Fourteen years.
Fourteen quiet, slow-burning years.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing apocalyptic. Just the occasional demon, sniffing around the edges of their forest home. Kokushibo always dealt with them before they could get too close, swiftly and silently. He never spoke about it afterward. He simply returned home, just placing a hand on Willow's head as if to say, "Don't Worry."
They moved often. From forests to caves to abandoned homes. Never staying too long. Never letting roots take hold. Kokushibo never explained why, but Willow understood. It was Muzan. Her father might have distanced himself, buried himself in obscurity, but he was still bound. Muzan's will still lingered like chains wrapped around his soul.
The only blessing, the only reason they were still safe was that Muzan couldn't see through Kokushibo's eyes anymore. Couldn't spy on his thoughts. A secret both precious and fragile.
Now, in the shell of an abandoned house deep in the mountains, Willow stood alone in the small, makeshift kitchen. The wooden walls creaked with age, and frost edged the corners of the paper sliding doors. Her father had gone out to patrol the area, as usual, leaving her with the flickering stove and a pot of rice simmering quietly over the fire.
She stirred it slowly, humming a song "Paint by The Paper Kites". One she remembered from her past life. She set aside a single bowl for herself—she'd long accepted that Kokushibo rarely ate with her. Not real food. Raw animal meat and sleep had replaced his habits long ago, a compromise he'd made when he fell in love with her mother. He did it quietly. Dutifully. Without question.
She smiled faintly at the memory and sat down on the floor, steam rising gently from the rice and Sliced rabbit meat.
Then it happened.
Like a needle of ice piercing her spine.
The air thickened. Her lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vice. A pressure settled over the house, slow and suffocating, like a storm about to break.
Willow froze, her chopsticks dropped out of her hand.
The shadows stretched longer across the wooden floor.
And then—
Creak.
The sound of the front door sliding open rang through the house, far too slow. Far too deliberate.
A voice followed, smooth as silk and cold as winter's breath.
"Twenty five years… and he thought he could deceive me. The arrogance."
Her breath caught in her throat. That voice.
No... NO NO NO NO.
She didn't need to look. She already knew.
But her head turned anyway.
There, standing in the doorway, dressed in an elegant black suit, with eyes like endless pits of hatred, was him.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
The Demon King.
The origin of every nightmare that walked the land.
His gaze swept the room like a blade, and when it landed on her, his eyes narrowed.
"So," he said, almost conversationally. "This is what he's been hiding."
Willow couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she thought it might drown everything else out.
I'm not ready! I'm not ready!
She was seventeen. Not trained. No Demon Blood Art. She was supposed to have more time.
Her thoughts screamed, but her body remained still.
And then Muzan ask, "Who are you?"