Behind the bushes, Muichiro Tokito's hand froze in midair, gripping his wooden sword.
That scarlet gaze pinned him in place, as though the fifty meters between them did not exist.
He stepped out. The rotting leaves felt soft underfoot and made no sound. But the wooden sword shook in his palm, trembling beyond his control.
Fourteen years. For the first time, he could not hold his sword steady.
A genius. The successor to Mist Breathing. A monster who had reached Hashira level in two months. Before the slaughter he had just witnessed, those labels shattered without so much as a crumb remaining.
Yaha did not look at him.
He turned and walked toward the clearing where Gyokko had dissipated. Moonlight shone down on a ring of finely shredded dust, all that remained on the ground, scattering with every gust.
Yaha crouched. He opened his right hand, palm facing that patch of empty air.
Reverse cursed energy seeped from his fingertips. Dark red and viscous, it reached into the void like an invisible hand rummaging through it.
The air warped.
The remnants of essence scattered into the night were hooked back, strand by strand. The bloody reek of Muzan's Blood gathered once more, swirling above his palm, compressing until it formed a dark red object.
It was shaped like a finger.
Muichiro stared at that finger, his throat bobbing.
Yaha picked it up and tossed it into his mouth without a second glance.
The next second, his entire presence changed.
Black cursed markings erupted from the side of his neck, crawling up half his face, past the corner of his eye, and onto his forehead. An intensely concentrated surge of energy forced the surrounding air outward, distorting it into visible ripples like asphalt baking beneath the midsummer sun.
Those ripples pushed