The first breath Muzan drew in his new body was sharp, intoxicating.
Air filled his lungs not as oxygen, but as power. Every particle in the atmosphere seemed alive, vibrating against his skin. He opened his crimson eyes to a starless night sky, clouds swirling like a painter's brushstrokes, and the faint glow of a city skyline in the distance.
He stood at the edge of a forest. Branches clawed at the moon, the earth pulsed beneath his feet, and for the first time in two lifetimes, Shinzo—no, Muzan—felt complete.
He flexed his fingers. Each movement was fluid, elegant, a perfect harmony of muscle and will. His skin gleamed pale beneath the moonlight, his long white hair brushing against his shoulders like strands of silk. He rolled his shoulders, listening to the crack of joints that were no longer weak, no longer mortal.
"This body…" he whispered, his voice dripping with pride. "So this is what it means to be free."
But then, a thought intruded. A shut-in's thought.
Wait… don't people who get reincarnated usually get a system?
He frowned, looking around, almost expecting a glowing interface to appear in front of him. "Status," he said aloud. Nothing.
"Inventory." Still nothing.
"Shop. Quest log. God-damned tutorial?"
Silence.
Muzan sat down on a nearby rock, his white hair catching the moonlight. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. For a solid minute, he muttered to himself.
"Figures. That god had one job. Three wishes and he couldn't throw in a system? Even Obito got more structure than this."
He tried again, this time with sheer willpower. He pictured windows, stats, glowing numbers. For ten whole minutes he sat there, focused like a man defusing a bomb. Nothing came.
Finally, he dropped back against the tree with a laugh. "Alright, fine. No system. Just raw talent and my big demon brain. Probably better this way—I'd just min-max myself into an early grave."
The irritation melted away, replaced with curiosity. If he didn't have a system, he still had something better: a body designed for destruction.
He clenched his fist, and the world shuddered. Soil splintered beneath his feet as if the earth itself feared his strength. He opened his palm and watched black tendrils snake from his skin, stretching, twisting, before snapping back into him. The sensation was euphoric.
His veins hummed with demonic energy. His blood wasn't just life—it was magic, raw and volatile, begging to be shaped. He closed his eyes and focused. The energy responded like a loyal dog, surging through his body, coiling at his fingertips.
Let's see what this body can really do.
He extended his hand toward a tree several meters away. The bark groaned, warped, and with a flick of his wrist, the entire trunk exploded into splinters. The sound echoed through the forest like a cannon blast. Birds scattered, crying out in terror.
Muzan smirked. "Not bad."
He raised his hand again, but this time, he imagined creation. His blood pooled at his palm, black and viscous, before stretching upward into a claw-like blade of hardened crimson. He swung it once, and the weapon tore through the air, cutting another tree in half as if it were paper.
"Beautiful."
His laughter spilled into the night—low, dangerous, filled with something halfway between ecstasy and madness. He wasn't just human anymore. He was a predator, sculpted to perfection, standing in a world of prey.
And yet…
Muzan tilted his head toward the city skyline. His new senses stretched outward, a net of demonic perception. He could feel life—thousands of souls, clustered like stars in the distance. Their heartbeats thrummed in his ears, and with each thrum, he smelled their blood, heard their whispers, tasted their fear.
Hunger stirred. Not the feral craving of a beast, but a refined thirst. His power wanted fuel, his body wanted indulgence.
But he grinned. "No rush. I have all the time in the world."
He crouched, digging his fingers into the soil, and leapt. The ground cracked under his launch, and he soared through the night like a phantom. His body cut through the air with inhuman grace, his white hair trailing behind him, the city lights growing closer with each bound.
As he moved, he tested more. His blood hardened into armor across his chest, sleek and organic, then melted back into his skin. He leapt again and sprouted a whip of black flesh from his arm, latching onto a branch to swing himself forward. His reflexes, his balance, his speed—each test only proved one truth:
This world was his playground.
Landing atop a rooftop, Muzan crouched low and studied the city. Neon lights painted the streets, cars crawled like ants, and mortals scurried through their fragile lives below. He could sense the fear, the sadness, the loneliness—all of it ripe for harvest.
And yet, amidst the noise, he felt something else.
A pulse.
Not human. Not ordinary.
It was faint, but unmistakable—dark energy radiating like a beacon, hidden beneath layers of restraint. Familiar, yet otherworldly. His crimson eyes narrowed.
"…Raven."
The name slipped from his lips, soft but hungry. The girl he had adored from screens, the daughter of a demon, the one being he desired above all else—she was here. Real. Within his reach.
The thought sent a thrill down his spine. For years, she had been untouchable, fiction locked behind glass. Now, she was flesh, blood, and power.
He could already imagine her standing beside him, shadows dancing in her violet gaze, their darkness intertwined. A queen to his king.
But for now, he had to wait.
Muzan smirked, straightening to his full height. "This world doesn't know it yet… but their new demon king has arrived."
The night wind howled as if to answer him, carrying the scent of blood, smoke, and destiny.
And Muzan, reborn from a nobody into perfection itself, began his descent into the city—
ready to carve his name into the bones of this world.