—something about harnessing the wind, the breath of the world itself, channeling the raw fury of storms into human form. As I exhaled, a surge of power coursed through me, like a gale force wind awakening inside my veins. My legs propelled me forward with unnatural speed, the court blurring beneath my feet as if I were riding the wind itself. It felt like nanoseconds to cross the distance, though in reality, it was a lightning-fast dash that left Ansh gaping.

In that slowed-down moment, I saw it—a silver thread weaving through the air, invisible to others but crystal clear to me. It was an opening, a path of least resistance, like a flaw in the fabric of reality, pulsing with energy. The ball hovered at its center, waiting, as if the universe itself was conspiring for this instant. I swung my racket not like a tennis player, but like a swordsman wielding a katana—fluid, precise, channeling the hurricane's fury into a single, devastating arc. The motion was poetry in motion: my body twisting, the racket slicing through the air with a whoosh that parted the wind. It connected with a sharp crack, and the ball rocketed back, not in a gentle lob but a vicious line drive, spinning with hurricane force.

The ball streaked across the net like a bolt of lightning, too fast for Ansh to react. He flinched, his eyes widening in shock, but it was too late—the ball struck him squarely in the neck, a glancing blow that sent him staggering back, gasping for air as he clutched his throat. The crowd fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a mix of gasps and cheers. The umpire hesitated, then called the point—and the match. "Game, set, and match to... the challenger!" The stadium exploded, confetti raining down as I stood there, racket dangling from my hand, the world spinning.

That was the most confusing day of my life, to be honest. I won the tournament, hoisting the trophy amid flashes of cameras and pats on the back, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something inside me had awakened—a primal force, terrifying and exhilarating. The voice lingered in my mind, the silver thread a secret only I knew. What had I unleashed?

Okay, so as I was saying, I headed towards home. But then as I reached my village gate, I had a flash of six bright yellow eyes. 'Someone named Katsuo will arrive at your house. Be where, a lot of life will be lost.' 'What the…' My vision blurred for a second, and a chill ran down my spine. Those eyes felt real, like they were staring right into my soul. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it as imagination, but it lingered.

I ran towards home. As I reached, I saw that the door was fixed and the snow was cleared. 'Well, at least now I don't have to do that, no, no time!' I dashed inside. My heart was beating really fast. 'MOM, DAD, ARE YOU GUYS OK?!' Then came my dad from the corridor. 'What is it?' 'Hashhh, Bhagwan ne aap ko bacha liya!' Then he slapped me and then started to give me a really long lecture on going out without permission, not clearing the snow, unscrewing the door, stealing his screwdriver, and a lot more things which you shouldn't know. 'But dad! You have to listen!' 'Listen to what? Another earthquake?' He didn't listen to me at all. He even grounded me for a month! I had the strangest feeling that something is coming, not for us, but our entire village. And I was right.

I, Dad, and Mom were having dinner when I had the flash of those six yellow eyes again. 'Is there anything wrong, sweetheart?' Mom asked, her voice soft with concern. But before I could answer, the door flung open with a deafening crash, as if wrenched by an unseen force. A thick, swirling mist of unearthly bright blue spilled over the rug like liquid smoke, curling and writhing as it seeped into the room, carrying with it a faint, metallic tang that clawed at the back of the throat. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, syncing with the slow, deliberate steps that echoed from within the haze.

First emerged a pair of gleaming black shoes, polished to a sinister sheen, stepping forward with an unnatural grace that defied the creaking floorboards. Then the tailored trousers, crisp and dark, followed by the torso clad in a pristine white shirt, its collar starched to perfection beneath a sleek black blazer. Arms swung loosely at his sides, hands buried deep in his pockets, fingers twitching faintly as if grasping at secrets. Atop it all perched a wide-brimmed hat.

There was a head-band over his eyes. But it was his face that froze the blood in my veins—entirely obscured by a thick headband that wrapped tightly around his eyes, hiding whatever horrors lay beneath. The rest of his visage was a canvas of intricate, writhing tattoos: serpentine patterns that seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own, inked in shades of midnight black, twisting like living shadows across his skin.

He came to a halt in the center of the room, the blue mist clinging to him like a shroud, and the air grew thick with an oppressive dread. It wasn't just the mist or the tattoos—it was his aura, an invisible weight that radiated from him like heat from a forge, pressing against our skin and making the room feel smaller, the walls closer. The air hummed with a low, guttural vibration that emanated from his core, vibrating through the floorboards and into our bones, as if the very walls were whispering warnings of impending doom. It clawed at our senses: a chill that seeped into our marrow, making Dad's hands tremble and Mom's breath catch, while I felt a primal urge to flee, my skin prickling as if unseen eyes were crawling over me. No one dared to speak, to breathe too loudly, for fear of drawing his gaze—or worse, his attention. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of condensation from the mist, each drop landing like a heartbeat in a tomb. Then another flash of those same six yellow eyes came again, and I wondered: Do I know him? Maybe I saw him before. I thought.

'WHO ARE YOU, AND HOW DID YOU ENTER!' Dad shouted, standing up abruptly from the dinner table. He was shivering a bit, his broad shoulders tense under his worn tunic, as if a sudden chill had swept through our cozy hut. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, making the room feel smaller, more intimate—and now, inexplicably threatening. Mom froze beside him, her spoon halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. I sat there, a twelve-year-old kid with messy red hair and a plate of half-eaten stew, my heart pounding like a drum. Who was this stranger? And how had he just appeared in our home without a sound?

'Oh, I don't need permission . . .' he said, removing his right hand from behind his back and looking at his fingers as if inspecting something mundane, like dirt under his nails. His voice was… special. Not loud or booming, but cold and smooth, like a blade sliding through silk. It sent a cold shiver running through my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand up. 'It's already granted.' He smiled then, a thin, unsettling curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—dark, piercing, like bottomless wells—scanned the room as if he owned it. 'By the way, I'm Katsuo.'

As he spoke, his aura intensified, a palpable force that made the candle flames flicker erratically, casting grotesque shadows that danced like tormented spirits. The mist around him thickened, and I swore I could feel tendrils of it brushing against my skin, icy and probing, as if testing our resolve. Dad's face paled, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill; Mom clutched her napkin, her knuckles white; and I felt a wave of nausea, the room spinning slightly under the weight of his presence. Katsuo's tattoos seemed to writhe faster, mirroring the unease in the air, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside our hut had ceased to exist—trapped in his orbit of dread.

'KATSUO'—so he really did come. But what did he want? And he had a nice sense of style, I couldn't help but notice, even in my terror. His black coat was tailored perfectly, with intricate silver embroidery that shimmered faintly, and his boots were polished to a gleam. He looked like a noble from one of the old tales Mom used to tell, but there was something wrong about him, something that made my stomach twist. Before I could even think to compliment him or scream, my mother's body was chopped in half in a blur of motion.

Did he just do that? Katsuo had incredible speed. I didn't even see it! One moment, Mom was standing there, her apron stained with flour from baking bread earlier that day, her warm smile frozen in shock. The next, a flash of silver—a katana, I realized later—and she was cleaved from shoulder to hip, blood spraying across the table like spilled wine. Her upper half slumped forward, eyes still open in disbelief, while the lower half crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud. The air filled with the metallic tang of blood, and I gagged, bile rising in my throat.

'Run,' Dad whispered urgently in my ear, his voice hoarse with fear. He grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully, but I didn't move. My eyes were fixed on Mom's half-cut body, the way her favorite necklace—a simple wooden pendant I'd carved for her last birthday—dangled uselessly from her neck. The world narrowed to that sight, my mind screaming in denial.

'Run,' that's all I could hear, echoing in my head like a mantra.

'I think you should listen to your father, son,' said Katsuo, his tone almost conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather. He wiped his blade on a nearby cloth, the motion casual, deliberate. Then he tapped his foot lightly on the floorboards, and there was a huge earthquake. The ground bucked beneath us, plates rattling off the table, the hut's walls groaning as cracks spiderwebbed across them. Dust rained from the ceiling, and I stumbled, my legs turning to jelly.

I didn't have anything in mind. My brain was totally blank, a void of panic. I just turned around and ran. The door burst open as I slammed into it, and I tumbled into the night air, the cool breeze hitting my face like a slap. I sprinted through the village streets, my bare feet slapping against the dirt path, heart hammering in my chest. Shadows loomed everywhere—familiar houses now twisted into nightmares. I don't know how much time passed, but after about two minutes, I turned around, got my brains back, and ran towards home. Maybe Dad had escaped. Maybe Mom wasn't really… no, I couldn't think that.

But there was a terrible sight waiting for me there. As I reached the edge of the village, I saw nothing but dead bodies strewn like discarded dolls, broken buildings crumbling into rubble, fires licking at the remnants with hungry orange flames, and the strong, overpowering smell of blood that made my eyes water. He killed and destroyed my entire village. Entire families lay in the streets—old Mr. Harlan, who'd always given me candy, his throat slit; little Lila from down the lane, her doll clutched in lifeless fingers. The air was thick with smoke and screams that had long since faded. My home, the hut where we'd laughed just hours ago, was a charred skeleton, embers glowing like evil eyes.

I ran around frantically, looking for survivors, my voice cracking as I called out names. 'Dad?Anyone?' But to no avail. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant howl of wind. But then I saw some people in the distance. I thought they were survivors at first, hope flickering weakly in my chest. As I got closer, though, I realized they weren't even humans!

There were about seven of them. They had long ears, pale skin that glowed faintly in the firelight, and black clothes that clung to their lithe forms like shadows. They were tall—about seven feet two, towering over me like giants. They had katanas of different colors sheathed at their sides: one crimson, another emerald green. Two of them carried rifles, sleek and modern-looking, with glowing runes etched along the barrels. They were elves, I realized, straight out of the forbidden stories Dad used to whisper about when Mom wasn't listening—tales of ancient beings who lived in hidden enclaves, wielding magic and blades.

'Any survivors?' asked one of them, a tall male with a stern face and a katana hilt peeking over his shoulder.

'Not even an ant,' replied another, a female with braided hair, her voice tinged with disappointment as she scanned the ruins.

'Hmph, must be a really strong demon,' the first one muttered, kicking a piece of debris.

I crept closer to get a good look, my curiosity overriding my fear for a moment. Were they Katsuo's servants? Their ears twitched as if sensing something, and I froze. But then I stumbled over a loose root and fell right in between them with a thud. I looked up, and everyone was staring at me! It scared the death out of me! Damn it! Their eyes—sharp and alien—bore into me, and I felt like a mouse caught in a trap.

'You said there wasn't an ant,' one elf growled, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

'I don't know where this child came from!' another snapped, her rifle half-raised.

'Hey, little fella,' said a female elf, her voice soft and melodic, like wind through ancient leaves. She knelt down, her silver hair shimmering in the dim light of the ruined village, her pointed ears twitching with curiosity. She was the one with the braided hair, her black uniform adorned with silver insignia that looked like wings. 'Did you live here? We found this place in ruins, and you're the only one left standing.'

I didn't answer. My throat was tight, choked with fear and grief. I looked around at the shattered huts, the bloodstained earth, and the flickering torches the elves carried. Pretending to be out cold, I shifted my toe just a fraction—barely a wiggle. It nudged a loose stone on the uneven ground, sending it rolling downhill with a soft clatter. The pebble tumbled right onto one of their flaming sticks, propped carelessly against a charred log. The stick snapped under the impact, sparks erupting as the flame sputtered out in a puff of acrid smoke.

The elf holding it yelped in surprise, stumbling back as the others turned, their eyes widening. In that heartbeat of chaos, with their attention diverted, I lunged. My small hand darted out, fingers wrapping around the grip of a sleek, enchanted pistol holstered at the lead elf's belt—a relic from the old wars, humming faintly with arcane energy. I yanked it free, the weight cold and unfamiliar in my palm, and rolled into a crouch, heart hammering.

I held it up at them, my arms trembling but steady enough. All of them froze, their faces paling beneath the intricate tattoos that marked them as warriors of the Wing Corp. Fear flickered in their eyes—as I saw it, raw and undeniable—and I scraped my fingers nervously along the trigger, the metal clicking ominously.

'WHO ARE YOU, AND HOW DID YOU ENTER!' I shouted, my voice cracking like a whip in the silence of the night. It echoed off the ruins, sounding braver than I felt.

'Wow! Kid, keep that gun down,' said one of them, a burly male elf with a scar across his cheek, raising his hands slowly. His voice was calm, but his eyes darted to the weapon, assessing the threat. 'You don't want to hurt anyone, do you? We're not the enemy here.'

'NEVER!' I retorted, tears blurring my vision. I didn't lower the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. Memories of Mom's bloodied form flashed in my mind, fueling my defiance.

'Cool down, kid! We're not here to hurt you,' another chimed in, a younger elf with braided hair, stepping forward cautiously. She had a kind face, despite the katana at her hip. 'Put it away before someone gets hurt. That pistol's loaded with elven fire—could burn a hole through a mountain if you're not careful.'

I kept it up, defiance burning through my fear. Tears flowed from my eyes, hot and relentless. I didn't know what it was because of—the searing pain in my side from a glancing wound I hadn't noticed until now, or the crushing loss of my family, slaughtered in an instant. The world spun, but I held firm, my red hair matted with sweat and ash.

'OK, kid! We are High Wings of the Wing Corp!' the female elf said, her tone soothing, as if talking to a wild animal. 'We're scouts from the Elven Enclave, sent to investigate disturbances in the borderlands. We mean no harm. Our job is to protect places like this from threats… like demons.'

'I know you are elves, but why are you here?' I demanded, my voice wavering. The gun felt heavier now, but I couldn't let go. What if they were lying? What if Katsuo had sent them?

'We just want to know what happened here! This village was supposed to be peaceful,' she replied, gesturing to the devastation around us. 'Who did this? Was it bandits? Monsters? Tell us, and we can help.'

'Ok, Mr. Elf... OK, I don't know! I was having dinner with my family when a random person named Katsuo came and killed everyone!' The words tumbled out, raw and broken. Memories flashed: the laughter at the table, the sudden shadow, the screams. I dropped the gun with a clatter, the metal hitting the dirt as I sank to my knees, my red hair falling like a curtain over my tear-streaked face. Exhaustion hit me like a wave, and I sobbed, the grief pouring out uncontrollably.

'Wait... Katsuo?' the scarred elf echoed, his voice dropping to a whisper. He exchanged glances with the others, their expressions shifting from surprise to alarm.

'Yes,' I mumbled, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

'Lord Katsuo?' he pressed, his tone urgent now.

'What?' I looked up, confusion cutting through my grief. Who was this guy? Just some psycho with a sword?

'Demon King Katsuo!' the female elf exclaimed, her eyes widening in horror. 'You're saying he was here? The Demon King himself? That's… impossible. He hasn't been seen in centuries.'

'Excuse me, WHAAAAAAT?' I blurted, my mind reeling. Demon King? Katsuo? The elves' faces turned grim, and I realized my world had just shattered even further. Demons?Kings? What kind of nightmare had I stumbled into?

'Ummmmm,' I mumbled, still dazed from the whirlwind of revelations. My mind spun like a leaf in a storm—Demon King Katsuo, elves from some Wing Corp, and now this? I rubbed my eyes, trying to process it all, my red hair sticking to my sweaty forehead. Questions piled up: If Katsuo was a demon king, what did that make me? A target? And these elves—were they really here to help, or was this all some elaborate trap?

'Ok, kid,' said the female elf, her voice gentle but insistent, crouching down to my level. Her silver eyes gleamed with a mix of concern and curiosity, like she was piecing together a long-lost puzzle. 'What's your name? We need to know who we're dealing with here. It could be important.'

'Fogo, Tom Fogo,' I replied hesitantly, my voice small and shaky. It felt weird saying it out loud after everything that had happened—my family gone, my home in ashes. I wasn't sure why it mattered, but the air seemed to thicken with anticipation, as if my name held some hidden power.

'YOU! A FOGO! THE LAST NATURE BREATHING USER!' she exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock. She shot to her feet, her hand flying to her mouth as if she'd just uncovered a buried treasure. The other elves gasped, their pointed ears perking up, faces lighting up with a blend of awe and disbelief. Whispers erupted among them, excited and urgent.

'What the heck is this nature breathing?!?!' I shouted back, my confusion boiling over. The words exploded from me before I could stop them—raw, unfiltered, like a dam bursting. Sorry, but that word had fitted into my head so hard that only that was the word to use. In my village, we didn't mince words when things got crazy, and this? This was beyond crazy. Nature breathing? Like controlling plants or something? I'd always been good with animals and trees—maybe that was it—but I'd never called it anything fancy.

But then all the elves fell into whispers, their voices a hushed chorus that filled the ruined village like rustling leaves. 'I can't believe it! A Fogo descendant?' one murmured, his scarred face breaking into a grin. 'Can I get an autograph? My great-grandma told stories about them—they could make forests grow overnight!' another chimed in, a younger elf with braided hair, practically bouncing on her toes. 'Are you sure? The last one was supposed to have died out centuries ago,' the burly one added, scratching his head in bewilderment. They exchanged glances, some nodding eagerly, others shaking their heads as if trying to wake from a dream. The female elf hushed them with a wave, but her own eyes sparkled with excitement, like she'd just found the key to an ancient prophecy. I caught snippets: 'The prophecy of the Breath… could end the demon wars…' and 'He's just a kid—can he handle it?'

'Ok, kid,' said the elf with the scar, his voice gruff but warm, like an old storyteller sharing a secret. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. 'Welcome to the world of the elves. You're not alone anymore. We've been waiting for someone like you.'

Before I could respond, a strange melody filled the air, vibrating through the ground like a living thing. It sounded like a tanpura, or a sitar, maybe like a guitar—deep, resonant strings plucked by an unseen hand, echoing with an otherworldly harmony that made my skin tingle and my ears ring. Then, right beneath our feet, the earth seemed to ripple, and a huge drawn door materialized out of thin air, its edges glowing with faint, ethereal light. It swung open silently, revealing a yawning void below, dark and infinite.

We all fell in—a chaotic tumble of limbs and shouts. The female elf grabbed my arm instinctively, her silver hair whipping around us as we plummeted. For a while, I was falling in complete darkness, the wind rushing past my ears, my stomach lurching like I was being swallowed by the night itself. Panic clawed at me, but then, abruptly, the fall ended. I landed with a soft thud on a beautiful lush meadow, the grass cool and springy beneath me, dotted with wildflowers that glowed faintly in the twilight. Butterflies fluttered lazily, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and blooming jasmine. It was like stepping into a dream—peaceful, vibrant, a stark contrast to the ruins above. Birds sang in the distance, and I could feel the life pulsing through the soil, almost as if it were welcoming me.

The other elves landed around me, dusting themselves off with chuckles. 'First time through the tunnel?' the braided-hair elf asked, grinning. 'Gets easier after the tenth fall. That one was a short hop—straight to the Enclave's outer gardens.'

Then I heard the sound again—that haunting melody rising once more, strings vibrating with increasing intensity. Another drawn door shimmered into existence in the sky above, parting like a curtain. I braced myself, but this time I fell into a scorching hot desert, sand whipping against my skin like tiny knives. The sun beat down mercilessly, mirages dancing on the horizon, and the air was thick with heat. I coughed, spitting out grit, as the elves landed beside me.

'Now maybe you'll get used to it,' said the female elf, her voice light despite the sweat beading on her brow. 'This is the Desert Gate—a training ground for endurance. Tunnels aren't always pretty.'

Another drawn door shimmered into existence in the sky above, parting like a curtain. I braced myself, but this time I fell into a room, tumbling onto a polished marble floor that gleamed like starlight. The space was vast and serene, walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting elven heroes and mythical beasts, illuminated by floating orbs of soft blue light that cast a calming glow. The air smelled of incense and old books, and I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me, despite the chaos of the day.

In there, I saw an elf who was sitting cross-legged on a raised dais, his posture regal and unyielding. He was older than the others, his hair a cascade of pure white, woven with threads of gold, and his eyes—deep pools of wisdom—locked onto mine. He wore robes embroidered with symbols of nature: vines, leaves, and flowing rivers. The moment our gazes met, an overwhelming wave of respect crashed over me. It wasn't just awe; it was like kneeling before a force of nature itself, ancient and unshakeable. My legs buckled, and I immediately fell to my knees, my forehead touching the cool floor. Tremendous respect towards him filled my chest,

'Welcome Fogo' he said. His voice was calm as the ocean on a summer afternoon. 'I'm sorry for your loss. We couldn't reach you in time. If we could, maybe your village would have been alive.'

The memories of my parents filled my cerebrum—my brain, the faces of my village filled my eyes. I was in a huge void of soreness. The air in the room felt thick, like it was pressing against my skin, reminding me of the smoke that had choked the skies over my home. My father, with his strong hands that had once taught me to wield a wooden sword, now lay still in my mind's eye. My mother, whose laughter had been the heartbeat of our small world, silenced forever. The village—our neighbors, the elders, the children I'd played with—reduced to ashes and echoes. Katsuo's demons had come like a storm, swift and merciless, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. I had hidden in the woods, trembling, as the screams faded into the night. Survivor's guilt clawed at me, sharper than any blade.

'Don't worry,' he said, his tone unwavering.

'WHO IS KATSUO!' My rage boiled over, spilling out like lava from a volcano. I slammed my fist against the table, the wood groaning under the impact. My heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the life I wanted to avenge.

'Katsuo is the king of demons, their creator. He rules from the shadows, commanding legions that feast on human, elf and troll fear, flesh and blood. He's not just a monster—he's the architect of nightmares, twisting the natural order to his will.'

'I want to kill him.' The words tasted like blood in my mouth, raw and unyielding.

Because of his calm nature, I thought that he would say something like, "Don't worry, forgive him," but what he said was just surprising: "I know how you feel, so I want you to destroy his reign and his existence. But for that, you have to be a member of the Wing Corp."

For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to hear my answer. I searched his face for any sign of anger or hesitation, but there was none—only a quiet certainty, the kind that comes from someone who has already walked through fire and learned its cost. His words weren't driven by rage; they were measured, deliberate, and far more frightening because of that. He stood there, a man in his thirties perhaps, with scars peeking from beneath his sleeves—remnants of battles I could only imagine. His eyes held the weight of countless losses, yet they burned with purpose.

"The Wing Corp isn't just an organization," he continued, turning away as if recalling memories he'd rather forget. "It's a commitment. Once you step inside, there's no turning back. You give up your old name, your old life, and even your doubts. In return, you gain power, influence, and the chance to change the balance of this world. We are the guardians of the veil between humanity and the demonic realms. Our members train in ancient arts—breathing techniques that harness the elements, swordsmanship that cuts through shadows, and strategies that outmaneuver the abyss."

I felt my hands clench at my sides. This wasn't the path I had imagined, yet it suddenly felt like the only one that made sense. Revenge, justice, or something in between—I couldn't tell anymore. All I knew was that the calm man standing before me had just opened a door I could never unsee, and whether I walked through it or not would decide everything that came next.

'Sir,' I said, gathering all my courage, 'I want to learn how to kill demons, and this thing called . . . umm . . . nature breathing, if you don't mind, cause I've heard a lot like I'm the last one who can do that.' My voice cracked at the end, betraying the boy I still was beneath the fury.

'All right, as you wish, Fogo.' He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. 'But first, you must understand what it means to join us. Come with me.'

He led me out of the room, through dimly lit corridors that smelled of incense and old wood. The building was a fortress hidden in the mountains, far from prying eyes. As we walked, he explained more: the Wing Corp had been founded centuries ago by survivors of demonic invasions, blending martial arts from forgotten cultures with mystical breathing forms. Nature breathing, he said, was the first one along with star breathing ,rare—a technique that synced one's breath with the earth's rhythms, allowing the user to draw power from the elements themselves. Only those with a pure heart and untapped potential could master it, and rumors had spread that I, Fogo, possessed that spark.

We entered a grand hall where other members trained. Men and women sparred with wooden swords, their movements fluid like water or sharp like lightning. One woman, with tattoos swirling like vines on her arms, demonstrated a breathing exercise, her chest rising and falling in perfect harmony with the room's rhythm. I watched, mesmerized, as she swung her katana, chopping the air and making it follow the katana which then extinguished a candle flame from across the room. It was so fast that I couldn't even see it properly. "That's wind breathing," Shivansh whispered. " a child of nature breathing."

That night, sleep refused to come.

Not because of nightmares—but because my breath wouldn't slow down.

No matter how hard I tried to close my eyes, the darkness only made everything clearer. His tattoo-covered face hovered in front of me, sharp and unmoving. Katsuo. Even his name echoed endlessly in my head, as if it had been carved into my thoughts. Every time I tried to push it away, something worse replaced it.

Images flooded back—my mother's still body, partially covered, her face frozen in a way I didn't recognize. The village streets I had once run through now stained with silence. The people I knew. The people who had smiled at me just days ago. All of them gone. The memories twisted together until I couldn't tell where one ended and another began.

My chest tightened. Breathing felt like work. I paced the small room, my fists clenched, replaying the day's revelations. Wing Corp. Nature breathing. Revenge. It all swirled in my mind like a storm.

Then, through the quiet, I heard a knock at the door.

It was soft, careful—like whoever stood outside didn't want to frighten me.

"Come in," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

The door opened, and a calm man stepped inside. His movements were slow, controlled, as if he understood how fragile the moment was. The dim light followed him in, stretching his shadow across the floor. It was Shivansh again, his presence a steady anchor in my turmoil.

"Can't sleep, I suppose?" he asked.

"Umm…" I didn't know what else to say. My throat felt dry, words failing me.

"I know," he continued gently. "It's hard—especially at your age. Your mind hasn't had time to learn how to let go yet. Loss like yours... it changes you. But it doesn't have to break you."

I stayed silent, staring at my hands. They were calloused from farm work, but now they trembled with unspoken fury. But somehow, just hearing him speak made the tightness in my chest ease a little. He didn't rush me. He simply stood there, steady and patient, like an old tree rooted against the wind.

After a moment, he placed his hand over his own chest, as if to show me something.

"I don't really know proper breathing techniques," he admitted, "but I've read about something similar. It's called rhythmic breathing— a basic form that calms the spirit. Think of it as syncing your breath with the world's heartbeat."

"Just follow me," he said softly. "Take a deep breath."

I hesitated, then inhaled slowly. The air felt strange filling my lungs, almost unfamiliar, like breathing in the scent of rain after a drought. I held it for a moment—then let it out. Again.Slowly. The room seemed quieter, as if even the walls were listening. Inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four. He guided me through it, his voice a low hum.

After a few minutes, something changed. A gentle wave of warmth passed through me, loosening the knot inside my chest. My shoulders relaxed before I even noticed it happening. The images of my village faded, not gone, but distant, like stars in the morning sky.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Y… yes, sir," I replied, surprised by how true it felt.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time. It was calm, almost peaceful. For the first time since the attack, I felt a sliver of control.

I opened my mouth to ask his name, but before I could speak, he smiled faintly, as if he already knew the question.

"My name is Shivansh. And tomorrow, your training begins. We'll start with the basics—sword forms, elemental awareness. Nature breathing will come, but only when you're ready. Remember, Fogo, power without balance is just another form of destruction."

As he left, I lay back down, my breath now steady. Sleep crept in, not as an enemy, but as a friend. But in the quiet, a new resolve stirred. Katsuo would pay. And I, Fogo, would be the one to make him. But the thoughts of the deaths followed me.

I slept peacefully, you think? Oh, how wrong you are. In my dreams, the world twisted into a nightmare I couldn't escape, a desolate wasteland shrouded in perpetual twilight, where the air hung heavy with the stench of rot and sorrow. My friends, my parents—everyone I ever loved—surrounded me, their forms twisted into grotesque parodies of the people they once were. Their eyes, once filled with warmth and laughter, now burned with accusation, hollow and lifeless, as they hurled whatever came to hand: jagged rocks, splintered bones, even pieces of their own shattered bodies. "How did you survive?!" they screamed, their voices a cacophony of rage and sorrow, echoing like thunder in my skull, each word a dagger to my soul. "You left us alone to die!!! You abandoned us in the dark, you selfish coward!"

I fell to the ground, the cold, muddy earth sucking at my skin like a grave, and sobbed uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, mixing with the metallic tang of blood that seemed to seep from the air itself, staining my cheeks and blurring my vision. My heart ached with a pain so deep it felt like it was tearing apart—how could I have lived when they suffered so? I remembered the laughter we shared, the hugs, the promises of forever, and now... this. Their faces... they were horrors beyond imagining, but beneath the gore, I could still see traces of the people I cherished, making the betrayal cut even deeper.

My best friend, Adolf, the one who'd always had my back through thick and thin, his visage was cleaved in half, one eye dangling from a thread of sinew, the other staring blankly with a flicker of the old mischief I missed so much. "You promised we'd stick together!" he howled, his voice cracking with hurt as he lobbed a rusted pipe that whistled through the air, grazing my arm and leaving a trail of fire. I wanted to reach out, to hold him, to apologize for every time I ran ahead without looking back. But he was gone, and I was here, alive and alone.

Another friend, Hella, her hand hung by a frayed tendon, swinging like a grotesque pendulum as she flung it at me, the fingers twitching in mockery of the life we'd planned together—dreams of adventures, of growing old side by side. "Why did you leave me to rot?" she wept, her words dripping with anguish, each syllable a reminder of the love I'd failed to protect. Her other arm, mangled and bone-white, scooped up stones, hurling them with desperate fury. I cried harder, memories flooding back: her smile on our last picnic, the way she'd comfort me after a bad day. Now, she was a shadow of that, and the guilt crushed me like a vice.

And my mother—oh God, my mother, the woman who'd cradled me as a child, sung lullabies to chase away the monsters. Her body was halved at the waist, the lower part a mangled ruin of exposed ribs and trailing intestines that left a slick, nauseating trail in the mud. Still, she crawled toward me on her elbows, her face twisted in anguish, tears of blood streaking her cheeks like rivers of sorrow. "Why you, and not us?" she wailed, her voice cracking like breaking glass, raw with the pain of a mother's love betrayed. "I gave you everything, and you let me die like this?" She scooped up handfuls of dirt and pebbles, hurling them with desperate fury, each stone striking like an accusation, bruising my flesh and piercing my heart. I begged her silently, Mom, I'm sorry—I'd trade places if I could. I miss you so much it hurts. But the words wouldn't come; only sobs escaped, as I watched her struggle, her eyes pleading for the son she'd lost.

My father was worse—a torso only, his arms flailing wildly, his face a mask of betrayal etched with deep gashes that wept crimson, like wounds from a battle he'd fought alone. "You coward!" he roared, his words dripping with venom, but beneath the anger, I heard the heartbreak—the disappointment of a man who'd taught me to be strong, to protect those I love. He clutched screwdrivers in his remaining hands, their tips gleaming wickedly, and flung them one by one, each one embedding in the ground near me like threats. "I raised you better than this! How could you run while we bled out?" I curled tighter, flashes of memory hitting me: his proud smile at my first bike ride, the way he'd hug me after a nightmare. Dad, I tried... I swear I did. But I was scared, and now I'm haunted by it. The sadness overwhelmed me, a tidal wave of regret that made my chest tighten, my breath come in ragged gasps.

The air grew thicker, colder, as if the dead were sucking the warmth from the world, their shadows writhing around them like living entities, whispering echoes of their screams. I could feel their pain seeping into me—a bone-deep ache that mirrored my own, amplifying the terror until it clawed at my mind. Was this punishment? A hell of my own making? I pleaded for mercy, for forgiveness, but the barrage continued, each projectile a reminder of my guilt, each cry a stab at my soul. The love I felt for them twisted into agony, the fear of their wrath mingling with the unbearable sorrow of loss. How could I ever wake from this? How could I face the world knowing I'd survived at their expense? The nightmare held me captive, a prison of emotion and horror, and in that moment, I wished for oblivion—just to escape the pain of loving them and failing them so utterly.

Why couldn't I save them from Katsuo? I knew he was coming!

The chaos didn't end.

It stopped.

Like a storm deciding it was finished.

The screaming dead froze mid-motion. Ash hung in the air without falling. Even my breath paused halfway in my lungs, suspended as if the world itself was listening.

Then—

Something arrived.

There was no explosion. No flash.

Just weight.

The ground beneath my feet settled, cracks sealing themselves. The sky dimmed, not darker—quieter. Colors softened, like the world had lowered its voice out of respect.

Footsteps approached.

Each one was slow. Unhurried. Certain.

A boy walked toward me through the frozen ruins, hands folded behind his back. He looked my age, maybe a little older. Red hair. Red eyes. Familiar in a way that hurt.

He wore a black-and-crimson cloak, its edges unmoving despite the wind that should have been tearing it apart.

When he stopped in front of me, everything else felt… smaller.

"Breathe," he said.

Not as an order.

As a reminder.

My lungs obeyed before I understood why.

The air flowed in smoothly. Deep. Clean. The pain in my chest loosened its grip.

"You're doing well," he continued calmly. "Most people break long before this point."

"Who… are you?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes steady, unreadable. When he spoke again, his voice didn't echo — the world leaned in to hear it.

"My name is Senjuro Fogo."

The soil beneath him bloomed.

Grass spread in perfect circles. Flowers rose without effort. Trees grew silently, their roots weaving through the broken ground like veins restoring a wounded body.

"I am the first to listen to the world's breath," he said.

"And the last to teach it."

My knees touched the ground.

Not because he forced me.

Because standing felt incorrect.

"You are my descendant," Senjuro continued, tone unchanged. "And Katsuo knows this now."

At the mention of that name, the air tightened.

Not from fear.

From warning.

"Katsuo bends existence," Senjuro said calmly. "But he does not belong to it. That is why he will fall."

I swallowed. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Senjuro met my eyes.

And for the first time, something ancient surfaced — not anger, not hatred — truth.

"Because power that interferes too early," he said,

"creates a weaker future."

He stepped closer and placed two fingers over my heart.

I felt it.

Roots spreading through my veins. Breath syncing with soil. A presence older than language settling into my bones.

"You survived because you breathed when the world told you not to," he said.

"That is not luck. That is inheritance."

His form began to fade, dissolving into drifting leaves and warm light.

"When your breath becomes steady," his voice whispered from everywhere,

"I will return."

"And when you no longer ask if you are strong—"

The world exhaled.

"—you will be."

The red marks on his face glowing brighter, sealing the revelation. In that instant, the void felt alive with possibility, the weight of legacy settling on my shoulders like a mantle forged in fire. I was no longer just Tom, the survivor; I was connected to something greater, a lineage of power and purpose that bridged the past and future. The nightmare's horror faded into the background, replaced by a profound sense of destiny, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope amidst the pain—a fragile light piercing the darkness, urging me to fight.

TO BE CONTINUED IN

TOM FOGO, SWORDSMAN TRAINING ARC