The nights grew longer.
Yoriichi had searched far and wide—across villages plagued by death, forests swallowed in silence, and mountains where even crows feared to land. Each whisper of destruction pointed in one direction. And finally, he found them.
In the heart of a decaying temple, bathed in moonlight, stood two figures:
Muzan Kibutsuji, clad in black robes that rippled like ink, his skin pale as snow, eyes red with endless hunger.
And beside him—Tamayo, quiet, unreadable, her expression veiled in silence.
Yoriichi stepped forward.
The wind stilled.
Muzan turned, mildly amused.
"So the ghost finally arrives."
Yoriichi said nothing. He merely unsheathed his blade.
The temperature shifted.
In a blink, the dance began.
Muzan lunged—his body splitting and reforming mid-air, claws flashing like sickles. Yoriichi countered, his Sun Breathing forms flowing one into another like an endless rhythm.
First Form: Flame Waltz — light seared the night, cutting into Muzan's flesh.
Third Form: Dragon Sun Halo Head Dance — a spinning arc that grazed the demon's neck.
Seventh Form: Solar Heat Haze — a blur of motion, too fast to track.
Muzan screamed. Blood spattered across the rotting floor. His body convulsed—splitting into hundreds of pieces, writhing like serpents, trying to escape.
But Yoriichi was faster.
He moved as if guided by the gods. Each cut severed escape, every form closed a path.
Finally—
Muzan fell.
Slumped. Breathing shallow. Blood pooling at his feet.
Yoriichi stood over him, silent, eyes glowing in golden rage.
Muzan forced a sick grin.
"Even if I die… demons will live on… I have… scattered my flesh... you cannot—"
But Yoriichi stepped forward, blade still glowing.
"What do you find so amusing?"
His voice was colder than death.
"You've lived for centuries. Killing, deceiving, hiding. And now, in the face of true light… you run."
Tamayo stared, wide-eyed, as Muzan's smirk finally faded into something darker—fear.
"This is the weight of a human life. You never understood it. You never will."
Yoriichi raised his sword.
But—
Muzan's body convulsed violently—shattering into hundreds of tiny chunks, fleeing into the shadows like red worms, scattering into the wind.
Too fast.
Too many.
Too small.
He escaped.
Yoriichi stood motionless, the silence swallowing the night once again.
Tamayo knelt, stunned, trembling.
"You nearly killed him…"
"But not enough," Yoriichi whispered, lowering his sword.
The dawn broke.
And once again—the demon vanished