"Join you?" Dan asked, confused, standing amidst the ruins of his once-proud clan. His dog growled low beside him, eyes never leaving Muzan.
"Yes," Muzan replied calmly, extending a blood-stained hand. "Ever since our ancestors betrayed the natural order, we've been trying to undo the damage. We hunt the demons that have spread like rot across this world."
Dan looked up, eyes still glassy with grief.
"We've learned something crucial," Muzan continued, voice grave. "Sunlight burns them. Yang chakra too—it doesn't just harm demons, it can kill them. But the Demon Slayer organization, the one built to keep that evil in check… it's already been destroyed."
Muzan paused, letting the silence stretch between them.
"The last forge of chakra steel—hidden deep in the Blacksmith Village—was raided and razed to the ground. They used to make our blades. Now, there's nothing left."
His crimson eyes, sharper than any sword, locked onto Dan's.
"So I ask you again, Dan. Will you join us?"
Dan's fists trembled. He looked down at the blood soaking his clothes, then back at Muzan. There was no longer fear in his eyes—just resolve.
After a long pause, Dan stepped forward and took Muzan's hand.
"…Master," he said quietly.
In the Sengoku era, that single word meant loyalty—complete and unshakable.
Muzan smiled. A true smile, veiled beneath layers of ambition.
"Well then, Dan. Your first mission is to go to the Land of Iron. Seek out any surviving blacksmiths. Convince them to work with us."
Dan gave a silent nod, calling for his dog. The beast immediately rose and followed as Dan sprinted into the distance.
"I'll clean up this mess," Muzan said after him, then turned toward the wreckage.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "With both the demons and the slayers under my thumb… perhaps this life will last longer than the others."
His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the debris.
"Come out," he commanded.
From the shadows, a hunched figure crawled out—half-covered in blood. In one hand, he still clutched the severed arm of a woman, his fangs sunk deep into the flesh. He stepped into the dim moonlight.
"Ryusuke," Muzan said, voice low.
The boy's transformation was astonishing. The scrawny, half-dead orphan from days ago was gone. His long black hair was now soaked in blood, turning it a deep, unnatural red. His sclera had darkened to black. His irises gleamed with a hungry gold.
"Kokushibo " Muzan muttered. That presence—the aura of another demon he once knew—it flickered within the boy's energy.
Ryusuke dropped the arm and bowed deeply. "Master."
Muzan stepped closer, observing him carefully.
"Not bad. You've evolved, but you're not ready. Maybe strong enough to be a Lower Moon—but barely. You'll need to spill more blood before you truly earn that title."
Without hesitation, Muzan pressed a single, clawed nail into Ryusuke's forehead and pushed a drop of his blood into him.
The boy convulsed briefly, then steadied himself, breathing heavy. His body began to pulse with a dark energy.
"You should've awakened your Blood Demon Art by now," Muzan said coolly. "What is it?"
He already knew, of course. He had seen it in the boy's soul, long before the transformation. But it was better to let the child believe he was special—that Muzan didn't already own him completely.
Ryusuke's eyes lit up with excitement. "Master… my Blood Demon Art is called Clat. It allows me to manipulate earth—more fluid than stone, but harder than mud. It's almost like… a Kekkei Genkai, like Mud Release."
He stabbed himself in the side. Blood poured out—but so did earth, like a growing parasite.
"You see?" Ryusuke said, grinning as he stepped back.
Muzan gave a slight nod, watching as the earth formed a replica of Ryusuke.
"Replacement," he said coldly. "Useful."
The clone dissolved.
"Don't chase revenge yet," Muzan warned, his voice low and cold. "Build an army first. Call yourself the Demon King to the weak. Use my blood sparingly. Send your fodder after the wolf pup too—test him."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Ryusuke kneeling in the moonlight.
"This world," Muzan muttered, smiling, "is finally getting interesting."
⸻
Far away, a woman groaned in the night, her back arching as a massive man with long orange hair towered over her. His skin darkened, wings unfurling grotesquely behind him.
"Yes… just like that," she whispered with a mad grin.
Her body trembled, not from pleasure—but from greed.
"What's a little backshot," she murmured to herself, "if I can give birth to a god…"
She smiled wider, madness glowing in her stitched eyes. "I'll suck every drop out of you…"
⸻
Back at the cave.
Zetsu emerged from the shadows. "Where were you?" he asked.
Muzan lay on the stone floor, tossing a small stone up and down.
"Found a pup," he said innocently, "wanted to see if it could be used"
"…That man with the stitches. Has he vanished?"
" Zetsu's face darkened. "Yes. He's completely disappeared. His scent… gone. But worse—he sabotaged the meeting between Madara and Hashirama."
"Tch. What a pain."muttered muzan
"I want you to deliver a letter to both of them," Muzan said, smirking. "Wait until they're asleep. Write one thing: 'Stone skipping.'"
Zetsu stared, confused, but nodded. He vanished, reappearing moments later with parchment and ink, scribbled the phrase, and disappeared again.
Muzan leaned back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
"My strength has plateaued. Maybe I should eat someone…"
Then—voices.
<< Are these ants even worth consuming? >>
<< Will they fill your belly, child? >>
Muzan winced. "Ugh… forgot I had those freaks in me."
He turned to the cave entrance. The moon had risen.
"I wonder," he muttered, "if this time… I'll be the one controlling the Corps."
⸻
Somewhere along the horizon…
A figure in dark robes spotted Muzan and screamed:
"MUZAN!!"
He charged forward, sword drawn.
"Water Breathing… Tenth Form! TSUNAMI YO ASS, MOTHERFUCKER!"
The man roared as he lunged.
Muzan casually raised a hand.
SHLICK!
A spear of frozen blood shot from his palm, piercing the man's chest and freezing him from the inside.
"Where is your master?" Muzan asked calmly, as the man gasped.
Tutu the man spat
Muzan's gaze darkened.
The man was a former Hashira. One of the last from Yoriichi's generation.
"A shame," Muzan whispered. "These memories… they're almost comforting."
He looked up at the sky, red moon glowing above.
"And I haven't even started the real plan."
⸻