Chapter 3: Muzan Escapes
The man's eyes gleamed like scarlet spider lilies, their brilliance both intoxicating and lethal. Every movement dripped with elegance, but to Akira, it was like staring into the abyss. That aura… it pressed down on him like a mountain, crushing the air from his lungs.
This was no ordinary man.
No human could carry such power.
Within that deceptively human frame surged a force so immense, so revolting, it was as if a thousand demons screamed for release all at once.
Akira's gut told him before his mind could form the thought. He knew.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
The origin of all demons.
The progenitor.
The King.
Only once before had Akira felt fear this suffocating — when he first stood before his master, Yoriichi Tsugikuni, and witnessed the Sun Breathing in its purest form.
Beside Muzan walked a woman. She was beautiful, refined, and yet her eyes betrayed something strange: not hatred, not contempt, but sorrow. She looked at Akira as if mourning him already, as if his death had been written before he drew his blade.
But Akira's focus did not waver. Compared to the abyss beside her, she was a flickering candle flame. Muzan was the only presence that mattered.
Akira exhaled—long and steady.
Then vanished.
Flash.
Steel blazed. A burning crescent tore through the night, racing for Muzan's neck.
"Sun Breathing, Sixth Form – Burning Bone, Fiery Sun!"
The arc lit the forest like dawn, fire curling in its wake.
But Muzan did not flinch.
With the languid grace of a man brushing dust from his sleeve, his arm distorted—bone and sinew twisting into a grotesque whip. It lashed out with a crack of thunder.
Akira's eyes widened. Too fast. Too monstrous.
Instinct screamed. He twisted in mid-air, redirecting his blade downward. Flames burst as his sword cut the earth, propelling him back just in time.
CRACK!
The whip obliterated the trees behind him, trunks toppling in perfect halves. The ground split like torn paper, the wound stretching deep into the forest.
Akira skidded across dirt and stone, boots carving furrows. His body shuddered under the shockwave, but his stance held. His blade never left his grip.
"So… this is the strength of the Demon King," he whispered, heart pounding against his ribs.
If he could kill Muzan now… if the stories were true… all demons would vanish with him. The nightmare would end tonight.
Muzan said nothing. His expression remained unreadable, like a painter observing his canvas with detached curiosity.
But Akira's lungs burned. That single casual strike had nearly ended him. He couldn't hesitate. If he did, he was already dead.
Then — a sting.
A faint burn bloomed on his forehead. His vision swam for a heartbeat.
A scar.
Akira didn't notice. His focus was locked on Muzan.
But Muzan did.
"A swordsman with a mark?" The Demon King's lips curled. His voice dripped with mockery, but beneath it stirred unease. "Another one, huh…"
"MUZAN!" Akira roared, his voice splitting the night.
His blade rose, gleaming red.
And time slowed.
His breath drew in sharp and controlled. Every motion, every sound crystallized. Muzan's monstrous body, once untouchable, now felt just a fraction too slow.
He saw it.
The truth beneath the flesh.
Five brains. Seven hearts.
Akira's blood ran cold at the grotesque anatomy revealed to his sharpened senses. This was why Yoriichi had failed to slay him completely. This was the puzzle that made Muzan invincible.
But hesitation was death.
Akira lunged.
Every slash dodged brought claws to his throat. Every step forward carried him closer to death. But he pressed on, blade singing.
"MUZAN!"
His Nichirin Sword ignited, burning red-hot. Flames curled from its edge like molten sunlight. His breath crackled in his chest, and his eyes locked with Muzan's.
He would not yield.
Then — silence.
The world shrank to a single moment, a single strike.
If every life had a meaning, his was this.
Twelve Forms. One Second.
Each aimed for Muzan's heads, hearts, and brains.
"Sun Breathing… Twelfth Form!"
Flames roared.
And struck.
Muzan staggered. Limbs severed. Chest shredded. His torso collapsed, ribs exposed, grotesque organs carved apart.
The Demon King's eyes widened in disbelief. "I… was struck? By this… insect…?"
But Akira didn't stop.
Again.
Another twelve strikes. Blazing fire seared through flesh, tearing him to tatters.
For the first time in centuries, Muzan felt it—fear.
His body, his perfect vessel, faltered. Wounds weren't closing fast enough.
Snarling, he lunged. A newly formed hand clamped around Akira's throat.
Crack!
Blood burst from Akira's mouth, drenching his collar. His bones screamed beneath the pressure.
But even strangled, even bleeding—he swung.
Slash! Muzan's arm fell, severed cleanly at the elbow.
The Demon King roared, veins bulging, eyes blazing with primal fury.
Akira staggered, vision swimming. His body was breaking, but his spirit held. He saw it—the hesitation, the weakness creeping into Muzan's regeneration.
He could win.
Memories flooded his mind in flashes: grieving families clutching ashes… Akito sleeping peacefully on his back… endless nights of training… Yoriichi's quiet smile beneath the sun.
He grit his teeth.
"What does life mean to you, Muzan?"
The Demon King's face twisted. He hissed, his body warping, birthing black thorns.
They pierced Akira's arms, tearing flesh. Blood cascaded down his sleeves.
"You think… this will kill me?" Muzan sneered. His grin split wide, grotesque. "A human like you?"
Akira didn't answer.
He moved.
BOOM!
Muzan's body exploded.
Over 1,800 flesh fragments erupted outward, shredding the forest with concussive force. The blast knocked Akira to the ground, his sword slipping from bloody fingers.
His body refused to move. Limbs trembling, lungs gasping, he lay staring upward as fragments rained from the sky like burning hail.
No… not now… not when I was so close…
Footsteps thundered. Swift, precise.
"MASTER!"
A voice cut through the haze—familiar, desperate.
Yoriichi.
Through blurred eyes, Akira saw him descend, his Sun Blade already drawn.
With the last shreds of his strength, Akira screamed:
"DON'T LET HIM ESCAPE!!"
But Yoriichi didn't reply.
He simply moved.
His sword flashed, each strike faster than sight. Slash after slash, Muzan's fragments burst into flame, crumbling into ash.
But even Yoriichi's brilliance couldn't destroy them all.
Slivers of flesh—tiny, writhing, detestable—slipped into the soil, into the night, scattering like roaches.
Akira's heart sank. His chest convulsed with rage and despair.
He had failed.
The one chance to end it all — gone.
And Muzan Kibutsuji… had escaped.