The roasted goose was still steaming when Bao Yu finally picked up her chopsticks.
Heat shimmered above the lacquered platter, carrying the rich scent of soy glaze and charred skin across the long dining table.
Her parents ate in silence. Xiao Yu sat perfectly straight beside them, hands folded neatly in her lap between bites, as if some invisible thread held her posture upright.
Bao Yu forced herself to swallow.
The meat tasted like charcoal.
Across the table, her father set his cup down with a soft click.
“I heard,” he began, voice calm in that careful way that meant trouble was already decided, “that you struck a young man with a hairbrush today.”
Bao Yu’s grip tightened around her chopsticks.
“He wouldn’t leave Xiao Yu alone.”
Her mother sighed, long and tired, as if Bao Yu had just confirmed some embarrassing rumor.
“A young lady does not behave like a street thug,” she said. “Especially not the eldest daughter of the Wei family.”
Xiao Yu lowered her eyes politely, moonlight-soft even in the lantern glow.
Bao Yu hated how effortless it looked.
“She was being harassed,” Bao Yu muttered. “What was I supposed to do, bow to him?”
“You were supposed to act with dignity,” her father replied.
Dignity.
Bao Yu almost laughed.
Not when she climbed trees as a child.
Not when she tore another silk sleeve playing with the stable boys.
Not when her voice cracked louder than the tutors liked.
Not when she walked “like stampeding cattle,” as her mother loved to say.
Never dignity. Always wrong.
“And yet,” Bao Yu said, voice low, “if Xiao Yu had slapped him instead, you’d call it admirable.”
Her mother’s eyes hardened.
“Do not drag your sister into your failures.”
Failures.
Something in Bao Yu snapped.
“I’m always the failure, aren’t I?” she shot back. “Too loud. Too big. Too dirty. Too—what was it again? Ah, yes. A disgrace.”
Her chair scraped harshly against the floor as she stood.
Xiao Yu flinched.
“Even when I try to protect her, I’m still the problem,” Bao Yu continued, heat rising in her chest. “So maybe it would be easier for everyone if I had never been born at all.”
The lantern near the curtain swayed slightly as she shoved past the table.
Silk brushed against flame.
For a moment, nobody noticed.
Then the curtain caught.
Fire climbed the fabric in a hungry orange line.
“Bao Yu!”
Someone shouted.
The room erupted in chaos. Chairs overturned. Servants screamed somewhere down the hall. Her mother grabbed Xiao Yu’s arm, pulling her toward the door.
“Get out!” her father barked.
But Bao Yu just stood there, breath shaking, watching the flames crawl higher.
“Just take your precious little princess,” she said hoarsely. “And forget about me.”
Then she turned and ran deeper into the mansion.
Away from the shouting.
Away from the light.
By the time the fire swallowed the Wei residence, Bao Yu was already gone.
That night, the fire had been an accident.
The next time she set something on fire, it would not be.
(Here is a little backstory of my OC, next tie it would be closer to KNY lore)
One thousand years. To a human, it was history. To a demon, it was merely an accumulation of nights. But for Kibutsuji Muzan, this specific date was a blade that had not dulled in a millennium.
On the anniversary of the only death that ever mattered, Muzan reflects on the Heian era, the promise of a Blue Spider Lily, and the girl who loved a dying boy before he became a monster (Muzan x OC)
Chapter Five: I Am Yours, Entirely
The Infinity Castle was usually a place of silence and dread. Tonight, however, it felt like a backstage dressing room before the premiere of a play that would determine the fate of the universe.
Muzan stood before a full-length mirror in his private quarters. He adjusted his tie for the fiftieth time. It was the navy blue silk one Akaza had suggested. It was perfectly knotted. It was symmetrical. It was precise.
"It is crooked," Muzan snapped.
"It is perfect, Master," Daki cooed from where she sat on a floating platform, her obi sashes trailing around her like snakes. "You look devastating. Handsome enough to stop a heart. Or start one."
"Do not speak of stopping hearts," Muzan hissed, tearing the tie undone to start over. "She is fragile. If I am too intense, I will frighten her. If I am too distant, she will think I am disinterested. I must be... approachable."
The Upper Moons were gathered in the shadows of the room, a collection of nightmares acting as a support group. They were terrified. If this date went poorly, they knew the resulting tantrum would likely wipe out half of Japan.
"You should smile more," Doma suggested, waving his golden fans. "Like this!" He stretched his mouth into a wide, hollow grin that showed too many teeth. "Women love a man who smiles. It puts them at ease before you eat them. Or, in this case, woo them."
Akaza, standing near the door with a large bouquet wrapped in brown paper, looked at Doma with unmasked hatred.
"Do not smile like that," Akaza warned Muzan. "You will look like a predator. Just be... calm. Be the man who drank tea."
Muzan retied the knot. He smoothed the lapels of his charcoal suit. He checked his fingernails to ensure they were not too sharp, not too claw-like. He willed the red of his eyes to dull into a deep, human mahogany.
"The flowers," Muzan demanded, holding out his hand.
Akaza stepped forward and presented the bouquet. It was a masterpiece of floral arrangement. White camellias, bellflowers, and a few sprigs of wild mint. It was understated, elegant, and smelled of the forest.
"I found them near the southern shrine," Akaza reported. "They are fresh. No thorns."
Muzan took the flowers. He held them awkwardly. He was accustomed to holding hearts, heads, and ancient texts. Flowers felt alien in his grip.
"Do I hold them low?" Muzan asked, staring at the stems. "Or high? Do I present them immediately, or wait until I am inside?"
"Immediately," Kokushibo rumbled from the corner. The six-eyed samurai stood with his arms crossed, his presence like a stone wall. "It is a peace offering. It establishes intent. You are not a customer tonight. You are a suitor."
"A suitor," Muzan repeated. The word tasted strange. "I am the King of Demons. And I am worried about vegetable stew."
"It is a very important stew," Hantengu squeaked from behind a screen. "The most important stew in history!"
Muzan took a deep breath. He did not need air, but the action helped center his mind. He focused on the memory of the cottage. The warmth. The smell of herbs.
"Nakime," Muzan commanded.
The biwa twanged.
"Send us to the perimeter," Muzan ordered. "And you lot—" He glared at his generals. "If I see a single one of you. If I hear a twig snap. If you disturb her cats. I will disassemble you on a molecular level."
"We will be shadows," Gyokko promised, wiggling excitedly in his pot. "Silent as art."
"Let's go," Muzan said.
The floor dropped out from under them.
…
The transition was instant. One moment, the sterile geometry of the castle; the next, the biting cold of the mountain forest.
Muzan stood at the edge of the clearing. The cottage was ahead, a warm beacon of yellow light in the sea of dark trees. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the scent of root vegetables and savory broth.
It smelled like home.
Muzan straightened his jacket. He gripped the flowers. His heart rate, usually a slow, powerful thrum, was racing.
"Stay back," he whispered to the darkness behind him.
He stepped into the clearing. The snow crunched softly under his shoes. He walked to the porch, every step a conscious effort to appear human, to appear mortal, to appear harmless.
He reached the door. He raised his hand.
Knock. Knock.
Inside, he heard the soft pad of footsteps. He heard a cat meow.
The latch slid back.
The door opened.
Illya stood there.
If Muzan thought she was beautiful in the morning disarray, she was devastating now. She had brushed her hair until it shone like polished silver, leaving it down just the way he liked it. She wore a simple kimono of pale green, patterned with small white birds. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, emphasizing the rose-red color that gave her face such life.
She looked up at him. Her golden eyes widened, and a smile broke across her face that hit Muzan with the force of a solar flare.
"Muzan-san!" she exclaimed. "You came."
"I said I would," Muzan replied. His voice was steady, thank the gods. "I do not break my promises."
He held out the flowers.
"For you," he said. "To thank you for the medicine. My headache... it is much better."
Illya looked at the bouquet. Her hands flew to her mouth. A deep, genuine blush spread from her neck to her forehead, turning her skin a lovely shade of pink.
"Oh," she breathed. She reached out and took them, burying her face in the blossoms to inhale the scent. "White camellias. And bellflowers. These are... these are beautiful. Where did you find them? They are perfect."
"I have a reliable source," Muzan said, thinking of Akaza scouring three provinces in an hour. "I am glad they please you."
"They are wonderful," she beamed at him, her eyes crinkling. "Please, come in! You are letting the cold in, and the stew is just ready."
Muzan stepped inside. The warmth enveloped him.
Outside, in the bushes to the left of the porch, six (Nine?) sets of eyes watched the door close.
"Did you see that?" Daki whispered, clutching Gyutaro’s arm. "She blushed! It worked! The flowers worked!"
"He looked stiff," Doma critiqued, hanging upside down from a branch. "His shoulders were too high. But the flowers were a nice touch. Akaza has good taste for a brute."
"Shut up," Akaza hissed from the undergrowth. "I am monitoring his heart rate. He is nervous. If he panics, we need to create a distraction."
"What kind of distraction?" Gyokko asked. "I could summon a fish storm?"
"No fish storms!" Kokushibo commanded, his voice a low vibration in the leaves. "We watch. We wait. We ensure no bears interrupt the date."
…
Inside the cottage, the world had shrunk to the size of a low wooden table.
Illya moved about the kitchen with an easy grace, arranging the flowers in a ceramic vase before placing them in the center of the table.
"They brighten the whole room," she said, admiring them. "You have a good eye, Muzan-san."
"I simply chose what reminded me of you," Muzan said.
He froze. Had that been too much? Too forward?
Illya paused, the ladle in her hand hovering over the pot. She looked at him, surprised. Then, her smile softened, becoming something more intimate.
"That is very kind," she said softly. "Sit. Please."
Muzan sat on the cushion. He watched her ladle the stew into wooden bowls. It was a thick, hearty broth filled with daikon, carrots, and burdock root. Steam rose from it in savory clouds.
To a demon, human food was repulsive. It tasted like rotting garbage mixed with ash. Their biology rejected it violently.
Illya placed the bowl in front of him.
"I hope it is to your liking," she said, sitting opposite him. "I used a vegetable stock, so it is light on the stomach."
Muzan looked at the stew. He looked at Illya’s expectant face.
He picked up his chopsticks.
I will eat this, he vowed to himself. I will eat every bite. I will digest it through sheer force of will. I would eat rocks if she cooked them.
"It smells delicious," Muzan lied smoothly.
He took a bite. The taste was vile to his demonic tongue, a assault of bland, earthy textures. But he swallowed it. He forced his face to remain neutral, even appreciative.
"The flavor is... complex," Muzan said.
"It is the miso," Illya explained happily, unaware that she was feeding poison to a god. "I make it myself. And the burdock adds a nice crunch."
They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. The fire crackled in the hearth. The cats, having decided that the man in the suit was a permanent fixture, watched him from the top of the cupboard with judgmental eyes.
"So," Illya said, setting down her chopsticks. "You told me you were a merchant. What exactly do you trade?"
Muzan wiped his mouth with a napkin. He had prepared for this. He had memorized the ledgers Akaza had stolen.
"I deal in import and export," Muzan said. "Mostly rare artifacts, medicinal herbs, and... textiles. My family has interests in the north, but I spend much of my time in Tokyo."
"That explains the suit," Illya teased gently. "But do you not find it uncomfortable in the woods?"
"I find that maintaining standards is important," Muzan said. "Regardless of the setting."
"You are a perfectionist," Illya observed. She rested her chin on her hand, looking at him with those piercing gold eyes. "I can tell. Your tie is perfectly straight. Your shoes are polished. You speak with such precision."
"Is that a flaw?" Muzan asked, genuinely worried.
"No," Illya shook her head. "It creates a sense of... stability. I imagine you are a man who keeps his promises. A man who does not do things halfway."
Muzan felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire.
"I do not," he confirmed. "When I commit to a course of action, I see it through to the end. No matter how long it takes."
Illya held his gaze. There was a weight to his words that she couldn't quite place, a history she couldn't read, but she felt the sincerity of it.
"Why are you here, Muzan-san?" she asked suddenly.
"Here?"
"In my cottage," she said. "You are a wealthy merchant from Tokyo. You could be dining in the finest restaurants in Ginza. You could be with women in silk kimonos who know the latest poetry. Why are you eating vegetable stew in a drafty shack with an apothecary?"
It was the question. The dangerous question.
Muzan looked at her. He saw the firelight dancing on her skin. He saw the beauty mark on her neck. He saw the girl who had saved him a thousand years ago, and the woman who had saved him yesterday.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Because," Muzan said, his voice dropping to a hush. "The restaurants in Ginza are loud. The women in silk kimonos are actors playing a role. I tired of the noise a long time ago."
He gestured to the room.
"Here, there is no noise. There is no pretense. You saw me on your porch, shivering and strange, and you offered me tea. You did not ask for my money. You did not ask for my status. You saw a person in need, and you helped."
He looked at his hands, clenching them slightly.
"I am here, Illya, because you are the only real thing I have found in a century."
Illya stared at him. Her mouth parted slightly. The air in the room seemed to charge with electricity.
Outside, huddled under the windowsill, the Upper Moons held their breath.
"Smooth," Akaza whispered. "Very smooth."
"He’s good," Daki admitted. "I actually believe him."
"He is telling the truth," Kokushibo noted. "That is why it is effective."
Inside, Illya looked down at her bowl, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks.
"You are a strange man," she whispered. "You speak like you are ancient. Like you have seen everything."
"I have seen enough," Muzan said. "To know value when I see it."
Illya looked up. Her eyes were shimmering.
"I’m just a runaway," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I’m a woman who shamed her family to avoid a marriage. I live in the woods with cats. I am not... I am not special."
Muzan felt a flare of anger—not at her, but at the world that had made her feel small.
"You are wrong," he said firmly.
He reached across the table. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
He covered her hand with his. His skin was still cool, but hers was warm, vibrant.
"You are free," Muzan said. "You chose your own path. That requires a strength most do not possess. Do not disparage yourself. I will not allow it."
Illya looked at their joined hands. She turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his.
"Your hands are always cold," she murmured.
"Circulation," Muzan said automatically.
"I have a ginger compress that could help," she offered, a small smile returning to her lips.
"I am sure you do," Muzan smiled back.
The moment stretched. It was delicate, fragile, perfect.
Then, a loud THUMP came from outside the window.
Muzan froze. His eyes flashed red for a microsecond before he controlled it.
Illya jumped. "What was that?"
Outside, Akaza was currently choking Doma, who had slipped off the branch and face-planted into the snow.
"Probably a raccoon," Muzan said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. "The woods are full of clumsy creatures."
"I should check," Illya said, starting to stand.
"No," Muzan said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He squeezed her hand. "Do not worry yourself. It is gone. Stay. Please."
Illya hesitated, then settled back down. "You’re right. It’s probably just a badger looking for scraps."
Muzan made a mental note to rip Doma’s arms off later.
"Tell me about the cats," Muzan said, desperate to keep the mood alive. "What are their names again?"
Illya brightened instantly. "Oh! Well, the black one is Yuki, ironically. The calico is Tama. And the white one, the lazy one on the cupboard, is Mochi. Mochi is terrible. He steals fish from the market if I am not watching."
"I see," Muzan said seriously. "Criminal tendencies."
"Exactly," Illya laughed.
They talked for hours. Muzan listened to her stories about the village, about the herbs she gathered, about the seasons. He absorbed every word like it was gospel. He forgot about the Blue Spider Lily. He forgot about the Demon Slayer Corps.
He was just a man listening to a woman he loved.
Finally, the fire began to burn low.
Muzan knew he had to leave. He couldn't stay the night. Not yet. It was improper, and he wanted to court her correctly this time. He wanted to marry her properly, with rituals and vows, not in secret shadows like the Heian era.
"It is late," Muzan said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand.
"It is," Illya sighed. She looked disappointed. "Time moves quickly."
"It does," Muzan agreed. "Too quickly."
He stood up.
"Thank you for the meal," he said. "It was... excellent."
"You barely touched your carrots," Illya pointed out with a smirk.
"I am saving them," Muzan improvised. "For next time."
"Next time?" Illya stood up, walking him to the door.
"If you will have me," Muzan said.
"I suppose I have to," Illya teased. "You have to finish your carrots."
She opened the door. The cold night air rushed in, but Muzan didn't feel it. He felt invincible.
He stepped onto the porch.
"Muzan-san?"
He turned.
Illya was standing in the doorway, clutching the frame. She looked up at him, her expression shy but determined.
"The flowers," she said. "They really are my favorite. How did you know?"
Muzan looked at her. He decided to take a risk. A small one.
"I remember," he said softly. "From a dream."
Illya’s breath hitched. She stared at him, searching his face. For a second, the veil of time seemed to thin.
"Be safe getting home," she whispered.
"I am always safe," Muzan promised.
He bowed to her—a courtly, elegant bow. Then he walked into the night.
He didn't look back until he reached the tree line. When he did, he saw her still standing there, watching him.
He raised a hand in farewell. She waved back. The door closed.
The latch clicked.
Muzan stood in the darkness for a moment, letting the feeling of triumph wash over him.
Then, he turned to the bushes.
"Come out," he commanded.
The Upper Moons emerged from the snow, looking like naughty children caught stealing sweets. Doma had pine needles in his hair. Hantengu was shaking.
"She likes you!" Daki squealed. "Did you see how she looked at you? She is totally into the mysterious sickly rich guy act."
"The raccoon incident," Muzan said, looking at Doma.
"My foot slipped!" Doma defended himself. "It was icy! But, you covered it well. 'Clumsy creatures.' Very witty."
Muzan sighed. He was too happy to kill him.
"We are leaving," Muzan said. "Akaza."
"Yes, Master?"
"The stew," Muzan said, his face turning slightly green. "I need to... purge it. Immediately."
"Right away, Master."
"And then," Muzan said, looking back at the cottage one last time, a genuine softness in his eyes. "We need to find a tailor. I need a winter coat. She said the nights are getting colder, and I cannot be seen shivering."
"I know a tailor in Kyoto," Daki volunteered.
"Good. And Doma?"
"Yes, Muzan-sama?"
"If you fall out of a tree again, I will feed you to the cats."
"Understood!"
Muzan snapped his fingers. The dimensional portal opened beneath them.
As they sank into the Infinity Castle, Muzan touched the lapel of his suit where the scent of the cottage still lingered.
The date was a success. The courtship had begun. And the King of Demons was planning his next move: finding a way to propose to an apothecary without accidentally revealing he was a thousand-year-old monster who ate people.
It was going to be a complicated winter.
…
Meanwhile…
The headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps was a sanctuary of wisteria and silence, but for the first time in centuries, the silence was not a respite. It was a source of profound, gnawing anxiety.
In the main meeting hall, the Pillars sat in a semi-circle. The air was thick with tension. Sanemi paced the tatami mats like a caged tiger. His scars seemed to throb with restless energy. He gripped the hilt of his blade, his knuckles white.
"Nothing," Sanemi spat, turning sharply on his heel. "Three weeks. Three weeks and not a single report. No bodies found in the mountains. No travelers vanishing on the highways. No blood."
He looked at the others, his eyes wild with suspicion.
"It’s a trap. It has to be a trap."
Shinobu sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Her usual smile was present, but it did not reach her eyes. She stared at a map spread out on the floor, marked with red pins that indicated demon activity. The pins from the last month were non-existent.
"It is certainly a statistical anomaly," shesaid softly. "Usually, the colder months bring an uptick in predation as demons seek to stockpile energy. But the reports from the Kasugai crows are uniform. The lower-ranked demons have gone into hiding. The Twelve Kizuki have vanished."
"Maybe they all died," Tengen suggested loudly, leaning back on his hands. " maybe they decided to have a flashy mass extinction."
"Don't be an idiot," Obanai hissed from the shadows. "Kibutsuji Muzan does not just die. He is planning something. Something massive. He is gathering his strength to wipe us out in one stroke."
The sliding doors opened.
The argument died instantly. The Hashira bowed low, pressing their foreheads to the floor.
Kagaya Ubuyashiki entered, guided by his wife. The curse that ravaged his face had spread, blinding him, but his presence was as calming as a still lake. He sat at the head of the room, his movements slow and deliberate.
"My children," Kagaya said. His voice was a balm, yet it carried a heavy undercurrent of confusion. "You are troubled by the peace."
"We are troubled by the cause, Oyakata-sama," Sanemi said, raising his head slightly. "The demons do not stop. They are hunger incarnate. If they are not eating, it is because they have been ordered to wait."
Kagaya nodded slowly. He turned his sightless face toward the garden.
For years, Kagaya had felt the presence of Muzan like a distant, malignant static in the back of his mind. It was a connection born of their shared bloodline, a sensitivity to the hatred that fueled the Demon King. That hatred usually felt like a cold, sharp blade pressing against Kagaya's skull.
But lately, the static had changed.
The malice was gone. The sharp, focused intent to destroy the Demon Slayer Corps had dissipated, replaced by a strange, chaotic distraction. It felt like a storm that had suddenly lost its wind.
"I cannot see his intent," Kagaya admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "The hatred... it has dulled. It is as if his gaze has turned away from us completely. He is focused on something else. Something that demands his absolute attention."
"What could possibly be more important to him than destroying us?" Shinobu asked. "Or conquering the sun?"
Kagaya closed his blind eyes.
"I do not know," he said. "But whatever it is, it has pacified the most violent creature in existence. And that terrifies me more than his rage."
…
Fifty miles away, the creature in question was currently worrying about his breath.
Muzan stood on the porch of the woodcutter’s cottage again. The night was crisp, the sky a sprawling canvas of velvet black scattered with stars. The moon was full, casting a silver sheen over the snow-covered valley.
Muzan checked his reflection in the dark glass of the window. He was wearing the new winter coat he had commissioned in Kyoto—a heavy, charcoal wool trench coat with a high collar, tailored to perfection. Beneath it, he wore a cashmere scarf in a soft grey. He looked less like a merchant now and more like a prince in exile.
He held a small tin of peppermint drops in his hand. He popped one into his mouth.
He would be close to her tonight. He could not smell of blood. He could not smell of the void. He had to smell of mint and expensive cologne.
The door opened.
Illya stepped out, and for the thousandth time, Muzan felt his superior biology fail him.
She was bundled in a thick, padded haori patterned with snowflakes. A white woolen scarf was wrapped multiple times around her neck, burying the lower half of her face so only her eyes and the bridge of her nose were visible. She wore mittens that looked too big for her hands.
She looked like a snow spirit.
"I’m ready!" She announced, her voice muffled by the scarf. Her eyes crinkled into those golden crescents that Muzan wanted to carve into the moon so the whole world could see them.
"You look warm," Muzan said. He offered his arm.
"It’s freezing tonight," Illya said, taking his arm. She squeezed his bicep through the heavy coat. "But the moon was too beautiful to waste indoors. Thank you for indulging me, Muzan-san."
"I am at your disposal," Muzan said.
They stepped off the porch and onto the path that wound through the garden and into the forest.
The silence of the woods was absolute. Usually, the night was full of the sounds of predators—owls, wolves, demons. But tonight, the forest was holding its breath. The local wildlife had fled, sensing the apex predator walking the path. The local demons had fled even faster, terrified of the kill order Kokushibo had issued to the entire sector.
To Illya, it was just a peaceful, magical winter night.
"It is so quiet," she whispered, their breath clouding in the air together. "Like the world is sleeping."
"It is respectful," Muzan said. "It knows you are walking."
Illya laughed, a soft, bell-like sound that warmed the cold air. "You are ridiculous. The trees don’t care about me."
"They should," Muzan said. "If they knew what was good for them."
He walked slowly, shortening his stride to match hers. He was hyper-aware of the ground beneath them. He scanned for ice patches. He scanned for loose roots. If she tripped, if she twisted an ankle, he would burn this entire forest to ash.
"Where are we going?" Muzan asked.
"To the bridge," Illya said, pointing a mitten toward the sound of rushing water. "The river is partially frozen. It looks like glass."
Muzan stiffened slightly.
The river.
He hated rivers. He hated the sound of rushing water. It was the sound of his greatest failure. It was the sound of Illya dying a thousand years ago.
But this was a new life. This was a new Illya. And she wanted to see the river.
"Lead the way," Muzan said, forcing his muscles to relax.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while. Illya leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder.
"You have been visiting for a while now," Illya said softly.
"Ten days," Muzan supplied automatically.
She looked up at him, surprised by the precision. "You count the days?"
"I count the hours," Muzan admitted. He looked straight ahead. "My life in Tokyo... it is busy. It is loud. The time I spend here is the only time I feel... situated. Grounded."
"I’m glad," Illya said. She tightened her grip on his arm. "I was worried at first. I thought you would get bored. A man of your status, sitting in a shack, drinking tea with a runaway."
"I have told you," Muzan said firmly. "I do not care about status. And I am never bored with you."
They reached the bridge.
It was a sturdy wooden structure arching over a fast-moving stream. The water below was dark and cold, churning against the rocks, but the edges were frozen in jagged sheets of white ice. The moonlight hit the ice, making it sparkle like crushed diamonds.
Illya let go of his arm and walked to the railing. She leaned over, looking down at the water.
Muzan stayed a step behind her. His hands hovered near her waist, ready to grab her if the railing gave way. His paranoia was screaming at him—water, cold, danger—but he silenced it. He had to trust her. He had to trust that this timeline was different.
"It’s beautiful," Illya sighed. "Dangerous, but beautiful."
"It is cold," Muzan said, eyeing the water with disdain.
Illya turned around. She leaned her back against the railing, looking at him. The moonlight illuminated her face, turning her skin to porcelain.
"You are always so worried," she said gently. "Your brow is always furrowed. Even when you smile, your eyes are scanning for threats."
"The world is a dangerous place," Muzan said.
"It is," she agreed. "But it is also gentle. You just have to let it be."
She took a step toward him. She reached up with her mitten-covered hands and touched the lapels of his coat.
"Muzan," she said.
She dropped the honorific.
Muzan’s hearts slammed against his ribs.
"Yes, Illya?"
"Who are you?" she asked.
The question stopped time.
Muzan stared at her. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his chest. Had she figured it out? Did she know? Did she see the monster beneath the skin?
"I don't understand," Muzan said, his voice tight.
"You are not just a merchant," Illya said. She looked deep into his eyes, searching for the truth. "You move too quietly. You know things you shouldn't know. The cats are wary of you. You talk about history like you were there."
She stepped closer. She was so close now.
"And you look at me," she whispered, "like you have lost me before."
Muzan felt his defenses crumbling. He could lie to the Hashira. He could lie to his demons. He could lie to the gods themselves. But he could not lie to those golden eyes.
"I have," Muzan whispered. The truth slipped out before he could catch it. "In a way. I feel... I feel I have spent a lifetime searching for you."
Illya’s eyes softened. The suspicion vanished, replaced by a profound, aching tenderness.
"I feel it too," she admitted. "When I saw you on the porch that morning... I didn't see a stranger. I saw... I saw the rest of myself."
She reached up and began to unwind her scarf. She pulled the thick wool away from her face, exposing her chin, her lips, her neck. The cold air bit at her skin, but she didn't flinch.
"I don't care who you are in Tokyo," Illya said. "I don't care about your business or your family or your secrets. I just care about the man standing here."
She dropped her mittens on the snowy bridge.
She reached up with her bare hands and cupped his face. Her fingers were warm.
"You’re trembling," she whispered.
Muzan was trembling. He was the most powerful being on earth, and he was shaking because a girl was touching his face.
"I am afraid," Muzan said. It was the most honest thing he had said in a thousand years.
"Of what?"
"Of breaking this," he said. "Of you realizing that I am... flawed. That I am not the good man you think I am."
"I don't need a good man," Illya said fiercely. "I need you. Flaws and all."
She went up on her tiptoes.
Muzan froze. He knew what was happening. He had dreamed of this moment for ten centuries. He had replayed their chaste kisses from the Heian era in his mind until the memory was worn thin.
But this was real.
He slowly, hesitantly, lowered his head.
He closed his eyes.
Their lips met.
It was not like the hunger of a demon. It was not violent. It was soft. It was tentative. It was the brush of a camellia petal against stone.
Her lips were cold from the air but warm with life. She tasted of peppermint and the lingering savory note of the stew.
Muzan felt a shockwave travel through his body that rearranged his molecular structure. The dark, swirling void of his soul was suddenly flooded with light. The constant, gnawing hunger that defined his existence vanished completely.
He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to conquer the sun.
He just wanted this.
He brought his hands up, wrapping them around her waist, pulling her closer. He was terrifyingly gentle, treating her as if she were made of spun glass. He deepened the kiss, just slightly, pouring a thousand years of longing, grief, and adoration into the contact.
Illya sighed into the kiss, her arms winding around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. She held him as if she were the one protecting him.
Snow began to fall.
Big, soft flakes drifted down from the sky, catching in their hair, landing on their eyelashes.
They broke apart, but only by an inch. Their foreheads rested against each other. Their breath mingled in white clouds.
Muzan opened his eyes. The red in his irises was gone, replaced by a deep, dark violet—the color of a human night.
"Illya," he breathed.
"Muzan," she whispered back. Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant red. Her eyes were shining.
"I..." Muzan struggled for words. He wanted to promise her the world. He wanted to tell her he would tear down the sky for her. "I am yours. entirely."
Illya smiled. It was the smile that had saved him once, and had just saved him again.
"I know," she said. "And I am yours."
She stepped back slightly, shivering as the cold finally registered.
"We should get back," she said. "Before we turn into ice sculptures."
"Yes," Muzan said. He quickly picked up her mittens and scarf. He wrapped the scarf around her neck with obsessive care, tucking it in to ensure no skin was exposed. He slid her mittens back onto her hands.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much better," she said.
She took his arm again.
They walked back toward the cottage in the snow.
High above in the trees, concealed by the falling snow and the shadows, the Upper Moons watched.
Akaza was sitting on a branch, staring at the sky. He looked... peaceful. The rage that usually fueled him was dormant. Seeing the Master—seeing the monster—act with such tenderness had quieted something inside him.
"He kissed her," Daki whispered, peeking through her fingers. "It was so romantic! Like a novel!"
"It was inefficient," Doma critiqued. "He hesitated for three seconds. He could have—"
Akaza threw a pinecone at Doma’s head. It hit with the force of a bullet, knocking the Upper Rank Two off the branch again.
"Silence," Kokushibo commanded.
The First Upper Moon stood on the highest bough, looking down at the couple walking back to the warm light of the cottage.
"The war is over," Kokushibo murmured to himself.
"What do you mean?" Hantengu asked, trembling. "The Demon Slayers... they are still there."
"They do not matter," Kokushibo said. "The Master has found his victory. He does not need to destroy the Ubuyashiki family anymore. He does not need to rage against the heavens."
Kokushibo watched Muzan open the door for Illya, watched him usher her inside, watched the way he looked at her before closing the door against the night.
"He has found his eternity," Kokushibo said.
…
Inside the cottage, the fire was still warm.
Muzan helped Illya out of her coat. He hung it up by the door.
"Would you like some more tea?" Illya asked, rubbing her hands together.
"No," Muzan said.
He walked over to her. He took her hands.
"I must return to the city tonight," he said. The lie tasted bitter now. He wanted to stay. He wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn't. Not yet.
"I know," Illya said. She looked sad, but resigned. "Business."
"Yes," Muzan said. "But..."
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out a small velvet box.
He had not planned to give it to her tonight. He had planned to wait. But after the kiss, waiting felt impossible.
He opened the box.
Inside sat a comb. It was not a flashy, diamond-encrusted thing. It was made of ancient, polished tortoise shell, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of white camellias. It was understated, elegant, and priceless.
Illya gasped. "Muzan..."
"It is not an engagement gift," Muzan said quickly, seeing her eyes widen. "Not yet. It is... a promise. A promise that I will always come back."
He took the comb and gently slid it into her hair, securing the white strands.
"It is beautiful," Illya whispered, touching it.
"It pales in comparison to the wearer," Muzan said.
He kissed her forehead. A chaste, lingering kiss.
"Sleep well, Illya."
"Goodnight, Muzan."
He walked out into the snow.
He did not summon the portal immediately. He walked to the edge of the clearing. He touched his lips, where the ghost of her warmth still lingered.
For the first time in his life, Kibutsuji Muzan did not fear the morning. He welcomed it. Because the morning meant another day closer to seeing her again.
He looked toward the south, toward the Demon Slayer headquarters. He felt the distant presence of the Hashira, their confusion, their fear.
"Live," Muzan whispered to his enemies. "Live your short, pointless lives. I have no use for you anymore."
He snapped his fingers.
The Infinity Castle opened, and he descended into the dark, not as a conqueror, but as a man who had just won the only prize worth having.
No new drawing at the moment so I'll just dump some stuffs about my OC
Straight girlie, though often mistaken for a guy
Uses death breathing, inspired by Sanemi's wind breathing when she was his tsuguko
Before joining the Corps, she was a criminal
Was from a Chinese aristrocat family, but as black sheep of the family she was emotionally abused growing up and one day decided to run away
Was a softie who cried from being talked to in high tone. Prison life gradually made her colder and angrier for the sake of survival
Once killed a cellmate with a toothbrush for self defence
Her birthname was Bao Yu, but in prison after joining Amagi Clan (some criminal group I made up) uses the alias Hisui (both names mean "jade").
Was infamous as Amagi's executioner. Mainly "wiping out" rivals and anyone pissing off the clan leader in any ways
Was supposed to be a death row inmate, but git recruited by Kagaya into the Corps for her skills. He renames her "Sora" meabing the sky to symbolize rebirth and freedom
Other members, the Hashira especially don't trust her due to her track records
That said, she gets along a bit better with the Kamaboko squad and Mitsuri (given she can rekate with societal pressure on how to be a woman)
Usually reserved and keep things to herself. Not confrontational, but cynical and blunt in her words. Probably a mix of Sanemi's and Obanai's personality with less frequent explosive anger (except with Sanemi, their interaftion is 95% screaming match)
Pragmatic and believes in "dog eat dog world" mindset. Although not cruel/rude at others, she is straightforward about not wanting ti fight for justice/protecting humanity, rather just needing shelter, bed , and getting out of death row when asked about why she joins thre Corps.
Not close friends, but often works with Shinobu in research. The insect hashira deals with medicine and poison, Sora strategizes on weaponry and more physiological aspects on demons
Originally has black hair, then turns red because the first *actual* bath she has for years she decided to drop in roses into the water (since Amagi's symbol incorporates black roses, but wanting ti turn her life aroubd, she is kinda obsessed with bright red roses)
After joining the Corps uses a mask to conceal her identity, since legally the givernment had declared her dead for cover up
For less depressing fact: she loves ajimals. Often takes care of injured ones and release them back to the wild. But sometines the animals stick aroubd her, such as Raiko (the wolf in my sketches)
However she is a bad influence for the Kasugai crows, since she taught them how to steal loose coins and jewelries
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
dededos
titsay
origamiaround