Within the depths of a sealed mountain cavern, Akaza trained as he always did—relentless, unrestrained, and consumed by the pursuit of strength. Each of his punches, infused with fierce battle intent, slammed into the stone walls with explosive force, sending violent tremors through the enclosed space. The air itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of his blows, as though the mountain were protesting his existence.
Again and again, his fists struck.
Again and again, the cavern groaned.
Until at last—
"Boom—!"
With the force of his final strike, even the solid rock could endure no longer. Cracks split across the walls like veins under pressure, widening in an instant before the entire cavern collapsed in on itself. The destruction did not stop there; the violent impact rippled outward, dragging part of the surrounding mountainside down with it in a thunderous cascade.
Countless stones came crashing down, smashing everything into ruin. Dust surged upward in thick, choking clouds as fragments of rock scattered in every direction.
"Ptui... Ptui..."
Amid the chaos, Akaza burst forth from the collapsed pit, brushing off debris as he spat the dust from his mouth. His expression remained largely unchanged—until, in the next moment, something stirred his senses.
He lifted his head sharply.
Not far away stood a man.
Tall and slender, with pale skin that seemed untouched by warmth, he wore a fitted black outfit that clung to his frame. His hair was dark, his gaze cold—and within those plum-red eyes lurked something deeply unnatural.
"Lord Muzan."
Without hesitation, Akaza dropped to one knee. Yet even in that posture of submission, there was no trace of reverence in his voice—only acknowledgment.
"For all these years," the man spoke, his tone quiet yet edged with something suffocating, "you have held the title of Upper Rank Three among the Twelve Kizuki… and still, you have failed to eradicate the Ubuyashiki Family. Worse still, in recent years, you have not even slain a single Hashira."
As he spoke, his eyes deepened into a vivid, blood-red hue, brimming with cruelty and quiet fury.
"Tell me… should I take back the blood I granted you?"
Akaza's expression shifted, just slightly.
"It is my failure," he replied at once, his tone tightening. "However, the Ubuyashiki Family is exceedingly difficult to track, and those Hashira are not easily—"
He stopped himself, but his meaning was clear.
There were things he could disregard without concern, but not this. To have that blood taken back—to lose the power he had painstakingly cultivated—was something he could never accept. For one who pursued strength above all else, it was unthinkable.
Muzan Kibutsuji said nothing in response. He simply stared.
Then, without warning, he extended his hand.
A flicker of unease passed through Akaza's eyes. He hesitated for the briefest of moments—but it was already too late. Muzan's hand came to rest upon his head.
In that instant, their memories intertwined.
Everything Akaza had experienced over this period flowed, unfiltered, into Muzan's mind. Day after day of monotonous training, punctuated only by the occasional act of feeding—his existence had been as repetitive as it was singular in purpose.
Unremarkable.
Empty.
Until—
Muzan's gaze sharpened.
Among those memories, one fragment surfaced—several months prior, when Akaza had encountered a demon. A weak one, by all appearances, yet strangely different. Unlike most of their kind, that creature had resisted the urge to consume human flesh, clinging stubbornly to something that should have long since been discarded.
Muzan paid it little mind at first.
There were always a few who struggled, newly transformed beings unable to sever their ties to humanity. But such resistance was fleeting. In time, the craving for human flesh would erode whatever remained of their former selves, dragging them inevitably into the abyss.
That was simply the nature of demons.
And yet—
In the next moment, something within the memory caught his attention.
By the flickering light of a campfire, the demon had written two characters into the dirt.
"Koyuki."
Muzan's pupils contracted sharply.
Others might not understand the significance of that name.
But he did.
It was a name buried deep within Akaza's past, from a time when he had still been human… when he had still been known as Hakuji.
A name that once represented the one person he had wished to protect above all else.
Long ago, before Akaza had become a demon—back when he was still human—there had been an incident so brutal it lingered vividly even in Muzan's memory.
With nothing but his bare hands, Hakuji had slaughtered an entire dojo.
Sixty-seven people.
In that massacre, not a single one had been spared. Limbs were torn apart, bodies left mangled beyond recognition, until the entire dojo became a grotesque tableau of shattered flesh and scattered organs. The scene was so horrifying that those who later discovered it believed it could only have been the work of a demon.
Yet at the time, no demons had been deployed in that region.
The inconsistency had drawn Muzan Kibutsuji's attention, and so he had gone to investigate personally.
What he discovered was far more astonishing than he had anticipated.
The one responsible for the slaughter was not a demon—
—but a human.
Alone, unarmed, Hakuji had annihilated sixty-seven men, most of them trained swordsmen. Not only had he killed them all, but he had done so without sustaining a single injury. It was an act so far beyond the limits of ordinary men that even Muzan, in his cold detachment, had found himself momentarily impressed.
And through what he learned, the reason behind that madness became clear.
The master of that dojo had poisoned the well.
Through that cowardly act, he had taken the lives of two people—Hakuji's master, Keizo, and the one he had loved, Koyuki.
Everything Hakuji had cherished had been stolen from him in an instant.
Left with nothing but grief and a hollowed-out soul, he had lashed out—not in rage alone, but in despair.
Even after Muzan revealed himself, even after realizing that he stood before a demon, Hakuji had not hesitated. He had attacked without fear, without restraint.
Not to win.
But to die.
As a human, his speed could never match that of a demon. Muzan's counterattack had been effortless—one strike was all it took to crush his skull.
And yet, even in death, as life slipped away from him, Hakuji's lips had continued to move.
"Koyuki."
That name had lingered, fragile and unbroken, even as everything else faded into nothingness.
The memory had left a deep impression on Muzan—so much so that, even now, it remained vivid in his mind.
At the time, he had been in the process of selecting and cultivating twelve powerful demons—the group that would come to be known as the Twelve Kizuki. It was then that he chose to grant Hakuji his blood, transforming him into a demon.
With that transformation, Hakuji's past had been erased.
His memories vanished, his name discarded.
From that moment on, he became Akaza.
And in time, he rose to his current position—Upper Rank Three of the Twelve Kizuki, a being who pursued strength above all else, severed from the fragile emotions of his former humanity.
Which was precisely why this made no sense.
Why would that frail demon remember something even Akaza himself had forgotten?
"…Who exactly is that demon?"
Muzan stood still, his thoughts turning inward. As the progenitor of all demons, as a being who could peer into the depths of human hearts and command every demon beneath him, his mind was vast and precise. And now, as he carefully sifted through his memories, a fragment surfaced.
It had been nearly a year ago.
While traveling one night, he had encountered a lone human wandering in the darkness. There had been something unusual about the way the man had looked at him—not fear, not despair, but a kind of startled recognition, as though he knew exactly who stood before him.
Muzan, ever cautious, had killed him without hesitation.
And yet, perhaps because of that peculiar gaze—so different from the countless others he had seen at the brink of death—he had, on a whim, given the man a drop of his blood, turning him into a demon.
Such incidents were far from rare.
He had created countless demons in this manner, most of whom succumbed quickly to their bloodlust, losing all reason before drawing the attention of the Demon Slayer Corps and meeting their end beneath a blade. A few might survive longer, growing stronger over time.
But no matter what path they took—
their fate was always within his control.
"Then how… did that one escape me?" Muzan murmured, his voice low and edged with something darker than anger.
"Was it Tamayo… that wretched woman, who found a way to sever my control? Or was it the Demon Slayer Corps? Or perhaps…"
A possibility surfaced—one so improbable that even he found it difficult to entertain.
"…did he find the legendary Blue Spider Lily?"
The very thought twisted something deep within him.
For centuries—no, for over a thousand years—he had searched relentlessly for that elusive flower, yet never once laid eyes upon it. Could it be that a mere, insignificant demon had stumbled upon it so easily… and even consumed it?
If that were true—
Then what had all his years of searching amounted to?
What meaning remained in his endless pursuit?
No matter the answer, one thing was certain.
He had to find that demon.
He had to uncover the truth.
"You cannot... escape my control," Muzan's voice was low, almost a whisper, yet filled with cold, suffocating menace. His plum-red eyes gleamed with a feral intensity, twisted by something darker than anger—something closer to obsession.
...
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