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Demon Slayer: European Arc

Chapter 1: Zark Mikkelsen

I sat in the corner of the cell, my back pressed against the cold stone wall. The dampness clung to my skin, but I'd stopped feeling it hours ago. Or was it days? Time had a way of slipping through the cracks in here, just like the sunlight that only barely reached the floor.

Then I heard it—footsteps, echoing down the hall. Slow and deliberate. Not like the frantic shuffle of other prisoners, or the heavy clatter of the guards when they were dragging some poor soul to their end. No, these were different. Calm. Unhurried.

I didn't look up. I didn't need to. They were coming for me.

The footsteps stopped just outside my cell, and a key turned in the rusted lock. The iron door groaned as it swung open, and I heard the clink of armor before I saw him. The Prison Head. He was an older man, thick with muscle despite his age, his face weathered like the stone walls he lorded over. But his eyes… his eyes sparkled with something. Amusement, maybe. Or pity.

"I have to admit," he said, voice rough, like gravel under boots. "When I read your file, I didn't believe it. An 18-year-old boy… causing all that chaos?"

I said nothing. What was there to say?

He stood there for a moment, studying me. I could feel his gaze, heavy and sharp, but I still didn't lift my eyes.

"Get up," he said finally, his voice softer this time. "It's time for your last meal."

My stomach twisted at that. It wasn't hunger. Hunger was a dull ache, something I'd learned to live with in here. No, this was something else. The kind of feeling you get when you know the end is coming, but you don't know exactly how much longer you have to sit in the dark waiting for it.

Still, I pushed myself to my feet, joints stiff from disuse. My chains rattled as I stood, a reminder that I was no longer free—not in any sense of the word.

The cold, iron grip of the Prison Head's hand closed around my arm as he led me down the dark corridor. My shackles clinked with each step, a metallic reminder of what was coming. The air in the hallways smelled of damp stone and rot—just like every other part of this place.

But as we approached the dining hall, the smell changed. The sharp tang of iron faded, replaced by something richer, something I hadn't smelled in what felt like years. Meat. Cooked meat.

The door creaked open, and there it was: a table. Wooden, scarred with years of abuse, but set with a single plate. A thick slab of steak, still steaming, with a hunk of bread and a glass of water beside it. It almost looked surreal against the backdrop of the prison's gloom.

The Prison Head gestured toward the chair. "Sit."

I hesitated for a moment, looking at him. His face was still unreadable, but his eyes held that same glint as before. I sat down. My hands shook, but I wasn't sure if it was from hunger or the weight of what came next. The chains rattled as I picked up the fork, the metal clumsy in my bound hands.

"Go on," he said, standing across from me, arms crossed. "Eat."

I cut into the steak, the tender meat parting under the blade, juices pooling beneath it. I put the first bite in my mouth. Warm. Juicy. My stomach growled in protest, reminding me how long it had been since I'd eaten anything close to real food.

The Prison Head watched me for a while, then spoke again. "You're a strange one, boy. You don't look like someone who should be sitting in a cell, waiting for the noose. I've seen murderers, thieves, traitors—but you… I want to hear your story. What happened that night?"

I swallowed the bite of steak, the taste suddenly sour in my mouth. I placed the fork down slowly. "You won't believe me."

"Try me." His voice was hard but not unkind.

I leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the cold walls. "I was at the noble's house that night, yes. But not for what you think. I wasn't there to rob him or kill him. I was there for the bounty."

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.

"The guards were missing. No one was at the gate. It was wide open, swinging in the wind like something had torn it off its hinges. That should've been my first warning." I exhaled, the memory crawling back into my mind, vivid as ever. "I went in anyway. I had a job to do. I kept quiet, moving through the estate in the shadows. And then… I saw them."

"The guards?"

"The bodies," I corrected, my voice tightening. "Ripped apart. Half-devoured. Blood… it was everywhere. The servants too. Scattered like broken dolls across the courtyard."

The Prison Head's expression darkened, but he still said nothing.

"I kept moving," I continued, my throat dry despite the water in front of me. "I knew something wasn't right, but I didn't know what. Not until I reached the noble's chamber. The door was cracked open, and that's when I saw it. A demon. Not some fairy tale monster. Not a shadow or a trick of the mind. A demon, real as you standing there. It was ripping him apart. Piece by piece."

The room went silent, save for the faint clink of my chains as I shifted in my chair. I could see the disbelief in the Prison Head's eyes. I'd seen it in every face that heard the story.

"I know you don't believe me. No one does," I said, the words bitter on my tongue. "But that's what happened. The demon killed him. Not me. I was just there to collect the bounty."

The steak sat heavy in my stomach as they marched me through the streets. The marketplace was packed—more people than I'd seen in weeks, all here for one reason. To watch. It was a festival for them, a break from the monotony of their miserable lives. The crowd gathered like vultures circling a corpse, whispering, laughing, eager for the spectacle.

The Executioner stood at the center, his back to me, sharpening his axe. The grinding of the stone against steel echoed through the square. Sparks flew, like the ones I'd seen the night the noble died.

The Prison Head led me up the steps of the platform, his grip firm on my arm. I could feel the weight of every eye in the crowd, every breath they took, hanging in the air like the mist rolling in from the sea. The execution block waited ahead of me, stained dark with the blood of men before me.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. This was it. The end.

"Get him in position," the Prison Head ordered.

Two guards pushed me forward. My knees hit the rough wood of the platform as they forced me down, my head inches from the block. I could see the marks left by others—scratches, dents. Evidence of their struggle, their last moments. I clenched my fists, feeling the bite of the chains around my wrists.

The Executioner stopped sharpening his axe and turned toward me. His face was masked, but I could see the coldness in his posture, the ease with which he hefted the axe, testing its weight. He took his time, as if savoring it.

I lowered my head onto the block, the wood cold against my skin. The crowd's murmurs quieted, anticipation filling the air.

Then, in the distance, I heard something. Hoofbeats. Fast and urgent, cutting through the stillness. I lifted my head just enough to see a rider pushing through the crowd, a dust cloud rising behind them. They pulled hard on the reins, the horse rearing slightly as the rider leapt down and sprinted toward the platform.

The Messenger, clad in royal colors, approached the Prison Head and handed him a letter. The Prison Head's eyes flicked over the sealed envelope, and for the first time since I'd met him, I saw his face tense.

He ripped open the letter, eyes scanning the parchment. The silence stretched on, the Executioner still gripping his axe, ready to bring it down at any moment.

Finally, the Prison Head spoke. "Stop the execution."

I heard the gasps ripple through the crowd. The Executioner lowered his axe, and I was roughly yanked to my feet by the guards. I could barely believe what was happening.

"Take him back to the cell," the Prison Head ordered, his voice a low growl, eyes still locked on the letter.

I was dragged back down the steps, the crowd now murmuring in confusion, their bloodlust unfulfilled. The guards hauled me back toward the prison, my mind racing.

What the hell was in that letter? And why was I still breathing?