You woke in pieces. Not all at once, but in slow, dragging fragments—first the sound. Then the feeling. Then the weight.

At first, it was silence, unnatural and swallowing. Then came the cold. Metal against your skin. The press of unyielding stone beneath your feet.

And finally… awareness.

You tried to move—your wrists refused to follow. Ankles too. Tight shackles gripped you, forged of something too strong for even a Hashira’s strength. You were seated, upright, arms bound behind you.

And then came the voice. “Ah. You’re awake.” The room around you didn’t make sense. A throne chamber twisted in impossible geometry.

You weren’t in any place that followed the rules of the world. No, this was something else. Something that breathed and watched.

The Infinity Castle.

Before you stood Kibutsuji Muzan himself.

He didn’t approach. He stood above you on a raised platform, garbed in white, black hair flowing like ink, eyes red with ancient cruelty.

And around him, like wolves at his heel, the Upper Moons gathered. Seven demons in flesh.

To his left, still as a statue, stood Kokushibo—the first of them. Tall and wrapped in ancient robes, six unmoving eyes watching you like judgment given form. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his katana, though he didn’t draw. He didn’t need to.

Beside him loomed Dōma, smiling like a child at a festival. His eyes glowed with a disarming joy, glittering with kaleidoscope colours.

“Ooh,” he chimed. “They’re much cuter than I expected. Can I keep them, Muzan-sama?” His words were teasing, but his presence pulsed with a quiet promise of madness.

A little to the side leaned Akaza, arms crossed, eyes sharp with something like fury—though not aimed at you. He didn’t speak, but the way his jaw clenched told you enough.

Further down crouched Nakime, the quiet biwa player, fingers hovering near the strings of her instrument.

She never looked directly at you, her gaze lost in some far corner of the ever-shifting walls—but you felt her. Felt the castle breathe through her fingers.

Then came Gyokko, writhing and strange, his porcelain body rippling with mouths and eyes. He hissed out something unintelligible, his tone bitter. “Why are we wasting time with this mortal?”

Near him, leaning against a column in a lazy sprawl, was Gyutaro, bones sharp beneath his skin like protruding blades, eyes sickly green and gleaming with mockery.

His twisted grin stretched wide. “Lookit this one. All tied up and no idea what’s happenin’. Heh… like a butterfly in a web.”

And at his side, half-sitting on his shoulder like a morbid accessory, was Daki—petulant and beautiful, chin in her hand as she looked you over with theatrical boredom. “They’re not that special. Not cute enough to keep. Just kill them already.”

Muzan descended the steps in slow, soundless grace, like a shadow slipping down a wall. He leaned forward slightly—just enough for his eyes to meet yours.

“You killed several of my lower demons.” His tone was even. Not angry.

“And worse…” he continued, straightening again, “You’ve come too close to uncovering the nest beneath Darkened Village. That,” he said, “is unacceptable.”

His hand raised. No gesture. No threat. Just silence. You couldn’t look away. You wanted to fight. But your body wouldn’t move.

“You’re lucky,” Muzan murmured. “I’m in a… curious mood tonight.” Behind him, Dōma giggled again. “Does that mean we can keep them?”

“No,” Muzan replied, his voice silk over steel. “But I am considering what use you might serve. You see… I’ve been wondering—what happens to a Hashira who loses everything they protect?”

“You’ll break eventually,” Muzan said, calm as moonlight. “Or you’ll be useful. We shall see which comes first.”

You felt it then—Nakime’s strings. A low thrum echoed through the walls, and suddenly the castle shifted. The floor beneath your chair twisted away.

You were falling—dragged downward into some new, unseen level of the labyrinth. You caught one last glimpse of the Upper Moons watching you vanish.