Hiru sat in the car on the way back, staring at the two paintings he had just acquired. His feelings were… complicated.
He had never imagined that one day he would spend money to buy his own paintings—let alone pay an outrageous sum for them.
"So?" Uzui asked.
"…Complicated."
Hiru turned to look at him.
"By the way, were you always this rich? Though, judging by how flamboyant you dress, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised…"
"No, no, no…" Uzui Tengen wagged a finger. "While the God of Festivals is indeed quite wealthy, this time it was Oyakata-sama who paid."
Hiru paused. "The Master?"
"Yeah. I told him I wanted to borrow a Wisteria House for a while to use as our cover identity. I was planning to fund the auction myself. But the moment he heard I intended to buy paintings by Yomi-sensei and Asahi-sensei as a gift for you, he insisted on covering the cost."
Uzui leaned closer, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Those two paintings are worth a fortune. Oyakata-sama must think very highly of you—"
Hiru's fingers tightened around the frame. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Ubuyashiki… he absolutely did that on purpose.
"Still, it's incredible," Uzui continued, lifting one of the paintings carefully. "Artwork from centuries ago that hasn't faded in the slightest—how flashy! Even the God of Festivals can't help but be curious."
Of course it hasn't faded. I'm not dead. Why would the pigments fade?
Hiru exhaled softly, his gaze returning to the canvas.
"The ancients had their own techniques."
"Maybe. But even if we bought them, there's no absolute proof they're authentic."
Uzui set the painting down.
"From the beginning, because their works don't fade, plenty of people have tried to copy the style and pass their own pieces off as originals. Though I've never heard of anyone successfully pulling it off."
"They're both genuine. The merchant guild's description was wrong."
Hiru gestured toward the two paintings.
"The daytime piece was painted by Yomi-sensei. The nighttime one is by Asahi-sensei. And they don't even depict the same place—one is in Hokkaido, the other in Okinawa. The compositions merely resemble each other."
"Seriously? How can you tell?"
Because I painted them myself.
Hiru pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Look closely at how the pigment dissolves into the negative space. Yomi-sensei's work bleeds more heavily—the grain of the pigment is more pronounced.
"Asahi-sensei's blending is finer, more restrained. And most importantly—regardless of whether the scene is day or night—Asahi-sensei's use of contrast is always brighter."
Uzui lowered his head and examined the paintings for a long time. No matter how intently he stared, he couldn't see the distinctions Hiru described. In the end, he could only chalk it up to an artist's intuition.
The car eventually pulled up before a lavish estate in the distant suburbs.
The courtyard was covered in fine white sand, carefully raked into flowing patterns like rippling water. Several carefully selected stones were arranged throughout, forming an elegant karesansui garden.
A garden like this required constant upkeep. Rain and wind could easily ruin the design. Maintaining such an expansive dry landscape in pristine condition was, in itself, a declaration of status.
The moment Uzui opened the car door, he slipped back into character, becoming the deferential "Uten" before "Keiji."
Hiru likewise resumed his role as the art-collecting "Keiji," radiating quiet arrogance.
At the same time, both remained on guard for any demon that might appear. Using his cover identity, Hiru had Uzui dismiss most of the Kakushi assisting with the operation, keeping only a handful who had once passed the Final Selection but later transferred to the Kakushi—unsuited for frontline combat.
At the very least, if a real fight broke out, these few would be capable of retreating on their own.
Uzui handled the external arrangements.
Hiru, meanwhile, changed clothes with the help of the remaining Kakushi and prepared to rest.
What he couldn't understand was why the Kakushi who stayed behind seemed more afraid of him than of a demon that might attack in the middle of the night. He hadn't done anything to them. Yet whenever his gaze swept their way, they stiffened like startled quail.
No wonder they passed the Selection and still ended up as Kakushi…
Watching them withdraw with stiff, awkward steps, Hiru exhaled and sat down on the bed.
I didn't press that jar before leaving. But with that demon's twisted mind and warped sense of aesthetics, it's probably already nursing a grudge.
Hopefully it comes tonight.
The Kakushi at Mount Fujikasane were even complaining this year that demon activity had been too sparse. My time is limited.
Hiru lay back and closed his eyes.
The quiet did not last long.
A faint clink echoed through the room.
Hiru's eyes snapped open.
A jar stood in the center of the room.
The slight improvement in his mood vanished at once.
He sat up slowly, staring at the grotesque object that had appeared without warning. His hand moved toward the bell beside the bed.
A streak of silver light sliced through the air.
In the next instant, the bell—and the wooden frame beneath it—were eaten away, corroded into nothing.
Hiru withdrew his hand, brows drawing together as he turned his gaze back to the jar.
"Who are you?"
"Heehee… How composed."
A shrill voice echoed from within the jar. As it spoke, a stark white creature crawled out.
"To dare criticize my art… Boy, tonight I shall turn you into art. Let us call it—'The Ignorant Critic.' How does that sound?"
Hiru watched in silence as the demon crawled out of the jar, feeling his aesthetic tolerance assaulted once again.
Yellow eyes. Green lips. Purple fish scales covering its head. Pallid skin. Stubby arms sprouting from either side of its skull.
"Disgusting" did not begin to describe it.
Worse still, its mouth sat where the eyes should have been, while the eyes were stacked vertically—one embedded in its forehead, the other where a mouth ought to be.
Hideous. Utterly hideous.
Hiru's fingers tightened unconsciously in the quilt over his legs. A flicker of genuine horror crossed his face.
How is something like this one of the Twelve Kizuki? Shouldn't higher-ranking demons at least resemble humans?
…Or is this Muzan's true aesthetic?
I've been playing Demon King alongside someone with taste like this for years…
This is unbearable. Absolutely unbearable.
"Heehee…"
The grotesque demon seemed delighted by Hiru's reaction. Its body stretched unnaturally as it drifted toward him.
"Too late to be afraid now. I'll make you die slowly—without even the chance to scream."
"Don't come any closer!"
Hiru recoiled, revulsion plain on his face.
"I said, don't come any closer!"
"What an insolent little brat!"
Veins throbbed at the creature's temples.
"Today, Gyokko-sama will snap your limbs and pack you into—"
"I said—don't come any closer!"
A thunderous crash erupted.
The grotesque demon calling himself Gyokko was hurled straight through the wall—along with half the room. Wood and plaster exploded outward as the impact tore everything apart.
The deafening blast finally alerted the other swordsmen in the estate.
Uzui was the first to arrive, weapons drawn, stepping into a room now missing an entire wall.
"A demon?! Hey—answer me! Hey?!"
Uzui turned sharply—and froze.
Hiru was still sitting on the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly, fear written plainly across his face. He was rubbing his hands over and over, movements rough and frantic, muttering under his breath in a thin, rapid stream.
"Hey. What's wrong?"
Uzui shot a glance at the shattered wall and motioned for the surrounding Kakushi to retreat immediately. Backing toward Hiru, he was about to press him for answers when he caught the low, broken murmur.
"So disgusting… It got all over my hands. Sticky… It won't come off… So disgusting. Why does something like that even exist? It's unbearable…"
Uzui blinked.
Sticky? He means the demon? What exactly is—
"You brat! You dare treat me like this?!"
Uzui's grip tightened on his twin blades as he looked up sharply.
And in the very next instant, revulsion spread across his own face.
"…What is that? That's vile."
Gyokko had changed forms again.
The warped features and pallid skin remained, but now he possessed a humanoid torso. Below the waist, however, his body tapered into a serpentine coil, fine scales slick with mucus that left dark, glistening trails across the floor as he moved.
Where the small arms had once sprouted, layered purple fins now flared outward in overlapping sheets, running down his spine to the very tip of his snake-like tail. His hands had twisted into hooked claws, dark webbing stretched taut between each finger.
The entire creature was a nauseating spectacle.
"An Upper Moon… Now that's what I call value for money."
Uzui shifted sideways, placing himself between Gyokko and Hiru—who was still stubbornly scrubbing his hands—and fixed his gaze on the rising demon.
"Why don't you tell me what you're after?"
But Gyokko ignored him completely, slithering forward while muttering to himself.
"You miserable little insect! You have truly enraged me! Kneel before my flawless form!"
As Gyokko drew nearer, Uzui lowered his center of gravity, blades angled and ready.
Hiru was clearly not in a condition to fight.
He would have to handle this alone—
"…Flawless?"
The voice from behind him was cold.
And murderous.
Uzui's heart skipped. Instinctively, he shifted aside and glanced back.
Hiru's appearance hadn't changed—but his eyes had turned an icy, lifeless gray.
"Hey, you—"
"How dare you defile that word?"
Hiru kicked aside the covers and stepped barefoot onto the floor. His gray eyes locked onto Gyokko.
"Where does a warped thing like you find the audacity to call yourself perfect?"
"Hah—? Why perfect?!"
Gyokko's voice shot up sharply.
"Look at me! Look at these translucent scales—harder than diamond! Look at this supple body, resilient as the finest springs! And you dare call me imperfect? Have your eyes rotted out of your skull?!"
"Ah… no… this won't do…"
Hiru lowered his head. His voice trembled.
"It's so revolting I might actually be sick."
"Hey—if you're not feeling well, step back. I'll take—"
Before Uzui could finish, the weight in his hands vanished.
He looked up—
Hiru had already snatched his twin blades and was charging straight at the demon.
"Hey! Use your own! What am I supposed to fight with?!"
Hiru clearly wasn't listening.
Uzui watched as Hiru pulled his hands apart, snapping the chain between the twin blades. With a single step, the ground beneath him fractured outward in jagged lines. He became a blur and shot straight at Gyokko—
—and slapped him away.
Yes. Slapped.
Uzui could only stare as Hiru treated Gyokko like a toy, batting him across the courtyard. Scales flew in every direction. Walls crumpled. Stone shattered. Entire sections of the estate collapsed into debris.
Hiru's muttering rose in volume, turning into sharp, cutting shouts. Each word struck harder than the blades themselves.
Uzui, clutching Hiru's own sword while skirting the edge of the battlefield, couldn't find a single opening to intervene. He was forced to listen—and couldn't help but marvel at Hiru's astonishing vocabulary.
Up to this point, he hadn't repeated a single insult. Not once.
From start to finish, Gyokko was the one being beaten senseless.
So why is Hiru the one this furious?
And how does someone who looks this refined fight like this?
Unable to interfere, Uzui finally retreated beyond the battle zone. Perched atop a rooftop, chin resting in his palm, he watched the chaos below.
Gradually, an expression of financial despair crept across his face.
Why is he using my blades?
Wait—don't swing like that! You'll chip the edge!
Ah… I really don't want to visit the Swordsmith Village and get scolded again.
Uzui wasn't worried about the outcome in the slightest. He merely gestured for the Kakushi to retreat even farther.
As expected, the fight did not last long.
Gyokko was carved apart piece by piece, his body reduced to fragments until only half a torso remained. His arms were severed soon after. Under the effect of the Bright Red Nichirin Blades, his regeneration faltered—sluggish and incomplete.
Hiru finally came to a stop before him, breathing evenly.
With only his head and shoulders left, Gyokko at last found the chance to shriek.
"So it was you! It was you!"
"You worm who keeps interfering with Muzan-sama! Your wretched life should have ended long ago! And you dare speak of art? I am the true artist!
"You have no idea how magnificent my creations are—taking those feeble, aging, insignificant lives and elevating them into refined works of art—ahhh—!"
Hiru lowered his hand calmly, as if he hadn't just split open Gyokko's skull a moment earlier. His gaze fell to the single remaining eye beneath the demon's chin. His voice was no longer sharp.
Only quiet.
"Don't say things like that again. It's genuinely nauseating."
"How could something born purely from selfish indulgence possibly be called art? It isn't even worthy of being discarded."
Gyokko's lone eye widened. Veins throbbed along his ruined cheek. He clearly wanted to retort—but Hiru's last strike had torn both of his mouths apart. Only a shredded lower lip and a writhing tongue remained.
No sound emerged.
"Under normal circumstances, I would search your memories. Extract whatever use you might still have."
Hiru's expression shifted to open disgust.
"That would be the proper course of action."
"But you are simply too repulsive. So repulsive that I no longer even care what color your blood is."
"I would consider it an insult to Blood Demon Art itself to use it on you."
"And you dare call yourself perfect?"
"The only moment you approach perfection is when you obediently collapse into minced flesh and are discarded like refuse. Or when you are reduced to ash beneath the sun."
His gray eyes were glacial.
"Only then would you contribute even the slightest value to this world."
"So go to hell and atone."
"And do not be born into it again."
"Ugly thing."