Sparks crackled in the air—wood splinters screaming as they carbonized under instant, searing heat.
Muzan stood frozen in place. Those crimson, vertical pupils—so often steeped in arrogance and cold indifference—were now widening, little by little, beyond his control.
His gaze pierced the drifting embers and nailed itself to the boy at the entrance.
Heat rolled toward him.
Not the comforting warmth of a campfire, but a savage blaze that felt like it could boil the blood dry.
"That strike just now…"
His throat bobbed once. Inside him, everything churned.
Was it done with that rusted, broken axe?
No—wrong.
That wasn't something an axe could do. It wasn't even something that could be explained by the simple concept of a "slash."
It was the result of gathering every shred of will and vitality into a single point, using a special breathing method to drive the blood into a roar—then unleashing power like the sun itself…
A sword art.
Muzan's eyes drifted upward, past the boy's hand clenched around the axe handle—knuckles sharp and distinct—past the thin, patchwork clothing—
And finally settled on the earrings swaying faintly beside the boy's ear in the heat haze.
Hanafuda earrings.
Boom.
It was as if a thunderclap detonated in the depths of the Demon King's mind.
In that instant, memories from four hundred years ago surged out like a breached flood.
That man—calm as a god.
That blade, burning crimson.
That question, spoken like judgment itself: What do you think life is?
And… the terror of nearly being cut down completely—forcing him to blow himself apart into eighteen hundred chunks of flesh just to barely survive.
Even now, after all this time, merely sensing that heat made him afraid on instinct.
He opened his mouth, intending to speak as he always had—lofty words from on high, demanding the boy's identity—
Only to realize the muscles in his face had gone terrifyingly rigid.
There was no doubt: this should have been nothing more than coincidence.
He'd come here tonight simply because he was irritated, looking for a body sturdy enough to withstand a massive quantity of blood.
There were rumors in the area about a "charcoal-selling family" with unusually strong constitutions. And with his razor-sharp intuition, he'd faintly sensed that something ancient slept within this family's bloodline—some old power curled deep in their bones.
He had thought it might be the key to creating a demon that could conquer sunlight.
He had thought this was just another casual experiment in his endless life—too small to matter.
Like passing an anthill and idly pouring a kettle of boiling water over it.
But…
Why?
Why, in a backwater so remote it might not even appear on a map—on a boy who looked like nothing more than a poor charcoal seller—was he seeing that man's shadow?
No. Not just a shadow.
That breathing rhythm.
That tension in the muscles.
It was too similar.
But how was that possible?
In this world, how could anyone still inherit that power?
Maybe a descendant of that family?
Or maybe… fate was simply playing a crude joke—an empty, meaningless coincidence.
"Tanjiro!! Run!!"
At that moment, Kie's broken, desperate scream struck like lightning, yanking Muzan back to reality.
"Don't worry about us!! Run!! Please!!"
The shriek grated on Muzan's ears—yet it also helped him recover the arrogance of the progenitor of all demons.
He looked down at his fingers, which had trembled ever so slightly from that momentary illusion, and a cruel, self-mocking smile tugged at his lips.
What was he doing?
Getting startled by the entrance of some human brat?
Just because of some inexplicable heat—and those irritating earrings?
"…Ridiculous."
Muzan shook his head. The doubt in his eyes drained away, replaced by the icy contempt that treated all things as grass beneath his feet.
If it was merely a "coincidence" with a slightly unusual edge, then he would simply erase it.
"I was going to spare your life for an experiment…"
Muzan lifted his hand lazily. His fingertips warped instantly, sharpening into blades.
He stared at the silent boy in the doorway, his voice turning razor-cold.
"But I've changed my mind. You and your family will—"
He didn't finish.
The boy moved.
No roar.
No charge.
Not even a wasted motion.
Yoriichi simply shifted his body slightly, gripping the rusted axe with both hands and leveling the edge toward Muzan.
Inhale.
Total Concentration.
In that instant, it was as if an invisible spark in the air popped—quietly bursting.
Pop.
A tiny, crisp sound.
But to Muzan's senses, it rang like the sky collapsing.
Time seemed to stop.
The claw Muzan had been about to swing locked midair.
His brain still hadn't processed what was happening—he was still thinking of the most cruel way to kill this boy.
But—
His body reacted first.
Fear carved into every cell.
A phantom pain etched into the depths of five brains and seven hearts—an old wound that four hundred years couldn't heal.
His breathing turned ragged. Large, icy beads of sweat—mixed with the fluids forced out by sheer terror—soaked his bangs and slid down cheeks pale as paper.
Reason screamed, He's just a human child holding a broken axe.
Yet his pupils trembled violently, fixed on that posture.
That opening stance.
That rhythm of breath.
That faint, yet sickeningly pure…
The scent of the sun.
He would die.
If he stayed here, he would die—absolutely.
This wasn't a conclusion reached by thought.
It was the rawest instinct of a creature facing its natural predator.
The moment the rusted axe in Yoriichi's hands began to lift—
Bang!!
Muzan's back exploded open. Countless tendrils burst outward—not to attack anyone, but to spear madly into the ground and walls, generating an insane recoil with a near self-destructive force.
With a thunderous crash as the roof collapsed, Kibutsuji Muzan fled—at a speed so frantic it was pure humiliation—smashing through the blizzard and vanishing without even once looking back.
-------
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