Chapter 10: A Gift to the Demon Slayer Corps
The hillside was quiet.
A single gravestone stood beneath a wind-scoured tree, its carving faint but resolute:
"Grave of a Thousand Years."
Akira collapsed before it, his body trembling, blood soaking through his robes. He clutched his chest and gasped, every breath a knife.
"Chitose..." he rasped. "I'm useless..."
He gave a bitter smile, one too tired to carry shame.
"I saw that bastard today. I was right there. But I couldn't avenge you. Couldn't even kill him."
A gust of wind stirred the grass. The world offered no comfort.
"You must be so disappointed in me... having a brother like this."
A sharp caw cut through the silence. Lang Itachi—the crow who had followed Akira through every war and nightmare—descended from the sky. In its beak were blood-staunching herbs and strips of gauze.
"Akira, treat your wounds quickly," the crow warned. "If not, you'll bleed out. You'll die."
Akira didn't respond. He stared at the gravestone like it held all the answers in the world.
"…Lang Weasel," he murmured. "What's the meaning of life?"
"I'm not human—how should I know?" the crow snapped. "But if you want revenge for Chitose, you won't get it if you're dead."
"Even if I live… then what?" Akira whispered. "The Sound Pillar… he said those with the Mark don't live past twenty-five. Lang Itachi… I don't have much time left."
He turned to the crow, eyes bloodshot.
"You knew, didn't you?"
The crow said nothing. Looked away. That silence was louder than any cry.
"…I'm sorry," it finally croaked. "I just didn't want you to give up."
Akira's fists clenched. His nails tore through skin and drew blood.
He was going to die.
Not someday. Soon.
There's nothing crueler than knowing your death is inevitable… and watching the seconds run out like grains of sand.
A year. Maybe less.
What could a broken man do in a year?
He wanted to tear down the Demon Slayer Corps. He wanted to burn everything they built. He wanted to drag them all—every last one of them—into the same pit they'd thrown him into.
But with so little time, what could he really accomplish?
Despair gnawed at him like a beast.
He had failed to protect his brother. Failed to clear his master's name. Failed to stop Muzan.
He hated himself.
His body trembled—not from pain, but from helplessness.
Wouldn't it be easier… to just stop?
To let go?
Then Lang Itachi screamed.
The sky turned colder. The air itself seemed to recoil.
Click. Click. Click.
Footsteps approached—unhurried, steady, deliberate.
Akira didn't move. He sat slumped against the grave, his breathing ragged.
And then he felt it.
A presence like death. Like eternity itself had opened its eyes.
He looked up.
A man stepped forward, pale and beautiful, his face haunting in its perfection—strangely androgynous, like a statue carved by hands that had long forgotten the difference between man and god.
The wind stilled.
Kibutsuji Muzan.
Akira blinked. Not in fear. Not in rage.
Just… exhaustion.
"Here to kill me?" he rasped.
Muzan raised a brow, amused. "Hmph. You've been busy, haven't you?"
His voice was low and silky, but sharp enough to cut bone.
"A rogue swordsman who slaughters Demon Slayers instead of demons. Word travels fast. Even my children whisper your name."
He took a slow step closer. The grave seemed to shrink under his presence.
"I had to see you for myself."
Akira didn't answer. His eyes held nothing now—no flame, no fury. Just a quiet, endless fatigue.
Muzan smiled faintly. "I can hear it. Your soul is screaming. You want power. You want vengeance."
He knelt beside Akira, so close their breaths mingled.
"I can give it to you."
Akira's gaze sharpened. "What are you offering?"
"Abandon this decaying human body," Muzan whispered. "Become more. Evolve. I will break your limits."
He held out a pale hand.
"Beg me, and I'll grant you power beyond imagination. You want to destroy the Demon Slayer Corps? I'll help you do it."
The offer was poison wrapped in velvet.
Akira stared at the hand for a long time. His body was shaking—but not from cold.
If this were a year ago—if Chitose were still alive—he would've cut Muzan down without hesitation.
But now?
He had nothing left.
Only rage. And time running out.
"…You want me to beg?" he muttered.
His voice didn't tremble. It burned.
"I want you to live," Muzan said. "I want you to burn them all."
Akira closed his eyes.
And said nothing.
He didn't resist.
He let the darkness in.
---
Pain exploded through his spine like fire and lightning. His blood boiled. His bones cracked. He collapsed, screaming soundlessly into the earth.
Muzan watched him, impassive.
His gamble had paid off.
This one would survive the transformation. No—he would thrive in it.
Just then, Lang Itachi dove toward Akira.
Muzan didn't move. Didn't even raise a hand.
Just looked at the bird.
The pressure in his gaze alone shattered the crow's wings. It dropped to the ground beside Akira with a wet thud.
Akira's blood soaked the earth… and touched the fallen crow.
Its body twitched once.
Then stilled.
Akira screamed.
Not from fear.
From transformation.
And then—darkness.
---
Muzan stood above the broken body of the man who had once sworn to destroy him.
"The Demon Slayer Corps…"
He smiled.
"You've hunted me for a thousand years."
He turned and walked away, the night swallowing him whole.
"Now, let me return the favor—
…with a gift."