The moon hung low, veiled in a crimson haze. The night was quiet—too quiet. And in that silence, Michikatsu Tsugikuni's thoughts screamed louder than any blade.
He stood alone atop the cliff behind the training grounds, his sword planted beside him, fists clenched, eyes burning with resentment.
"Why… Why can't I surpass him?"
"I breathe, I fight, I bleed like him… yet I remain in his shadow."
Every victory felt lesser. Every step forward… felt like a step behind Yoriichi.
He struck the ground, again and again, his breathing ragged.
"Even now… he looks at me with pity."
Then came a whisper, like smoke curling through his thoughts.
"You are more than this."
Michikatsu turned.
A man stood behind him in the mist, pale and elegant, eyes like pools of malice and intellect.
Kibutsuji Muzan.
"You were never meant to follow, Michikatsu. You were born to lead."
Michikatsu's hand hovered over his blade.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who sees your greatness, when even your own brother does not. He holds you back—buried under kindness, under sentiment. But I can release you."
The wind stilled. The trees seemed to shiver.
"What if I could give you eternity?" Muzan's voice coiled like a serpent.
"The strength to become more than just the brother of Yoriichi—to become something divine?"
Michikatsu's breath caught.
"You… can do that?"
"All you must do is let go of your humanity."
There was no scream. No thunderclap. Only the sound of transformation—bone stretching, blood boiling, flesh turning to something beyond mortal.
The moon overhead flickered and dimmed.
Michikatsu Tsugikuni was no more.
Kokushibo, the First Upper Moon, had been born.
And far away, Yoriichi stirred in his sleep, a chill crawling up his spine.