Inuyasha's grip on the Tessaiga faltered. His fingers trembled, wet with crimson that seeped through the torn fabric of his haori. Each breath came ragged, shallow, the world tilting at the edges.

He could hear them—Kagome's voice, distant and desperate. Sango calling his name. Miroku's chanting. But it all sounded like it came from underwater, muffled by the roaring in his ears.

His knees buckled. The ground rushed up to meet him, cold and unforgiving.

He tried to push himself up. Failed. His arms gave out, leaving him slumped against a gnarled tree root, vision swimming in and out of focus.

Then—footsteps.

Not the heavy, feral stomping of the demon. Not the hurried, worried running of his friends.

Soft. Measured. Deliberate.

Two figures emerged from the shadows of the trees. The moonlight caught the first one first—a young man with pale skin and freckles scattered like constellations across his face. His hair was a mess of dark brown, streaked with vivid red that seemed to catch the light like embers. His eyes glowed a soft golden-yellow, faint red markings trailing down from one eye like war paint.

He wore black pants that left his feet bare, a light beige shawl draped loosely over his shoulders, and long black arm sleeves that climbed to his upper arms. A tan belt with golden rope loops hung at his waist.

Behind him, a second figure lingered half-hidden in the shadows. Taller, cloaked in black and dark gray, a hood pulled low. Only his eyes were visible—sharp, amber, watching Inuyasha with an unreadable intensity.