Chapter 3: Muzan Escapes
The man's eyes gleamed like scarlet spider lilies—brilliant, inescapable. Every movement dripped with elegance, but Akira felt an oppressive weight bearing down on him like a mountain. This wasn't an ordinary man. No… within that deceptively human frame surged a power so immense, it was as though a thousand demons screamed to be unleashed.
Akira knew him instantly.
Muzan Kibutsuji.
The origin of all demons.
The progenitor. The King.
Only one other man had ever made Akira feel such suffocating fear—his master, Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
Beside Muzan stood a woman. Her expression was different—not filled with contempt, but sorrow. She looked at Akira not with hatred, but as though mourning a life already lost. Yet Akira's attention never lingered on her. Compared to the abyss at her side, she was a flickering ghost.
He exhaled.
And vanished.
Flash.
His blade howled through the night, a burning crescent arcing toward Muzan's neck.
"Sun Breathing, Sixth Form – Burning Bone, Fiery Sun!"
But Muzan didn't flinch.
With a mere flick of his wrist, his arm twisted into a monstrous whip that lashed out faster than lightning.
Akira's eyes widened—he twisted mid-air, redirecting his blade downward. Fire burst from the slash, propelling him away just in time.
Crack!
A line of trees collapsed behind him, sliced cleanly in half by the force of Muzan's strike.
Akira landed, skidding across the earth.
And yet—he didn't waver.
"So this is the strength of the Demon King…" he whispered. "If I kill you, all the demons vanish with you… right?"
Muzan remained silent, expression unreadable.
Akira's breaths came faster now. That single casual blow had nearly ended him. There could be no hesitation. He would have to gamble everything.
A sudden sting ignited on his forehead. A faint burn.
A scar.
Akira didn't notice.
But Muzan did.
"A swordsman with a mark?" Muzan muttered, a dark smirk creeping across his lips. "Another one, huh…"
"MUZAN!!" Akira roared, blade rising.
In that instant, the world slowed.
Akira's senses sharpened to a razor's edge. Muzan's movements, once untouchable, felt just a beat too slow. Predictable.
He saw it.
Five brains. Seven hearts.
The grotesque reality of Muzan's body revealed itself. Akira's blood turned cold.
But he pressed forward.
Every slash dodged brought him closer to death—but also closer to his target.
He danced through the storm, defying instinct, trusting his blade.
"MUZAN!!!"
His Nichirin Blade burned red-hot. Flames curled from its edge like molten sunlight. His breath crackled like fire, and his eyes locked with Muzan's—unyielding.
Then—silence.
In that silence, Akira understood: if every life had a meaning, his was this.
This moment.
This strike.
Twelve Forms. One Second.
Each aimed for Muzan's head, hearts, and brains.
Flames roared—
And died.
Muzan staggered. His limbs were gone. His chest was shredded, torso torn apart.
The Demon King's eyes widened.
"I… was struck?" he muttered in disbelief. "By this… insect…?"
But before he could finish the thought—
Flames erupted again.
Another twelve strikes tore through what remained of him.
Rage exploded from Muzan's core. His severed limbs regrew in an instant. He lunged forward, newly formed hand wrapping around Akira's throat.
Crack.
Blood burst from Akira's mouth, spilling over his collar.
But even strangled, even bleeding—he swung.
Slash. Muzan's arm hit the ground.
The Demon King snarled. For the first time in centuries, he felt it: fear.
His wounds weren't healing as fast anymore. Something was wrong.
Akira stood, barely breathing, drenched in blood—but his blade didn't fall.
He could see it.
Muzan was reaching his limit.
Images flashed across Akira's mind: grieving families… Chitose sleeping on his back… the endless training…
Yoriichi's quiet smile.
He gritted his teeth.
"What does life mean to you?"
Muzan said nothing. His face twisted—veins bulging, eyes seething.
Swish!
Two black thorns pierced Akira's arms. Blood poured down his sleeves.
"You think… this will kill me?" Muzan hissed, grinning. "A human like you…?"
Akira didn't answer.
He moved.
BOOM.
Muzan's body detonated.
Over 1,800 flesh fragments scattered across the forest, flying in every direction like shards of shrapnel.
Akira collapsed. His body wouldn't move. He watched, helpless, as the pieces rained down.
Footsteps raced through the trees.
"MASTER!"
A voice—familiar. Desperate.
With the last of his strength, Akira screamed:
"DON'T LET HIM ESCAPE!!"
But Yoriichi didn't reply.
He moved.
His blade flashed across the darkness, too fast to see.
He struck again. And again. And again.
Even so—some of Muzan's flesh vanished. Slivers of his being slipped into the earth like roaches fleeing light.
Akira's heart dropped.
His breath caught in his throat.
He had failed.
The one chance to end it all—gone.
Muzan Kibutsuji… had escaped.