So Shinsai's consciousness lingered at the moment her head fell, but in the darkness before her eyes, moonlight from when she was fourteen slowly resurfaced.
Back then, she was still called Azai. Her hair was tied into two thick braids, and she held tightly to the cloth doll her mother had just sewn for her—its eyes made of black buttons, its patched body stitched together from scraps of fabric.
She and her mother lived in a small thatched hut at the eastern edge of the village. The roof leaked when it rained, and the walls let the wind through, yet the house was always filled with the warm scent of her mother's wild vegetable porridge.
Her father had died early—when she was seven. He had joined a merchant caravan into the mountains, but a bear attacked, and not even his bones were recovered.
Her mother, Oye-shi, was known throughout the village as a beauty. Even dressed in patched coarse cloth, the gentleness between her brows could not be hidden.
To raise Azai, her mother rose before dawn every day to spin and weave, then walked to town in the afternoon to sell her cloth for a bit of rice and salt.
"Azai, when Mother saves enough money, I'll buy you a new cotton jacket."
Her mother would always say this while spinning, smiling softly as her callused fingers danced over the spindle.
Azai didn't know what hardship meant. She only knew that her mother's hands were warm, her porridge smelled good, and her cloth doll was soft.
She would sit beside her mother, helping untangle threads while listening to the lullabies of their village. The days were poor but peaceful and sweet.
The change came in the winter of her thirteenth year.
That day, snow fell heavily. The door of the thatched hut burst open with a bang, and two men in official uniforms barged in, holding a yellowed sheet of paper.
"Oye-shi, new orders have arrived. This year's taxes are tripled. You have three days to pay, or your house will be torn down and you'll be sent to the government to work as laborers!"
The spindle fell from her mother's hand, the thread tangling into a mess.
"Officer, it's just me and my daughter here. How could we possibly have that much money? We barely managed to pay last year's tax—why has it suddenly tripled?"
"Stop with your nonsense!"
One of the men kicked the short table beside him. The bowls crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
"Orders are orders. You'll pay whether you can or not!"
They left after a string of curses, leaving Oye-shi and Azai trembling amid the wreckage of their cold, broken home.
Three days later, it wasn't the officers who came back—but a man in a silk robe, the town's tax collector, surnamed Yamada.
He was fat-faced, his cheeks piled with flesh, his smile so wide his eyes disappeared. He toyed with a jade ring on his thumb while his greedy gaze wandered up and down Oye-shi's body.
"Oye-shi, I know you can't pay the tax," he said, settling into the only unbroken chair, sipping the rough tea she served him. "But everything in life can be negotiated."
His eyes clung to her face. "You're so beautiful. Why keep suffering like this with your daughter? As long as you spend some time with me… treat me well… I'll pay your taxes. I'll even give you enough money for a comfortable life. What do you say?"
Her face went pale. The teacup trembled in her hands, spilling hot water across her fingers, but she didn't even flinch.
"Sir, please leave. Even if I starve, I'll never do something like that."
"Starve?"
Yamada sneered, standing to grab her chin between his thick fingers.
"You think you have a choice? Either you keep me company—or your daughter goes with you to work for the government. She's growing up, too. Pretty, just like you. Who knows how many men there would take an interest in her."
Her body began to shake violently. Tears fell before she could stop them.
She looked toward the door, where Azai hid, peeking through the crack. Their eyes met—one filled with fear, the other with despair.
That night, her mother held her tightly and cried for a long time.
Azai never understood why her mother finally agreed to Yamada's demand. She only knew that from that day on, the tax collector came often to their hut.
Every time he came, her mother locked Azai in the inner room.
The door wasn't thick. Through it, Azai could hear the man's coarse laughter and her mother's muffled sobs.
She buried her face in her doll and covered her ears, but the sounds still reached her.
Life slowly became "better." There was rice and meat at home. Her mother even bought her a new cotton jacket. But she never smiled again.
Her eyes were always red. Her face lost all color. She often froze in the middle of spinning, and at night she sat awake until dawn.
At thirteen, Azai began to grow into her looks. Her eyes resembled her mother's, her nose her father's, her skin pale as snow. Villagers couldn't help but glance twice when she passed.
One day, while buying thread in town, she ran into Yamada.
He stared at her for a long time, his gaze crawling over her like a snake.
"This girl," he said to the officer beside him, stroking his chin with a grin, "just like her mother—another little beauty."
The tone was vile. Azai didn't understand the meaning behind it, but fear rose instinctively in her chest. She turned and ran home as fast as she could.
When she told her mother what happened, her mother hugged her tightly and wept even harder, whispering "I'm sorry" again and again.
Azai didn't understand what her mother was apologizing for—she only felt that her mother's arms were growing colder.
On her fourteenth birthday, her mother cooked eggs just for her and even bought a small piece of brown sugar.
That night, her mother went to town to deliver the newly woven cloth to Yamada, the tax collector, telling Azai to stay home and wait.
Azai sat in the dim room, holding her cloth doll, waiting for her mother to come back.
The door opened softly.
She thought it was her mother, but when she looked up, she saw a stranger—a wrinkled old man from the village, wearing coarse hemp clothes.
He reeked of alcohol and held a wine bottle in one hand. His eyes fixed on her, hungry and wild.
"Little girl… you're really pretty…"
He stumbled forward step by step.
Azai froze in terror and turned to run, but the man grabbed her arm in one rough motion.
"Don't run… come here and let grandpa love you a little…"
The memory of that night became the wound So Shinsai would never heal from.
She remembered the man's coarse hands, the stench of liquor on his breath, her own screams and struggles, the sound of fabric tearing as her doll was ripped apart, and the cold moonlight outside the window—sharp as a blade.
When her mother came home, she found the room in shambles and Azai curled in the corner, covered in bruises and blood.
She went mad. She threw herself at Azai, holding her tight, then grabbed the hatchet from the corner and ran toward the door to find the man who had done it.
But Yamada appeared and stopped her.
"What are you doing?"
He grabbed her arm roughly, his tone cold and disdainful.
"So what if a little girl got taken? What's the big deal? Don't forget—the food you eat and the clothes you wear all come from me."
Her mother looked at Yamada, then at Azai trembling in her arms, and suddenly laughed. Tears streamed down her face even as she laughed harder and harder.
She set down the hatchet, walked to the corner, picked up the silk robe Yamada had once given her, and tore it to shreds.
From that day on, her mother lost her mind.
She never spun thread again, never spoke again. She sat at the doorway all day, staring into the distance, sometimes bursting into laughter, sometimes into tears.
Yamada never came back. The rice ran out within days. Azai went to dig wild herbs and boiled them into soup to feed her mother.
Three months later, on a snowy night, her mother was gone.
She had hanged herself with her own woven cloth, tied to the beam, her face completely expressionless.
Azai held her mother's cold body and cried until morning.
When daylight came, Yamada arrived. He frowned at the corpse, told his men to bury it, and then turned to Azai.
"From now on, you'll follow me."
He spoke flatly.
"Your mother owed me. You'll pay her debt."
Azai didn't cry. She didn't resist.
Her heart had already died the day her mother did.
At the government office, she was given a small room in the back courtyard. Her only task was to serve Yamada.
Whatever he told her to do, she did—expressionless, silent, like a puppet without a soul.
Yamada was "kind" in his own way. He gave her pretty clothes and good food—but he also beat and cursed her for the smallest mistake.
The other officials soon noticed her beauty.
As she grew older, their stares turned bolder, greedier.
Yamada, eager to curry favor, began to "lend" her to them.
Sometimes for one night. Sometimes for several days.
Azai endured everything numbly.
She saw how officials devoured each other for power, how they killed the innocent for gold, how they mocked the suffering of the people as if it were a joke.
She once believed the government existed to protect the people. Later she learned—it was darker than hell itself.
In hell, demons ate flesh. Here, humans devoured souls.
She drifted through those years until she turned eighteen.
That year, Yamada was reassigned. Before leaving, he sold her to the largest brothel in the city—the Fragrant Beauty Pavilion.
"You're older now," he said casually, "I'm tired of you. Might as well make some money off it."
His tone was the same as if he were selling an old piece of furniture.
The madam of Fragrant Beauty Pavilion, Madam Kurenai, saw her beauty and treated her kindly at first. She taught her to sing, to dance, to please men.
But life in the brothel was worse than life in the government office.
The other courtesans resented her beauty and the customers she attracted. They bullied and sabotaged her constantly—
They cut her clothes, spat in her food, and even ruined her appointments with clients out of spite.
Madam Kurenai didn't care about any of it. As long as So Shinsai brought in money and pleased the customers, nothing else mattered.
One night, a drunk customer beat her and cursed her, nearly smashing a wine bottle over her head.
She crouched in a corner, trembling, and saw Madam Kurenai standing at the door, smiling at the man.
"Please don't be angry, sir," she said sweetly. "This girl doesn't know any better—hit her however you like."
At that moment, So Shinsai suddenly realized how cold this world truly was—so cold she wished she could die right there.
That night, her hatred was born.
She hated Yamada, who had driven her mother to death. She hated the officials who had violated her. She hated Madam Kurenai. She hated the other courtesans.
Most of all, she hated the world itself—a world without warmth, without mercy, without a trace of kindness.
She hated all men—hated their power, their greed, their filthy lust that had crushed her life into dust.
Just when she thought she couldn't endure anymore, a man appeared.
That night, she was locked in the firewood shed for refusing a client's demand. Madam Kurenai had given orders—no food, no water.
The shed was dark and freezing. She curled up in the corner, her consciousness fading, certain she would die there.
Then, the door creaked open.
A man stepped inside, dressed in a black suit. He was handsome, his skin pale as paper, and his eyes deep crimson—like congealed blood.
He said nothing at first. He crouched in front of her, reaching out a hand, his fingertip brushing her cheek.
"You hate them, don't you?"
His voice was low and smooth, carrying a strange allure.
"You hate the unfairness of this world. You hate those who hurt you."
Azai looked at him and suddenly burst into tears.
She didn't know who he was, but she felt he could see through her—through every wound, every drop of hatred that filled her soul.
"Do you want revenge?" he asked. "Do you want them all to pay for what they did?"
She nodded fiercely, tears falling faster.
"I can help you," the man said with a faint, unsettling smile. "I can give you power—enough to destroy them easily. But in exchange, you will serve me. You can never betray me."
"I'll do it!" she cried without hesitation. "As long as I can take revenge, I'll do anything!"
He extended his hand and bit his fingertip. A drop of his blood fell into her mouth.
It was warm—almost burning—and as it slid down her throat, she felt it spread through her entire body.
A surge of strength awoke inside her. The hunger vanished. The cold disappeared. Her wounds sealed in moments.
Her eyes turned red. Her nails grew sharp. Her body became light and fast.
She had become a demon.
The man told her his name—Kibutsuji Muzan, the progenitor of all demons.
He told her she would no longer be "Azai." Her new name would be So Shinsai—more "refined," he said, smiling.
That night, So Shinsai left the shed with Muzan.
She didn't kill Madam Kurenai. She didn't harm anyone in the brothel.
Muzan had told her they were beneath her. "Weak creatures," he said, "not worth dirtying your hands."
She returned to the city where she once lived and became Miss So, the most sought-after courtesan of the Fragrant Beauty Pavilion.
Using her beauty, she lured officials and merchants alike. She watched them drown in their lust and greed, revealing the ugliest faces of humanity—
and when pleasure reached its peak, she devoured them slowly.
She enjoyed watching those men's confidence turn to fear, their pride crumble into begging, their lives slipping away between her fingers.
It was her revenge—her answer to a world that had only ever trampled her.
She thought she would keep killing, serving Muzan, until his grand design was complete.
But she hadn't expected to meet Tomioka Giyu.
And she hadn't expected to lose so quickly—to die so completely.
As darkness consumed her consciousness, the last thing she saw was Giyu's cold eyes and the blue glow of his Nichirin Sword.
In her fading mind, beyond shock and unwillingness, one question lingered—
'Why… does that man have such power? Why is there no desire in his eyes—only pure, merciless calm?'
Those questions vanished with her soul, sinking into eternal darkness.
What she didn't know was that her death was only a small ripple in a much greater war between humans and demons—a war spanning a hundred years.
Her hatred, her pain, and the vow she made to Muzan would someday resurface, another fragment in the unfolding conspiracy waiting to be revealed.