Muzan navigated the snow-laden streets until he arrived at a sake house situated in the merchant district, a place where samurai unwound after their shifts and spoke more openly than they typically would.
Inside, the establishment was dimly lit with smoke thick in the air. Muzan took a seat at the bar and ordered sake he had no intention of drinking.
A short distance away, two samurai sat conversing. Their armor was well-maintained yet showed signs of regular wear.
"Another long shift," the younger one sighed. "Three shinobi encounters this week."
"At least the violence stayed confined to the eastern district this time," replied his companion, streaks of gray in his dark hair. "Remember last month? The Kamizuru and Yotsuki clash destroyed half a residential street?"
"Lord Shinji made reparations to the families."
"Using Iwagakure's funds." The older samurai's tone was devoid of emotion. "Blood money to ensure our lord's cooperation."
The younger samurai glanced around, wary. "You should watch what you say in public."
Muzan focused on his untouched cup, offering no sign that he was eavesdropping.
"Yesterday, I spotted another group heading toward the castle," the younger one continued. "They were dressed like merchants but moved all wrong."
"Shinobi in disguise?"
"Most likely. That makes five groups this month."
The older samurai grunted. "Six. You forgot about the ones during last week's snowstorm."
"All meeting with Lord Shinji?"
"Of course. The capital's teeming with shinobi now. The Land of Iron has turned into both a battlefield and a supplier of warfare."
Muzan memorized the information. Six disguised groups in a month—they were far from neutral now.
---
For the next two nights, Muzan gathered information by observing.
He monitored the roads after dark, identifying travelers who moved with a fighter's agility instead of a merchant's casual stride. He tallied the groups making their way to the castle.
The fortress prison was distinct from the main castle, located three kilometers east on a separate mountain area. There were six guards at the main entrance, two more at a smaller supply entrance carved into the cliff face, and four additional guards patrolling the perimeter.
The supply entrance presented the best opportunity—only two guards instead of six, and the steep cliff provided natural cover.
On the third night, he decided to act.
---
The descent required careful navigation of handholds in the rock. The guards never glanced upwards. Muzan dropped the final five meters, landing silently behind them.
The first guard began to turn, but Muzan's hand caught him by the neck, applying pressure to a nerve cluster and rendering him unconscious.
The second guard inhaled to shout, but Muzan quickly covered his mouth and struck the pressure point at the base of his skull, causing the guard to go limp.
He gently lowered both bodies. They would wake in a few hours with headaches but would suffer no lasting harm.
With a soft crack, the iron lock broke. Muzan slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
The tunnel descended steeply into the mountain. He extinguished each torch as he passed, smothering the flames with his hand. The darkness was inconsequential to his enhanced vision.
After five minutes, he reached a checkpoint where the tunnel split. Three guards were seated, engrossed in a card game.
Muzan lingered in the shadows. After ten minutes, one of the guards stood up. "I'm checking the lower levels again."
"You just did that an hour ago."
"Better to be safe."
As the guard passed close by, Muzan struck—quickly covering his mouth and delivering a blow to his neck, lowering him soundlessly. The other two were oblivious.
Muzan recalled a maintenance passage that ran parallel to the main tunnel from a tour his father had taken him on. He found it easily, emerged behind the remaining guards, and dispatched them quickly.
He continued deeper into the prison, bypassing two more checkpoints and five additional guards, each felled by his targeted strikes.
At last, he arrived at the lowest level.
The temperature had plummeted, with thick sheets of ice coating the walls. Cells lined both sides of the corridor.
The first cell was empty. The second held a civilian, likely a petty criminal.
The third made him pause. Inside sat a figure perfectly still, but Muzan immediately sensed their chakra—much larger than a normal person's. A trained fighter.
He moved along the corridor, finding seven cells containing individuals with shinobi-level chakra reserves.
The Land of Iron was supposed to uphold strict neutrality. Holding foreign shinobi prisoner could be seen as an act of war.
What was Shinji doing with these captives?
At the corridor's end, he found a larger cell, its reinforced steel door replacing iron bars. A small window was positioned at eye level.
Through it, Muzan saw a figure slumped against the far wall.
He scrutinized the lock—a heavy and complex mechanism reinforced with steel. Using thin tendrils of hardened flesh from his fingertips, he manipulated the tumblers until he heard the click.
The door opened silently.
The cell was colder and darker than the corridor, with ice blanketing the walls.
The figure was slumped against the far wall, shackled by heavy chains to iron cuffs.
Muzan approached, his enhanced vision allowing him to see clearly.
Long, matted hair obscured the man's face, but Muzan recognized the build instantly.
Michikatsu Tsugikuni. His former mentor and the strongest samurai in the Land of Iron.
"Michikatsu," Muzan said softly.
The man's head lifted slightly.
Muzan's breath caught.
Where Michikatsu's eyes should have been, there were only hollow sockets surrounded by scar tissue—old wounds inflicted intentionally months prior.
His arms ended in clean stumps wrapped in filthy bandages.
His legs were absent below the knees, more dirty bandages covering the stumps.
They had dismantled him systematically. Taken his sight so he couldn't foresee threats. Removed his hands so he couldn't wield a sword. Severed his feet so he couldn't stand. Stripped him of everything that made him a warrior, leaving him here in the frigid darkness.
"Who's there?" Michikatsu's voice was raspy from lack of use. "I can hear someone breathing."
"It's Muzan. Muzan Kibutsuji."
Silence.
"Muzan?" The empty sockets turned in his direction. "That can't be right. How are you still alive?"
"I came to rescue you. I heard you were imprisoned."
"Free me?" Michikatsu laughed bitterly. "Look at me. What do you think I have left to free?"
Muzan knelt on the icy ground. Up close, the damage was more horrifying—scars obliterated every visible portion of his skin, evidence of relentless torture.
"I believed I was strong," Michikatsu murmured. "The strongest samurai in the Land of Iron. I thought my strength mattered." He shifted slightly, chains clinking. "I was merely a frog at the bottom of a well, believing the narrow sky above was the entirety of the world."
"How long have you been trapped here?"
"Four months, perhaps five. I lost track after they took my eyes and the darkness enveloped me." His head tilted. "They removed my sight first, insisting I didn't need to see if I was to spend forever in a cell. Then my hands, claiming I didn't need a sword. Finally, my feet, asserting I had no need to walk."
Muzan's hands clenched into fists.
"Why have you come, Muzan? You were on the brink of death when last I saw you. Every physician predicted you had mere weeks left. How do you stand before me now, alive?"
"I found a cure."
"A cure? Unthinkable. Your father consulted every expert—"
"The treatment was exorbitantly expensive." Muzan stood and examined the chains. "I will get you out."
"For what purpose? I can't walk, cannot fight, cannot see. I'm nothing but a shattered shell."
"You're still alive."
"Alive, indeed. They bring food once a week, just enough to sustain me. Water every few days." Michikatsu's empty sockets seemed to gaze through him. "Shinji wants to prolong my suffering as long as he can."
Muzan gripped the chain and anchored his fingers into the stone surrounding the bolt. He pulled steadily, leveraging his unnatural strength until the stone cracked.
The chain came loose with a grinding noise.
He caught Michikatsu as he slumped forward. His former mentor felt alarmingly light—months without adequate food had withered him away.
"I'll need to carry you."
"I know." Michikatsu's voice was flat. "I despise being so helpless."
The return journey was slower. Some guards were beginning to stir as they passed.
When Muzan emerged from the supply entrance, the faintest hints of dawn illuminated the eastern horizon.
He needed to hasten his pace. He couldn't be exposed when the sun rose.
"We're outside," Michikatsu said, turning his face toward the wind. "I can feel the air."
Muzan sprinted down the mountain path at an unnatural speed.
"What's the hurry?"
"The sun's rising. I need shelter."
"Why does sunlight matter?"
"It's complicated."
"There's a cave system two kilometers east," Michikatsu advised. "Used to be a smuggler's route. The entrance is concealed behind a rockslide."
Muzan instantly altered his direction, pushing his limits further. The prickling sensation on his exposed skin intensified with each moment.
He spotted the collapsed cliff and the narrow opening between boulders. He slipped through just as the first rays of sunlight touched the treetops.
The light grazed his hand for an instant, causing his skin to sizzle and burn.
The cave was deep and completely dark. Perfect.
He carefully set Michikatsu against the wall.
"Are we safe here?"
"For now." Muzan glanced back at the entrance, now illuminated by sunlight streaming through the forest. "We'll remain here until nightfall."
Michikatsu fell silent for a moment. "So tell me about this cure you found. What did it cost you to survive?"
"I'm unsure how to respond. Perhaps everything. Perhaps nothing."
"That's not an answer."
"I'm still alive. That must mean something."
"Yes. Living is preferable to being dead." Michikatsu's empty sockets turned toward him. "What are your plans now? Will you attempt to reclaim what was taken from you?"
"I believe so. But I cannot do it alone."
"What assistance can I provide in my current state?" Michikatsu gestured with the stumps of his arms. "I'm blind, crippled, and powerless."
"I might restore you," Muzan said carefully. "Make you whole again, possibly even stronger than before. But I can't predict the cost."
Michikatsu was silent for a long time. "Anything would be an improvement over this. Even death would be preferable to a life spent as a broken form that cannot see, move, or do anything but remember who I once was."
"Then I will do what I can. But you must understand—this may change you in ways you can't foresee or control."
"I understand. I accept whatever consequences arise." Michikatsu's voice was firm despite its frailty. "Transform me into whatever I need to become. Just give me the power to make them pay for what they've done."