"Then."
Kokushibo paused, his six eyes fixed on Muzan, and for the first time, his tone faltered.
"He was reborn in the sunlight, his severed arm growing back."
The study was deathly quiet, with only the sound of their breathing.
Muzan's face went completely blank, a vacuum created by extreme shock. He didn't even have time to get angry; all that remained was pure bewilderment.
He stared blankly at Kokushibo, his throat dry, and squeezed out the question, word by word:
"... What did you say?"
"The boy's severed arm grew back, and the cut on his waist healed rapidly. The whole process took less than five breaths; his regeneration speed was practically on par with the Upper Rank One!"
"And the entire process was completed under the early morning sun! He stood in the morning sun, without a single burn mark on his skin, his pupils didn't change color, and he was still breathing like a human!"
"Boom-!"
The seven bone whips suddenly exploded, like seven mad white pythons, with a force that could lift the sky, instantly shattering the screen, breaking the bookshelf, and tearing a hideous gash in the entire wall!
Wood chips flew everywhere, ancient books were scattered all over the floor, and the study was instantly reduced to ruins.
Muzan stood amidst the ruins, his crimson pupils completely consumed by blood, looking like a madman.
His clothes on the back were completely torn, revealing the undulating muscles beneath, and even more bone whips surging wildly under his skin, as if they were about to burst out at any moment; his whole body exuded overwhelming ferocity.
"Kokushibo- "
His voice was no longer something a human could produce; it was a shrill roar from countless voices stacked together, so piercing and terrifying that it shook the entire house.
Do you even know what you're saying?!?!
Regenerative ability! Standing in the sunlight!!
These two words together are like a bombshell, completely shattering the worldview that Muzan had built up over thousands of years!
This was a goal he had spent thousands of years, consuming countless lives, trampling on all ethics, and risking his life to achieve—to become a perfect being, unafraid of the sun, and immortal!
But now, a mere thirteen-year-old human brat, a Water Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, actually did it so easily?
No, impossible! This is absolutely impossible!!
"Every word I said is true; there is not a single lie."
Kokushibo was still kneeling in the ruins, the tip of the bone whip hanging right in front of his eyes, its sharp barbs almost touching his eyelashes. The slightest movement would pierce his eyeballs, but he didn't blink once, his expression resolute.
"Kokushibo!! Do you know why I've kept you alive all this time?!"
Muzan roared as he slammed his bone whip into the ground, creating countless cracks.
"Because I am the strongest Upper Rank One among the Twelve Kizuki," Kokushibo replied calmly, his tone certain.
"No!"
Muzan suddenly chuckled softly, a laugh as cold as frozen earth in winter, chilling to the bone.
"Because you and I are both being chased by that man's shadow for four hundred years! The meaning of our existence has been denied by him!"
He walked step by step toward Kokushibo intent, his voice filled with a mad, desperate despair:
"You are his own brother, so talented, yet you live forever in his shadow, your very breath overshadowed by his light;
I am the Demon King, in charge of all ghosts, yet I nearly died by his blade; even survival is a luxury!
He walked to the broken window, pushed open the tattered pane, and looked at the dark night sky of Kyoto. The moonlight shone on him, but it did not warm him at all.
"So when I heard 'regenerative ability' and 'standing in the sunlight,' I was thinking..."
Wu turned around Muzan, his crimson pupils appearing like two congealed beads of blood in the moonlight, a frighteningly red.
"... Has he come back again? He's changed his appearance and is appearing in front of me again, just to deny me once more and destroy everything I have now?"
Kokushibo remained silent, his six eyes drooping, his aura growing increasingly somber; no one knew what he was thinking.
"But you said he was still human."
Muzan withdrew his gaze, walked back to the dilapidated desk, and his tone gradually calmed down, but it concealed extreme ruthlessness.
"This is so much fun! It's so much fun!!"
He finally reached out and walked step by step toward Kokushibo, his fingertips carrying an icy chill.
Memories flooded in like a torrent, instantly engulfing Muzan's consciousness.
He was no longer a bystander, but directly experienced Kokushibo's feelings:
The salty, fishy sea breeze slapped directly against my face, sticky blood splattered on my face, sparks from clashing swords cast a scalding light on my retina, and the sound of bones breaking was clearly audible.
He "saw" the boy, his white haori tattered, his whole body covered in blood, the muscles at the severed part of his left arm writhing and growing wildly, and in less than five breaths, a brand new arm had grown.
The golden sunlight shone on the boy's newly grown arm, the skin glowing with a healthy rosy hue. There was no black smoke from burning flesh, no stench of burning flesh, and no screams of a ghost encountering light. Everything was eerily calm.
The boy slowly raised his head, his face covered in blood, but it couldn't hide his clear blue eyes. They were pure human eyes, clean, firm, and without a trace of ghostly sinister intent.
It's not a ghost!!
Muzan's heart instantly plunged into an icy abyss of despair, and all the blood in his body seemed to freeze.
Not a ghost! Just a human with ghostly abilities!
His dream, which he had pursued for over a thousand years, was shattered completely in this moment!
Memories began to spiral out of control. Kokushibo tried desperately to suppress them, but some deep-seated obsessions could not be contained.
The screen flickered violently, and the battle scene suddenly disappeared, replaced by a moonlit night four hundred years ago.
A man stood quietly in the moonlight, wearing a fiery red haori with fire patterns and his signature Sun-wheel earrings. His face was calm to the point of being terrifying.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni!
Muzan's genes were screaming, every cell was howling "Run!" It was fear etched deep into his soul, penetrating to the bone marrow, impossible to erase.
But he was trapped in Kokushibo's memories, unable to move, and could only stare directly into those calm yet all-seeing eyes!
Yoriichi spoke, his voice not loud, yet it pierced through the four-hundred-year time barrier, striking Muzan's consciousness directly, feeling as if his soul was about to be shattered:
What's interesting about it?
Yoriichi step forward, his steps light, the Sun-wheel earrings swaying gently, drawing a dark red arc in the moonlight, carrying a deadly sense of oppression.
What's so funny?
As he finished speaking the second sentence, Yoriichi's hand slowly rested on the hilt of his Nichirin Blade at his waist. His aura instantly changed, and even the wind in the world seemed to stop for him.
What do you value life?
Muzan didn't see how the sword was drawn; the memory trembled violently within him. Kokushibo tried his best to suppress it, but the "result" of that strike was already etched deep into Muzan's soul, unforgettable for eternity.
Four hundred years ago, his body was cleaved into 1,800 pieces by that one sword. Every piece of flesh burned wildly in the sunlight, causing excruciating pain. He used all his strength to protect a portion of his flesh and blood and escaped in a sorry state, hiding in the darkness and barely surviving for three hundred years.
That blow severed not only his body, but also the very concept of "Demon King," his eternal shame and fear.
The study, reality.
Muzan jerked his finger back, as if he had touched not Kokushibo's forehead, but a red-hot branding iron, and felt an piercing pain in his fingertip.
He stumbled backward, crashing hard into the broken desk. The sandalwood made a dull thud, sending wood chips flying.
"Uh... ah..."
He clutched his head in agony, his fingernails digging fiercely into his temples, drawing blood instantly. But the blood would heal in the blink of an eye, only to be broken again by his fingernails, back and forth, like a madman.
Bone whips burst out wildly from his back, ribs, and shoulders, like out-of-control tentacles, lashing wildly around him, tearing the already dilapidated study into ruins!
"Why... why can't you forget him?!"
His roar was no longer human language, but a superposition of countless wails and screams of evil spirits, a piercing and terrifying sound.
"He's been dead for so many years!! He's long since turned to dust!!"
His crimson pupils were completely swallowed by blood, the whites of his eyes were no longer visible, and his entire eye sockets looked like two pools of boiling blood, which was terrifying to look at.
Kokushibo remained kneeling in place, his hands gripping the "Kokyū Shinku" on his knees tightly, his six eyes closed, and his aura chaotic.
Muzan's gaze was fixed on Kokushibo. He saw a fleeting, faint ripple deep within Kokushibo's golden pupils.
It was like a spring at the bottom of a deep pool, gushing out some kind of emotion that even Kokushibo himself didn't want to admit.
It could be four hundred years of suffering, an obsession with his younger brother, or perhaps an eternal, twisted longing for that fiery silhouette that appears every full moon night.
This fit of madness lasted for the time it takes to brew a cup of tea.
When Muzan finally stopped, the study was completely gone, littered with trash. Only the small tatami mat where Kokushibo had been kneeling remained intact, like a sliver of calm in the eye of a storm.
One by one, the bone whips retracted into his body, the gruesome wounds healed rapidly, and his torn clothes automatically transformed back into the noble attire he wore.
Muzan slowly straightened up, raised his hand to adjust his collar, and moved quite elegantly, just like the gentle "Tsukihiko" from before. However, the bloodlust in his crimson pupils had not completely faded, like an ember that had not been extinguished deep in the ashes, hiding a killing intent that could pierce the sky.
The lights of Kyoto were still on, a peaceful and serene scene of countless homes illuminated.
The human city is asleep; no one knows what kind of cataclysmic storm has just erupted in the house just a wall away.
"Kokushibo."
Muzan spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable command.
"Exist."
Kokushibo responded, and his six eyes slowly opened.
"Send the order to all the Upper Rank, and all the ghosts wandering outside."
Muzan's gaze swept over the ruins, his tone icy.
"From this moment forward, suspend all hunting operations against the Demon Slayer Corps, cease all large-scale attacks on humans, and refrain from any activities that might attract the Pillars."
Kokushibo slightly raised his six eyes to look at Muzan, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, but he didn't ask any further questions.
We need to survive for now.
Muzan turned around, and the moonlight shone from behind him, casting a long, lonely shadow on the ruins.
"Rest and recuperate, build up strength, and wait for the right opportunity."
"My lord, are you wary of that thirteen-year-old Water Hashira?" Kokushibo finally spoke, his tone tinged with probing.
"Fear?"
Muzan chuckled Muzan, his laughter dry and hoarse, carrying an unconcealed weariness and fear.
"That kid isn't a ghost! He just has a special constitution!"
Muzan looked at his palm and slowly clenched it into a fist.
"But just how special is he? Will he continue to evolve? Will he... become the second Yoriichi Tsugikuni?"
He loosened his fist, his fingertips trembling slightly uncontrollably—a sign of extreme fear.
"I don't know! So I can't gamble! We have plenty of time, Kokushibo!"
"One hundred years, two hundred years, three hundred years... Demons have long lifespans, we can afford to wait! We'll wait until that brat dies of old age, until his special bloodline is severed, until the Demon Slayer Corps completely forgets that name!"
He walked back to Kokushibo, looking down at the kneeling swordsman, his tone regaining its cold command:
"But before that, I need to know everything—about his physique, his limits, the secrets of his bloodline!"
Muzan crouched down, Kokushibo's gaze at him, his crimson pupils filled with a sinister light.
"Gyokko is still monitoring the vicinity of Hachijōjima, right?"
"Yes. As per your previous orders, he lay in wait in the sea around the island and didn't dare to make a move," Kokushibo replied in a deep voice.
"Let him continue monitoring."
Muzan stood up, his tone resolute.
"But absolutely no unauthorized actions are allowed. Observation and reporting are permitted! If discovered by the Demon Slayer Corps, immediately self-destruct without leaving a trace. Our objective must not be exposed!"
"Understood."
As for you...
Muzan turned around and walked towards the corridor outside the ruins, his voice drifting back Muzan.
"Return to Infinity Castle! Without my order, you are not to step out of Infinity Castle!"
"Yes."
Kokushibo slowly stood up, concealing all his aura. He took one last look at the messy ruins of the study, his six eyes gleaming coldly in the moonlight, their emotions complex and unfathomable.
The next second, he moved and blended into the shadows of the corridor, disappearing without a trace, as if he had never been there at all.
At the corner of the corridor, Muzan stopped in his tracks.
Light footsteps approached from ahead, followed by Sakuya's sleepy, soft, and sweet murmur, her voice filled with grievance and pitifulness:
"Dad? Where are you? Sakuya had a nightmare, she dreamt that a monster was trying to capture her~"
Muzan lowered his head, raised his hand and gently patted the dust off his sleeve. The sinister and crazy look on his face vanished instantly, and he returned to the gentle, smiling face of the old father named "Tsukihiko," without revealing a single flaw.
"Daddy's here, don't be afraid."
He responded softly, stepping towards the direction from which the sound came, his footsteps light and gentle, a stark contrast to the mad Demon King he had just been.
In the instant he turned around, the moonlight shone directly into his eyes, reflecting deep within his crimson pupils that lingered an eternal fear of that fiery figure from four hundred years ago.