Two years passed in steady, relentless progress.
They were not idle years.
My days were divided with ruthless efficiency—medicine, magic, research, and refinement. I healed the sick of the surrounding region, cured illnesses that should not have been survivable, and perfected drugs whose principles would not be rediscovered for centuries.
In doing so, I became indispensable.
Villages prospered. Mortality rates dropped. My name spread quietly but firmly through the region—not as a miracle worker, but as something far more dangerous.
A professional.
At night, I studied magic.
Not merely replicating what I already knew, but adapting it. This world followed different rules—no ambient magical education, no arithmancy, no structured spellcasting traditions. I adjusted wand movements, stripped incantations down to intent, and began developing new spells entirely.
Spells meant for this world.
Spells that interacted with cursed biology instead of magical creatures.
Meanwhile, my work with the blue spider lily continued.
Thoroughly.
Painstakingly.
I dissected its structure at every level—chemical, biological, and magical. I mapped how it absorbed sunlight, how its compounds activated only during the brief moments of dawn, and how its essence resisted corruption.
The flower was extraordinary.
But it was not enough.
No matter how I refined it, distilled it, or combined it with alchemical catalysts, I could not recreate the process that produced a Demon King.
I could enhance regeneration.
Stabilize demon blood.
Even suppress sunlight weakness temporarily.
But Muzan Kibutsuji was something else entirely.
I set my quill down slowly, staring at the latest failed formulation.
The truth was obvious now.
The blue spider lily had never been the answer.
It was only one ingredient.
Whatever Muzan's original doctor had done—whatever desperate brilliance or reckless genius had driven that experiment—it went far beyond a single flower. Blood, medicine, cursed biology, timing, perhaps even the soul itself.
That doctor had been a genius.
Or a madman.
Possibly both.
And no matter how advanced my knowledge was, I was working with incomplete data.
I exhaled softly.
"If I want the full picture," I murmured, "I need better samples."
Low-level demon blood was insufficient. Their curse was diluted, derivative. Useful for understanding mechanisms—but not origins.
To truly replicate or surpass Muzan's condition, I would need something closer to the source.
High-level demon blood.
Upper Moons.
Or—
My thoughts stilled.
Muzan himself.
That was dangerous territory.
Not now. Not yet.
But the conclusion was unavoidable.
If I wanted true immortality—one free of chains, madness, or decay—then eventually, I would have to study the King of Demons directly.
I closed my notebook and sealed it with a preservation charm.
This wasn't failure.
It was clarification.
The path forward was simply narrower than I'd hoped—and far more dangerous.
And somewhere out there, Muzan Kibutsuji continued to exist, unaware that someone was quietly preparing to dissect the very curse that defined him.
For now.