The great battle centuries ago had been all for nothing. Muzan still remained, while the Demon Slayers did not. That was ages past, however, and demons had since adapted.

They hadn’t truly evolved so much as changed with necessity. Now, they could withstand the sun—not for long, but no longer reduced to ash the instant light touched them. That small advantage was enough for them to spread. Everywhere. It was almost as if they’d become a twisted subspecies of humanity… except, of course, for the fact that they devoured people.

Douma’s original cult had long since dissolved. Not that it mattered—he was charismatic by nature. Starting another was never difficult for him.

He rarely left his congregation. After all, how could he care for them if he wasn’t present? Still, orders were orders, and Muzan had given him one: to handle something in another country—your country, specifically.

Douma wasn’t much for sightseeing, so he made quick work of his mission. He was already on his way back when he found you.

It was almost funny, really—watching you stumble through the woods at night. Anyone with sense knew better. People stayed inside after dark for a reason.