Acquiring a temporary residence turned out to be laughably easy.
A handful of Memory Charms applied with surgical precision, a bit of discreet Transfiguration, and suddenly an abandoned structure on the edge of town became mine. Clean. Reinforced. Hidden. A place where questions weren't asked and screams wouldn't carry.
A home.
More importantly—a laboratory.
Tables reshaped from solid wood. Glassware conjured, refined, and stabilized with runes. Shelves stocked with reagents sourced from forests, merchants, and… less reputable suppliers. Wards layered carefully, magic folding in on itself to conceal, silence, and defend.
Temporary, yes.
But sufficient.
Once settled, I didn't waste time.
I traveled.
Village to village. Market to market. Gathering hubs where people whispered about demons and prayed for the sun. Everywhere I went, I offered something rare in this era.
Competence.
Between my knowledge of alchemy and potions, and the memories of a former life where I held a medical degree, my understanding of biology eclipsed anything this time period could comprehend. Germ theory alone would have made me a miracle worker.
In an age where bloodletting and superstition passed for medicine, I was a god.
I treated infections properly. I sterilized wounds. I used potions to accelerate healing and magic to reinforce the body without being seen. People lived who should have died.
Word spread.
Slowly at first. Then faster.
I became known as a wandering doctor—one whose patients survived.
The money flowed easily after that. Gold, supplies, favors. And with them came access to what I truly wanted.
Blood.
Human blood. Demon blood. Samples gathered carefully, preserved properly. Labeled, catalogued, analyzed.
Research material.
My lab grew busier with every passing month.
The question lingered at the center of everything I did.
Should I become a demon?
From a purely logical standpoint, the answer was tempting. Demons didn't age. They regenerated. They possessed physical power far beyond human limits. Immortality, of a sort, handed freely.
But the cost…
I knew too much.
Muzan Kibutsuji could read the thoughts of his subordinates. Could control them. Could erase them on a whim. If I became a demon under his system, I wouldn't be a weapon—I'd be a liability.
And liabilities were eliminated.
Worse still, I carried knowledge that could destroy him. Weaknesses. Timelines. Outcomes he had never foreseen. The moment he touched my mind, the future would belong to him.
Unacceptable.
I refused to kneel.
I refused to submit.
That thought alone made something dark and familiar stir within me.
The Voldemort in me recoiled at the idea of subservience.
Never bow.Never depend.Never place your existence in another's hands.
Independence wasn't just preference—it was survival.
If I was going to claim immortality, it would be on my terms.
No masters.
No chains.
No King of Demons whispering in my skull.
I stood alone in my laboratory, gazing at vials of preserved blood glowing faintly under enchanted light.
Demon blood held the answer.
But I would not drink it blindly.
I would rewrite it.