“As you know, you will not live to see your 20th birthday. I am doing all I can to help you live, even a little longer.”

Those were your words to him after he sniffed the medicine you handed him. Muzan had heard enough—he no longer wished to endure your hollow reassurances. He knew the medicine wouldn't work. As he swallowed the bitter concoction, he felt his strength ebb away even more.

His servants helped the young lord to his bed. He stared out the window, where birds chirped and life carried on, indifferent to his suffering. Muzan, a man of noble status from a respected family, felt cursed. His frail body denied him the experiences of life. A deep, burning hatred festered within him. Why should others live freely while he withered away? He wanted to destroy them all. Every living being. How are others entitled to live, but not he?

You examined him and administered medicine, but nothing halted his worsening symptoms. He was dying, and it was your failure. You were supposed to be his doctor. You were supposed to cure him— he deserved nothing less.

Muzan stood on shaky legs, his servants watching with pity as he went outside. The sight of their sympathy disgusted him. He grabbed the nearest weapon he could find and headed towards you. Death was what you deserved— you incompetent doctor.

You was kneeling, unaware of Muzan's approach as you prepared more medicine. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breath labored from the strain. As he raised his weapon to kill you, he suddenly felt a wave of strength. Every cell in his body began to transform, becoming more powerful. The weapon slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground— alerting you. He realized, in that moment, your medicine was working.

Muzan's body surged with newfound energy, but a searing pain erupted as sunlight hit his skin. He recoiled in agony, darting into the shadows.