Dawn crept across the mountains of the Land of Iron, staining the snowcaps with pale gold. The capital stirred beneath the morning light—merchants opening stalls along wide stone avenues, voices calling out greetings, the smell of fresh bread drifting from bakeries.
Among them stood a modest textile shop, wedged between a weaponsmith and a tea house. Its sign read: Kanzaki Trading House.
Inside, bolts of fabric were arranged with precise symmetry. Everything in its place. The air smelled faintly of cedar and incense—calming scents meant to put customers at ease.
Behind the counter stood a man in his early thirties. Gentle features. Neatly tied black hair. Warm eyes that seemed incapable of hostility. He was speaking softly with a customer, his voice measured and kind.
"That shade suits you well," he said. "It complements your complexion."
The woman blushed, clutching the cloth to her chest. "Thank you, Kanzaki-san. I'll take it."
He bowed slightly as he wrapped the fabric with practiced care. "May it bring you good fortune."
She left smiling.
The moment the door slid shut, his expression vanished. The warmth drained from his eyes like water through a sieve.
Muzan Kibutsuji stood alone in the shop. He turned slightly toward the rear wall, his gaze settling on the shadows near the storage curtain.
"You may enter."
The shadows shifted. Kokushibo stepped out, his presence filling the space without fanfare.
He did not bow. He did not kneel. Neither of them required such gestures. Hierarchy was understood without performance.
"I have returned," Kokushibo said.
Muzan didn't look surprised. "You took longer than I expected."
"The resistance was greater than anticipated."
"How many casualties?"
"All eliminated. Except one."
Muzan's eyes flickered with interest. "You allowed one to escape?"
"I did not pursue due to proximity to sunrise."
A faint smile touched Muzan's lips. Barely there, but unmistakable. "Good."
Kokushibo's upper eyes narrowed slightly. "You anticipated this outcome."
"Of course." Muzan stepped away from the counter, folding his hands behind his back. The movement was languid, unhurried. "I required a survivor. Fear is most effective when it travels through a witness. Survivors spread terror faster than any proclamation."
Kokushibo considered this, his six eyes unblinking. "That is correct."
Muzan stopped near the window. Sunlight fell across the floor in sharp lines, illuminating only the tips of his hair. He stood just shy of the light, always careful. "The Kamizuru clan will now shift priorities. Instead of expansion, they will focus on identifying you. Their resources will divert. Momentum will stall."
"And the Daimyo?"
Muzan's reflection stared back at him from the glass—a ghost of a man, pale and perfect. "He will grow uneasy. In fact, he should already be uneasy about the situation."
He turned. "Tell me everything."
Kokushibo recounted the battle without embellishment. The sensor formations. The explosive traps. The layered defenses. The commanders' final stands. When he finished, Muzan nodded once.
"Their coordination was impressive, but not exceptional. They lacked a decisive weapon." His gaze sharpened. "Which means the Kamizuru Clan's true elites were not present."
Kokushibo understood the implication immediately. "This was only a forward division."
"Yes. And even though it was just a forward division, its destruction creates a chasm between the Land of Iron and the Kamizuru Clan." Muzan's voice lowered, taking on a contemplative edge. "The clan's main body will respond personally now. Which accelerates my timetable."
Kokushibo tilted his head slightly. "You intend to draw them deeper into the Land of Iron."
"I intend to make them stand against Shinji."
Muzan returned behind the counter and rested his hand lightly on its polished surface. The wood was smooth beneath his palm, cool to the touch. "Consider Shinji's position. He secretly supports the Kamizuru. He allows them to operate inside neutral territory. He claims neutrality to the world. And now an unknown force is slaughtering them on his soil."
Kokushibo's eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light. "He will be blamed regardless of his actions."
"Precisely. If he protects them, he exposes his alliance. If he refuses, he loses their trust. If he hunts you, he admits knowledge of your existence. If he ignores you, he appears weak." Muzan lifted his hand from the counter. "There is no correct move left."
"Your plan is far more sinister than I imagined," Kokushibo said. "You are not attempting to defeat Shinji through force."
"No." Muzan's tone was soft, almost gentle. "I want to dismantle him piece by piece. A ruler is not overthrown when his army loses. He is overthrown when his legitimacy collapses. I do not need to defeat Shinji. I only need the Land of Iron to stop believing in him."
"What is my next assignment?"
Muzan studied him for a long moment. "There is none. You are tired."
"It is irrelevant."
"Incorrect." Muzan's tone sharpened, just barely. "A dull blade breaks. You will rest for now."
Kokushibo did not argue. He had learned when to push and when to accept.
"Tonight, I will attack," Muzan continued. "Not the Kamizuru. But the samurai."
For the first time, Kokushibo's middle eyes shifted. A flicker of something—interest, perhaps. "You intend to strike both sides."
"Yes. I intend to make it appear as though both sides are striking each other." Muzan's voice softened again, taking on that deceptive calm. "If both factions believe the other deployed you, they will escalate."
He walked past Kokushibo toward the back room, his footsteps silent on the wooden floor. "Tonight I will target the corrupt officials and samurai. After all, rotten things must be discarded."
Kokushibo nodded once. "How will you replicate the Kamizuru Clan's methods?"
Muzan shook his head. "I don't need to replicate their methods. I simply need to act as a shinobi would."
"Then the report will indicate that a shinobi attacked them."
"Yes. And the only shinobi with a grudge against the Land of Iron are the Kamizuru. Shinji will assume they betrayed him." Muzan glanced over his shoulder, crimson eyes catching the light. "And when the Kamizuru hear the report, they will assume Shinji is framing them."
Silence filled the shop. Heavy. Absolute.
"When will you reveal your identity?" Kokushibo asked quietly.
Muzan's expression did not change. Not a flicker. "Not yet. I want to surprise my dear uncle."
He turned fully now, and for a moment the mask slipped. The merchant was gone. What remained was something colder, sharper. "Moreover, I want to make him suffer slowly. Shinji stole the throne. I will take it back through inevitability."
Voices passed outside the shop. Laughter. The clatter of a cart.
Muzan's aura vanished instantly. His presence softened, eyes warming like coals covered in ash. The merchant persona returned as easily as breathing.
"Go," he said gently, without looking at Kokushibo.
Kokushibo stepped backward into shadow. His body dissolved into darkness, melting away until nothing remained.
A moment later, the shop door opened. A young samurai entered, his armor polished and gleaming.
"Good morning, Kanzaki-san."
Muzan smiled kindly. Perfectly. "Good morning. Looking for formal cloth again?"
"Yes. The palace requested additional ceremonial banners. Something dignified."
"Of course." Muzan turned, selecting fabric with careful attention. His fingers brushed over the bolts, testing texture and weight. "What occasion?"
"The Daimyo will be holding a council soon. Important guests."
Muzan handed him a roll of deep indigo silk. The color was rich, almost black in the shop's dim light. "Then this would be appropriate."
The samurai examined it, nodding with approval. "Perfect."
He placed coins on the counter—the clink of metal against wood. As he turned to leave, Muzan spoke pleasantly. "My regards to the palace."
"Thank you, Kanzaki-san."
The door closed behind him.
Muzan's smile faded like mist in sunlight.
"A council already." His eyes glinted in the dimness. "So it begins."