"Tsugikuni Yoriichi… it really is you!"
Kokushibō's six eyes widened in unison. The initial flare of jealousy that had twisted inside them quickly dissipated, only to be replaced by something far more violent—rage burning so hot it threatened to consume him.
[Breath of the Moon, First Form: Dark Moon · Evening Palace]
The crescent-shaped iai slash shot forth at terrifying speed.
Hayashi suppressed his expression and shifted his body at the last possible instant, narrowly evading the flash-fast cut. His gaze sharpened.
As expected of the Upper Rank One. Kokushibō's power eclipses ordinary demons entirely. If not for my restoration having reached 45%, dodging that attack so cleanly would've been impossible.
And if he hadn't been distracted at first… if my movement had carried even a trace of hesitation…
Hayashi knew Kokushibō would have instantly noticed the flaw in his "Tsugikuni Yoriichi" guise. If that happened, his carefully prepared "surprise" for Kokushibō and Muzan would have been lost.
[Breath of the Moon, Second Form: Pearl Flower Moongazing]
Kokushibō twisted mid-step, unleashing twin blade-winds that tore through the air.
With a sharp draw, Hayashi's dark-red Nichirin blade met the strikes head-on. The clash rang out like shattering bells. Though his guard held, his knuckles throbbed with numbness.
It was no surprise. In the original history, even in his twilight years, Yoriichi had scarred Kokushibō deeply with a single cut. Kokushibō himself had admitted—one more strike, and his head would have been severed entirely. Even skeletal and frail, Yoriichi's speed and power had never diminished.
Now, after his consecutive attacks found no mark, Kokushibō's voice boiled with fury:
"Tsugikuni Yoriichi… you should never have been resurrected!"
"I once asked you about choosing a successor. Do you remember what you said? That we overestimated ourselves—that somewhere, a child with talent surpassing even yours must already exist."
His six eyes burned with hatred.
"If that was truly your belief… then why return from death?!"
The words broke in his throat. His mind drowned in rancor.
Why is it always him?
Yoriichi, who had picked up the sword for the first time, instantly stood leagues beyond any swordsman. Yoriichi, cursed with the Mark that cut short lives, yet somehow enduring into old age. Yoriichi, struck down by death, yet appearing once more before him!
Kokushibō had spat insults earlier, dismissing the figure before him as a pale imitator. But after failing twice to cut him down, a poisonous realization slithered into his thoughts.
Am I not the one who has been imitating Yoriichi all along?
Chasing after his back, failing to reach him, twisting myself into this grotesque existence…
The realization left him dizzy, his vision swimming under the weight of his own contradictions.
Hayashi felt it clearly—another will had intruded into Kokushibō's mind, forcefully sharing his senses.
At the same moment, Hayashi's eyes sharpened. The opportunity he had been waiting for was finally here.
Since Muzan Kibutsuji had sent Kokushibō to investigate the burial place of Tsugikuni Yoriichi, he would never rest easy without a clear answer. If Kokushibō's emotions faltered, Muzan would not be able to resist intervening directly, seizing control, and "logging in" to confirm the truth with his own eyes.
That was the reason Hayashi's words—"How pathetic, Onii-sama"—and the mention of the flute had been so precise. He had struck Kokushibō where his heart was weakest, shaking the centuries of iron composure.
Muzan Kibutsuji, who ruled over all demons and could monitor their thoughts, would inevitably sense the disturbance. And the cowardice in Muzan's nature guaranteed he would step in personally.
Now, Hayashi would deliver a strike that would shake them both.
He stood tall, voice deep and resonant, echoing with Yoriichi's conviction:
"When I first encountered Muzan Kibutsuji, I understood my mission in this world… to eradicate him!"
"Though I failed once, even if it means defying death itself, I will return again!"
"You and Muzan both tremble before death. But you forget—death is not to be feared."
"Because death… can be conquered!"
The flame-like mark upon Hayashi's forehead spread outward, and his breath misted pale white into the night air. The dark-red Nichirin blade, already in its crimson state, suddenly flared—sunlight bursting from its edge, dazzling enough to blind.
Hayashi knew well: even now, with his restoration incomplete, he could not yet replicate the final slash Yoriichi had delivered before his death. But he also understood his advantage.
Through the Transparent World, his vision pierced into Kokushibō's body, locking onto a scar at his neck—an eternal wound left by Yoriichi centuries ago.
The man was long gone, but his legacy lived on in scars that even time and death could not erase: the thirteen marks seared into Muzan's flesh, the wound on Kokushibō's neck. All were Yoriichi's proof, signs carved into the world for those who would follow.
Meanwhile, in the Infinity Castle (Mugen-jō).
After days of gnawing anxiety, Muzan's paranoia triumphed over caution. Despite knowing the strain it would cause Kokushibō, he forcibly projected his will, merging his sight, his hearing, even his sense of touch with Kokushibō's body.
And then—he heard Hayashi's words.
"The mission of this life…"
"Death can be conquered…"
The moment those words reached him, Muzan's five brains trembled violently, and his seven hearts quivered as if ready to burst.
It's him!
Could this man even defeat death itself?!
A wave of primal terror seized him. His muscles twitched, convulsing, instinctively seeking to scatter, to split and flee. In that blind panic, he forgot to cut off the connection—forgot that his fear and Kokushibō's senses were now one.
And so, together, the two of them saw it:
Hayashi's blade igniting in a storm of solar flame.
Shhhk!
The Nichirin Sword cleaved through the air, its edge wrapped in burning sunlight.
The brilliance filled their vision.
And in that instant—Muzan Kibutsuji himself felt it. The blade biting into his neck, scorching, searing, burning him alive—