Chapter Text
The flash of blades swinging through the air, colliding against one another, flew past Muzan’s ear. The chaos of the battle locked his focus in the moment, his body moving on instinct, guided by the footwork he had practiced relentlessly for the past month and a half.
His eyes narrowed as tiny splinters of wood scattered from the clashing training swords, the grain sliding harshly against the sharpened edges.
Yoriichi lunged forward, mercilessly striking Muzan's figure in their pursuit of a weakness in his stance.
Muzan clenched his teeth, his fingers turning white as he struggled to maintain his grip on the weapon in the frenzy of the attack. Yoriichi’s arm pulled back—and in the blink of an eye—swung forward with even greater force.
Muzan groaned, ducking instinctively beneath the blow and rolling across the ground to position himself behind Yoriichi.
However, his attempts proved futile. As he tried to rise, Yoriichi brought his sword down, forcing Muzan back into a defensive stance. Pressing into him with all his strength, Yoriichi tried to knock him off his feet.
Muzan huffed, his arms aching from the strain. How was this even fair? Yoriichi was taller, stronger, and far more muscular. Sure, he didn’t have the magical powers of the ghosts Muzan would face in the future… But still.
Whatever.
Muzan suddenly released his grip on the blade, letting Yoriichi stumble forward, caught off guard by the unexpected move. In truth, letting go and yielding was something so far out of Muzan’s character, nobody would expect it.
That was his mistake.
As some guy once said, expect the unexpected!
With precise timing, Muzan caught his training sword in his left hand and swung it toward Yoriichi’s neck.
A sly smirk appeared on his lips as he watched the wooden blade close in, nearly striking its target.
But Yoriichi, thinking fast, regained his balance and leapt backward just in time to avoid his attack.
Muzan grunted in frustration. “Seriously, how did you avoid that!? You’re cheating!”
Yoriichi huffed, swiping a hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat away.
“If you keep practicing, eventually you’ll reach my level,” he said, then muttered under his breath, “Or not…”
“Huh!? What did you just say!?”
Yoriichi raised a brow. “What did you hear?” he asked in a calm, nonchalant tone.
“I’d rather you repeat it,” Muzan said, crossing his arms and staring him down.
“Then I guess we’ll never know,” Yoriichi exhaled, looking over at the mechanical clock placed on a small table nearby.
Muzan rolled his eyes, mildly offended by the remark, though at that moment, he was too exhausted to think much about anything.
His hands trembled involuntarily from the strain, the dull calluses that had formed over time staring back at him, as no matter how much lotion or softening cream he used, they never seemed to fade.
He shot a sinister look at Yoriichi, watching as droplets of sweat slid down his pale, almost unfairly beautiful skin.
They’d been doing this a lot lately—meeting up secretly after school to train together. Originally, Muzan’s training was supposed to end much earlier, but Yoriichi had decided to extend his “traineeship,” as he called it, insisting he still needed time to fully get his skills under control.
Muzan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of frustration at that conclusion. He was a perfect student and a fast learner; why would he require more time?
But… after thinking about it a little longer, a part of him didn’t seem to mind all that much.
He looked forward, following one of the water droplets as it glided beneath Yoriichi’s white shirt, sinking into the soft cotton and darkening the fabric. The wetness made it cling slightly to his skin, faintly revealing what lay beneath.
His pale skin flushed a soft pink, the muscles underneath just visible through the damp fabric. His long red hair, tied back in a ponytail, contrasted sharply against the rosy hue of his skin.
Muzan quickly looked away, trying to make his staring less obvious.
“It’s almost twilight,” Yoriichi said, his gaze shifting between the clock and Muzan.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about your final exam lately.”
“Right,” Muzan said, pretending he’d been listening the whole time.
“Your form has improved a lot since the beginning. I think you’re ready to take on some missions. Actually, you’ve been progressing much faster than I expected; maybe you just had a rough start.”
Muzan furrowed his brows. “If I’ve improved as much as you say, then why did I have to spend extra time training?”
Yoriichi blinked, his lips pressed into a thin, indecipherable line. “I had my reasons,” he said, placing both hands on the wooden training blade. “But during this month and a half, you’ve covered material that usually takes about four months.”
“I think you’re ready to take the final exam,” Yoriichi said, a soft smile blooming on his lips.
“How will that look?” Muzan inquired. “I assume I’ll have to exorcise a ghost on my own?”
Yoriichi looked up, thoughtfully considering his words. “More or less, yes,” he admitted. “I’ll accompany you the entire way in case something goes wrong. But you’ll be in charge of the mission. I need to see if you’re capable of surviving on your own if something were to happen to me during a mission.”
“I see…”
“There’s also a written portion and a logic test,” Yoriichi added after a pause.
“What do you mean?” Muzan asked, his tone mixed with confusion and slight dread.
Yoriichi gave him a puzzled look. “I gave you two tomes of extensive studies on Yōkai two weeks ago. You haven’t read them yet?”
Muzan’s heart tightened. Of course, he’d read the books—thousands of pages filled with an exhaustive study of ghosts, supernatural beings, and other paranormal entities.
He had skimmed through the texts multiple times, only to be distracted by the rapidly approaching exam season.
In the end, the two massive books had become little more than props, holding open his school textbooks.
His mind had probably absorbed some of the knowledge. Or so he hoped.
“Of course I did,” Muzan replied, with his usual attitude.
“Then the exam should be the easiest thing for you,” Yoriichi said with a shrug.
“And the logical part?”
“If you know what you’re doing, it’s quite straightforward,” Yoriichi assured him. “I’ll make up a situation and give you a bit of context. Your job is to correctly identify the ghost.” He placed his hand thoughtfully under his chin.
“Alright, let’s say the ghost lingers in a densely populated area; there haven’t been any deaths related to it, but people are inexplicably drawn to that place. They lose their rational thinking just to be close to it. What would you say?” He looked at Muzan, waiting expectantly.
“Uh…” Muzan rifled through his mind, trying to picture the right spirit. “A Yūrei,” he said, forcing his confidence, hoping it was the right answer.
“That’s right,” Yoriichi said, his eyes lighting up with happiness. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You just need to understand the characteristics of each ghost and be able to identify them correctly. There are so many distinctive classes of supernatural beings, and not all methods will work on all of them.”
“I know that.” Muzan waved his hand dismissively. “My issue is the timing. Exam season is almost here, and I’m not about to let my grades slip just to hunt some insignificant ghosts. When will I officially take this test?”
Yoriichi looked at him wordlessly, straightening his posture.
“You probably want to get it over with as soon as possible,” he said. “How about five days from now, this Friday, after school, at 11 PM? The streets will be dark, and ghost activity will spike.”
Muzan hummed in response. “I don’t see why not,” he replied, walking over to the stance and finally putting down his weapon.
The sky above them was turning a soft pinkish-orange, the world around them dimming into the gorgeous glow of a late-day sunset.
“As you said, it’s getting pretty late,” Muzan said, turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”
Muzan’s eyes widened as he saw Yoriichi’s face bathed in the soft, reddish glow. This time, it wasn’t from the strain of their combat. The tips of his ears had turned a bright pink as well.
“I’ve been thinking about this, too.” Yoriichi flicked the sword between his hands, then looked at Muzan. “It’s almost exam season… Would you like to study with me?”
Muzan blinked, his face going blank with surprise. “You’re inviting me to the Tsugikuni mansion?”
Yoriichi nodded softly. “We can’t exactly study at a library, so that would be the best option.”
A warm, fuzzy feeling swirled in Muzan’s chest, his own face growing warmer. His mouth opened, forming the word yes, but before he could say it out loud, his stubborn mind interrupted him.
“What about your family?” Muzan asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “From how Michikatsu’s been acting lately, I doubt we’d actually get any studying done. He’ll breathe down your neck, or if you lock your door, he’ll drill a hole in the wall.”
Unexpectedly, his words were met with a sweet response, as Yoriichi let out a low chuckle—a never-before-heard delight.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Yoriichi admitted. “He’s been nagging me nonstop for weeks about our relationship and won’t take ’no’ for an answer. He says he smells something fishy and warns me not to try anything.”
Would it really be so bad if we did try something? Muzan thought to himself.
“Actually, it’s kind of sweet hearing you act like a human with real emotions.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Back then, I thought you didn’t like me. You always had this strange look in your eyes every time I tried to open up, so I figured you couldn’t possibly feel the same way. Turns out you’re just terrible at communicating your emotions.”
“As if. You’re the weird one here. You’re always so calm and diligent; your facial expression never changes, or if it does, only one feature moves, while the rest stays locked in place!”
“You don’t have to be so defensive about wanting to kiss me.”
“I—”
This is the last time you’re allowed to talk for so long. Next time, I’m putting one of you in a cage.
And that person won’t be Yoriichi.
“Try me, you low-life fre—”
I’m cutting you off. Back to the story!
And just like that, as if he had blinked once and time had skipped forward, the five days passed, finally landing on the long-awaited Friday.
The school and its students were preoccupied with studying for exams. The usually bustling long halls—halls Muzan had grown particularly distrustful of after nearly dying in one—were eerily quiet, the chatter of youth replaced by a tense silence as everyone shifted their focus toward their future.
Yet, despite the heavy atmosphere of exam season, one more thing lingered in the air, slipping into hushed conversations and idle thoughts: the ever-important school ball.
Muzan exhaled, warm breath transforming into a barely visible puff in the chilly night air. A glistening silver moon hung high in the sky, his footsteps echoing in the dead stillness of the lonely, empty streets.
His watch read four minutes until he reached their agreed meeting spot at the crossroads.
But Muzan’s mind was wandering elsewhere. He stared forward absently, lost in drifting thoughts as flashes of the ball played out in his head, the words of Michikatsu’s note echoing in his mind.
It had been so long since Michikatsu asked him to be his partner for the ball, and even now, Muzan hadn’t given an answer.
He bit his lip. How long would Michikatsu wait before it turned into something more? Before he would stir even more issues between them?
Did Muzan even want to go with him?
A still image surfaced in his thoughts: him and Michikatsu, dancing. Their hands intertwined, their bodies moving in sync. They looked… good together. Like they were meant to be.
Muzan tried to ignore the deeper truth of that satisfaction, the one that whispered who he was really picturing.
They were twins, after all. With nearly identical faces, builds, and even heights.
If he just closed his eyes, focused on the chatter all around them, then maybe, just maybe, his mind would accept the illusion.
But who was he kidding?
Yoriichi and Michikatsu might’ve shared a face, but they were nothing alike. People often confused them, but Muzan never did.
Michikatsu was Michikatsu. But Yoriichi—oh, Yoriichi was different.
Muzan could tell them apart even if he were stripped of every single one of his senses.
A curious thought clawed its way to the forefront of his mind:
Did Yoriichi already have a date?
Undoubtedly, someone had asked him. He’d long been hailed as one of the most attractive people in school, second only to that vile, arrogant idiot, Douma. On Valentine’s Day, Yoriichi’s locker would overflow with letters and confessions.
Surely someone had invited him to the ball. The question was, did he say yes?
Muzan’s pace slowed.
They’d grown close recently. Yoriichi had even told him that he was his closest friend. The only person who truly knew him. He was the only one who could see into the world Yoriichi walked through every day.
And if no one else at school could see ghosts, that would make Muzan the closest person to Yoriichi in every way that counted.
So, if he were to ask Yoriichi to the ball, the man would practically be forced to agree, if only to keep the peace between them.
Wait—what am I talking about? Muzan blinked, shocked by his own words. Why would I ask him? That’d make me look desperate. Like I’m begging him to go with me.
He huffed. As if!
I’m not going to beg anyone to come with me. I know my worth. If he wants to go with me, then he’s the one who should be begging. Maybe I’ll even say no at first, just to test him.
A smirk spread across Muzan’s lips. Of course, he’ll ask me. And if he doesn’t?
Well… then I’ll just go with Michikatsu.
A signature red streak of hair came into his view. Muzan blinked and thus pulled back into reality.
The yellow glow of the streetlamp cast a soft light over the crossroads. Yoriichi stood there, dressed in his usual exorcist attire, though this time, with two swords attached to his hips.
“Good evening,” Yoriichi greeted him, his voice warm, cutting through the chill of the night.
“Is one of the katanas for me?” Muzan asked, skipping over the pleasantries.
“It is,” Yoriichi confirmed, his hand moving to his belt to unclip one of the swords before offering it to Muzan. “If you pass the test, it’s yours to keep.”
Muzan hummed, weighing the blade in his hands, inspecting the protective lining. Red insignias were etched into the sheath; probably the clan’s emblem.
He looked up, their eyes meeting.
“Do I have to guess the ghost, or are you going to tell me?” Muzan asked, glancing toward the crossroads. The air past it carried an unnatural chill, sending a cold gust up his face. Something about that place felt off.
“I wasn’t planning on testing you,” Yoriichi replied calmly, which immediately made Muzan’s eye twitch, “but if you insist.”
“It’s a vengeful human spirit. An onryō. Locals reported hearing a strange, rapid sound, like limbs hitting the pavement.”
“Teke-teke?” Muzan asked, uncertain. “But doesn’t she usually haunt train tracks?”
Yoriichi nodded. “Do you remember what a tulpa is?”
Of course Muzan should know that.
“I actually told you about this ghost during our last training session,” Yoriichi added, his tone a little too smug for Muzan’s liking. “You don’t listen to me, do you?”
“I always listen to your lectures,” Muzan scoffed.
He pressed his lips into a thin line, looking a little uneasy. “… Or at least when you’re not talking about boring stuff. So… sometimes.”
“Oh!” Yoriichi replied, far too cheekily. “You do know the technical knowledge counts toward your score, right?”
“You said you didn’t mean for me to guess!”
“I do now.”
Muzan rolled his eyes. His mind drifted toward his inner library—one of the study techniques he’d picked up back in sixth grade. Then something clicked.
“Isn’t it the… imaginary ghost?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Yoriichi raised a brow, prompting him to go on.
“A supernatural that doesn’t come from a soul, but from human negative energy. It’s mostly urban legends that get too popular; people believe a place is haunted, and that belief actually manifests the entity.”
Yoriichi nodded, clearly pleased. “Indeed. Good job,” he said, offering genuine praise.
“What we’re dealing with here is a tulpa of Teke-teke. The original onryō was exorcized years ago. What remains are the whispers of the entity that continue to create imitations.”
He exhaled, the breath visible in the cold night air.
“Tulpas can’t be exorcized like normal ghosts,” Yoriichi began, thinking aloud. “If we don’t erase the belief in the ghost’s existence among the locals, it’ll just come back. Still, we can disrupt the cycle by purging the negative energy and temporarily banishing the spirit.” He paused. “Convincing people, though… that’s the hard part.”
“Aren’t you part of a really well-known organization?” Muzan asked rhetoricallly. “Can’t you just flash your ID or something? Make people believe you?”
“I did,” Yoriichi replied simply. “The higher-ups commissioned me to handle it after we received multiple complaints about the tulpa after three women had gone missing the week before.”
Right. The higher-ups had no idea Muzan even existed. Very official. Very legal.
“But,” Yoriichi continued, “I decided to make this a test for you because of how simple it is. Though I may have made it even easier for you, since I’ve already spoken with the residents.”
He gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “You won’t have to interact with anyone. I promise.”
A huge part of Muzan sighed in relief. Dealing with people was even worse than almost dying on a daily basis.
He stretched his arms forward, yawning lightly as his body shifted. “I’ve already assisted you on plenty of missions; this one’ll be a piece of cake,” he said with confidence.
After all, on their first encounter, he’d been tossed around the school like a rag doll and was left with bruises all over his body; this couldn’t be much worse.
“That’s good then. The smoother, the better,” Yoriichi replied, his hand tightening around the hilt of his katana. “I’ll trail behind you in case anything goes wrong,” he added, eyes fixed on the crossing ahead.
“The entity’s territory begins the moment we step beyond that point.”
Muzan nodded and gripped his weapon as well, sliding off the protective sheath to reveal the blade underneath it.
It gleamed under the yellow streetlight, the metal reflecting the glow in a way that made it look almost unreal.
The edge was masterfully crafted, its elegant, deadly edges causing Muzan to stare for a second too long, nearly salivating at the exquisite craftsmanship.
He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting towards the crossroads.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” he said confidently, straightening his posture.
“Be prepared, as this will be the quickest trial on record.” Muzan spoke with pride as he stepped toward the light.
“I’m not doubting you…” Yoriichi sighed softly, following after him at a slower pace.
Muzan walked forward, his foot crossing the threshold between reality and the ghost’s domain. His head stayed high, his spirit unphased by the supposed danger, supported by the blade resting in his hands. Its razor-sharp, untouched tip, ready to sever the anchor of any stubborn spirit.
But the moment his foot fully crossed the boundary, everything shifted.
Silence unraveled before him like a curtain. The soft ambience that was the rustle of leaves, distant traffic, or chirping insects—it all vanished. Muzan hadn’t even realized they were there until they were gone.
His core tightened. Legs bent slightly, and his eyes scanned the altered world ahead, ready to face the phantom.
Worse yet, he didn’t feel Yoriichi’s presence behind him.
“I’ll trail behind you in case anything goes wrong.” My ass.
Muzan grimaced.
The world before him was shrouded in deep mist, with only the distant glow of streetlights offering any clarity. The streets themselves hadn’t changed much; the familiar Japanese houses still lined the way.
Muzan grunted quietly, strolling toward one of the tall fences. He reached up, grasping the wider edges, attempting to climb over. But his hand slipped. A slick, gooey residue stuck to his palm as he pulled back.
It seemed he was unable to move anywhere else but ahead.
Muzan stepped back, crouching beside a patch of already dead, wilted brown grass. He rubbed his hand against the dry leaves, trying to scrape off the disgusting substance.
Let’s just keep walking…
And so he did. He kept walking, passing by the identical houses, his voice occasionally rising as he shouted in hopes that Yoriichi might hear him. But no such luck came for him. Even after all this time, there was no sign of the man.
It was evident neither of them had yet found the tulpa, as if they did, the realm would dissolve along with the ghost.
Muzan wasn’t scared, though. He was, however, thoroughly bored. Another insufferable labyrinth to slog through. How many more could he endure? So unoriginal.
He stretched his arms, listening for the familiar sounds of Teke-Teke—the skittering shuffle of its limbs on the ground. But again, there was nothing.
Muzan groaned, taking another step forward.
“Excuse me…” A woman’s voice echoed softly from behind him.
Muzan spun around instantly, his heart leaping into his throat, his mind briefly clouded with confusion.
In front of him stood a tall, black-haired Japanese woman in her thirties, it appeared.
Muzan squinted, trying to make out more of her features through the fog.
One detail distinctly stood out to him: a white surgical mask that covered half her face.
Who was she? She certainly wasn’t the ghost he was after. Yoriichi had mentioned a group of women disappearing a week ago. Could she be one of them?
The woman’s voice cut through his thoughts:
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“Huh?” Muzan stared at the woman, his expression blank, utterly taken aback by the unexpected question. “Why are you asking me that?”
Shouldn’t she be asking if I came to save her? Crying with relief and happiness at being free?
The woman looked to the side, twirling a lock of her hair with her index finger. “Ah, you see… I’ve grown quite sad lately because of my looks. I suppose I need someone to tell me their honest thoughts.”
Muzan murmured a response, still unsettled by her behavior, his eyes drifting uneasily over her form.
He frowned.
A true beauty, most would call her.
She had graceful, pale skin that lacked a single scar or imperfection and long, shapely legs that emphasized her slim figure. Her waist curved subtly, and her stature rounded out at the chest.
Her jet-black hair fell in thick waves, framing her face that was equally slender and captivating. Their eyes met—her large, friendly irises locked onto his own, too friendly and intense to be ordinary.
Her hands, too, were delicate, with long, clean fingers and perfectly manicured nails.
One problem persisted, though: the white surgical mask.
“How am I supposed to answer you when I can’t see half of your face?” Muzan asked, irritated.
“Oh? You want to see all of me?” The woman’s voice wavered, trying to maintain composure, but Muzan immediately picked up on the shift.
Her body trembled slightly with anticipation as she reached up, her fingers brushing against the mask’s straps. Slowly, she pulled one of them away, then the other, peeling it back.
Muzan stood frozen, watching her every move.
When the mask finally came off, the woman’s grin stretched unnaturally wide, its sides prolonged by a knife’s edge.
The sides of her face had been sliced open, the flesh hanging by mere threads, fresh blood dripping from her torn cheeks onto her chin. He could see the bloody inside of her mouth. The woman’s breath came in heavy, erratic bursts, her gaze fixed on him with maddening intensity.
Her eyes, previously soft black irises, had turned a horrifying, bloodshot white.
“Am I beautiful?” She asked again, more desperate than before.
What the— She’s ugly as shit.
Wait, her presence, how could I not notice it before? She’s even not human.
Muzan looked to the side, his grip on the blade intensifying. He felt disappointed in himself.
Something about that woman seemed familiar, though.
A woman with sliced lips, hidden behind a surgical mask. Didn’t my mother tell me such stories in childhood to keep me from wandering for too long?
Kuchisake-onna?
If you say no to her, she’ll murder you with her scissors and dice you into pieces. But if you say yes, she’ll carve the same smile onto you.
What a load of bullshit! You can’t win either way.
“Answer me!” She screamed, the exposed meat shaking as she spoke.
She took a step forward, her scissors swinging dangerously in front of her. “Or maybe you find me ugly?!”
Muzan deadpanned.
“I think I like men,” he declared, his tone flat.
The woman’s mouth opened slightly, her features twisting into a deep frown.
“What?” She asked, her voice faltering in confusion.
Muzan sighed.
“I never really was interested in dating in the first place. When I was younger, my mother would watch romantic comedies or gush over beautiful actors on TV, but I never cared about them. I mean, sure, they’re beautiful—by all societal standards, their face and body would fall under the umbrella of attractive, so calling them ugly would be a blatant lie. But I don’t care for such things. I never dreamed of a perfect relationship. Most people are stupid, incompetent idiots who can’t even follow simple orders. So how the hell could I get into a relationship with any of them?”
He exhaled, no longer even glancing at her.
“I actually did some research about this. Supposedly, all the signs point to me being either a psychopath or asexual. But in reality, I think I just don’t like people. You know, sometimes I try to imagine having a partner who would satisfy me and be my equal, but in those moments, only a male silhouette pops up.”
Or, well, a certain streak of red hair.
“Does that make me gay? Only being able to think about my future partner as a man? I actually booked a therapist session once, which cost me way too much money, but they concluded I must be a confused teenager, which, in Japan, is apparently a surefire sign of being homosexual because people can’t even admit it to themselves. But I don’t think I mind all that much. You know, finding men attractive. Though, yet again, I’m not even attracted to most men. The only example I could think of would be…”
A deep red blush settled on Muzan’s cheeks.
He shook his head, massaging his temples.
And only then, after several minutes of his monologue, did he remember there was a malicious spirit standing right in front of him, waiting to kill him.
“Do I look gay to you?” Muzan asked, his gaze flicking back to the woman.
“I…” The woman hesitated, tilting her head. “Why do you even like men? They’re so annoying.”
Muzan shrugged. “He isn’t. Not that much, at least.”
What the hell was he doing?
“Is he a good man? Does he have a high-paying job?”
Muzan looked off to the side, thinking it over. “He’s an heir to one of the most powerful houses in Japan. They’re filthy rich. Though I’m not poor myself.”
The woman folded her arms, the blades of the scissors glinting under the faint light. “Let me tell you something, kid. You cannot trust men. Even if they’re kind, they will betray you.”
Muzan huffed. “What if I’m the one manipulating them?”
The woman stared at him, her face without emotion, before replying.
“Then I wish you good luck??”
Why the hell is a malicious spirit a better listener than a licensed therapist?
“Is he even gay?”
“I think so? He’s the most handsome guy at our school; he gets all the Valentine’s cards and confessions, but he keeps rejecting them. Very nicely, though—giving them hope for the future.” Muzan exhaled. “I should probably test it before proceeding.”
“What?”
“What?”
What?
“What is happening?? Why are you talking to a spirit about your love life? This is a much diffrent story than what you've told me”
“I needed to find a distraction so she wouldn’t think of attacking me. I remember my mother saying that if you confused her enough, she would forget about her question, and that would give you the time to escape. Or, well, in my case, exorcise her.”
He just wanted an excuse to rant about himself.
“This whole story is about me. Talk about being obsessed.”
… I—
Okay, you know what? Shut up.
Their conversation didn’t last long before Muzan’s brain finally clicked, dragging forward the important reminder that, oh right, he was supposed to exorcise this ghost.
At the moment, she was in the middle of a monologue about her ex-lover, who mutilated her after she flirted with someone wealthier.
It would’ve been a little rude to just stab her while she was spilling her tragic life story.
But did he care? Obviously not. He was Muzan Kibutsuji, after all.
Besides, it wasn’t like she was the real Kuchisake-onna. Just another tulpa, her pain was in reality a figment of human imagination.
His grip on the weapon subtly shifted, his eyes narrowing as he focused his energy to find the center, the ghost’s core.
He smiled thoughtfully, nodding along like he was deeply invested in whatever the hell she was saying. In reality, he wasn’t. He didn’t register a single word.
“I really do hate today’s attitude around—”
He stepped forward and stabbed her clean in the chest.
The blade slipped through the fabric of her clothes, driving deep into her pale skin.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, betrayal painted across her face, like she hadn’t just been talking to someone with all the empathy of a brick wall.
“You miserable bitch—” She chocked out, her form dissolving rapidly.
The labyrinth collapsed around them, the fog dissipating into the clear night sky. The sounds of birds and vibrant life hit him like a truck, snapping him into focus.
Muzan blinked repeatedly, his sword still drawn in front of him.
What the hell was that?
“Muzan!” He flinched as a panicked voice called out from behind.
Yoriichi ran toward him, his eyes scanning Muzan’s face in fear.
“Are you okay?” he asked, quickly glancing over Muzan’s body for any injuries. “Are you hurt?”
Muzan shook his head softly. “Why wouldn’t I be? I told you I’m great at this; I disposed of a spirit with ease. It didn’t stand a chance.”
“You fought?” Yoriichi asked.
Fought… That’s a nice way of putting it.
“It wasn’t much of a fight. The skills I’ve gathered were more than enough to overpower the spirit,” he said, his voice prideful but dismissive, as if trying to downplay the win.
“But what happened? One second you were there, the next just gone.” Muzan inquired.
“It appears a small miscalculation was made.”
Muzan looked at him, puzzled.
“It appears that, by sheer luck, there were two adjoining spirit realms placed right next to each other,” Yoriichi confessed. “I’ve only heard of something like this happening twice, so I definitely didn’t anticipate it. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“So, we were teleported into different realms? You went into the Teke Teke one, and I...” He bit the words back. “To that giant serpent spirit.”
“A serpent?” Yoriichi echoed, eyes wide open. “You encountered an Uwabami? They’re a medium-level threat; you could’ve died!”
I probably should’ve picked an easier one. Eh, who cares?
“I can’t exactly tell you what kind of serpent it was; the place was hard to see in, with fog everywhere, but it almost bit me. It had the body of a snake. I pierced its ghost core, though.”
Yoriichi exhaled, shaking his head.
“I should’ve been there. What if you were surrounded and trapped?” He dropped to one knee, his head bowed toward the ground. “Forgive me. As your master, I should’ve been more careful.”
It would’ve been a lie to say Muzan didn’t at least partly enjoy seeing Yoriichi bow before him. His voice was gentle and regretful, exactly as Muzan liked it.
Muzan cleared his throat, pushing the not-so-friendly thoughts away.
“I hope you’re not trying to insult me,” he said, his tone sharp. “You should have more faith in my abilities.”
Yoriichi exhaled again, slowly rising from the ground.
“I think it’s only fair to say you passed the test. After all, you’re standing in front of me after disappearing into a spirit’s labyrinth,” he said, his gaze shifting to Muzan’s katana. “As promised, it’s all yours.”
“That means that from now on, I’m legally your partner?” He crossed his arms.
“After I submit all the documents, yes.” Yoriichi smiled. “But we should talk about it some other time. It’s already 2 a.m.; we should get going.”
That late? Three hours had passed? It felt like forty minutes.
“Would you allow me to walk you home?” Yoriichi asked, a barely visible pink blush spreading across his cheeks.
“If you insist.” He turned, already starting to walk away. “Try not to trip over your own feet.”
And so, ever so slowly, they began heading towards their homes.
They didn’t speak much, but just enough to keep the cold of the late night out of their minds, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.
Unbeknownst to Yoriichi, however, a sinister plan had begun to form inside Muzan’s mind.
The ultimate plan: to make Yoriichi confess his feelings and ask him to the ball.
Muzan smirked into the night. Just you wait, Yoriichi. You won’t even know what hit you.