Muzan. I want to bask in the sun with you and sip wisteria flower tea.
That was perhaps the greatest 'kindness' the fans of Demon Slayer ever showed to Muzan Kibutsuji.
But sunshine—sunshine is the true nemesis of ghosts.
Even in the final battle, the truth was clear: no matter how desperately the protagonist's side fought, no matter how many died or were crippled, none were truly Muzan's match. His regenerative ability was simply too overwhelming.
In the end, they didn't defeat him with strength. They dragged the fight out until dawn, and it was the sun that killed Muzan.
"There are gains and losses. Gain eternal health, yet lose the right to bask in the sun?"
Mammon's eyelids lowered as he muttered coldly, without a ripple of emotion.
But unlike Muzan, cruel and obsessive, Mammon's state of mind was calm. He would not resign himself to hiding in the shadows forever, a pitiful clown fearing daylight.
No. Absolutely not.
Countless beings thrive in this vast world. Mammon refused to believe he would never find a way to conquer the sun.
In addition to his most broken ability—the blood curse—Muzan could devour the genes of other creatures to make himself stronger, more perfect. And Mammon now wielded the same gift.
"With my current strength… I should be considered a B-rank ability user. Or perhaps… a Class B disaster?"
Clenching his fist, feeling the majestic power coiled within his thin frame, Mammon tilted his head slightly in thought.
The Human Alliance had already codified its power system. From highest to lowest: S, A, B, C, D, E.
Monsters followed the same hierarchy, but with two special ranks:— Epic disasters, capable of annihilating entire cities.— Legendary disasters, able to wipe out continents.
These rankings were rough estimates at best.
The colossal king squid that emerged from the Atlantic depths was already considered a semi-legendary disaster. Its rising had triggered a tsunami vast enough to swallow a small continent.
Even nuclear bombardment failed to destroy it—it was only through the combined might of dozens of ability users and relentless military firepower that humanity managed to drive it back beneath the sea.
As Mammon had yet to encounter any true ability users, he could not gauge his level precisely. But if he unleashed his full strength, leveling a village would not be difficult.
The Alliance's scale equated a B-rank ability to the destruction of a village, while an A-rank could erase a town.
Yet those were crude benchmarks. Many abilities defied such linear comparisons, their strangeness unmeasurable by raw destructive power.
And Mammon's blood curse, coupled with his power to devour and evolve, was far from ordinary. It was the seed of a force capable of reshaping the world itself.
The curse had limitless potential. The stronger Mammon became, the more terrifying the demons birthed from his blood would grow.
"There's no point dwelling on that now."
He crushed the thought and forced his focus back to the present. Long-term ambition meant nothing without immediate direction.
But then, as his gaze shifted ahead, Mammon stopped walking. His crimson eyes flickered faintly.
A shabby little house lay in the distance. Standing before it were several figures.
"Here he comes! Mr. Dai, look—that's the boy."
The fat man in a black suit spotted Mammon, his face lighting up as he hurriedly whispered to the middle-aged man beside him.
Mr. Dai wore a gray trench coat and gold-rimmed glasses. His calm, refined bearing radiated upper-class authority.
He turned toward Mammon. Under the dim streetlamp, he could not see clearly, but still led his group of five straight toward him.
Mammon's expression remained indifferent. He didn't know these men, but the fat man's face was familiar—Mammon remembered his gaze, that hungry, feverish stare from a few nights ago.
"Didn't you say this child was an invalid?"
Mr. Dai studied Mammon briefly, frowning as though inspecting merchandise.
"This… it doesn't matter, Mr. Dai. I checked—this boy's an unlucky brat with no father, and just yesterday, his mother died of illness. No one will care what happens to him."
The fat man's words carried confidence, but his eyes betrayed unease. A few days ago, he had seen Mammon confined to a wheelchair. How was he walking freely now?
Irrelevant.
Mammon tilted his head, scarlet pupils glowing like crystallized blood. The vertical slits within them pulsed strangely, hypnotic and terrifying under the dim light.
"And see, Mr. Dai? I wasn't lying about the boy's eyes."
The fat man shuddered. That cold, piercing stare made his skin crawl. Fear crept into his heart despite himself.
Those red eyes… so vivid, so unnatural. He hadn't noticed before, but now they struck him with a suffocating dread.
"Yes… yes! Such a pure, crystalline red! Vertical pupils, yet so beautiful! Truly… a miracle of creation!"
Mr. Dai's earlier composure cracked, replaced by a feverish, morbid fascination as he gazed upon Mammon's eyes.
The fat man forced a grin, though inside he scoffed. What a lunatic. Obsessed with a child's eyes…
"So that's it."
Mammon's lips curved into a cold smile. "You want my eyes."
Understanding their intent, he sneered.
"Then… eat."
His voice was flat, yet it was a verdict.
The moment his words fell, the shadows behind him stirred.
Two blood-red beast eyes ignited in the dark. From the gloom, a monstrous rat, the size of a wild boar, crawled forward under the yellow light.
—The Rat Demon.
Mammon didn't bother with useless chatter. To waste words with such trash was nothing short of an insult to himself.