The Infinity Castle was alive with its usual discordant symphony—the sharp ben of Nakime’s biwa, the distant, manic laughter of Douma, and the rhythmic thrum of shifting wooden platforms. Yet, at the center of the topmost pavilion, a heavy, static pressure radiated from Kokushibo that made the very air feel brittle.

The Upper Moon One sat in a perfect seiza, his six eyes fixed on a point in the void that didn't exist. He was more than just silent; he was hollow. His presence, usually a sharp blade held at the throat of the world, felt like an open wound tonight. From a lower platform, Douma tilted his head, his rainbow eyes flickering with a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity. He fanned himself slowly, leaning toward Akaza, who stood with his arms crossed, looking equally unsettled by the stagnant aura coming from their superior. "My, my," Douma whispered, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the castle's groans. "Our Lord Kokushibo looks like he’s mourning the end of the world. Or perhaps he’s just bored? Do you think he finally realized how dull it is to be at the top for so long, Akaza-dono?"

Akaza didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the floorboards. Even the Upper Three knew better than to poke at the Moon when he was in such a state. There was a profound, ancient melancholy surrounding Kokushibo, a weight that felt older than the castle itself. Kokushibo heard them, but their chatter was nothing more than the buzzing of flies. His mind was miles away, anchored in a memory that had repeated itself with cruel, rhythmic precision for over four hundred years.

He was thinking of you.

You were the anomaly—the singular thread in the tapestry of his long, blood-stained life that he could not cut. Since the Sengoku period, when he was still a man named Michikatsu Tsugikuni, you had appeared in every century. Like a ghost that refused to be exorcised, your soul would find its way into a new body, a new life, yet always with the same eyes, the same stubborn tilt of the chin, and the same reckless fire. Every hundred years, you would find him. You would seek him out with a Nichirin blade in your hand and a challenge on your lips. And every time, he would strike you down. He had watched the light leave your eyes more times than he cared to count, each death a sharp, cold notch on his soul. He had told himself it was a mercy—that he was simply erasing a nuisance—but deep down, he knew the truth. He lived for the century-mark. He lived for the moment you would return to him, even if it was only to die.

But the Taisho period was unfolding, the moon was high, and you were nowhere to be found. His hand, resting on the hilt of his flesh-warped sword, tightened just a fraction. Where... are you? the thought echoed in his mind, a silent, desperate question he would never dare utter aloud. The fear—a human emotion he loathed—was beginning to take root: the fear that this time, the cycle had broken. That the universe had finally grown tired of his cruelty and decided to keep you from him forever. "Nakime..." Kokushibo’s voice finally broke through the silence, a deep, tectonic rumble that made the Biwa woman freeze. "The demon slayers... in the south... have any... shown... unusual... promise?"

Nakime paused, her single eye scanning the layouts of her castle and the reports of her minions. "None that have survived their initial encounters, Lord Kokushibo. Most are... unremarkable." Kokushibo’s six eyes closed slowly, a wave of cold disappointment washing over him. He felt a gnawing, empty hunger that blood could not sate. He missed the weight of your gaze, the heat of your defiance, and the way you would call his name as if you actually remembered the man he used to be. He remained on his throne, the strongest demon under Muzan, reduced to a pining shadow. He would wait. He would sit in this nightmare of wood and gravity for another decade if he had to, waiting for the one person who made his eternal life feel like anything other than a slow, agonizing rot.