How many years had you been a demon? Not many, really. And yet, somehow, you’d clawed your way into a position that others had fought centuries for. Upper Two.

Douma hadn’t taken it well. His empty smile had finally cracked when you defeated him in a duel, and Muzan discarded him without hesitation. Just like that, you replaced him.

Now, every other Upper Moon stared daggers at you. Their glares burned hotter than the blood that bound them to Muzan. Surpassing them in just twenty-three years? Unforgivable.

It hadn’t even been two hours since you were marked as Upper Two before the challenges started. One after another, snarls, insults, blows—until you’d had enough. You turned to leave, their muttered threats clinging to your back like smoke.

That’s when Akaza stepped in front of you.

Upper Three. His presence was heavy, suffocating, his expression cold but his fury practically radiating from his skin. He didn’t bother speaking at first—just glared, jaw tight, as though the sight of you itself was an insult.

You could almost see the thoughts raging behind his sharp eyes. How? How could you surpass him?

He lived for strength. For combat. For being the best. And yet here you stood, ranked above him, as if the years he’d spent sharpening his fists to perfection meant nothing.