The air fell into a profound silence, heavy with the finality of what had just transpired. The last fragments of Yoriichi Tsugikuni, the chosen one of his era, dissipated into nothingness. He was a man born with the Mark, a Crimson Red Blade, and the original Breathing Style—a legendary figure whose spirit had been preserved for centuries by the Priest Clan's forbidden arts, only to be utterly erased in a single moment.
In truth, Yoriichi had only ever been a contingency, a final trump card for the Priest Clan. Their original scheme was far simpler: to let the Ubuyashiki family, the Demon Slayer Corps, and Kibutsuji Muzan annihilate one another. Had the plot unfolded as they designed, the Priest Clan would have remained hidden in the shadows, watching as Kagaya Ubuyashiki sacrificed himself, and as the remaining Hashira fought Muzan to their mutual destruction.
Once the Ubuyashiki clan was gone, the Demon Slayer Corps was shattered, and Muzan himself was dead, the Priest Clan would have emerged to claim dominion over a world cleansed of their rivals. In a sense, their goal would have been achieved.
However, the appearance of the new Muzan had shattered their intricate plan. His actions, and the overwhelming power of his Twelve Kizuki, had forced them to play their hand. Now, even their most powerful piece, the legendary Yoriichi Tsugikuni, was irrevocably gone.
"Yoriichi… is dead…"
The sight caused a flicker of genuine shock in Kokushibo's six eyes. For centuries, his younger brother had been the sun he could never reach, the ghost that haunted his every step. Yoriichi was the absolute measure of strength he had spent his entire life, both as a human and a demon, trying to surpass. He knew that simply walking the same path would never allow him to become Yoriichi, let alone exceed him.
But now, in an instant, Muzan had proven that even the godlike power of Yoriichi Tsugikuni was finite. Even when brought back from the grave by secret arts, death was still his end.
As Yoriichi vanished, Muzan felt a subtle shift within his own sea of consciousness. A faint, ancient tremor—the deep-seated, instinctual fear of the man who had nearly killed him centuries ago—finally went still. It was a muscle memory of terror that not even a millennium could erase. Now, it was gone.
He had always known the only way to conquer fear was to face it head-on. By confronting the source of his only true terror and obliterating it, he had finally shed the last of his limitations. Yoriichi had his own persistence, his own path. But Muzan had his own as well. His path was absolute power. His method was to surpass all methods. With this final act, he had proven the supremacy of his own philosophy.
Though he was still one step away from his ultimate goal, his expression became as placid and untroubled as an ancient well.
"You can show yourself now, God Lord," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Since your Priest Clan wished to intervene in this conflict, you must be prepared to lose everything."
His voice was calm, as if he were merely a spectator to the terrifying game he had orchestrated.
As his words fell, a figure emerged from the nearby ruins. It was Chinami, the God Lord of the Priest Clan. Her composure was gone, replaced by a tense and guarded expression. The events had spiraled far beyond her control. Yoriichi, her ultimate weapon, had not only failed to harm Muzan, but he hadn't even managed to kill Kokushibo and Kagaya.
"So, you're finally willing to appear," Muzan's smile widened as his gaze fell upon her. "If I'm not mistaken, your clan members are already on their way to the Imperial Palace, aren't they?"
Chinami's eyes widened in stunned silence.
"Don't look so surprised," Muzan continued, his tone unhurried and condescending. "You should know that with the recent ascension of the new Emperor Showa, the Imperial Family is in a state of turmoil. A massacre to secure the throne is unavoidable. And such a large-scale offering of blood… it's the perfect catalyst to awaken a Divine Artifact, is it not?"
Divine Artifact.
The words struck Chinami like a bolt of lightning.
"Was this your true objective all along?" she gasped.
At that same moment, deep within the restored corridors of the Infinity Castle, the remaining Hashira were cornered. Surging demonic energy pulsed through the walls, empowering the demons that swarmed them. The faces of the three surviving Pillars—Gyomei Himejima, Shinobu Kocho, and Mitsuri Kanroji—were grim.
"Shinobu, Mitsuri," Gyomei's powerful voice boomed, "you must take the first chance you get to escape. If we stay together, all three of us will die here!"
Tears streamed freely from the Stone Hashira's blind eyes. "The explosion we just felt must have been from reinforcements, but we can't possibly hold out until they arrive. More importantly, we have all awakened the Mark. We're fighting on sheer willpower, but our lives are burning away with every second."
He gripped his spiked flail and axe, their chains rattling with deadly intent. "I will unleash my full power to create an opening. You must take that chance and survive. Only then is there hope!"
As the strongest of the nine Hashira, he carried the weight of their failures. He couldn't save Kyojuro Rengoku. He couldn't save the Demon Slayer Corps. He couldn't save the Ubuyashiki family. All that was left for him now was to fight to the death.
"Come on, you damned demons!" he roared.
The Mark on his face deepened, and his aura exploded outwards. The ground around him cracked and shattered. With a surge of power that sent dust and debris flying, his figure shot forward like a meteor. His speed was that of a hurricane, his presence as overwhelming as a tiger descending upon its prey.
"Hurry and go!" his final command thundered through the air.
Shinobu and Mitsuri, their own eyes filled with tears, trembled at his words. They prepared to move, to honor his sacrifice.
Pfft!
The next moment, a flash of light, impossibly fast, intercepted his charge. Before anyone could even register what had happened, Gyomei Himejima's head was sent flying high into the air. His body collapsed, lifeless. His decapitated head spun through the darkness, tears still streaming from his closed eyes, as if weeping for the world he was leaving behind—a world about to be consumed by demons.
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