"So that's Douma," Gyutaro muttered from his perch high above the rainy streets of Yoshiwara. Daki nodded beside him. "Lord Muzan must have sent him. This isn't a coincidence."
In a way, Douma was the reason they were part of the Twelve Kizuki. He had found them dying in the gutter all those years ago and had offered them a new, powerful existence as demons. Compared to the suffering of their human lives, this life of killing and feasting was paradise.
But they were not friends. Douma had been born without human emotions, and becoming a demon had only made him stranger. He was eccentric, terrifyingly strong, and had a cheerful disposition that made other demons deeply uncomfortable. Even though they owed him their lives, Gyutaro and Daki kept their distance.
Now, seeing him here along with the news that Upper Rank Three, Akaza, was also in the district, meant one thing. The fight was going to be a bloodbath, far more intense than they had imagined. But it also meant that they didn't have to do all the work. Their job just got a lot easier.
"Just two Hashira," Gyutaro said with a cold glint in his eyes. "Against him, they don't stand a chance."
…
Down below, the air had grown deathly still, the sound of the rain fading into a tense silence. An almost visible killing intent radiated from the Insect Hashira, Shinobu Kocho, and the Love Hashira, Mitsuri Kanroji. Though they were surrounded by countless lurking demons, their attention was focused entirely on the one man standing before them.
He had pale, almost white hair and a pair of unsettling, rainbow-colored eyes. But the most disturbing thing about him was the constant, pleasant smile on his face. It was the smile of someone who saw the entire world—its creation and its destruction—as nothing more than a simple game.
In a way, Douma was like a pale imitation of Muzan Kibutsuji. Both were completely devoid of empathy. But to Shinobu, the demon standing before her was infinitely worse than Muzan. Muzan was the source of all demons, an absolute evil. Douma, however, was personal. He was the one who had taken her sister from her. He deserved to die a thousand times over.
"Oh my, what a surprise! Two beautiful swordswomen, how lovely to meet you," Douma said, his cheerful tone completely unaffected by the waves of hatred rolling off the two Hashira. To Shinobu and Mitsuri, his smile was infuriating. They wanted nothing more than to smash that emotionless, fake expression into dust.
"You know," Douma continued, tapping a finger on his chin thoughtfully, "you look familiar. I feel like I've seen you before, but I just can't remember where…"
Then, to the absolute horror of both Hashira, Douma casually lifted a hand to his head. With a sickening, wet crack, he plunged his fingers deep into his own temple, stirring them around inside his skull as if trying to recall a forgotten memory. The bizarre, grotesque action was so nonchalant that it left them momentarily speechless.
"Ah, I remember now!" he exclaimed, pulling his blood-stained fingers out of his head as the wound instantly healed. "You look just like a woman I met years ago. She wore the same pretty butterfly ornament in her hair. She was a special one, very strong. She managed to fight me until sunrise."
Shinobu's breath hitched, her rage burning like ice in her veins.
"Yes," she said, a very strange, cold smile spreading across her own face. It was the same smile she had worn ever since the day of her sister's funeral, a mask to hide a heart that no longer knew how to feel joy. "She was my older sister."
"Oh, so that's it!" Douma clapped his hands together in delight, as if solving a fun puzzle. "What a pity, though. The sun was coming up, so I didn't get to eat her. I've completely forgotten what she tasted like now."
His rainbow eyes then settled on Shinobu, and his smile widened. "But that's alright! Eating you will be just as good. I'm sure of it. And your friend next to you looks delicious, too!"
As his words hung in the air, the killing intent surged, so thick and cold it felt like it could freeze the rain itself.
…
At the same time, at the Ubuyashiki family estate, the atmosphere was just as heavy.
"The children… they've entered the Yoshiwara district," Amane Ubuyashiki said softly, placing a report down on the floor. Her purple eyes were calm as she looked at her husband. "My lord, we have done everything we can. Now we can only wait."
"I know, Amane," Kagaya Ubuyashiki whispered from the tatami mat where he lay. A bitter smile touched his lips as he fought against the excruciating pain of the curse consuming his body. "I've always believed that our will could overcome any obstacle. But everything that has happened lately… it has left me feeling so powerless."
He was only twenty-three, an age when he should have been filled with passion and strength. Instead, he felt his life draining away, unable to turn the tide against the darkness. For a time, he had been filled with hope. The current generation of Hashira was the strongest in centuries. Then, a letter from the former Water Hashira, Sakonji Urokodaki, had spoken of a boy named Tanjiro Kamado and his demon sister, Nezuko. They had seemed like the key to finally breaking the stalemate with Muzan.
But all of that hope had been shattered. Muzan's schemes had thrown the country into chaos. Endless demon attacks, assassination attempts, the disaster on the train, a new prime minister under Muzan's control, and now the disappearance of the Crown Prince. Each event had pushed the exhausted Kagaya deeper into despair. His strongest trump card, the Nine Hashira, had already lost three of its members in the most tragic ways imaginable.
"Ubuyashiki…"
Suddenly, a voice echoed from outside the estate. It was not a normal voice; it was powerful, resonant, and seemed to shake the very air like the call of a god.
Kagaya's head snapped up, his clouded eyes widening. Amane gasped, her usual calm composure finally breaking. They both recognized that voice. It couldn't be.
It was the God Lord—the patriarch of her ancient clan of Shinto priestesses. He had come.
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