Chapter 10: A Gift to the Demon Slayer Corps
The hillside was quiet.
A single gravestone stood beneath a wind-scoured tree, its carving weathered yet resolute:
"Grave of a Thousand Years."
Akira collapsed before it, his knees sinking into the frostbitten grass. His body trembled, blood soaking through his torn robes. He pressed a hand to his chest and gasped, each breath a knife carving deeper into failing lungs.
"…Chitose," he rasped, the name breaking like glass on his lips. "I'm useless."
He gave a bitter smile, one too weak to carry shame.
"I saw him. I was right there. That bastard. But I couldn't avenge you. Couldn't even kill him."
The wind stirred the grass, whispering through the trees. The world offered no answer.
"You must be so disappointed in me… having a brother like this."
His voice cracked, fading into the emptiness.
---
A harsh caw split the silence.
Lang Itachi—the crow who had followed Akira through every war, every battlefield, every nightmare—descended from the sky. In its beak it carried herbs and strips of gauze, stolen from some far-off healer. It dropped them into Akira's lap.
"Akira," the crow warned, its voice sharp with urgency, "treat your wounds quickly. If you don't, you'll bleed out. You'll die."
Akira didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the gravestone, as if the faint carvings could answer every question he'd ever asked.
"…Lang Itachi," he murmured softly. "Tell me… what's the meaning of life?"
The crow ruffled its feathers, snapping its beak. "I'm not human. How should I know? But listen—if you want revenge for Chitose, you won't get it if you bleed out here."
"Even if I live… then what?" Akira whispered. His voice was hollow.
"The Sound Pillar…" he muttered, words trailing like falling ash. "He said those with the Mark don't live past twenty-five. Lang Itachi… I don't have much time left."
He turned his head slowly, bloodshot eyes meeting the bird's.
"You knew, didn't you?"
The crow faltered. Its wings twitched, and it looked away. The silence that followed was louder than any cry.
"…I'm sorry," it finally croaked. "I just didn't want you to give up."
Akira's fists clenched. His nails bit into his palms, tearing skin until blood dripped into the grass.
He was going to die.
Not someday. Soon.
There was nothing crueler than knowing your death was inevitable—and being forced to watch each second fall away like grains of sand.
A year. Maybe less.
What could a broken man do in a year?
He had failed to protect his brother. Failed to clear his master's name. Failed to kill Muzan.
He hated himself.
His body trembled—not from pain, but from helplessness.
Wouldn't it be easier… to just stop? To let go? To rest?
His eyes slid closed.
---
Lang Itachi screamed.
The sky seemed to darken, the air collapsing in on itself.
Click. Click. Click.
Footsteps approached—unhurried, deliberate, steady as a heartbeat.
Akira's eyelids lifted. His vision blurred.
And then he felt it.
A presence like death itself. As if eternity had opened its eyes and was staring directly at him.
He looked up.
A man emerged from the shadows. His skin was pale as moonlight, his features sharp, flawless, and terrible—beautiful in a way that defied reason, androgynous like a statue carved by a god who had long forgotten the difference between man and woman.
The wind stilled. The hillside seemed to bow beneath his presence.
Kibutsuji Muzan.
Akira blinked. Not in fear. Not in rage.
Just… exhaustion.
"…Here to kill me?" His voice was a rasp, barely a breath.
Muzan tilted his head, one brow arched, faint amusement playing at his lips. "Hmph. You've been busy, haven't you?"
His voice was low and silky, each word slicing as clean as a scalpel.
"A rogue swordsman who slaughters Demon Slayers instead of demons. Word travels quickly. Even my children whisper your name."
He stepped closer, unhurried. The gravestone seemed to shrink, the very earth recoiling from him.
"I had to see you for myself."
Akira didn't move. Didn't answer. His eyes held nothing now—no flame, no fury, only the quiet weight of a man who had lost everything.
Muzan studied him, then smiled faintly. "I can hear it. Your soul is screaming. You want power. You want vengeance."
He crouched, lowering himself until he was level with Akira, so close their breaths mingled in the cold air.
"I can give it to you."
Akira's gaze flickered, a faint sharpness cutting through the fog. "What are you offering?"
"Abandon this frail, decaying human body," Muzan whispered. His words dripped like poison wrapped in velvet. "Become more. Evolve. I will break your limits."
He extended a pale hand, fingers elegant, deadly.
"Beg me, and I'll grant you power beyond imagination. You want to destroy the Demon Slayer Corps? I will help you burn them to the ground."
The offer hung in the air like smoke.
Akira stared at the hand. His body shook, not from cold, but from the storm raging inside.
If this were a year ago—if Chitose still lived—he would have cut Muzan down without hesitation, even if it meant dying on the spot.
But now?
He had nothing.
Nothing but rage. And a clock ticking down.
"…You want me to beg?" Akira's voice was low, steady.
Muzan's smile widened. "I want you to live. I want you to burn them all."
Akira's eyes closed. His breath trembled.
And he did not resist.
He let the darkness in.
---
Pain erupted.
It tore through his veins like fire and lightning, scorching every nerve. His blood boiled. His bones cracked and reknit. His skin burned, peeled, and remade itself.
He collapsed against the gravestone, screaming soundlessly into the earth.
Muzan stood above him, impassive. His gamble had paid off.
This one would not break. He would not wither.
No—he would thrive.
Just then, Lang Itachi dove, wings outstretched, beak aimed at Muzan's eyes.
The Demon King didn't flinch. Didn't even raise a hand.
He only turned his gaze.
The weight of that gaze alone shattered the crow's wings. Bones snapped like twigs. The bird fell from the air, crashing to the ground beside Akira in a broken heap.
Akira's blood seeped into the earth, creeping toward the fallen crow. It touched the feathers, soaking them scarlet.
The crow twitched once.
Then stilled.
Akira's scream tore through the night—not from fear, but from the agony of transformation. His body convulsed, veins blackening, eyes burning crimson. His nails lengthened into claws. His teeth sharpened.
And then—silence.
Darkness consumed him.
---
Muzan straightened, gazing down at the broken body of the man who had once sworn to destroy him.
He smiled.
"The Demon Slayer Corps…"
The words were a whisper, a curse carried on the wind.
"You've hunted me for a thousand years."
He turned, walking away, the night swallowing him whole.
"Now let me return the favor—"
The pale moon lit his smile as he vanished.
"…with a gift."