Dōma had always been gentle and clever since he was a child. No matter the situation, he would help those in need, bringing them peace and happiness.
He saw it as his calling in life.
With rainbow-colored eyes and hair as pure as white oak, his unusual appearance led those around him to treat him as a prodigy—a child of destiny, someone who could hear the voices of the gods.
But in truth, he never heard any voices from the gods.
He only felt that everyone in this world was pitiable.
Why are you all so foolish? Why do you believe in gods and buddhas? Why do you endure so much suffering, clinging to delusions and wandering through life?
There had never been gods or buddhas in this world. When you died, there was nothing—such a simple and obvious truth, and yet you, living all these decades, still can't accept it… How miserable you must be.
Dōma believed he existed to save such people.
But his emotions were fundamentally lacking.
Things most people took for granted seemed utterly incomprehensible to him.
He couldn't feel fear in the face of death, so he never understood what that emotion was.
But in this moment… Dōma felt it clearly: a scorching, volcanic surge of feeling from every living cell in his body.
Unbearable agitation, a desperate urge to abandon everything and flee—every cell still brimming with vitality was clawing to escape.
So this… this is fear.
And not just any fear, but the terror of death.
But soon, Dōma realized… the source of that terror wasn't actually him. It was the "demon" blood within him—the cells of a demon.
His mind slipped into a daze; everything around him began to blur.
Fragments of memory flashed by in a torrent, piecing together into scenes before his eyes…
Darkness—suffocating, oppressive darkness, as deep and heavy as a grave.
For demons who feared the sun, the night should have been their kingdom. But this darkness was different.
In the darkness stood a monster—
No, not a monster, but a god—a god walking this earth.
His forehead and left cheek were marked with scars like blazing flames, crimson hair and a fiery haori swayed along with a pair of sun-shaped earrings.
"What's so funny? What's so amusing?"
His vision was gradually dyed blood red; the shadow of death loomed.
A deep, anger-suppressed voice rang out like a death knell.
"What do you take life for?"
These scattered fragments of memory—they came from Muzan's own cells.
This fear… it's Muzan-sama's?
These are… Muzan-sama's memories?!
With only two-thirds of a head left, Dōma couldn't regenerate. The demon cells, so full of vitality, only wanted to abandon him and escape as far as possible—they were no help at all, and if anything, his injuries only grew worse as a result.
"Germs—eliminated!"
A white-gloved fist crashed down, the shockwave shattering the earth, reducing Dōma's skull to dust finer than the eye could see.
Upper Moon Two, Dōma—dead.
When Muzan's cells gave up on saving Dōma and focused only on fleeing, his death was sealed.
Or rather… the moment Dōma chose to block Nightingale instead of letting her take Kochou Kanae away, his fate was decided.
Nightingale had never intended to kill him—until he just had to provoke her, pushing and taunting.
If Muzan's cells had retained even a sliver of reason, if they hadn't let terror overwhelm their senses, Dōma might have been able to flee, instead of being reduced to a sitting duck as Nightingale's fist descended.
If this had been a game, maybe Muzan could have seen a message above his head:
"Nightingale has killed Upper Moon Two, Dōma. Assist: Muzan Kibutsuji, Kochou Kanae."
At the very moment Nightingale killed Dōma, in a city far away, a terrible incident was unfolding.
In the Meiji era, Japan was eagerly absorbing knowledge from Western nations—education, culture, science, even lifestyle.
Inside a grand Western-style, three-story house—something only the wealthy or noble could afford—ordinary folk wouldn't even dare get close.
It was still hours before dawn. The mansion was shrouded in pitch darkness, with not a single light shining, yet the air was thick with the scent of blood.
"—hha… haa…"
A small, shadowy figure gasped for breath, chest heaving as if he'd just barely been saved from drowning.
The room was a disaster: the chandelier had crashed to the floor in pieces, the bookshelves ripped apart and collapsed, the walls themselves torn open, pages of ruined books scattered everywhere.
The doors and windows were locked tight, the stagnant air heavy with a stench of blood so strong it was nauseating. Thick blood pooled on the wooden floor, staining the red carpet ever darker.
"Damn it… damn it! Damn it! Damn it!!"
The boy's scarlet, demonic eyes blazed with a furious light, wild and feral like a rabid beast. His teeth were sharp and vicious, like those of a creature born to devour flesh and blood.
The scent of slaughter and countless lives lost warped the very space around him, a suffocating blood-reek that seemed to dye the air itself crimson.
"DAMN IT!!"
In a fit of rage, his once-small right arm shot out, stretching many times its normal length, transforming into a whip that tore a nearby bookshelf to splinters and shreds.
"I am the Demon King who has lived a thousand years! The strongest being in existence, closest to perfection! And yet… and yet…"
This "boy" was the Demon King of this world, the progenitor of all demons—Kibutsuji Muzan.
He could control every aspect of his own body, freely altering his appearance—becoming a child, a beautiful woman, whatever he wished. This ability made it impossible for the Demon Slayer Corps to track him by appearance.
He could also, with a single thought, annihilate any demon bearing his blood, and even read their memories through his cells.
So, Muzan had received Dōma's dying memories.
That was why he was so furious.
It was not Dōma's death that angered him. Even if the fallen demon was Upper Moon Two, it stirred no emotion in him. If not for the Blue Spider Lily, he'd have wiped out every demon capable of threatening his position as Demon King long ago—he felt nothing for their deaths.
What truly enraged him was his own fear, his own loss of composure—the fact that he'd been frightened by a mere human.
He, the closest thing to perfection in this world, had nearly lost control just from the gaze and a few words of a "normal" human—someone who didn't even use a Breathing Style?!!
Whenever Muzan thought of it, he wanted to destroy everything, to gorge himself on blood and carnage.
The devastation in this room was the result of his own panic and loss of control. Terrified out of his wits, he'd torn apart books, smashed shelves and walls, and made such a racket that the owners—playing the part of the child whose body he inhabited—had been drawn by the commotion.
In a fit of rage, whether to vent or to cover up his panic, Muzan had massacred everyone in the house. Torn organs and scraps of flesh were left strewn across the floors and walls.
Not just the owners, but all the maids, the butler, even the dog in the yard—none survived. When the smell of blood wafted outside and the dog began to bark, Muzan, already at the end of his patience, killed the animal without a thought.
What Dōma saw in his final moments was Muzan's memory—a nightmare that had haunted Muzan for a century.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi, founder of the Breathing Styles, the strongest swordsman of the Sengoku era.
That day, the ever-arrogant Muzan met Yoriichi in a bamboo grove.
And in a single instant, he was cut to pieces.
It was the first time since becoming a demon that Muzan had ever felt so close to death.
Overwhelmed by fear and fury, Muzan could only hear those same words echoing in his ears—
"What's so funny? What's so amusing?"
"What do you take life for?"
A hundred years had passed, yet he heard that accusation again. That nightmare, suppressed for so long, flooded back with a vengeance.
But… but…
That swordsman was one thing. But a mere human, someone who can't even use Breathing Techniques… and I'm scared of someone like that?
Gritting his teeth so hard they nearly broke, Muzan growled out a guttural, animalistic snarl, thick veins bulging with rage at his temples.
He'd never mastered any Breathing Style himself, but after all these years, he'd seen countless swordsmen who did. Even if he hadn't learned the technique, he could recognize it when he saw it. Through Dōma's memories, he saw clearly that Nightingale never used any Breathing Style—not Sun Breathing, not any of the ones the Corps used.
Her power and speed were monstrous, but as long as it wasn't the Sun Breathing that could suppress demon regeneration, Muzan felt no real fear.
In other words…
If that woman could use Sun Breathing, then I'd be in real danger…
His breath quickened. Just recalling Tsugikuni Yoriichi, even hearing the words "Sun Breathing," was enough to make Muzan tremble.
Maybe it was just coincidence, those three familiar questions. Back then, driven by terror, Muzan had hunted down anyone related to Sun Breathing as soon as he returned, desperate to make sure another Yoriichi never appeared.
But… what if?
What if that woman really was connected to Yoriichi? What if she truly did know Sun Breathing…?
Muzan didn't dare take the risk.
The last time he'd underestimated Yoriichi, he'd nearly been destroyed in an instant. He never wanted to experience such terror again.
I have to be sure…
Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to sleep at night.
If that red-eyed woman could use Sun Breathing… he was ready to disappear for another hundred years.
Nightingale, of course, was oblivious to Muzan's turmoil.
Even if she knew, she probably wouldn't care much.
After all, she was busy saving lives.
Unable to sleep from worry, Afune saw Nightingale return at last—carrying a beautiful, pale-faced onee-san who kept coughing up blood.
"Afune! This patient's condition is critical—there's no time to lose! I have to operate immediately. Don't let anyone interrupt!"
"Y-Yes!"
Afune barely got her answer out before the door slammed shut behind Nightingale.
The operating room was just a bedroom Afune had hastily converted, but it was enough. Nightingale could conjure any needed surgical instruments and medicines from her bag, using mana.
Even as a makeshift space, it was no less sterile than a modern operating room—Nightingale's obsession with disinfection had reached the level of mania.
Kochou Kanae, dazed and bewildered, was still looking around the strange room when Nightingale injected her with anesthetic. In less than a second, Kanae lost consciousness.
And then the surgery began…
To be honest, Nightingale—or rather, Fenghuang—disliked being a surgeon, hated having to operate.
Probability could get her as close as possible to a 100% success rate, but never truly reach it.
Save a hundred or a thousand lives, and people might never remember. But lose just one, and malice, blame, and resentment would find you.
If the surgery succeeded, people would thank God, because it cost nothing to thank a god.
If it failed, they'd blame the doctor—because you can't take revenge on a god.
Worst of all, doctors themselves… Even saving a hundred or a thousand lives couldn't erase the guilt of losing one. That's why so many quit after a while—those too sensitive simply couldn't endure it.
At least, Fenghuang was like that. No matter how hard she tried, it hurt too much to watch life slip away despite her efforts.
"That's why anyone who tells you to go into medicine deserves to be struck by lightning…"
Finishing the operation, Nightingale muttered to herself.
"I wonder if teaching Afune medicine was the right decision after all…"
---
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