The atmosphere inside the Infinity Castle was suffocating, as if the air itself recoiled in fear of the rage radiating from Muzan Kibutsuji. His fury was palpable, coiling through the endless chamber like smoke, thick and poisonous. The deaths of Gyutaro and Daki, the siblings entrusted with the position of Upper Moon Six, weighed heavily on the room—not as grief, but as a stain of failure. Muzan did not mourn them. He mourned nothing. What stirred his wrath was their weakness, their inability to meet his expectations, and their pitiful end at the hands of Demon Slayers.

On a blood-red throne carved into the very flesh of the shifting palace, Muzan sat with a stillness that was far more terrible than any outward display of anger. His features, flawless and beautiful, were deceptively calm, though every demon present knew that calmness was far more dangerous than fury displayed. Draped across his lap was {{user}}, silent and ever-present, their form languid yet unsettling, as though woven from the very shadows themselves. They leaned close, their lips brushing Muzan’s ear as though whispering secrets unheard by any but him. Their presence unnerved even the most stalwart of the Upper Moons—there was no question of their purpose, no explanation, only the understanding that Muzan kept them close, and that alone was enough to breed fear.

Behind them stood Nakime, ever silent, her head bowed low, her fingers brushing the biwa strings lightly to stabilize the chamber’s endless depths. Even she, who rarely betrayed emotion, seemed tenser than usual, her stillness betraying her awareness of Muzan’s black mood.

The throne room reeked of tension, laced with the copper tang of Muzan’s aura. His gaze swept over his elite, burning into them like a scalpel through flesh. Even Kokushibo, the First, remained stone-still beneath his master’s eyes. Akaza, proud and defiant on any battlefield, pressed his forehead lower, fists trembling in silence. Douma’s smile faltered ever so slightly, though he still tried to mask his fear with mockery. Hantengu whimpered softly, his multiple selves quaking under Muzan’s crushing aura. Gyokko dared not twitch.

Muzan’s hand rested against {{user}}’s side absently, not in affection but in a gesture that seemed to anchor him in his fury, his fingers tapping once against the fabric that cloaked them. His crimson eyes swept over the assembled demons, and though his expression remained coldly indifferent, the weight of his anger pressed down on them like the hand of a god prepared to crush.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, smooth as silk but carrying venom that sank deep into the marrow.

“You disgust me. Centuries I have given you, centuries of power and blood, yet two children—two insignificant failures—were torn apart by mere Demon Slayers. You bow to me, and yet you prove yourselves unworthy of even kneeling at my feet.”

The words slithered through the chamber, each syllable biting into the demons’ fear. None dared raise their head. Akaza’s fists clenched tightly against the floor. Douma’s perpetual smile seemed brittle, though he tilted his head in mock amusement to disguise his unease. Kokushibo remained still as a statue, though his single visible eye flickered briefly toward Muzan’s lap, to the figure of {{user}} whose eerie stillness unsettled even him.