A child, about eight or nine years old, ran after a butterfly through the garden. His face was full of joy.
Nearby, a beautiful woman with long hair and fair skin watched him, motherly affection clear in her eyes.
She called out, afraid he might get hurt.
"Muzan, don't run too fast! You'll get hurt if you fall."
But the child was lost in his play. He smiled and shouted without turning back.
"Mom! I'm fine, so don't worry! I won't fall—I'm a big strong man."
The woman's face softened and she smiled. She walked toward Muzan and hugged him from behind, then whispered sweetly in his ear.
"Is that so? Has my little Muzan finally grown up and become a man?"
Muzan immediately turned in her arms and hugged his mother. He smiled proudly. "Yes! Father promised I'm going to learn kenjutsu starting tomorrow!"
The woman covered her smile with her hand. "That's great news! How about we celebrate with a feast when your father returns home tonight?"
Muzan's eyes gleamed with joy. "Really?! Then promise me!"
The woman patted Muzan's head and smiled brightly. "Yes, I promise. But first you have to take a bath, okay?"
Muzan's smile vanished and nervousness crossed his face. He pointed at nothing and called out, "Mom, look! A butterfly!"
His mother turned to look, and as soon as she did, Muzan slipped from her embrace and ran away giggling.
"Hehe~ I'm a grown man! I'll decide when to shower!"
But he couldn't escape for long. A large figure suddenly blocked his path and he stumbled into it.
The old man looked at the young child with a smile and quickly caught him before he could fall.
"Young lord, your new teacher will be coming to meet you tonight. You have to look presentable before him, don't you?"
Muzan looked up at the old man with his big, round yellow eyes.
"...Okay. But you have to tell me stories of Grandpa once again!"
The old man's body shook as he laughed. "Alright, young lord."
Muzan's mother walked over to them. She looked at the old man and smiled wearily. "You're truly the only one he listens to, Genzo."
Genzo smiled as he greeted her. "Good afternoon, Madame. Young lord has always been very obedient."
Then he turned to Muzan and asked with a smile, "Isn't that correct, young lord?"
Muzan looked at Genzo's face, then his mother's. After struggling for a while, he finally nodded. "...Yes."
The woman laughed softly. She walked over and took Muzan's hand. "Come now, let's get you ready. We have a big evening ahead of us."
Muzan allowed himself to be led away, though he kept turning back to wave at Genzo, who stood in the garden watching them with that same warm smile.
---
That evening, the house was filled with warmth and light. Lanterns hung from every corner, casting a golden glow across the dining hall. The smell of grilled fish, rice, and sweet dumplings filled the air, making Muzan's stomach rumble.
His father arrived just as the sun began to set. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and kind eyes—eyes that always seemed to soften whenever they landed on Muzan. He swept into the room with presence, yet the moment he saw his son, all formality melted away.
"Muzan!" his father called out, kneeling down with open arms.
Muzan ran to him without hesitation, crashing into his father's chest with a happy laugh. His father lifted him easily, spinning him around once before setting him down.
"Today is a special day," his father said, ruffling Muzan's hair. "My son is finally going to learn the way of the sword."
Muzan nodded eagerly, his chest puffed out with pride. "Yes! I'm going to become the strongest swordsman in all the land!"
His father chuckled, a deep, comforting sound. "I have no doubt you will. But strength isn't just about the sword, Muzan. It's about the heart. Remember that."
Before Muzan could respond, the door slid open, and a figure stepped inside.
The man was tall—taller than his father—with a powerful build that seemed to fill the entire doorway. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, with red-tipped bangs framing his face. His expression was stern, almost intimidating, but there was a calmness in his eyes that put Muzan at ease.
"This is Michikatsu Tsugikuni," his father said, placing a hand on Muzan's shoulder. "He will be your teacher starting tomorrow."
Michikatsu stepped forward and knelt down to meet Muzan's gaze. For a long moment, he simply observed the boy. Then he nodded.
"You have good eyes," Michikatsu said quietly. "They hold determination. That is the first step."
Muzan blinked, unsure how to respond. But then Michikatsu's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.
"Rest well tonight, Muzan. Tomorrow, your real journey begins."
---
The feast that followed was everything Muzan had hoped for. The table was full of food, and laughter filled the room. His mother sat beside him, occasionally reaching over to wipe a bit of rice from his cheek. His father told stories of how their family was originally a family of samurai and how his great-grandfather became the Daimyo of the Land of Iron, his voice animated and full of life. Genzo sat nearby, nodding along and adding his own comments. Michikatsu, who had initially seemed so distant, shared a few quiet words.
That night, as Muzan lay in bed, his mother came to tuck him in. She sat beside him, brushing his hair back with gentle fingers.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked softly.
Muzan nodded, his eyelids already growing heavy. "The best day."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Then sleep well, my little warrior. Tomorrow is a new beginning."
As she stood to leave, Muzan reached out and grabbed her hand.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Will you always be here?"
She paused for just a moment. Then she smiled—a smile so full of love it made Muzan's heart feel full.
"Always," she whispered. "I will always be here."
And with that, Muzan closed his eyes and drifted into peaceful sleep.
---
Years passed like pages in a book.
Muzan's days became a rhythm of training, laughter, and learning. Each morning, he woke to the sound of birds singing outside his window. Each morning, Genzo would greet him with tea and a story. And each morning, Michikatsu would be waiting in the courtyard, wooden sword in hand.
"Again," Michikatsu would say, his voice firm but never harsh.
And Muzan would rise, no matter how many times he fell.
The training was hard. His muscles ached, his hands blistered, and more than once he found himself lying flat on his back, staring up at the sky in frustration. But Michikatsu never let him give up.
"Strength is not found in victory," Michikatsu told him one afternoon, after Muzan had collapsed from exhaustion. "It is found in the will to stand again."
Muzan looked up at his teacher, sweat dripping down his face. "But what if I can't?"
Michikatsu extended a hand. "Then I will help you stand. And one day, you will help someone else."
Muzan took his hand.
---
By the time Muzan turned twelve, he had grown taller, his frame filling out with lean muscle. His strikes were sharper, his footwork more precise. Michikatsu began to push him harder, introducing new techniques.
"Your body can only do what your mind allows," Michikatsu said during one lesson. "If your thoughts are clouded, your blade will be too."
Muzan frowned. "How do I clear my mind?"
"By understanding what truly matters."
It was a vague answer, but Muzan didn't press further. Instead, he continued to train, day after day, year after year.
His father often watched from the veranda, a proud smile on his face. His mother would bring them water and snacks, always fussing over whether Muzan was pushing himself too hard. And Genzo would sit nearby, occasionally offering words of encouragement or recounting tales of Muzan's grandfather.
"Your grandfather once faced twenty men alone," Genzo said one evening, his voice filled with nostalgia. "And he emerged without a single scratch."
Muzan's eyes widened. "Really?!"
Genzo chuckled. "Well, perhaps a few scratches. But the point is, he never gave up. That's what made him strong."
Muzan absorbed every word.
---
On a quiet afternoon when Muzan was fifteen, something changed.
He had just finished his training and was walking through the garden, admiring the cherry blossoms that had begun to bloom. The air was sweet, the sky a perfect shade of blue. Everything felt... perfect.
Too perfect.
Muzan stopped walking, a strange sensation creeping up his spine. He looked around, taking in the familiar sights—the garden, the house, the distant mountains. Everything was exactly as it had always been.
Exactly.
He frowned, trying to shake off the unease. But the feeling persisted, like a whisper at the edge of his consciousness.
"Muzan?"
He turned to see his mother approaching, concern on her face.
"Are you all right? You look troubled."
Muzan opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. For a brief moment—just a fleeting instant—her face seemed to flicker, like a reflection on disturbed water.
He blinked, and the image was gone. She stood before him, as solid and real as ever.
"I'm fine," he said quietly, though the unease didn't leave.
She reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, her touch warm and comforting. "If something is bothering you, you can always tell me."
Muzan nodded, forcing a smile. "I know."
But as she walked away, the whisper grew louder.
Something is wrong.
---
At sixteen, Muzan began to notice small things—details that didn't quite fit. The way the sun always seemed to set at the exact same time. The way conversations would loop back on themselves, repeating phrases he'd heard before. The way his father's smile never wavered, no matter what was said.
He tried to ignore it, to push it down and focus on his training. But the more he tried to forget, the more the inconsistencies piled up.
One day, he spoke with Genzo.
"Genzo," Muzan said slowly, his voice uncertain. "Do you ever feel like... like something is missing?"
Genzo looked up from the tea he was preparing, genuinely puzzled. "Missing, young lord? What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Just... something feels off."
Genzo smiled warmly, completely unaware. "Perhaps you're just growing up. That's normal—the world starts to feel different as we age. But you're surrounded by people who love you. What more could you need?"
Muzan wanted to argue, but Genzo's sincerity was complete. He truly believed everything was fine.
Because to him, it was.
---
A year passed and Muzan turned seventeen.
Michikatsu found him sitting alone in the courtyard one evening, staring up at the stars.
"You've been distracted lately," Michikatsu observed, settling down beside him. "Your form is suffering."
Muzan didn't respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Sensei... do you ever wonder if there's something beyond all this?"
Michikatsu looked at him with genuine concern. "Beyond what? This is your home, Muzan. Your life. Why would you question it?"
"I don't know," Muzan admitted, his frustration growing. "Sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to remember something. Something important."
Michikatsu frowned, placing a hand on his shoulder with real worry. "You're pushing yourself too hard in training. Perhaps you need rest. I'll speak with your father about reducing your sessions."
"No, that's not—"
"Muzan," Michikatsu said firmly, his eyes filled with concern. "You're young. Don't burden yourself with strange thoughts. Focus on what's real—your family, your training, your future."
---
When he turned eighteen, the dreams began.
Flashes of a cold, dark room. The smell of blood. Screams echoing in the distance. And Genzo... Genzo lying on the ground, smiling even as life left his eyes.
Muzan woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. He looked around wildly, half-expecting to find himself back in that nightmare. But no—he was in his room, safe and warm.
His mother appeared in the doorway, her face filled with genuine concern.
"Muzan? What's wrong? I heard you cry out."
He stared at her, his chest tight. "Mother... I... I had a dream. A terrible dream. You were—you weren't there. You had never been there."
Her face filled with hurt and confusion. She crossed the room quickly and pulled him into her arms.
"Not there? Muzan, I don't understand. I've always been here. I've always been with you." Her voice trembled slightly. "Did you dream I had abandoned you?"
"No, it's... you died. When I was born. You died giving birth to me."
She pulled back, her eyes shimmering with tears. "Oh, my sweet boy. What a horrible nightmare. But look—I'm right here. I'm alive." She took his hand and pressed it against her chest, where he could feel a heartbeat. "Feel that? I'm here. I've always been here."
The heartbeat felt so real. She felt so real.
Muzan wanted to believe her. Part of him desperately did.
---
After turning nineteen, he stopped training as much, spending more time alone.
His family grew worried. They had quiet conversations when they thought he couldn't hear.
"He's been so distant lately," his mother said to his father one evening.
"Perhaps he's just at that age," his father replied. "Finding himself. We should give him space."
"But what if something's truly wrong?" she pressed, her worry genuine.
Genzo joined the conversation. "The young lord has always been strong-willed. Perhaps he's simply struggling with something he needs to work through on his own."
Michikatsu was the most concerned. He approached Muzan directly one afternoon.
"You've been avoiding training. Avoiding all of us, really. Your parents are worried. I'm worried." His expression was stern but caring. "Whatever burden you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone. We're your family."
"That's just it," Muzan said quietly. "What if you're not?"
Michikatsu looked genuinely confused and a bit hurt. "What are you talking about? Of course we're your family. Muzan, you're speaking nonsense. Has someone said something to upset you?"
The concern in his teacher's voice was so real, so completely authentic, that Muzan felt his resolve waver.
Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe these feelings, these fragmented memories, were just delusions.
Maybe this perfect life was real, and the nightmare was just his mind playing tricks on him.
---
On the day Muzan turned twenty, his family threw him a celebration in the garden.
His mother had prepared all his favorite foods. His father gave a heartfelt speech about how proud he was. Genzo presented him with a sword that had belonged to his grandfather. Michikatsu acknowledged him as having completed his basic training.
They laughed. They celebrated. They were happy.
And Muzan... Muzan felt the world cracking around him.
He looked at their faces—faces filled with joy and love and pride—and he knew.
He knew they weren't real.
Not in the way that mattered.
They were echoes. Shadows. Beautiful lies his mind had woven to protect him from unbearable truth.
His mother noticed his expression. "Muzan? Are you all right? You look pale."
"I'm fine," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just... overwhelmed with happiness."
She beamed, completely believing him. "Good! You deserve all the happiness in the world, my son."
*My son.*
She had never called him that in reality. She had never lived long enough to call him that.
The cracks in his perception widened. The garden began to feel less solid. Colors seemed too bright, sounds too perfect.
"Muzan?" his father called, concern entering his voice. "Son, what's wrong?"
But Muzan couldn't answer. He was staring at his hands, watching them begin to fade, become translucent.
"Young lord?" Genzo stepped forward, his expression alarmed. "Young lord, please, speak to us!"
Michikatsu grabbed his shoulders. "Muzan! Stay with us!"
They were afraid. Genuinely afraid. Not because they knew they were illusions about to disappear, but because they thought something was happening to him.
Because to them, this was real. This had always been real.
They loved him completely, wholly, without knowing they were never supposed to exist.
And that made it so much worse.
"I'm sorry," Muzan whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" his mother asked, reaching for him. "Muzan, please—"
But the world was already dissolving.
His family reached for him, calling his name, their voices filled with confusion and fear and love—so much love.
They didn't understand why he was leaving.
They didn't understand why their world was ending.
They just knew they were losing their son, their student, their young lord.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
The last thing Muzan saw was his mother's face, tears streaming down her cheeks, mouthing words he could no longer hear.
Then everything shattered.
And Muzan woke up to reality.