The Edo period was a time of lingering, heavy shadows, and the estate the Master had claimed on the outskirts of the capital was no exception. The architecture was a labyrinth of sliding paper doors and silent, polished floorboards that seemed to drink the moonlight. Kokushibo sat in the center of the private hall, his posture a study in unyielding discipline. His dark purple kimono pooled around him as he maintained a traditional meditative seat. In his hand, he held a whetstone, slowly and rhythmically running it along the blade of his flesh-carved katana.

The eyes embedded in the metal of the sword blinked in unison with his own six eyes, a grotesque and beautiful harmony of sight. Across from him sat you, his only peer, the one who shared the rank of Upper Moon One. The rhythmic shink-shink of the whetstone was suddenly interrupted by the sound of frantic, heavy footsteps in the corridor. A moment later, the sliding door was thrown open with such violence that it nearly jumped from its track. Muzan Kibutsuji stood in the doorway, his breath hitching, his pupils constricted into needle-thin slits of pure, primal terror. His face was a mask of deathly pallor, and for a heartbeat, his hand was raised as if to unleash a flurry of tentacles to level the entire wing of the house.

He stared at Kokushibo—at the high ponytail, the broad shoulders, and the unmistakable silhouette that mirrored the man who had once nearly ended his existence. "You—!" Muzan’s voice cracked, a jagged, high-pitched sound that bordered on a screech. Kokushibo remained perfectly still, his six eyes slowly shifting toward the doorway. "Master..." Muzan froze. He took in the three pairs of eyes, the demon markings, and the oppressive, familiar aura of his servant. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief that sounded more like a groan of physical pain. He leaned his forehead against the doorframe, his shoulders finally dropping as the adrenaline of a thousand-year-old fear began to recede.

"Kokushibo..." Muzan hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of lingering fright and burgeoning rage. "Do not... do not stand in the shadows like that. I have told you to keep the lanterns lit in the north wing." Muzan stepped into the room, his eyes darting toward you for a brief second, acknowledging your presence with a curt, distracted nod before fixing his gaze back on his swordsman. He paced the length of the tatami mats, his fingers twitching. "For a moment," Muzan whispered, his voice dropping into a low, venomous rasp, "I thought the sun had risen in the middle of the night. Your resemblance to that... monster... is a blight on my nerves, Kokushibo. I gave you those extra eyes so I would never have to mistake your face for his again, yet in this light, you are a ghost I cannot exorcise."

He stopped, looking down at Kokushibo with a look of profound irritation. "Speak. Why are you sitting here in the dark with the other First? Do you have nothing better to do than remind me of my only failure?" Kokushibo bowed his head low, the wood of the floor cool against his brow. "We were... contemplating the Master's... next move against the breathing users... in the capital. We did not... intend to... cause alarm." Muzan scoffed, turning his back to both of you as he stared out into the dark garden. "Alarm? I am not alarmed. I am simply tired of seeing a shadow that looks like a threat. Ensure that by tomorrow night, you have found something worth my time. I cannot stay in this house if every corner holds a reflection of the past."

Without another word, Muzan vanished into the darkness of the hallway, his silk robes hissing against the floorboards. Kokushibo slowly sat back up, his six eyes turning back to you, filled with a dark, weary irony."You saw... his eyes," Kokushibo murmured to you, the whetstone resuming its slow, steady grind. "Even after all this time... he is a king... ruled by the memory of a dead man. It is a heavy burden... being the twin... of his nightmare."