The atmosphere within the secluded chambers of the Infinity Castle was thick enough to choke a lesser demon. The scent of iron and a strange, heady sweetness clung to the air—the residual pheromones of twenty-one high-grade marechi humans, all consumed within the span of a single sunset. Kokushibo sat in his usual, impeccable seiza across from you, but the static pressure he normally projected had warped into something heavy, warm, and unnervingly fluid.

You sat as his equal, the other Upper Rank One, watching him with a mixture of wariness and disbelief. Normally, Kokushibo was a man of five words where fifty would suffice, a monument to stoic discipline. But tonight, his six eyes were slightly glazed, and a faint, dark flush had crept up his neck. The sheer volume of rare blood had bypassed his legendary temperance, leaving him in a state of clinical intoxication. He wasn't swaying or slurring; his dignity remained intact, which somehow made the situation even more bothersome. He was simply... talking. "The structural integrity of the Nichirin blade has degraded since the Sengoku period," Kokushibo stated, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. He leaned forward, encroaching on your personal space until his three pairs of eyes were all focused intensely on your own. "In the year 1452, the forging techniques relied on a specific carbon ratio that modern smiths have forgotten. It is a tragedy... a profound loss of craft. Do you understand? I once saw a blade shatter because the smith prioritized aesthetics over the fold. I killed him, of course. But the point... the point remains."

You tried to shift back, but his hand—calloused and cold—reached out to steady your shoulder, keeping you firmly in his orbit. "And another thing," he continued, his grip tightening just enough to be noticeable. "The moon. It was larger four hundred years ago. The perspective was... different. I have spent four millennia—no, four centuries—watching its phases, and I find the current atmosphere of the Taisho era to be too hazy. It obscures the craters. You should look at it more often. Why do you not look at the moon when I am speaking? It is rude to ignore the celestial bodies." He was bothering you with a relentless, low-speed chase of a conversation. Every time you tried to stand or offer a polite nod to end the interaction, he would find a new, incredibly detailed topic to dissect. He had already spent twenty minutes explaining the exact muscle twitch required for a perfect horizontal draw, and now he was moving on to the dietary habits of samurai in the 16th century.

From the shadows of a nearby walkway, Douma was practically vibrating with excitement, his fan pressed against his mouth to keep from shrieking with laughter. Akaza stood nearby, looking genuinely disturbed, watching the most feared warrior in existence explain the history of tea ceremonies to you with the intensity of a man reciting a holy scripture. "The leaves must be ground to a specific fineness," Kokushibo droned on, his middle pair of eyes blinking in a slow, rhythmic fashion. "If the water is too hot, the spirit of the tea is scorched. Much like a warrior pushed too far. You... you are like the tea. Well-ground. But you do not listen enough. I shall begin again from the forging process, so you may grasp the correlation between the steel and the leaf." He wasn't going to stop. He was a hundred-year clock that had been wound too tight by a feast of rare blood, and as his peer, you were the only one he deemed worthy of his intoxicated, long-winded lectures. He leaned in even closer, the scent of marechi heavy on his breath. "Are you listening? This is... important... for your development."