Warmth.
That was the first sensation Muzan felt. For the first time in years, he experienced true warmth, not the fleeting heat that sometimes flickered in his chest before disappearing, but a genuine warmth that flowed through his limbs and settled deep within his bones.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight poured through a window, creating golden patches on the wooden floor. The air was filled with the scents of fresh tatami and cherry blossoms, rather than the mustiness of mold and decay.
Muzan sat up.
The motion felt effortless. His arms were steady and strong, his muscles responding instantly. He glanced down at his hands, now healthy and firm instead of the sickly translucent grey he remembered.
His heart beat with a strong, consistent rhythm—no skips, no sudden halts—just a steady pulse that felt strange after two decades of irregularity.
This was not right.
The door slid open, and a woman entered with a tray of tea and rice. With long black hair and a familiar face he recognized from a single portrait his father had kept, she was his mother—who had died giving birth to him.
"You slept in today," she said. "Are you feeling okay?"
Muzan was speechless, his throat constricting.
She placed a hand on his forehead. "No fever. That's good. You've been overdoing it with your training lately."
Training. He looked once more at his arms, which were now toned and muscular rather than skinny and frail, with calluses on his palms from sword practice.
"I'm fine," he said, almost mechanically.
His mother smiled. "Good. Have your breakfast. Your teacher will be here soon."
She left, closing the door behind her.
Muzan sat in silence, haunted by the last memory of a root crushing his chest, the agony, and the encroaching darkness. He should be dead.
The room was filled with reminders of a life he had never led—practice swords on a rack, neatly stacked scrolls—everything meticulously kept.
He stood up. His legs bore his weight without a tremor. No pain in his joints, no numbness in his feet.
Through the window, he spotted a tall figure approaching with long black hair tied back, moving with the precision of someone skilled in combat.
Footsteps echoed, and the door opened.
A man entered, likely in his thirties, bearing a stern expression and sharp eyes. "You're awake. Good. We have work to do."
"Yes, sensei," Muzan replied. The term felt instinctive, as if he had used it countless times before. A part of him recognized this man as Michikatsu, knowing he had been training under him for years.
Yet another part—the one that recalled dying in darkness—knew that none of this could be genuine.
---
The training was grueling.
Strike, block, pivot, strike again. Each movement had to be precise. His legs ached, sweat soaked his clothes, but his body complied. His heart maintained its steady rhythm, fueling limbs that felt fully functional.
"Your form is off today," Michikatsu noted. "You're distracted."
Muzan kept his silence.
Michikatsu appraised him. "Something is bothering you. If you want to talk, I'm here."
His sincerity tightened Muzan's chest. "I'll be fine."
---
Days began to blur.
Each morning brought training with Michikatsu, afternoons spent studying, and evenings with his family—sharing meals and discussing the day.
His mother was nurturing. His father, the current daimyo of the Land of Iron, was proud. Genzo was there as well, older yet sharp, recounting familiar tales of Muzan's grandfather.
It should have been idyllic—everything Muzan had longed for.
Yet, the awareness that it wasn't real tainted every moment.
At night, he'd lie awake, trying to picture the hut—the crack in the ceiling, Genzo's trembling hands, the erratic beats of his own heart.
Those memories felt more vivid than anything in this life. But they were gradually fading.
One evening, his mother joined him in the garden, sitting by him in silence.
"You've been quiet lately," she eventually remarked.
Muzan struggled to respond.
"I'm fine," he replied.
She took his hand. "You can share anything with me. That's what mothers do."
Something shattered within him, and tears streamed down his face before he could stop them. She pulled him close.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it together," she whispered. "You're not alone."
---
His father wanted him to begin learning administrative duties, preparing to one day take over as daimyo.
Muzan listened and nodded at the appropriate moments. Part of him absorbed the lessons, while another part reflected on Uncle Shinji, who had taken everything from the real world and about being exiled to die alone.
None of this would last.
Yet, he attended meetings, playing the role of an heir learning his responsibilities.
The months rolled on, and every night, he pondered when this would come to an end.
---
It transpired on a seemingly ordinary morning.
Muzan practiced sword forms in the courtyard. The movements were automatic—strike, pivot, block, strike again.
After pausing to catch his breath, he noticed the warm sun and the melodious birdsong. Everything seemed peaceful and perfect.
And yet, it felt wrong.
He thought of Genzo perishing in his place, of his heart stopping when the intruder's scythe severed his throat.
These events happened, he was certain, but they felt distant now, like tales told long ago.
This life began to erase them, replacing the truth with something better yet fundamentally false.
Muzan dropped the practice sword.
He shut his eyes, trying to hold onto what truly mattered: the crack in the ceiling, Genzo's weathered hands, the metallic taste of fear.
Authentic memories. Events that had truly occurred.
When he reopened his eyes, his mother stood at the courtyard's edge, looking worried.
"Muzan? What's wrong?"
She'd never existed—his real mother had died the day he was born.
This woman was merely an illusion.
But she seemed so real.
"Nothing," he answered. "I'm fine."
---
That night, he dreamed of the cave—the roots suffocating his chest, the abyss, the agony of death.
He woke with a gasp, the room enveloped in darkness.
Muzan approached the window. The garden shimmered in the moonlight, beautiful and tranquil.
Real enough to nearly convince him.
But he couldn't allow himself to accept it as real. Doing so would mean losing whatever remnants of his genuine self remained—the sick, dying boy who had waited twenty years for his heart to stop.
That boy deserved to be remembered.
He pressed his hand against the window frame, the wood solid beneath his fingers, feeling its texture and imperfections.
It felt real.
Yet, so had Genzo's hand during their last shared meal.
Muzan closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall. The numbness of his tongue. The struggle to swallow. The warmth of the broth.
Specific, tangible details that couldn't be fabricated.
When he opened his eyes, the room appeared different—its edges softer, as if viewed through water.
He blinked, and the effect vanished.
But he had seen it: the crack in the facade.
---
The following morning, he began to search for the seams.
He discovered them in fleeting moments—conversations that circled back upon themselves, phrases uttered with identical tones, his father's expression remaining unchanged when Muzan said something out of the ordinary.
During training, he flung his practice sword at Michikatsu's feet.
"What are you doing?" Michikatsu asked.
"I don't want to train today."
Confusion crossed his teacher's face, followed by concern and then disappointment. "Is something wrong? Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Then pick up your sword. We have work to do."
"What if I refuse?"
The question genuinely confused Michikatsu. After a pause, he replied, "Why would you refuse? Training is important. You know this."
Muzan picked up the sword. The moment he did, Michikatsu's confusion evaporated, and their training resumed as if nothing had happened.
As if the script corrected itself.
---
The tolerance threshold came a week later.
Muzan was in the garden with Genzo when he interrupted the old man's familiar tale.
"Genzo, how did my mother die?"
Genzo blinked. "Your mother? She's not dead, young lord. She's inside, preparing dinner."
"My real mother—the one who gave birth to me."
"That is your real mother," Genzo replied, concern etched on his face. "What are you saying?"
"She passed away when I was born. My father kept one portrait; it's the only reason I know what she looked like."
Genzo's features shifted from confusion to worry. "You're not making sense. Maybe you should rest."
"I'm not sick." Muzan stood. "Or I am. I've been unwell my entire life. My heart stops multiple times daily. I cannot walk without assistance. I was born dying."
"Muzan, please sit down." Genzo reached for him, but Muzan stepped back. "You're perfectly healthy. You've always been healthy."
"No, I haven't. None of this is real. This is just something my dying mind has conjured."
Footsteps echoed behind him. His parents approached, visibly concerned.
"Tell them," Muzan urged Genzo. "Tell them how you died protecting me. About the intruder's scythe that nearly severed you in two."
Genzo only looked more puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Because it didn't happen here. Because this isn't real."
His mother moved closer. "Muzan, you're scaring us."
"You want to know what's wrong? What's wrong is that you died giving birth to me. What's wrong is that I've been dying since birth. What's wrong is that Genzo is dead, and I'm likely dead too—and this ideal life is nothing but a lie."
His father tried to approach him. "Son, you need to lie down. You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking clearer than I have in weeks." Muzan stepped back, feeling cornered. "Every day here, I lose more of the truth. Soon, I won't remember what was real at all."
"Please," his mother pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. "Come inside."
The tears appeared genuine, and her pain rang true.
Yet she was mistaken. She was a fabrication, an echo of a life that could have been.
Muzan looked at all three of them—his perfect family that had never really existed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't stay here."
"Where would you go?" his father asked. "This is your home."
"No, it isn't. It never was."
Muzan closed his eyes, anchoring himself to the memories he had guarded: the hut, the cave, the sting of death. They felt faint, almost worn away.
But they remained.
Real things. True things.
He drew in those memories, embracing them until there was no space left for the illusion.
The garden started to blur. His family called for him, their faces twisted in confusion, fear, and love.
They didn't grasp why he was leaving. To them, he was abandoning a good life without reason.
They couldn't comprehend that they were the true abandonment—the cruel trick, the false hope offered to a dying boy in his last moments.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For showing me what I could have had."
Then he let go.
The world shattered like glass, and Muzan awoke to reality.