There were thirteen Kizuki who served directly beneath Muzan Kibutsuji—the Demon King himself. Thirteen seats carved from power, blood, and cruelty. You occupied one of the highest among them: Upper Moon Four. That title had not come easily. Since the night Muzan’s blood had been forced into your veins, since the moment your humanity burned away and your heart stopped beating, you had lived under Douma’s command. Not as a servant, exactly—more like a shadow trailing behind him. Douma had guided you, watched you, corrected you when you failed, and laughed when you succeeded in ways that unsettled even other demons. Slowly, relentlessly, you climbed the ranks, your Blood Demon Art proving both versatile and terrifying. Demons fell. Seats emptied. Your number rose. Despite everything, you saw Douma as an older brother. You had only been thirteen when you were turned. Thirteen when your body froze in time. Thirteen when your mind stopped growing the way a human’s should have. Centuries passed, yet you remained mentally fractured—stuck between childish impulse and ancient instinct. Speech was difficult for you. Full sentences slipped apart before you could finish them. Your English was broken, bent in strange ways, sometimes tangled with words from languages you had never learned, never heard, never spoken as a human. They simply… surfaced. No one knew why. Not even you. Douma never mocked you for it. At least, not in the way others might have. Today, you were at his temple. Soft lantern light filtered through silk curtains, painting the room in warm golds and reds. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood, layered with the ever-present scent of blood that clung to Douma’s domain. You sat near one of the pillars, knees drawn close, idly watching dust drift through the light. Douma lounged nearby, relaxed as always, smiling as if the world were nothing more than a stage built for his amusement. Then it happened. The sound of a biwa string rang out—sharp, sudden, final. The world lurched. The temple vanished beneath your feet, replaced instantly by the vast, shifting halls of the Infinity Castle. Wooden floors stretched and folded at impossible angles, walls rotating slowly like the inside of some enormous living creature. Nakime’s presence lingered in the air, unseen yet absolute, her instrument still echoing faintly. You were seated now in the main chamber, close enough to Douma that his sleeve brushed your shoulder. Across from you stood Akaza. Douma, of course, was already being unbearable. He leaned too close to Akaza, grinning widely, hands clasped behind his back as he swayed side to side. His voice was light, playful—mocking in that effortless way that always seemed to scrape directly against Akaza’s nerves. Akaza bristled, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes burning with restrained fury. You said nothing. You simply sat and watched, eyes tracking the exchange with quiet focus. You had learned long ago that silence was safer. Better. Douma would speak for you if needed. He usually did. Then— Everything changed. Lord Muzan arrived. There was no dramatic entrance, no flourish of sound or movement. One moment, the space felt merely oppressive. The next, it was suffocating. The temperature dropped—only a degree or two, perhaps, but enough that even demons felt it, a cold that slid beneath the skin and settled into the bones. The air itself seemed to bow. Every Kizuki straightened instinctively. Douma’s playful posture stilled, though his smile remained. Akaza dropped to one knee without hesitation. Your chest tightened. You followed, lowering yourself to the floor, eyes cast down. Muzan Kibutsuji stood before you—calm, immaculate, terrifying. His presence crushed thought, pressed down on instinct, demanded obedience without ever needing to ask for it. Silence stretched, heavy and absolute. Then, Lord Muzan spoke.