The forest groaned beneath the weight of dusk, as if the land itself trembled in anticipation.
Lucivar Thornheart walked in silence, his cloak trailing through damp moss and twisted roots. The ancient trees towered around him like titans, their bark split by time, their limbs skeletal. Not a single bird sang. Not a breath of wind stirred. The world was holding its breath.
Beside him moved Kharon—ten feet of living dread. Obsidian flesh pulsed with molten red veins. Every step distorted the air. Every motion promised death.
Lucivar's tone was calm. Cold.
"To build an empire, I need a throne. Not in the light. Not in their cities. I'll root it in blood and silence. Remote. Endless. Absolute."
Kharon remained silent, as always.
They marched deeper into the woods until Lucivar stopped. His crimson eyes narrowed.
The mist here was thick. Metallic. Scorched.
"There," he muttered.
Ahead, a jagged ridge rose like the spine of the mountain. Beneath it, nestled in tangled roots, yawned a massive cave. Firelight pulsed within, shadows dancing on the rock like teeth.
Kharon sniffed once. "Demons. At least sixteen."
Lucivar crouched, scanning with his senses.
Fifteen lesser presences. Weak. Uncoordinated.
But two others—denser, hidden.
He clicked his tongue.
"Two are masking their aura. That's no small fry."
He stood.
"Go. Cleanse it."
Kharon nodded once and descended into the cave like a living siege engine.
Lucivar remained atop the ridge, arms folded, eyes glowing with cruel interest.
Inside, laughter echoed off stone walls.
Fifteen demons crouched around a fire of bones, feasting on half-devoured corpses. Their forms were twisted—jaws unhinged, limbs too long, eyes vacant. The cave reeked of rot.
Then the air shifted.
The fire guttered.
Kharon entered.
He filled the entrance like a shadow given form. His heat suffocated the oxygen. His molten gaze dimmed the light.
The demons turned, startled, then enraged.
"Who the hell—?"
"He's not one of us—kill him!"
The first to charge exploded mid-lunge. A whip of abyssal energy caught him across the chest, flinging his upper body one direction and the lower another.
A moment of silence.
Then chaos.
They rushed Kharon in a wave—snarling, shrieking.
They died in moments.
One whip tore through three at once. A second shattered skulls like fruit. Abyssflame burst from Kharon's chest, reducing others to screeching cinders. A demon tried to bite his leg—Kharon lifted it by the neck and slammed it into the floor until only pulp remained.
Thirteen gone in less than thirty seconds.
Two trembled in the shadows.
Then—
"Enough."
The voice was not loud. It didn't need to be.
From the rear of the chamber stepped a figure clad in crimson robes, ink-black sigils glowing faintly. A cracked bone mask covered half his face. Long gray hair spilled down his back like silver thread.
Lucivar's gaze sharpened.
I know that voice.
The figure stepped over the corpses with disdain.
"You've butchered my kin," he said coldly. "Foolish."
Kharon didn't answer.
Lucivar narrowed his eyes. That's…
The demon removed his mask slowly.
Golden eyes. A crooked smile.
"I am Lower Moon, Rank Two," he said, voice edged with pride and menace. "One of Muzan-sama's elite. Remember that—before you die."
Lucivar's eyes flashed.
This one… Rokuro.
He had seen him in the anime. One of Muzan's original Lower Ranks—the second string.
Lucivar's expression twisted with mild disgust.
So, you were one of the originals… a relic from the main storyline. The one Muzan butchered for being too useless. And yet, even now—years before Tanjiro ever takes his first breath—you're still clinging to Lower Rank Two. Pathetic.
The demon turned to Kharon, sneering.
"So you're another one, aren't you?" Rokuro hissed. "Another beast clawing for Muzan-sama's attention. You think a pile of corpses makes you worthy of his court?"
He laughed—sharp, bitter, insecure.
"I earned this number. I won't surrender it to some flaming stray with molten skin."
Then another voice cut through the air—nervous but venomous.
"Mmm… he does burn nicely though."
From behind a column stepped a second figure.
A woman.
Slender. Pale. Hair in a tight braid. Eyes cautious and cold.
Lucivar's grin sharpened.
Mukago.
Another of the early Lower Moons. Rank Four. A coward in canon. Barely worth naming.
She circled the corpses carefully, eyes flicking between Kharon and Rokuro.
"I don't know who you are, demon," she said softly, "but you've made a mistake."
Kharon turned his head slightly. No words.
Lucivar chuckled.
Two for one.
Rokuro lunged first, unleashing a wave of blood blades from his arms.
Kharon raised one hand.
The blades disintegrated on impact.
Mukago shrieked and summoned shadow tendrils from the stone, trying to bind his limbs.
Kharon snapped them like threads and fired a whip of Abyssflame in return. Mukago dodged—barely—but the ground beneath her exploded.
She screamed, flipping backward. Her left arm blackened and cracked.
"You bastard—!"
Rokuro appeared behind Kharon, claws glowing red.
Kharon didn't even turn.
He grabbed him mid-air by the face and slammed him into the ground.
Once. Twice. A third time. The cave floor cracked with every blow.
Rokuro fired another burst point-blank.
It detonated.
Smoke billowed through the chamber.
Lucivar stepped back as sparks rose toward the ridge.
Then the smoke cleared.
Kharon stood, posture flawless, cloak scorched but unmoved.
Rokuro crawled backward, gasping, burnt.
"W-What are you…?"
Kharon's voice rumbled with quiet thunder.
"I do not serve Muzan."
He lifted Rokuro by the throat.
"I serve a true god."
Abyssflame Dominion erupted from his palm, pouring into Rokuro's chest.
The demon didn't scream. He simply crumbled—ashes falling like snow.
Mukago turned to run.
Kharon moved faster.
A tendril shot from his back, pierced her spine, and lifted her mid-step.
She gasped, twitched, then went limp.
Lucivar descended slowly, each step echoing with purpose.
Two Lower Moons. Gone.
Without Kharon even breaking rhythm.
He stopped beside Mukago's broken form. Her face still held a trace of fear. Of denial. Of regret.
Lucivar's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Barely worth killing," he muttered.
And yet… he paused.
He studied her. A fallen Lower Rank—young, full of potential wasted by fear. What would she become if remade through his blood? If rebuilt under his will?
A possibility for later.
He turned to Kharon.
"You didn't even break rhythm."
Kharon knelt. "You gave no order to."
Lucivar smiled—cold, sovereign, pleased.
The cave stretched deep and wide. The shadows clung like servants. The blood had already marked the stone.
Perfect.
He knelt and placed one hand on the scorched earth.
"This will do."
He stood, voice ringing with command.
"Clear the remains. Carve my throne here. Beneath it—quarters for consorts. Sanctums for rituals. Holding pits for prisoners. Let this place echo with loyalty."
Kharon bowed low.
Lucivar turned toward the cave's darkest depths, eyes burning crimson.
"This," he whispered, "is the first throne."
And so, the Temple of Ash was born.