Muzan inhaled sharply as the illusion around him disintegrated. His eyes flew open; he found himself back in the chamber, still ensconced in the root cocoon.
The bark around him crackled and fell off. Thorns retreated from his skin, leaving behind puncture marks on his arms and torso. The cocoon split open, and he tumbled forward onto the cold stone floor.
He was weak. The tree had been siphoning his strength, but not long enough to kill him. In the chamber, other prisoners were not as fortunate—many had shriveled into mere husks within their cocoons.
At the center of the chamber, a grey-haired man stood on a platform, arms wide open.
"Ten years of devotion! A thousand offerings to nurture the sacred seed! Lord Jashin's promise realized!"
Muzan's gaze fixated on the tree. It was ancient and gnarled, with grey bark split by the passage of time. But hanging from its central branch was a fruit the size of a small melon, its skin shifting between purple, gold, and deep red, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The tree had consumed countless lives to create that single fruit.
Muzan attempted to rise but collapsed again as his legs failed him. The weakness from his affliction returned the moment he exited the illusion. His heart faltered, stopping for three seconds before resuming its rhythm.
He was dying, perhaps an hour away from his heart ceasing for good.
The grey-haired man remained unaware of his escape, his back still turned.
Muzan glanced at the fruit once more, his body reacting intensely to it—as if a drowning person grasped for air. It was a reservoir of concentrated life energy drained from countless individuals.
Using their deaths for his own survival felt wrong. Yet Genzo had sacrificed himself for a few more moments of life. Would he squander that sacrifice?
Muzan crawled toward the tree, his arms trembling with each move. His heart stopped twice over the ten feet he covered. By the time he reached the base, his vision was fading.
The grey-haired man continued his speech. "The convergence is near! Lord Jashin's blessing has been realized!"
Muzan reached up and snatched the fruit.
Silence engulfed the chamber.
The grey-haired man turned slowly, his face contorted in rage.
"You! You were meant to be dead."
Muzan gazed at the warm, pulsing fruit in his hand.
"Put that down." The man reached for his scythe. "That fruit is Lord Jashin's blessing, my reward for a decade of service."
"You murdered Genzo for this," Muzan murmured. "You killed everyone."
"I sacrificed a thousand lives for this. Your village was merely the final offering. Now return it before I take it from your corpse."
Muzan lifted the fruit to his mouth.
"Do not—"
He bit down.
Sweet, bitter, and metallic. The flesh dissolved on his tongue, searing as it traveled down his throat.
Then power surged within him.
It was like swallowing the sun. Energy erupted in his stomach, spreading throughout his body. Every cell ignited. Muzan's muscles seized, and he collapsed, unable to cry out.
His heart stopped entirely.
The grey-haired man began forming seals with his hands. "You fool! You've consumed power beyond your capacity!" He completed the gesture. "Blood Release: Crimson Extraction."
Invisible hooks pierced Muzan's blood. "I'll extract that power along with every drop of blood in your body!"
The hooks drew inward.
For a moment, Muzan's blood responded, beginning to flow toward his skin.
Then the fruit's chakra reacted.
The energy recognized the external threat and surged to protect its new host, infusing his blood with pure energy.
The grey-haired man intensified his pull.
The fruit's chakra pushed back with greater force.
Muzan's body became a battleground. His blood was simultaneously supercharged and ripped toward the surface. The pressure escalated.
The grey-haired man's eyes widened. "What...? So much power?" He attempted to release the technique, but it was too late.
Muzan's body began glowing from within. His veins illuminated like fire beneath his skin.
"No..." The grey-haired man staggered back. "This can't—"
The chamber filled with blinding light.
Muzan's body erupted.
The explosion was cataclysmic. Raw chakra and pressurized blood burst forth, expanding at an unimaginable speed.
The grey-haired man disintegrated in an instant—one moment present, the next gone.
The ancient tree shattered into splinters. The prisoners in their cocoons were obliterated. Painted symbols were scoured away. The chamber walls buckled and cracked.
The ceiling caved in. Support pillars fragmented. The destruction cascaded upward through the underground structure, each level collapsing sequentially.
On the surface, the ground quaked and then caved in, forming a massive crater as the chambers collapsed.
Finally, the explosion subsided. Dust settled over the devastation like snow.
Deep beneath the rubble, in a void that had survived the collapse, something stirred.
The fruit's power refused to allow its host to perish.
A heart reformed from nothing, tissue materializing and immediately beating. Blood vessels sprouted. Bone fragments aligned into a skeletal structure—but it was wrong. There were too many joints. Extra ridges along the spine.
Muscle enveloped the bones, denser than before. Internal organs formed in impossible configurations—seven hearts for efficient blood flow, and five brains, networked yet independent.
Pale, smooth skin enveloped the new tissue. Fingers ended in black claws.
The reconstruction lasted hours. The fruit reassembled its host into something capable of holding its power. Something with redundant systems, distributed consciousness, and enhanced senses.
Something designed for survival above all.
But no longer human.
As dawn approached, eyes opened in the darkness.
They glowed crimson. The chest rose and fell. Seven hearts beat in synchronized rhythm.
Consciousness stirred, fragmented across five brains, each processing different information.
The body sat up. Movement felt strange yet powerful. The hands flexed, claws extending and retracting.
Memories returned in fragments: the hut, Genzo dying, the cave, the illusion, the fruit, followed by pain, light, and nothingness.
The body surveyed its surroundings—six feet of space, encircled by stone and dirt. Above was tons of collapsed earth.
It needed to reach the surface.
Hands pressed against the stone ceiling. Muscles coiled. Claws dug in and pulled. Cracks appeared; chunks broke free.
Hours passed as it clawed its way upward through the dense rubble. Occasionally, larger pieces fell, crushing the body—but broken bones reset themselves, organs regenerated. It persevered.
Eventually, rock yielded to dirt. Light filtered from above.
The body pushed through the final barrier and emerged into moonlight, collapsing onto solid ground.
The forest surrounded a massive crater, with scattered fires still burning at the edges and toppled trees forming a rough circle.
The body remained still, allowing consciousness to stabilize. Fragmented thoughts began to coalesce.
Awareness sharpened.
Muzan remembered who he was and what he had been.
He slowly sat up and looked at himself. His clothes were gone, and his body was lean and muscular in ways it had never been. His skin almost glowed.
He raised his hands and stared at the black claws. These were not human hands.
He touched his face and noted the distorted proportions—sharper features, a stronger jaw. As he ran his tongue over his teeth, he felt fangs.
What had the fruit done to him?
Muzan stood on strong legs. Seven hearts thumped powerfully in his chest. There was no coldness in his limbs, no irregularities in his heartbeat.
The disease had vanished.
But so had his humanity.
He gazed up at the moon, noticing details on its surface that should have been impossible. Individual branches a hundred feet away, heat signatures of small animals fleeing through underbrush.
His hearing picked up a stream running east and the wind rustling through leaves half a mile away. He detected the breath of something large in the forest.
His sense of smell was overwhelming—burned wood, disturbed earth, blood soaked into soil, living creatures moving in the darkness.
Five brains processed all this simultaneously, managing various inputs—disorienting yet natural.
Muzan attempted to speak, his voice deep and raspy.
"What am I?"
No one responded.
He peered down at the hole he had excavated, knowing that the grey-haired man's body lay far below—the man who had killed Genzo, who had sacrificed a thousand lives.
That man was dead. And Muzan had been reborn as something that should not exist.
He was uncertain if this transformation was worthy of Genzo's sacrifice or if becoming a monster was preferable to dying as a human.
But he was alive.
Muzan detected movement in the forest. Five individuals approached with synchronized, deliberate precision—Shinobi.
He could run. His new body was fast; he could sense it in his muscles.
Yet something held him in place—an instinct embedded in his new biology, a hunger he had yet to comprehend.
The approaching Shinobi smelled like prey.
His consciousness splintered as his brains operated with different motivations—part of him recognized the danger, while another wanted to flee.
However, the dominant instinct—the one connected to the deepest aspects of his new biology—craved to test this body. To quench the growing hunger.
His hands flexed, claws extending fully. Muscles tensed as he faced the impending footsteps.
The logical part of his mind screamed warnings; he had no combat experience, no training. These were seasoned killers.
But the instinctual part only recognized hunger and the drive to survive.
Muzan's eyes glowed brighter in the darkness as something lurking within him began to surface.
When the Shinobi arrived, he would be ready.
Whether he wanted to be or not.