The sun had not yet risen when the sound of heavy boots crunched on the gravel path leading to the orphanage. Rengoku Shinjuro, the Flame Hashira, arrived with his hand gripped tight on his katana. He had been tracking a series of strange occurrences—a demon-worshipping cult slaughtered in their beds and a serpent demon missing from its lair.
He found the blind monk, Himejima Gyomei, sitting among the huddling children. The air in the courtyard was still thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp, lingering ozone of a lightning strike.
Gyomei looked toward the voice, his blind eyes streaming tears.
Shinjuro knelt, inspecting a deep, jagged crater in the stone path.
He touched a scorched gatepost.
Shinjuro stood up, his expression darkening.
He turned his focus back to Gyomei and the frightened children. Among them, Kaigaku stood trembling in the shadows, his face pale. He was terrified that the others would speak—but they remained silent. They hadn't seen him extinguish the lanterns; they only knew the terror of the demon and the suddenness of their rescue.
The realization hit Gyomei like a physical blow. The world was far darker than he had ever imagined. His grip tightened on his prayer beads.
Shinjuro noted, impressed by the raw strength of the blind man.
******
The hooded figure sat in the silence of the mountain, his eyes closed. In his mind, the cold wind was replaced by the warm, sun-drenched halls of his childhood home.
Life had been a series of bright, gentle moments. He remembered his mother's voice—a soft melody that made the house feel alive. He saw his two older sisters in the garden, their laughter ringing out as they played with their younger brother. They were a family bound by genuine love, living a happy life as they always had.
At the center of it all was his father, Kibutsuji Muzan.
To the young boy, his father was a man of quiet dignity and strength. He was a provider and a protector, and the boy looked up to him with absolute devotion. For years, their happiness had been perfect and undisturbed.
But then, the atmosphere in the house began to change.
Kibutsuji Muzan began to act strangely. It wasn't something they could easily explain, but it was clear that he was deeply troubled. He would sit for hours in a heavy silence, his expression shifting into something pained and restless. The entire family—his mother, his sisters, and the boy himself—grew increasingly worried. They watched him with aching hearts, wondering what could possibly be causing him such distress.
His mother spent her nights whispering with his sisters in the hallway, their faces etched with concern as they discussed his condition. They wondered if some heavy burden from his affairs or a hidden illness was eating away at him. They tried everything to pull him back to his old self, but the more they reached out, the more he seemed trapped in a private, agonizing struggle.
The boy remembered watching his father through the gap in the sliding doors. Kibutsuji Muzan looked like a man haunted by a problem he couldn't solve, his hands trembling as he stared into the shadows. At the time, the boy had no idea that something terrible was about to happen. He simply felt a deep, helpless worry for his father, unaware that the happy life they were all desperately trying to preserve was about to be shattered forever.
******
The boy walked up the mountain path toward his home, clutching a small bunch of wild flowers. He had spent the morning searching for the most vibrant blooms, hoping their bright colours and sweet scent might lift the heavy spirit of his father. He walked with a light step, unaware that the life he knew had already ceased to exist.
As he reached the front gates, a strange, heavy silence greeted him. There was no sound of his sisters' laughter, no patter of his younger brother's feet. Only the thick, metallic scent of iron hung in the air.
The boy called out, his voice trembling as he stepped into the main hall.
His heart stopped. The sliding doors were splintered, and the once-pristine tatami mats were soaked in deep, dark crimson. He found them all—his mother, his sisters, his brother—scattered like broken dolls.
In the center of the carnage stood his father, Kibutsuji Muzan. His robes were dyed in blood, and he stood perfectly still amidst the ruins of his family.
The boy gasped, dropping the flowers. They scattered across the floor, petals landing in the red pools.
Muzan turned slowly. The pained, troubled expression the boy had seen for weeks was gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying void.
The boy—Arata—felt his mind fracture. He couldn't process the words.
He took a step forward, reaching out a hand to the man he had loved and respected his entire life, still desperately believing this was some horrible nightmare or a sudden madness.
Muzan didn't reply. His body suddenly rippled and shifted, his form becoming something monstrous and alien. With a single, casual movement, he struck, his limb tearing a jagged wound across Arata's chest and sending him crashing against the wall.
Blood sprayed across the wood. Arata collapsed, his vision blurring as a searing heat bloomed in his chest. Muzan didn't even look back as he stepped over the bodies and vanished into the night, leaving the house to the silence of the dead.
Despite the agony, Arata tried to get up. He wanted to follow, to find his father and hear him say it was all a mistake. But his strength failed, and he fell back to the ground. As his eyes fixed on the scattered, blood-stained flowers, he wondered if this was the end.