There is a neck before my eyes.
There is the face of Shabana.
There is a neck before my eyes.
There is the face with white hair and red eyes.
There is a neck before my eyes.
There is the face of Jigijiwoo.
Byakuya Setsugen, tears do not cease.
In the room of Mugen Castle, Kibutsuji Muzan stands alone, dazed, having forgotten to breathe.
Eyes with the flame of life extinguished.
Hair dyed in moonlight.
Skin that gathers all the purity of the world.
The longing that face gives.
Even with Shabana's neck, which so desired death, before his eyes, there was no joy on Kibutsuji Muzan's face. What colored his crimson eyes was a light of despair deeper than hell.
The friend he had searched for through long years was there.
As a mere head, having forgotten voice, breath, even the sound of a heart.
Kibutsuji Muzan weakly kneels on the spot. Curling his back like a child, he repeats apologies in a faint voice drowned in tears.
In that crying figure covering his face and shaking his shoulders, no pride remains as the leader of demons. Only after facing his friend's death before his eyes does he finally regain a human heart.
Simply—he becomes Kibutsuji Muzan.
The coward's bare face glimpsed through the broken mask of the tyrant. The cruel fangs pulled out cannot even chew on unnecessary emotions. Merciless regret seeps into the heart where the demon's shell has shattered.
Ah, ah, again.
Again, I did it. Again, I made a mistake.
Again, I killed you.
I didn't know. I couldn't have known.
That the demon I despised as a nuisance was you.
Why did you hide your face?
That's why I didn't know.
Why did I create poison?
For what reason did I make such a cruel poison?
No matter how much I think, only one reason for creating the poison comes to mind.
"...To kill me?"
Yes. Otherwise, there would be no reason to make poison that kills demons.
What shakes his chest is a fear so intense he cannot even breathe. Despair like sinking into mud presses down on his heart. The head does not answer the question, merely staring this way with eyes clouded by death.
Silently.
As if blaming.
I ate him. I killed him. I turned his mother into a demon.
I trampled on that life again and again and destroyed his happiness.
Motives sufficient for resentment line up.
Evil deeds worthy of being killed repeat.
Did he resent me enough to see in dreams?
Did he hate me enough to want to kill?
Did he detest me enough to desire poison?
—If so, then perhaps he no longer remains as my friend.
"——!"
That is.
How that is.
A painful and fearful living hell.
I have never seen gods or buddhas. No one brings divine punishment upon me. I lived believing that. Was it you? Are you becoming my punishment?
Kibutsuji Muzan bows his head to his silent friend's neck. The solemn motion reminded one of a Christian's confession. The slumped figure resembled penitence.
But Kibutsuji Muzan has no god. So he begged for forgiveness from none other than his friend's neck. He offered a too selfish prayer.
Forgive me.
Do not hate me.
Please remain as my friend.
Truly, sincerely, I need you.
From the Heian period to the Sengoku period, for hundreds of years, the days spent as a demon, forgetting human memories and hearts, were pleasant. Eating humans and growing power according to demon desires was a pleasure incomparable to anything.
But I was not happy. Not fulfilled. A frustrating emptiness always followed.
No matter how much I ate, no matter how much I rampaged, I could not be satisfied. Something was lacking. It was deficient. It is not because I cannot reach the sun.
Kibutsuji Muzan did not know what that was.
In his stomach, questions always boiled over.
That night in the Sengoku period. Only after regaining memories through his friend's death did he realize. He knew the emptiness that had formed in himself. It was because you were missing. Because you, who fit together like water and fish, were not there.
Simultaneous with realization, emptiness, frustration, loneliness surged. A cold, suffocating solitude as if thrown alone into an immobile deep sea.
From that day, I have been at the bottom.
"...I want to see you."
Eating and killing and dying and disappearing. Parting without meeting and crossing paths.
In what future will the day come to meet you alive again?
When we finally reunite, with what eyes will you look at me? Will you glare with eyes burning with hatred? Will you send a gaze frozen with contempt?
'Muzan-kun!'
The smile remembered in memory, the kind-shaped eyes, all should be familiar. Yet, because they do not clearly appear in my mind, another drop of tears flows.
How comfortable it would have been if I could hate you.
Even so, I could not give up, I wanted to remain as your friend.
*
"...Lord Muzan."
Kokushibo called him from outside the door after the tears had completely dried. Kibutsuji Muzan had thrown his body on the tatami, immersed in emptiness.
The appearance of beautiful, glossy black hair spreading over the tatami was like seaweed washed ashore. The eyes of Kibutsuji Muzan, despairing at the thought of being hated by his friend, were truly those of a dead fish.
Now he is emptiness-filled Muzan. Muzan painted with emptiness. Indeed, the name represents the body.
"...What is it."
Answering while thinking thoughts like a jilted woman, such as cutting off this damn hair, Kibutsuji Muzan lay on the tatami, powerless. Even a Sunday father would have more vitality.
The voice did not hide displeasure, but due to exhaustion from crying, it lacked the usual vigor.
"Though presumptuous, I dare to be rude... I have a request..."
"Speak."
"I wish to see... the neck of Shabana, the white-haired, red-eyed one."
"...I permit it, enter."
Kibutsuji Muzan slowly rose, not showing any sign of having been sobbing just moments ago, and arrogantly welcomed Kokushibo.
The tatami marks on his cheeks, the swollen corners of his eyes, the bloodshot red eyes—all restored by demon power. Demons are convenient at times like this. However, the mental state is outside repair. Kibutsuji Muzan most wanted to fix that place where no insurance applies.
"Excuse... me."
Having received permission and opened the door, Kokushibo likely saw his master in a no different appearance than usual.
He probably never dreamed that the leader revered by the Twelve Kizuki was lying on the tatami, shedding tears, saying, "I want to become the morning dew sparkling at dawn... I want to become such an innocent being... I want to be forgiven..."
Kibutsuji Muzan carefully handed the neck wrapped in cloth to Kokushibo. Not throwing it carelessly or rolling it, but softly, as if a jewel in hand.
Naturally. Because it is none other than his friend's neck.
The reason he allowed Kokushibo to see this precious neck was simple.
He judged it a good opportunity to learn why this man was obsessed with white hair and red eyes.
Kokushibo, respectfully receiving the cloth-wrapped neck, undid the seal and carefully took out the contents. With a gentle touch not unlike Kibutsuji Muzan's, he examined the neck.
Three pairs of eyes stared directly at the red eyes, white hair, and that face. A long silence descended like the shadow of dusk.
"…………Ah."
What barely flowed out was a low sigh of lament. That was all.
Kokushibo put the neck back into the cloth and returned it to his master. He did not cry, nor lose composure. Suppressing even the sound of rustling clothes, he swallowed everything with silent actions.
—On the surface.
The quiet, heteromorphic face with six eyes, but inside, a storm raged.
All sorts of emotions mixed into a turbid current now indistinguishable in color.
'What a horrific face of death. Eyes stained with suffering. Life toyed with and body violated. Because I could not find him, he suffered meaningless pain.'
Lament surges.
'I... I wanted to find him. If so, he would not have become like this... Ah, too late. Again, I am too late. Why? Why...!'
Sorrow blows fiercely.
'Why in this life are you not holding a sword, Young Moon—!'
A violent anger burned, enough to tear out one's heart.
"Kokushibo."
"...Yes."
"You, what relationship do you have with that man?"
Asking that, the memory that arose was the Sengoku period. Back then, his friend was part of a demon-slaying organization, and Kokushibo, as Tsugikuni Michikatsu, also wielded a sword.
Until now, he hadn't even paid attention, but perhaps there was some connection between the two.
"...With the doctor named Shabana... this neck... is our first meeting."
"That may not be a lie. But Kokushibo, you... know this man's face?"
"......"
With six eyes closed, Kokushibo remained silent.
Strangely, that silence was not irritating because Kokushibo was not scheming to deceive but struggling with what to say. This man was not accustomed to revealing his inner thoughts to others.
"Who is Young Moon?"
Even though a name never taught came out, Kokushibo showed no sign of surprise. An old connection. He already knew that Kibutsuji Muzan could read his subordinate's thoughts.
"He is... from when I was human, during my time as a demon slayer... my disciple."
Almost exclaiming "Eek..." Kibutsuji Muzan barely swallowed it and tightly closed his lips.
To think it was a master-disciple relationship. Not a simple connection but a deeper bond than imagined. Cold sweat forms. Perhaps I have been overlooking an outrageous fact until now?
"...Tell me."
Giving the command in a slightly trembling voice, Kokushibo nodded and straightened his back.
And so began the tale of the meeting between the sacrificed boy and the demon-slaying swordsman.
It started in a bamboo forest where moonless darkness had fallen.
・
・
・
If the memories with his friend were a shining treasure like glass to Kibutsuji Muzan, then to Kokushibo—Tsugikuni Michikatsu—Young Moon was an unexpected comfort like winter sunlight.
Of course, Kokushibo did not say that directly. Only by listening to his story and glimpsing his heart could one feel that.
Though the one calmly continuing the tale may not realize it, Kokushibo's expression when speaking of Young Moon is somewhat soft.
His eyes gentle, the corners of his mouth slightly parted, cheeks relaxed, so much so that one wonders how the Upper Rank One has such a foolish face.
But knowing that he too would make the same face when talking about his friend, Kibutsuji Muzan did not point it out and simply listened to Kokushibo's reminiscence.
Kokushibo seemed to have quite liked his disciple Young Moon, as unmistakable goodwill leaked from his words everywhere. It was slightly surprising that this man, filled with venom toward his own brother, also had such emotions.
Young Moon must have also held reverence for him. The Sengoku-era appearance recalled with nostalgia was still outrageous and groundbreaking, to the extent of rampaging in nearby bamboo forests and toying with lords.
However, that damage never reached Michikatsu, and one could guess that he was respected that much.
The master-disciple bond that understood each other.
How deep must the heart's pain have been, losing that bond along with the disciple's life.
"...What happened after is, as you know... I knelt before you... and became a demon."
Lamenting the loss of a successor.
Chased by the lifespan of a mark bearer.
Unyielding efforts bore no fruit.
Wounds of hatred and jealousy did not heal.
Leaving nothing behind, achieving nothing, becoming nothing, not even reaching his brother.
To this man driven by fate, Kibutsuji Muzan's invitation was literally a thread of hope cast into the abyss.
Tsugikuni Michikatsu, who wanted to fulfill the moon's wish, had no choice but to grab that thread. Even if hell awaited after death for him, it didn't matter.
Compared to perishing in the agony of being unable to do anything, any pain was merely a fleeting bubble.
"From then, for 200 years... were days devoted to endless training.... To not let down the moon who smiled, saying that was beautiful... honing and polishing swordsmanship that now only I know... But—"
Decades ago, on a certain moonless night.
Kokushibo says he saw his lost disciple.
At first, he dismissed it as a lookalike. Since the day he lost his disciple was also a moonless night, he thought he had mistaken due to sentimentality.
But through some契机, he became convinced that the boy was indeed his disciple.
"How did you know that?"
"Because he fled... swiftly into the bamboo forest."
"..."
Indeed, that's it!!
Understood in an instant. Accepted without a shred of doubt.
An inexplicable trust in the combination of bamboo forest and friend. But it can't be helped. Because Kibutsuji Muzan knows. That guy in the bamboo forest was always extraordinarily strong.
Because he once recited the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter to him, that guy discovered a thousand uses for bamboo and made a name as the bamboo forest destroyer of yokai. There are tales of him toying with sturdy warriors who came to subdue him, wondering if he was a type of yokai.
After that guy, chased by Kokushibo, jumped into the bamboo forest, the development was as expected. With the bamboo forest as an ally, his friend, though holding back somewhat, succeeded in completely shaking off Kokushibo.
Thus, Kokushibo lost the real white-haired, red-eyed one he had been searching for right before his eyes, but he could not be blamed for this.
Rather, the fact that he fought until sunrise against the ultimate combination of friend and bamboo forest alone is admirable. Strong heart. Well, it's understandable.
This man, even before his brother's transcendent swordsmanship talent, though captured by twisted emotions, never broke his spirit and remained a wielder of unyielding will to the end. The firmness of that will is like rock. I do not give up until I win.
I see, so that's it, indeed. So, the bamboo breathing user who once made Kokushibo a mess of bamboo leaves was ultimately my friend.
Facing the strongest of the Twelve Kizuki, Upper Rank One, without yielding an inch, indeed, only that word comes to mind.
Though angry at losing the white-haired, red-eyed one, scolding Kokushibo here would diminish his friend's skill. Kibutsuji Muzan swallowed his curses for now.
Above all, even without scolding now, Kokushibo himself must know best how big a deal it was to miss that opportunity.
"That disciple had a mark manifested.... Mark bearers die before turning twenty-five. No matter what, I had to find him by then... I searched and wandered, but..."
The hand placed on his knee clenched into a fist. The sound of knuckles cracking echoed like grinding teeth.
"Too late. Without even being able to see his face again... over ten years. The mark's lifespan must have already ended."
Demon nails are long, so gripping tightly would dig into flesh, yet he didn't care. Kokushibo, seized by frustration, acted as if punishing himself.
"If only I could have brought him then, he would not have met such a miserable death in this life... Like this, such a... reincarnation not even wielding a sword...!"
Blood seeped from the fist clenched in regret, the lips bitten in anger. Passion of the same color covered Kokushibo's heart.
In that red hue, detecting a color close to hatred, Kibutsuji Muzan narrowed his brows.
"...So resentful? To you, this not holding a sword is worthless enough to hate?"
Just moments ago, Kokushibo cried out inwardly why while looking at the neck. Was the fact that the disciple he taught swordsmanship did not use a sword but poison so despairing?
If so, this man must be punished. It is an unforgivable sin for his friend to be denied over the mere presence of a sword.
Killing intent squirmed in Kibutsuji Muzan's stomach. Hiding that revealed killing intent like a snake's tongue, he asked— Kokushibo answered in a quiet voice.
"...No. He is... farthest from my hatred..."
The quiet voice held no falsehood.
Kokushibo's heart was exactly as he had just uttered.
"My disciple poured exceptional passion into swordsmanship... never neglecting training for a moment... pursuing power, honing techniques... took pride in the sword... even with a young body... was truly an excellent warrior."
Nostalgia soaking in, the three pairs of eyes slightly narrowed were infinitely soft, as if even smiling.
But the next moment, that softness changed into precarious sharpness.
——Thus, it cannot be.
Hatred, or rather passion thick enough to be called killing intent, clung stickily to Kokushibo's heart.
——Cannot be, cannot be, cannot be. That you are not holding a sword.
His heart was screaming. A throb as if a roar burst from his stomach.
But that sharp arrowhead was not aimed at his disciple.
——He was a child with strong competitive spirit and never knew how to give up.
"That he did not hold a sword... there must have been a reason..."
——Yet he put down the sword. What tragedy befell that child?
"...He must have suffered a fatal deficiency that effort could not compensate..."
——In this life, were you not even allowed to strive?
"Thinking how disappointed my disciple must have been... it becomes a cursed feeling."
Gods, world. Ah— why? Why did you not even give that child the vessel to nurture talent?
Surely that child must have cried.
Must have despaired at himself for not being able to hold a sword.
Must have lamented his own powerlessness.
That child was surely such an existence!
Anger and despair as if the wings of a cherished fledgling bird were cruelly broken.
Cursing heaven and hating the world, Kokushibo muttered. So quietly, as if spitting out his true feelings intact.
"Frustrating, isn't it."
——Seeing Kokushibo, who was saved by a being like himself, lost a being like himself, and immersed in disappointment from ultimately not finding what he longed for, something welled up in Kibutsuji Muzan's chest. A strange camaraderie.
"...Kokushibo."
"Yes."
"Accompany me. We go now to bury this."
He had no heart to eat the neck of his friend in this life. Because his friend would not forgive that. The moment he took a bite, he felt he might shed tears at that taste, more dangerous than poison. So he decided to mourn.
But even with that decision, facing the neck alone was frightening.
So the existence of Kokushibo, immersed in the same disappointment, was most suitable for Kibutsuji Muzan.
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