In the wild lands of Taisho-era Japan, survival belongs to the strong, to the cunning, to those who are willing to cast away the warmth of the fire for the cold truth of the hunt. Eren would walk that path without a backward glance. He would not wait for Muzan Kibutsuji to come for him. He would seek the devil out, look him in the eye, and ask for the power to bring the world to its knees.

He would not be one of those mindless, snarling brutes the Demon Slayers strike down with pity. No, Eren would be one of the Upper Moons—possibly the first to challenge Muzan himself, not to serve, but to conquer. To reshape the order of the demons as he once tried to do with humanity. To grind down the world that betrayed him, until every last breath of opposition was silenced under his heel.

Yet even as a demon, there would be fire in his eyes. A flicker of the boy who once ran toward freedom. But it would be buried deep, beneath layers of ash and bone. Eren would not be saved. He would not want to be. He would feast on the world before it could consume him. That is not tragedy. That is nature. That is the law of fang and fury. That is Eren.