One week later
"When you enter the Demon Slayer Corps, do not show all your abilities at once. Display just enough to become a demon slayer and eventually a key figure."
The voice rang out in a dimly lit room, sparsely decorated, with its bare wooden walls giving off a cold, unwelcoming vibe.
The room was arranged like a classroom, with exactly 30 children seated on crude wooden chairs.
The children, all between the ages of 7 and 10, sat stiffly, their hollow expressions betraying the weight of their shattered innocence.
At the front of the room, sitting on a raised stone platform, was Douma. He spoke with his usual playful tone, a smirk plastered across his face, almost like he found the entire situation amusing.
"And after becoming one of the key figures… destroy those pests from the inside," he added, his voice laced with mockery, as though he were delivering a punchline to a private joke.
His signature troll-like grin stretched wider as he bit into one of his grotesque snacks—a fried human leg.
He chewed casually, savoring the moment, not out of any sense of duty to the organization but purely for the chaos he knew would ensue.
To Douma, the whole "Demonic Hounds" plan was just a theater of destruction he could sit back and enjoy.
While Douma radiated his usual sadistic cheer, most of the children in the classroom sat silently, lost in their own thoughts.
Their red, puffy eyes revealed the truth though—they had cried themselves to sleep every night since they were brought here.
Why?
Well, about a week ago, Douma, the self-proclaimed civilized gentleman, had strolled into random villages and approached families with a casual proposition:
"Wanna sell your kids?"
Of course, most of the families were horrified and refused outright. But then Douma, with his ever-so-genuine smile, flashed stacks of cash—$25,000 per child.
For impoverished families struggling to survive, it was a deal many reluctantly accepted, and just like that, Douma had his new "students."
But it wasn't out of some altruistic desire to help. Douma wasn't a saint; far from it. He found twisted joy in watching these children break.
He wanted to see their minds shatter under the weight of betrayal, denial, and despair.
All the love they once held for their families? That love would soon rot and twist into hatred, a festering wound Douma could manipulate with ease. Watching them struggle and drown in their misery was, to him, the real entertainment.
.....
"Fucking psychopath," Jashin thought, slumping back in the third chair of the second row. His eyes darted toward Douma, who was lounging up front with that ever-present deranged grin.
Jashin didn't need any supernatural insight to know what this lunatic was after. It was obvious.
Chaos.
People stabbing each other's necks. Blood spraying everywhere. Just the kind of gruesome spectacle that would amuse someone like him. And honestly, Jashin wanted no part of it.
If he could've bolted out of this nightmare circus, he would've done it yesterday. But luck? Yeah, that's been nothing but cruel.
Ever since Douma watched him rip apart the so-called "vagina demon," things had gone downhill.
That lunatic didn't just notice Jashin—he forced him into his damn class, as if he were picking a shiny new toy off the shelf.
From what Jashin had pieced together about this hellhole, the setup was as twisted as Douma himself.
The demons had turned this place into some warped version of a school, but it wasn't about teaching anything meaningful.
No, kids here weren't students—they were slaves, nothing more. Their only purpose was to obey their "teachers," the demons in charge of each class.
Speaking of classes, the system was as basic as it was messed up.
Each one was named after the demon running it. Jashin was in "Class Douma," but he'd overheard rumors about four or five others.
Not that he cared to confirm them. Survival was the only thing on his mind.
Unlike the other kids, Jashin's eyes weren't red. They hadn't been streaked with tears because he refused to cry, even knowing full well that his family was probably dead by now.
What was the point? Crying wasn't going to change anything. He wasn't here to wallow in misery. He was here to use this sick situation to his advantage.
Douma's interest in him was a golden ticket. If Jashin could keep that lunatic entertained, then no one—except maybe Muzan or Kokushibo—would dare touch him.
Douma didn't share his toys, and Jashin was perfectly fine playing along with that for now.
Pride? Yeah, he didn't have time for that nonsense. He wasn't some storybook protagonist clinging to morals and honor.
He didn't care if people saw him as a "toy" or a pawn.
As long as it kept him alive and got him closer to the power he needed, he'd fake whatever personality Douma wanted.
{A/N: Wait till Douma finds out who the real psycho is between them.}
But, of course, this wasn't a permanent arrangement. Jashin had no plans to remain anyone's toy for too long.
The trick now was keeping Douma hooked. If that meant acting like a psycho, then fine. He'd match Douma's craziness blow for blow until he found a way to flip the script.
.....
"Hmm… the children these days seem to be decent," Douma mused, leaning lazily against his chair, his golden eyes scanning the room.
The kids, huddled together like broken dolls, all wore the same expression—a blend of fear and despair. It was almost amusing how predictable their reactions were. Almost.
Then his gaze settled on Jashin. Unlike the others, Jashin didn't carry that same defeated air. Something about him was different, and Douma couldn't help but feel a flicker of genuine intrigue.
"But there are always a few excellent ones..." His lips curved into a sly smile as he studied the boy further.
He paused, his mind drifting to a long-forgotten memory. "Maybe Inosuke could've turned out to be a great hound too…" A wistful sigh escaped his lips, laced with mock regret.
"Such a pity his mother was too blind to see my love for what it was. If only she hadn't been so foolish—choosing to kill herself and little Inosuke rather than embrace the life I offered them."
"Ah, excuse me, Lord Douma," a voice suddenly cut through the oppressive silence, accompanied by a polite knock on the door.
Every head in the room turned toward the entrance, curious and tense. Jashin, however, froze in his seat, his eyes narrowing as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Of all people...
Standing at the doorway was a boy who couldn't have been older than ten. He was eerily composed for someone his age, with one striking yellow eye and the other an emerald green, partially hidden behind a mask. His presence felt deliberate, almost unnatural, as if he didn't belong in the bleak misery of this classroom.
Jashin's mouth went dry, and before he could stop himself, he muttered, "Obanai...?"
His voice was low, almost a whisper, but his disbelief hung heavy in the air. The sight of the boy stirred memories he hadn't expected to confront here, and for a moment, the chaos around him faded into the background.
*{A/N: So yeah, as I mentioned before, there's going to be a lot of butterfly effect in this story, meaning the world won't follow the canon plot exactly. Things are going to get pretty wild.
I know this chapter might feel a bit slow, but trust me, it was necessary to set up this arc properly. The next few chapters? Way more action and drama—stay tuned for that!
And hey, if you're enjoying the story, how about dropping some comments and power stones? It really helps! Thanks for reading!}*