Oboro's whereabouts remained shrouded in mystery, like shadows dancing on the periphery of perception.
Muzan's orders echoed through the darkness: Kokushibo and his three companions were to find Oboro at any cost. The most logical approach was to locate Gyutaro first; he was the key to unlocking this puzzle.
There was something distinctly different about Gyutaro; he was a "special case" among the successors. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself or the iconic black haori draped across his shoulders—Oboro's signature garment. Over the decades, from the blood-soaked Edo period to the present day, only one successor had achieved the impossible feat of killing an Upper Rank demon. That successor was Gyutaro.
Muzan recognized the significance of this accomplishment. This explained his reluctance to confront the Demon Slayer Corps directly.
Before Gyutaro's demise, several Upper Ranks had fallen to the Hashira's blades. Now, multiple pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps have awakened the legendary "transparent world," granting them abilities to rival those of Yoriichi Tsugikuni himself. The environment had become increasingly hostile to demons, forcing Muzan's forces into hiding. Even when they did strike, they moved with unprecedented caution, avoiding any action that might draw unwanted attention.
Ironically, the successors showed no such restraint in their violent clashes with the Demon Slayer Corps. This stark difference stemmed from Muzan's deep-seated fear and his reluctance to create large numbers of demons. In contrast, the successors boldly formed groups and expanded their ranks without hesitation.
After experiencing the slightest touch of soul power, Muzan began to unravel the mystery of Oboro.
The question that had plagued him for years finally had an answer. How could these inheritors develop such formidable abilities in merely a century? The answer lay not just in their exceptional talent, but in something far more profound.
The blessing of soul power strengthened and amplified their spirits to extraordinary degrees. While this enhancement might not manifest physically, it transformed their Blood Demon Arts into devastatingly powerful weapons. More importantly, their fortified willpower made these inheritors remarkably resilient in the face of adversity, dramatically increasing their chances of breakthrough and evolution.
What Muzan had failed to understand before now became clear.
The power of the three Upper Ranks he had modified would increase exponentially.
However, his method of integrating spiritual fragments into cells before transmitting them to his subordinates came at a steep price: it inflicted considerable trauma upon his own soul, requiring extensive recovery time.
But Muzan had already conceived a solution. He would hunt more Inheritors and use the cells within their bodies to interface constantly with the remnants that Oboro had left in the depths of their consciousness. Through this process, he would refine his own soul, and perhaps even devour Oboro's entirely.
One month later, on the other side of this supernatural conflict, a figure sat in perfect solitude.
Oboro rested beneath the shade of an ancient tree, his gaze fixed on the scenic landscape before him. A gentle breeze stirred through the clearing, lifting his long, untended white hair, which caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.
"I'm not disappointed. It's acceptable," he murmured to himself.
Something had shifted in his awareness, and his eyes opened fully, focusing on the distant sky with knowing intensity.
A soft smile graced his weathered features.
It seemed Muzan had finally achieved substantial evolution.
Oboro's initial assessment of Muzan had been unflattering: a being with formidable flesh-and-blood power but an extraordinarily weak soul.
Yet, despite this inherent limitation, he hadn't anticipated that Muzan would develop the ability to sense souls. This development genuinely surprised him.
"The soul and body exist in a symbiotic relationship," Oboro mused aloud as he brushed dust from his clothes and slowly rose to his feet. "Though your innate soul was poor, you have incredible physical strength and have endured for a long time. It's natural to drive the spirit through the physical body. Nevertheless, you must have invested tremendous effort. I imagine you wracked your brains, contemplating this puzzle for an extraordinarily long time."
Each time Muzan touched his soul, Oboro felt the connection like ripples across still water.
The soul, a power originating from higher realms, represented vast and incomprehensible knowledge for beings of the lower world. Muzan had only just begun his "enlightenment" and knew very little about its true nature.
Moments ago, one of Oboro's direct descendants had perished. If his intuition was correct, Muzan was responsible for the death.
The surviving direct descendants possessed strength that rivaled that of the Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps. In recent years, these inheritors had developed terrifying physical capabilities by consuming the Twelve Demon Moons and several former pillars. Even an Upper Rank might struggle against them in direct combat.
"The time limit is approaching rapidly," Oboro declared, his voice carrying across the empty clearing. "If you refuse to come to me, then I shall come to you."
He lifted his gaze toward the azure sky, and despite the weight of his words, his tone remained remarkably calm.
His body had grown increasingly frail, and the remaining vitality could sustain him for perhaps fifteen years at most.
Throughout the past century, he had continuously distributed cards from his collection to individuals with exceptional potential. Beyond further intensifying the chaotic situation, he harbored hope that one or two of these carefully chosen individuals might "awaken" and display signs of an evolutionary breakthrough.
After all, the probability of success naturally increases with sufficient numbers.
Once his supply of cards was depleted, he would transform again, repeating the cycle endlessly.
Now, with his existing cards nearly exhausted, he had decided to break this pattern.
In a modest inner palace in the heart of the city, an elegant figure moved with predatory grace.
Dressed in aristocratic finery, Muzan wore a pristine dress complemented by a flowing black gown. He walked deliberately toward the imposing building that served as his destination.
This structure housed the rebel headquarters and the territorial center of a particular Inheritor.
Beneath his refined hat, Muzan's crimson pupils gleamed with otherworldly intensity as he strolled with the casual elegance of high-society nobility.
The chaos surrounding him told a different story entirely.
Rebel warriors charged from all directions, their battle cries piercing the air as they brandished weapons with desperate ferocity. Demons, whose appearances deviated dramatically from human norms, transformed into streaks of black lightning. They wove through the battlefield like deadly threads, launching coordinated assaults against the intruder.
Muzan continued at a leisurely pace, making no defensive movements. Yet every demon harboring hostile intent toward him met the same fate: exploding into grotesque chunks of meat long before reaching striking distance.
Human attackers simply lost consciousness, collapsing where they stood.
It appeared that merely entering a specific radius around Muzan subjected both humans and demons to an invisible, devastating force.
The coexistence of humans and demons was a bizarre phenomenon that could only occur in rebel territories controlled by the Inheritors.
As Muzan progressed through the compound, bloody carnage painted both sides of his path with scattered corpses and visceral remains.
He relished this intoxicating sensation. The soul had granted him unimaginable power.
He felt completely detached from mortal concerns.
BANG!
When Muzan finally positioned himself in the courtyard below the main attic, a black shadow plummeted from above, striking the earth with the force of a meteorite and sending clouds of dust billowing in all directions.
The ground trembled beneath the devastating impact.
As the swirling debris settled, the newcomer's features became visible.
She was the rebel leader of this territory, one of the inheritors.
She had long orange hair and deeply tanned skin. Her most striking characteristic, however, was her robust and powerful physique that radiated raw strength.
While unconventional, her appearance carried an undeniable presence.
She wore an exquisitely crafted, traditional kimono with intricate, patterned furisode sleeves and a meticulously tied taiko knot around her substantial waist.
Despite her intimidating build, her clothing displayed remarkable attention to detail and craftsmanship.
"Are you Muzan?" Ayako was one of the people whom Oboro had personally "saved" from their previous circumstances.
Born with features that society deemed unattractive, she had endured contempt and rejection since childhood. Even her biological parents considered her a family disgrace and contemplated ending her life while she slept.
Ayako had previously engaged Doma, one of the Upper Ranks of the Twelve Demon Moons, in combat. However, their battle was interrupted by the Demon Slayer Corps before reaching a decisive conclusion.
Over the years, Ayako had fought numerous Lower Ranks, becoming well-acquainted with the extent of Muzan's power.
The overwhelming presence radiating from the figure before her filled her with genuine terror.
This could be no one other than Muzan himself.
Most inheritors operated independently. While they shared common objectives, their methods and philosophical approaches differed significantly, making cooperation challenging.
Some did form alliances, though such partnerships were rare.
Recently, Ayako had received disturbing reports that many inheritors had been completely annihilated, leaving no survivors to tell their tales.
Now, the source of these devastating attacks has been revealed.
"Are you finally willing to emerge from hiding?" Ayako understood the situation perfectly. Her lips curved into a savage smile directed at Muzan.
She was no ordinary inheritor but rather a life form that had achieved transcendence through the mutual consumption of demons, a process that elevated her to an entirely different level of existence.
As the progenitor of all demons, Muzan was a prize that many inheritors had sought. Their motivation was simple: consume Muzan completely. Ayako naturally harbored identical ambitions.
However, Muzan had always remained hidden in the shadows, refusing to reveal himself.
In the collective consciousness of the inheritors, successfully devouring Muzan would grant them the power to reshape reality itself.
Muzan was an absolutely crucial component in their grand design!
"Oh? You appear remarkably interested in my presence," Muzan observed, noting the woman's provocative gaze. Rather than anger, he responded with mild amusement and a gentle smile.
Suddenly, the woman stripped away her outer garments, revealing tattoo-like totems that covered half her body. Her entire torso was now exposed to the evening air.
Intricate designs decorated both her arms from shoulder to wrist beneath her long sleeves.
Initially, her massive frame appeared to consist primarily of excess weight. However, once disrobed, Muzan realized his error; this was not fat, but solid muscle with the density and hardness of granite.
Her flowing hair undulated like a lion's magnificent mane, and the intricate patterns on her skin pulsed with life. They extended along her flesh toward the ground beneath her feet and expanded at an alarming rate.
Clearly, this was her Blood Demon Art in action.
"I can create as many of these servants as necessary. Their deaths hold no significance. Given sufficient time, I can exploit any situation and rise to power once again. But, since you honor me as a distinguished guest, I cannot permit your escape. Otherwise, I may never have another opportunity to encounter you."
Ayako's voice carried genuine excitement, and her anticipation was palpable.
"As that man's plaything, you demonstrate admirable capabilities," Muzan replied, his tone deliberately casual and dismissive toward the person he referenced.
Plaything?
Ayako's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
"I speak of Oboro," Muzan stated without hesitation.
The moment Oboro's name left his lips, fury erupted across Ayako's features.
Oboro represented something sacred and untouchable within her heart, a boundary she would never allow anyone to cross.
"You all display identical expressions merely from hearing his name," Muzan said, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical gesture. "As the mastermind hiding behind the scenes and manipulating everything like pieces on a board, he bears no responsibility. He simply granted you power and allowed you to grow without restraint. He failed to teach you the importance of humility when confronted with an overwhelming force."
His crimson eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction.
"Otherwise, you will die."