One week after the massacre, Muzan crossed into the Land of Iron.
He traveled with a merchant caravan making the mountain crossing, hidden among traders who never looked too closely at their fellow travelers. Two of his seven hearts were still regenerating, knitting back together slowly. The process would take weeks.
The Land of Iron sprawled between three mountains the locals called the Three Wolves. Snow covered everything. Ice clung to rooftops and cobblestone streets. The cold barely registered against his skin anymore.
He walked through the streets after nightfall when fewer people were outside. Yellow light spilled from windows onto snow-covered ground. People hurried past bundled in thick furs. As a sickly child he had never seen these streets properly, too weak to leave his bed for more than brief periods. His memories of this place were ceiling beams and doctors' faces.
He passed a food stall still open despite the late hour. Warm light poured from inside the canvas-covered structure and steam rose from cooking pots. The smell of broth and grilled meat drifted into the cold air.
He stopped.
The smell should have been appetizing. He remembered finding such things pleasant. Now it turned his stomach on a level he couldn't override.
He pushed the canvas aside and went in anyway.
Several men sat at low wooden tables eating and talking. A few glanced at Muzan when he entered and their eyes widened slightly before they looked away.
He found an empty table near the back and sat.
A boy appeared almost immediately from behind a curtain. He couldn't have been older than twelve and wore an apron too large for his frame. He got a clear look at Muzan's face and stopped walking.
"You look really cool, mister!" he blurted out, then went red with embarrassment.
Muzan blinked. "Cool?"
The boy nodded hard. "You just have that look. Like the heroes in the stories my grandmother tells. All mysterious and strong-looking."
"I see," Muzan said. He glanced at the menu board. "Bring me something simple. Soup and rice."
"Right away, mister!" The boy hurried off still grinning.
Muzan turned his attention to the nearest table. Three men were deep in a conversation they were trying and failing to keep quiet.
"I don't like it," the gray-haired one said in a low voice. "Shinobi fighting inside our territory is completely different from fighting near our borders. The agreement has been clear for generations. They don't interfere with our affairs and we don't take sides in their conflicts."
The younger man across from him shook his head. "Lord Shinji allows it. He takes their money and looks the other way when they kill each other in our streets."
"Three civilians died last week," the gray-haired man said, his voice tightening. "Caught in crossfire near the eastern merchant district. Ordinary people going about their business. And Shinji did nothing."
The third man stared into his bowl. "Some samurai tried to petition him directly. To enforce the old neutrality rules again."
"What happened to them?" the younger man asked.
A pause. "They're gone. Some transferred to distant outposts. Others just disappeared."
The food arrived. The boy set down miso soup, grilled fish, and rice with a proud expression and stood there waiting.
Muzan forced a smile. "It looks very good. Thank you."
The boy beamed and went back behind the curtain.
The smell hit Muzan the moment the boy was gone. His stomach turned hard. The soup that should have smelled warm and rich smelled rancid underneath the surface. He picked up the chopsticks and brought a small amount of rice to his mouth.
The texture was immediately wrong. The taste was worse.
He forced himself to chew and swallow. He took another bite and then another and kept his expression neutral while his body staged a full revolt against every mouthful.
The gray-haired man's voice dropped lower. "Even Mifune Michikatsu hasn't been seen in months. Not since he tried to confront Shinji directly about allowing shinobi to use our territory as a battleground."
Muzan's hand tightened around the chopsticks. The wood creaked.
"The strongest samurai in the entire Land of Iron," the younger man said quietly, "and he just vanished."
The third man leaned back. "So we keep our mouths shut. What else is there to do."
Muzan set the chopsticks down and placed several coins on the table, more than the meal cost, and stood.
The boy appeared at his elbow. "Was everything good, mister?"
"Yes," Muzan said. "Very good. Thank you."
The boy's face lit up. "Then please come back anytime!"
Muzan nodded and pushed through the canvas into the cold air.
He walked ten paces down the snow-covered street. Then he turned into a narrow alley and vomited violently. Everything came up at once. He stood with one hand braced against the cold stone wall until it was done, then wiped his mouth and straightened.
The boy's voice came back to him. Like the heroes in the stories.
He walked back out into the street.
Michikatsu had been his sword teacher when Muzan was still a sickly child. His father had hired the man believing physical training might improve his failing health. It hadn't, but Michikatsu had never treated Muzan like a lost cause. He adapted lessons around Muzan's limitations and taught him what he could and never once gave up on him.
More importantly, Michikatsu's reputation had been the reason Shinji never dared kill Muzan and Genzo outright after banishing them. Shinji had feared his response too much to risk it.
Now Michikatsu was gone, presumably disappeared like the others.
Snow had started falling again. The streets were emptying as people moved indoors. Muzan stood in the middle of the road and looked up at the Three Wolves barely visible through the snow.
Shinji was sitting in his fortress counting money from shinobi nations while breaking the agreements that had protected this country for generations. He had grown bold enough to make even Michikatsu disappear.
Muzan started walking. His footsteps left clear prints in the fresh snow that began filling in behind him.
He had come back without a clear plan. But one was forming now.
He pulled his coat against a cold he couldn't feel and moved deeper into the dark streets.