Part 1°
The city was much more bustling than any other, its walls towering at least 20 to 30 meters high, visible even from kilometers away if one paid attention.
Though the city seemed more like a fortress than anything else, the giant stone and concrete buildings majestically rose in some distant corners, just as his mind suggested, they were mere branches or small zones of a fortress.
Tanjiro grimaced, wrinkling his nose and furrowing his brow. The strong odors assaulted his sensitive sense of smell.
Imagine walking down a narrow, cobblestone street in any city. The first thing that hits you is a sour, penetrating mix of urine and human and animal excrement.
The streets lacked a proper sewer system, so people simply threw their waste into the ditches, where it accumulated and fermented under the sun.
As you move forward, the smell changes. You pass a tannery, where animal skins are being treated with urine, dog excrement, and even animal brains. A cloud of chemical and putrid stench clings to your nostrils.
The nearby market contributes its own smells: a mix of rotting fish, fresh meat, and some in the process of decomposition, along with the acrid aroma of overripe vegetables and fruits. On hot days, these smells intensify, creating a nauseating sensation.
And on the side of the streets, piles of garbage and kitchen scraps release a rancid, sour odor. Butchers and fishmongers discard their leftovers, attracting swarms of flies and rats. All of this adds to the atmosphere of decay and rot.
...
...
...
Refuge of the nocturnals, that name crossed his mind as he passed through the wrought iron gates. The city had something, something that always made you feel like the day never fully arrived.
Twilight seemed eternal here, a perpetual gray that covered everything like a blanket. The high, sturdy black stone wall welcomed him with its imposing presence. He knew that, once inside, there was no turning back.
The cobblestone streets stretched out before him, a labyrinth of shadows and dim lights. The dark stone houses and black oak wood rose on either side, their pointed, slate-covered roofs leaning toward the sky as if trying to reach the clouds that never seemed to dissipate. The iron lanterns, with deep purple glass, cast a soft light that barely dispelled the shadows.
As he advanced, the bustle of the city enveloped him. Merchants and craftsmen shouted their wares, filling the air with the sound of hammers, saws, and the crackling of forges.
The stalls, full of exotic goods, displayed everything from jewelry forged in the fires of the forges to books written in "forgotten" languages. The smell of spices and hot metal mixed in the air, creating an atmosphere that was both welcoming and unsettling.
When he reached the Plaza, he paused for a moment to admire the fountain in the center. The dark water flowing from it reflected the torchlight in a hypnotic play of reflections.
—No matter how much time passes, even after decades of helping them, they still have those looks —he sighed.
Many years had passed since then, and that act finally revealed to him the true nature of the world he found himself in. Far from being Japan or a neighboring country like China, he was in entirely new lands, which he had stepped on without legitimately being part of them.
Now, he was known as one of the witchers, who were essentially monster hunters or, more commonly, functioned as a kind of scattered organization, united by the same goal, although each operated on their own in some cases.
These hunters took on contracts to make a living, a life that was much longer than any normal human could imagine.
In this world, races that he once only heard about in fairy tales or legends now lived in full civilization. Elves, dwarves, humans, halflings... these were the different cultures that coexisted. Though humans dominated most of the territories, it hadn't always been that way. Just a few years ago, the situation was very different.
In the plaza, the hunter approached the request board calmly. It was exactly what it sounded like: a mix of papers stuck all over, placed by the townspeople and other nearby localities.
Essentially, they were part-time jobs compared to his previous world. Temporary tasks that served as a shortcut to earn some money. Most requests were for escorts, investigations, assistance in various tasks, and rarely, monster hunting.
Thanks to the memories of the werewolf, the hunter had learned to perfectly understand the language of these lands. Though there were several languages, they did not seem to differ much from each other, like a version of the similarity between Japanese and Chinese in his previous world.
—Escort an iron shipment: 200 crowns. Protect wheat plantations: 150 crowns.
Tanjiro stood in front of the old board, reading the requests that were posted. When he was younger, he had been enchanted by the idea of helping everyone, and he did so enthusiastically. Thanks to that attitude, he had managed to save a good amount of money to survive.
Although, it wasn't always like that. The deals, the little kindness, and the patience people had toward him were very strict. He could understand them in a way.
Human nature is deeply rooted in an instinct for separation and differentiation, a tendency that has marked our history since time immemorial.
Humans, as a race, seem incapable of accepting another race as equal, a phenomenon that paradoxically worsens the more similarity exists in appearance and behavior.
This repulsion towards the similar could be interpreted as a psychological defense against perceiving one's own vulnerability and imperfection. The more we see ourselves in the other, the more we face aspects of ourselves that we prefer to ignore or reject.
At the core of this reaction is a constant struggle to define a unique and immutable identity, which fears dilution in recognizing similarities with others.
Throughout history, humanity has built barriers of separation based on superficial differences: skin color, religion, language, customs. However, these differences often mask the fundamental truth that, essentially, we all share the same fears, desires, and aspirations.
But it is precisely this truth that provokes the greatest resistance. Recognizing the humanity in the other also means acknowledging our own fragility, our propensity for error and suffering.
Repulsion towards those who mirror us is a manifestation of an internal struggle, a rejection of the parts of our identity that we consider unacceptable. In this sense, the true battle is not between different races but within each individual, between acceptance and rejection of oneself.
Thus, external conflict becomes a reflection of internal conflict, a theater of shadows where we project our deepest insecurities and fears.
Ultimately, the path to true acceptance of the other is the same path that leads us toward acceptance of ourselves.
....
A rough, raspy voice broke the silence, pulling him from his thoughts in an instant.
—Are you the witcher? The Black Knight everyone talks about?
Tanjiro quickly turned his head toward the source of the voice, finding an old man with a curious expression.
—I'd prefer you call me for what I am, a hunter, but yes, that's me —he responded calmly, keeping his gaze fixed on the stranger.
The old man, with a mix of admiration and surprise, said:
—Well, after all, the longevity of witchers isn't a myth. It's been almost 60 decades since your name started echoing in Redania, but you look like a 20-year-old —He ended with an amused smile—. In those times, I could still consider myself a handsome young man, but I guess life isn't kind to everyone. Good for you.
—Quite a miracle —Tanjiro said with a smile.
To him, the old man seemed a reflection of accumulated years, with his gray hair and scattered wrinkles. Over the years, few people had dared to speak to him. The aura of danger he sometimes emitted was a hard barrier to overcome.
—I didn't expect to meet a living myth. So... What brings you here? —the man asked with genuine interest.
Tanjiro shrugged and looked back at the request board.
—I'm just looking for something to do. Life can be unpredictable, but there's always something that needs attention. —Then, he cast a thoughtful look at the old man—. And you? What brings you here?
The man scratched his chin and smiled nostalgically.
—Years ago, I met one of yours. He was an older witcher, also strong and cunning. I owed him a favor and have been waiting for the opportunity to repay it. Though, from what I see, times have changed. —His gaze settled on Tanjiro—. Perhaps it would be wise to help you. I've heard your skills aren't just a myth.
Tanjiro raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
—What do you have in mind? —he asked, willing to listen.
The old man leaned forward, his eyes shining with a spark of excitement.
—There's a village... My village, on the outskirts that is being plagued by creatures. They're not common animals but something more... strange, so to speak. The villagers are desperate and I can't intervene directly. Maybe a witcher like you can make a difference.
Tanjiro nodded slowly, evaluating the proposal. The possibility of facing something challenging and, at the same time, helping those in need was appealing to him.
—Count me in. —He said calmly—. What else can you tell me about these creatures?
The old man patted him on the shoulder with a satisfied smile.
—Come with me. I'll tell you everything I know. And believe me, you'll need every bit of information to face them.... By the way, my name is Dolvio, a pleasure.
—Kamado Tanjiro, the pleasure is mine.
Part 2°
The village lay in a valley where the sun seemed afraid to fully reveal its rays. The surrounding trees, tall and gnarled, cast shadows that danced with the wind as if they had come to life.
The houses, built from blackened stone and decayed wood, stood with sloped roofs and windows covered in dust, barely allowing the flickering candlelight to be seen from within.
A damp, cold air carried the acrid scent of wet earth and distant decay. The sound of crows echoed above, their sharp caws grating to the human ear. The village paths were little more than muddy trails, marked by the footprints of those who still dared to walk them, leaving a trail of sunken steps.
—Melody! Remember to feed the livestock! — A woman's voice urgently broke the silence.
—I'm coming! — responded a younger voice, tinged with exasperation.
Melody was an unusually beautiful girl in such a desolate clearing. Her fiery auburn hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her large green eyes shone with a vitality rarely seen in the village. She wore a simple linen tunic that, despite its modesty, accentuated her slender figure.
—Remember that the silage is for the cows and the fruit for the pigs!
—insisted the older voice.
—I know, mother, you don't need to keep reminding me!— Melody sighed, adjusting her wicker basket before heading to the section of the barn where the livestock feed was stored.
Melody's mother, despite her age, retained a charm that the years had not extinguished. Her hair, once as vibrant as her daughter's, now showed silver streaks, and her warm brown eyes reflected wisdom gained over time. Her hands, though wrinkled and marked by hard work, moved with innate grace as she prepared the animals' food.
The day on the farm began before dawn, when the world was still wrapped in darkness. The morning mist clung to the ground, shrouding the landscape in a gray veil as the first birds' songs echoed in the twilight.
Melody and her mother rose with the first light, their faces still sleepy but their bodies already accustomed to the rhythm of work. The stone house they lived in, though small and modest, was their refuge from the cold outside. The fireplace always kept a faint glow, providing a gentle warmth that fought the constant chill.
After a frugal breakfast of hard bread and warm milk, Melody headed to the barn. Her steps echoed on the old wooden floor, and the thick, dusty air inside enveloped her like an old friend. Her mother, with a patched apron tied at her waist, followed closely.
The work began with distributing the feed. Melody, with her young and strong hands, carried the heavy silage baskets to the cows' troughs. Finally, through the dense morning fog, she could make out the barn. Its wooden structure was now visible, the planks worn by years of use. But something was off.
The roosters, always punctual with their morning crowing, had not crowed as usual.
Melody frowned.
—Why didn't they crow today? —She asked quietly, as if fearing to break the spell of the stillness. Her short steps took her to the barn entrance, where she suddenly stopped.
—Daughter? Rovna, her mother's voice, pulled her out of her reverie —. Is something wrong?
Melody didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the barn's slightly open door.
By then, it was too late; the young girl couldn't react to the assault of a small, repugnant creature that jumped on her. Her clothes were quickly torn away, and her eyes widened in horror.
—HELP!!
Part 3°
Tiny black dots in the sky, veiled by wisps of fog, caught the hunter's attention with their movement. There were many of them. The birds circled, turning slowly and spaciously, then suddenly descended and immediately ascended again, flapping their wings.
The hunter watched the birds for a long time, calculating the distance and the approximate time it would take to cover it, adding a bit for the difficulty of the terrain, the density of the forest, the depth, and the layout of the ravines expected along the way. Finally, he removed the hood of his cloak, his figure completely hidden behind the black mantle.
—We're going to take a little extra stroll, Hikari— he said—. We're leaving the path. Those birds aren't circling for no reason.
The mare, of course, didn't reply but moved, following the voice she was accustomed to.
—Who knows, it might be a dead animal—Tanjiro said—. Or it might not be an animal. Who knows?
The ravine was exactly where he expected it. At one point, the hunter found himself looking down at the treetops densely covering the hollow below.
The slope of the ravine wasn't too steep, and the bottom was dry, without blackthorns or rotting logs. He crossed the ravine with ease. On the other side was a grove of birch trees, behind it a large clearing, a heath, and a terrain where tangled branches and roots torn out by the wind sprawled.
The birds, startled by the rider's appearance, flew up, cawing wildly, sharply, and hoarsely.
Tanjiro immediately saw the first body: the white of a sheepskin jacket and the sky-blue of a woman's dress stood out among the yellowish cypresses of the grove. He didn't see the other body, but he sensed where it was: the position of the corpse was betrayed by three wolves calmly looking at the rider, resting on their hind legs.
The mare snorted. The wolves, as if obeying a command, silently, unhurriedly, trotted into the forest, occasionally turning their triangular heads towards the newcomer. The hunter dismounted.
The woman in the sheepskin jacket and blue dress had no face, throat, or most of her left thigh. He could also smell that disgusting essence inside her body.
—She was raped, then killed— he said, crouching to examine the body.
There was no need for a more thorough examination of the remains. The arms and back of the woolen bodice were covered with a branched pattern of dried blood. It was clear the man had died from a blow to the neck and that only afterward had the wolves mutilated the body.
In a wide belt, alongside a short knife in a wooden sheath, the man carried a leather sack.
The hunter took it, then threw onto the grass a flint, a piece of plaster, sealing wax, a handful of silver coins, a closed razor with bone handles, a rabbit's ear, a keychain with three keys, a talisman with a phallic symbol. Two letters, written on cloth, soaked by rain and dew, their runes distorted, disintegrated. A third, on parchment, was also affected by the moisture but still legible. It was a credit note issued by a bank owned by the dwarves of Murivel.
—So that's how it was...— he said softly, stopping the horse—. It's clear, but not entirely. The man and woman came on horseback from that forest. They were undoubtedly heading from Murivel to their home, because no one carries an unredeemed credit note for long. I don't know why they were going this way and not on the path. But they crossed the heath side by side. And then, for some reason, both dismounted or fell off the horse. The man died instantly. The woman ran, then stumbled and also died, and something that left no tracks dragged her by the neck. It happened two or three days ago. The horses ran off, we're not going to look for them.
The mare, of course, didn't reply, snorted restlessly, reacting to the familiar tone of voice.
—What killed them both— he continued, looking at the edge of the forest—. was neither a werewolf nor a sylvan. Neither would leave so much flesh for the scavengers, nor do they show sexual tendencies. If there were a swamp around, I'd say it was a kikimora or a vipper. But there's no swamp here.
Crouching, the hunter loosened the saddlecloth covering the horse's side, revealing a sword strapped to the saddlebags, with a dark, decorated sheath and a coal-black hilt.
—Yes, girl. We'll take a detour. We need to find out why the man and woman were traveling through the woods and not on the path. If we pass by such events with indifference, we won't even earn enough for your oats, right, little one?
The mare moved obediently forward through the clearing, carefully stepping on the stumps felled by the wind.
—Although... I think we'll find out sooner than it seems.
Once again, the mare snorted, alerted by the sudden movement in the area, the sound of leaves breaking quickly underfoot made her leap and try to run, but her master's hands calmed her instantly.
In an instant, a crimson blade slashed through the air like lightning, and a large, dark blue-furred arm flew into the air.
Tanjiro frowned and turned.
—A blue troll, huh— he said grimly—.It's been decades since I encountered one of you that winter.
In response, the monster roared with pain and fury.
The mare tossed her head wildly at the danger, beginning to jump in all directions.
—Calm down, Hikari, calm down— The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, kicked, danced on the path, raising a swirl of dry leaves. Tanjiro, grasping the horse's neck with his left arm, directed his left hand to the mare's head, forming his fingers into the Sign of Axia, muttering the spell at the same time.
The spell worked as quickly as he expected, his right hand gripping his sword, and with a vertical slash, he completely severed the troll's remaining arm, who had leaped to attack again, with the same result, consecutively.
—They hunt in packs and have a carnivorous diet— Tanjiro said—. The real question is, where are the others... Perhaps you can tell me?
The troll only groaned and cried out in pain caused by being cut by that sword. Tanjiro had severed both arms in an instant and didn't even seem to exert himself, but for the troll, it was a different story, his strength already drained moments ago.
Tanjiro slowly approached the defeated monster, who looked at him with panic, his instinct telling him to run away, but he lacked the strength.
Suddenly, a fleshy appendage with a huge, sharp nail stabbed into his skull, horribly splitting half his face while his veins burned from within.
—I see, our paths would have crossed sooner or later anyway, I'm sorry for making you suffer —the fleshy appendage disappeared, and the next moment, his head and brain were sliced apart—. It was the only way.
Between the wall and the forest, there was no break, no evident transition. Young trees and juniper shrubs mingled their leaves with ivy and wild vines clinging to the stone walls. Tanjiro raised his head and sighed.
He turned and swung his sword in a single sweep to clean the blood that hadn't yet disintegrated from the heat, then sheathed it under his cloak, making sure it was well adjusted to his waist.
Steam escaped from the corners of his lips as he blew, recalling the beast's memories, better ensuring he kept his sword with him at all times.
—Alright, Hikari — he said calmly —.We've got a long way to go.
***
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Character Card
Name: Tanjiro Kamado 竈門炭治郎
Status: Alive, Demon (Formerly Human)
Age: Tanjiro's exact age is unknown, but he is said to be over a thousand years old, yet still appears to be a young man between 20 and 25 years old. His birthdate is unknown. (Within the narrative of The Witcher)
Dimension of Origin: Planet Earth, Year 1914, Japan
Affiliations: None, wandering swordsman, false witcher
Symbolic Titles: Progenitor Demon, King of Demons, The Black Knight
Height: 1.78m (Can mutate at will)
Eyes: Bright red, both irises resemble those of reptiles
General Appearance: Tanjiro has disheveled burgundy hair and red eyes, with a scar on the upper left and right parts of his forehead and left cheek. He wears long, rectangular earrings with a sun symbol.
Personality: Tanjiro is naturally kind and has been described by others as having very gentle eyes.
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