Muzan sat inside his tent with his back against the support pole. His hands rested on his knees but his fingers wouldn't stay still. They kept flexing and curling as if trying to grip something that wasn't there anymore.
The memory played on repeat without his permission. The kunai leaving his hand in a smooth throw he'd practiced dozens of times during training. The blade punching through the Nara's throat with resistance that felt different than striking a practice dummy. The wet scraping sound as metal ground against cartilage and bone. The way the man's eyes had widened in surprise rather than pain, as if death was something that happened to other people and he couldn't quite believe it was happening to him.
This had been Muzan's first conscious kill. The five Kamizuru shinobi he'd slaughtered and eaten didn't count because he'd been operating on pure instinct with his consciousness fragmented across multiple brains. But the Nara had died while Muzan was fully aware of what he was doing and why.
He felt disconnected from the event, as if he was remembering something that had happened to someone else. The emotion he expected to feel wasn't there. Shouldn't killing another person feel more significant? Shouldn't he be vomiting or crying or experiencing some visceral reaction that proved he was still human despite his transformation?
Instead, there was just emptiness where stronger feelings should have been, like someone had carved out his emotional responses and replaced them with nothing.
Muzan tried to force himself to feel guilty. He imagined the Nara's family receiving news of his death. He pictured friends who would miss him and comrades who had relied on him. But every time he attempted to generate remorse, another thought interrupted with cold logic that the Nara had been trying to kill both him and Toshiro. The choice had been survival or death, and Muzan had chosen survival.
So why were his hands still trembling?
He stared at his palms in the dim light filtering through the tent fabric. They were clean now. He'd scrubbed them raw after returning to camp that night, watching pink-tinged water run off his skin until no trace of blood remained. But he could still feel the stickiness on his fingers, could still smell the copper scent mixing with the forest's natural odors.
The past weeks had stripped away so much of who he'd been. He'd lost Genzo to a senseless ambush. He'd been captured by a madman who'd used him in a ritual. He'd watched hundreds of people die during the explosion. He'd transformed into something inhuman that needed to consume flesh to survive. He'd eaten five people while operating on instinct.
How much trauma could accumulate before a person simply stopped processing it normally? Was he broken, or was this numbness a natural adaptation to circumstances that exceeded normal human experience?
The tent flap rustled and someone entered. Muzan had already sensed Toshiro approaching before he'd reached the tent, his heartbeat distinctive and his footsteps carrying a pattern Muzan had memorized over the past week.
Toshiro looked at Muzan's tense posture and the way his fingers were digging into his knees hard enough to leave pressure marks. "What's wrong?"
Muzan shook his head without meeting Toshiro's eyes. "Nothing."
His voice came out flat and emotionless in a way that made the lie obvious.
Toshiro's eyes widened as understanding crossed his face. "Was that your first kill? The Nara?"
Muzan nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak more than necessary.
Toshiro moved closer and gripped Muzan's shoulder, his hand warm and solid through the fabric of his shirt. "It's difficult the first time. But we're shinobi. Killing and dying are part of what we signed up for when we chose this life." He squeezed harder, the pressure grounding. "What you did back there saved my life. If you hadn't been there, I'd be dead right now. Lord Urashi heard about the engagement and he's pleased with how you performed. Keep proving yourself in combat and I'm certain he'll help you find treatment for your sunlight condition."
The word "achievement" associated with taking a life made something twist in Muzan's chest, but he couldn't identify whether the sensation was disgust or something else entirely.
Muzan nodded again because his throat felt tight with an emotion he couldn't name. It wasn't the urge to cry exactly, but rather the absence of tears when some part of him felt like crying should be the natural response.
He looked up at Toshiro. "If you had died in that fight, would you have regrets?"
Toshiro blinked at the unexpected question. Then he smiled, though the expression carried weight behind it. "Every shinobi hopes to live a long, healthy, happy life despite what we do. But not at the cost of abandoning our comrades to die alone." He paused and his smile faded into something more serious. "If I'd died there, I'd have one major regret: that I wouldn't be around anymore to help shoulder the burdens my comrades carry."
"Then why continue these wars?" Muzan's voice cracked slightly. "If everyone could just live in harmony, there wouldn't be death. We could all be happy."
A bitter expression crossed Toshiro's face. "That might have been possible generations ago before the cycles of violence became self-perpetuating. But we've crossed too many lines to forgive each other now." His expression darkened further. "My parents died fighting the Senju. My grandparents died the same way. One day I'll probably die in combat against them too. All those deaths would become meaningless if we suddenly decided to make peace and pretend the past didn't happen." He met Muzan's eyes directly. "Pursuing happiness at any cost creates the conditions for tragedy. The want for peace often leads to the worst violence."
The words hit Muzan like a physical blow to his chest, forcing him to confront questions he'd been avoiding.
Could he ever forgive his uncle for orchestrating the deaths of his parents? The answer was no. Could he forgive the madman who'd sacrificed hundreds of people in a ritual? Absolutely not. Would he sacrifice himself to save Genzo if given the chance to go back and change events? Yes, without hesitation.
Then what right did he have to feel guilty about killing an enemy who'd been trying to murder him and his comrade?
The realization settled over him slowly, like cold water seeping through his clothing. He'd been trying to feel guilty because guilt would prove he was still the person he'd been before the transformation. Guilt would mean he hadn't fundamentally changed into something inhuman. But guilt was a luxury that required the option to choose peace, and he didn't have that option anymore.
His mother had sacrificed her life birthing him. His father had done the same while protecting him. Genzo had taken the death blow meant for him. If he wanted to honor those sacrifices rather than rendering them meaningless, he couldn't afford to break down under the weight of guilt and self-pity. He needed to be selfish enough to survive. He needed to become strong enough that their deaths meant something.
Thinking about others' wellbeing first was a privilege reserved for people who had the security to make that choice. Muzan wasn't one of them anymore.
The hollow feeling in his chest didn't disappear, but it transformed into something he could carry rather than something that threatened to crush him under its weight.
Toshiro was still watching him with concern creasing the corners of his eyes. "Muzan? Are you processing this okay?"
Muzan blinked and pulled himself out of his thoughts. "Yes. I think I understand now."
"Understand what?"
"Why the fighting continues. Why it can't just stop." Muzan's hands had finally stopped trembling without him noticing when the change had occurred.
Toshiro's expression softened and he squeezed Muzan's shoulder one more time before stepping back. "Good. That's good." He cleared his throat deliberately. "Anyway, the actual reason I came here was to tell you that Lord Urashi wants to give you a reward for your performance in that engagement. He's requested your presence at his tent."
Muzan nodded, his mind still processing the conversation they'd just had.
A reward for killing another human being. The concept should have disturbed him but he just felt tired and emotionally drained.
Toshiro sighed when Muzan didn't immediately move. "You're moving too slowly. Lord Urashi is an extremely busy man, especially during active operations. We should go quickly."
He grabbed Muzan's arm and pulled him to his feet, then guided him toward the tent entrance.
As they walked through the camp toward the command area, Muzan caught his reflection in a puddle left over from the previous night's rain. His eyes looked different than they had before, though he couldn't articulate exactly what had changed about them.
---
Three days passed with Muzan participating in additional patrol duties and training exercises designed to integrate him more fully into the squad's operational patterns. The days blurred together in a routine of sleeping during daylight hours, emerging at sunset, and spending the nights either on patrol or drilling with his squad members.
On the evening of the third day, Muzan stood at the camp's edge watching smoke curl upward from cooking fires that were being extinguished as full darkness approached. His fingers traced the kunai holster strapped to his right thigh, the weight of the weapons now familiar rather than strange.
"Muzan!" Toshiro's voice carried across the clearing as he approached with his characteristic energy. "Did you hear the news? Miyako-san is leading the other squad for tonight's mission. Miyako-san herself is going to be working alongside us!"
"You've mentioned that fact seventeen times in the past hour," Naroi said without looking up from where he sat on a supply crate methodically sharpening his tanto. The rhythmic scraping sound of metal on whetstone set Muzan's teeth on edge.
"Have I really mentioned it seventeen times?" Toshiro's enthusiasm faltered slightly.
"Eighteen now that you've acknowledged it," Masai added from where he was adjusting the bandages wrapped around his forearms. The stocky shinobi was built like a boulder with a low center of gravity and massive shoulders that suggested tremendous physical strength.
"I'm not being excessive!" Toshiro's voice rose defensively. "I'm just acknowledging Miyako-san's exceptional talent. She awakened her Sharingan at thirteen years old and she's already eliminated two Sarutobi shinobi in solo combat engagements."
Naroi still didn't look up from his blade. "You've taken down three enemy scouts in cooperation with Muzan during the past week. Stop comparing your achievements to hers and focus on improving your own skills."
A sharp impact made Muzan's attention snap toward Amanai, who had just driven a kunai into a wooden post with enough force to bury the blade several inches deep. Their squad leader pulled the weapon free with deliberate slowness, examining the edge in the firelight.
"When Miyako's squad arrives," Amanai said quietly, "you will show appropriate respect for a fellow squad leader. You will follow orders precisely as given. And Toshiro—" He fixed the younger shinobi with a flat stare that carried unspoken warning. "You will not embarrass this squad by behaving like a lovesick child around her."
"I don't act like—"
"You absolutely do," Masai interrupted, clapping Toshiro's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble forward a step. "Watching you interact with her is genuinely painful for the rest of us."
Muzan felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly at the exchange.
"Incoming!" Masai pointed toward the camp's main path where figures were approaching.
Five shinobi emerged from between the rows of tents, moving with the coordinated precision of a well-trained unit.
Toshiro immediately straightened his posture and smoothed his hair with one hand. Naroi rolled his eyes with exaggerated motion.
Uchiha Miyako walked at the formation's center position. She was younger than Muzan had expected based on Toshiro's descriptions, barely looking sixteen years old. She was shorter than average for a shinobi with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that wouldn't interfere with combat. But the way she carried herself projected authority that her age and size shouldn't have supported.
Her eyes were crimson with three black tomoe marks spinning slowly in each iris, marking her as having achieved the Sharingan's third stage of development.
"Amanai-san." Miyako's voice was crisp and professional as she approached. She didn't bow since squad leaders held equivalent rank. "My squad is ready for deployment. Shall we review the mission parameters and coordination protocols?"
"Miyako-san!" Toshiro stepped forward with an eager expression. "It's good to see you again! It's been approximately two months since the last time we—"
"Toshiro." Amanai's tone could have frozen water mid-flow.
Toshiro's mouth snapped shut.
Miyako's expression didn't change but something shifted in her red eyes that might have been amusement or pity. "Toshiro-san. You appear to be in good health."
"Y-yes! You as well! Not that you don't always appear healthy, but I meant—"
"Moving on to mission details." Miyako turned back to Amanai, completely ignoring Toshiro's stammering. "Intelligence reports suggest the convoy will pass through the valley approximately two hours after noon. Minimum ten guards with the possibility of additional forces depending on the cargo's perceived value. We'll need precise coordination between our squads."
Masai leaned close to Muzan and whispered, "Watch carefully. She's about to destroy him without speaking a single direct insult."
"Toshiro-san." Miyako's gaze shifted back to the younger shinobi. "You're designated as your squad's primary sensor, correct?"
"Yes!" Hope flared in Toshiro's voice and expression.
"Excellent. You'll maintain perimeter watch in coordination with my squad's sensor. Twenty-meter radius minimum at all times. No exceptions to that positioning."
The unstated message was clear: stay away from the actual combat engagement.
Toshiro's face fell. "But I could provide support during the initial—"
"Are you questioning my tactical assessment?" The tomoe in Miyako's eyes spun faster.
"N-no! Of course not, Miyako-san!"
Naroi coughed into his fist in a way that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
Miyako's squad spread out in a loose formation behind her. Two men and two women, all of them carrying themselves with the confidence of experienced combatants despite appearing relatively young. One of them, a tall man with a prominent scar across his nose, nodded to Amanai in acknowledgment.
"Ichiro." Amanai returned the nod. "Your squad is prepared?"
"Always ready." Ichiro's hand rested casually on his sword hilt. "I heard your squad acquired a new member recently. That him?" He looked directly at Muzan.
Every eye in both squads turned toward him simultaneously. Muzan felt his shoulders tense under the scrutiny.
"Muzan eliminated a Nara scout last week during a patrol engagement," Amanai said matter-of-factly. "His actions saved Toshiro's life. He's proven his capability under combat conditions."
"A Nara?" One of Miyako's female squad members raised an eyebrow. Her stance suggested she was the primary taijutsu specialist. "That's legitimately impressive for someone so new."
"I heard you received less than a week of training before being deployed to active operations," the woman continued.
"That's correct," Muzan said quietly.
Miyako studied him with those penetrating red eyes that seemed to be analyzing everything about his posture, equipment, and readiness.
"Acceptable performance," she said finally. "But understand that your victory over the Nara wasn't primarily due to your skill level. It was due to your opponent underestimating you as a threat." She looked at Amanai. "You're confident he can handle combat against opponents who are properly prepared and won't make that mistake?"
Muzan answered before Amanai could respond. "I'll do whatever needs to be done to complete the mission."
Miyako's lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "We'll see if your pe