“Could someone… bring me a glass of water?”

Tachibana Kyūjō’s voice was hoarse as he looked around at the familiar faces gathered beside his bed.

— — —

Late at night, in a secluded noble estate deep in Kanagawa Prefecture, a man with golden hair stood silently—his eyes glinting with something twisted as he stared into the darkness ahead.

No one knew exactly when he had dyed his hair gold.

Akaza knelt on one knee, his demeanor sharp, respectful, and serious.

“I’ve done as you asked, Kokushibō-dono. I’ve gathered successors from the finest martial arts schools across the country.”

“There are kenjutsu schools like Yagyū Shinkage-ryū, Tennen Rishin-ryū, Shindō Munen-ryū, Shindō Isshin-ryū, Enmei-ryū—Niten Ichi-ryū, Tamiya Shinken-ryū, and others.”

“Plus, skilled practitioners of iaidō, jūdō, karate… a total of seventy-two warriors in all.”

The figure standing in the shadows slowly stepped forward, turning to face Akaza.

It was Kokushibō—once known as Upper Moon One, the highest-ranked demon of the Twelve Kizuki.

But now… his appearance had changed dramatically.

The flowing crimson hair that once framed his face had darkened to a deep violet.

The six eerie eyes that once overwhelmed others with fear were now gone—replaced by a single pair of human-looking eyes.

On the surface, he looked no different from a man.

But to Akaza, his aura hadn’t diminished in the slightest.

The overwhelming presence that once radiated from Kibutsuji Muzan… was now pouring from Kokushibō—purified, undiluted, even more suffocating.

That alone was enough for Akaza to accept the blood of this new king and abandon the bloodline of the previous ruler.

But that wasn’t the only reason he chose to follow the new Demon King.

Akaza wasn’t like most demons. Even after turning, he still clung to the honor of a warrior.

He never truly got along with Muzan, but betrayal had never crossed his mind—until the weight of discontent grew too heavy to bear.

“Find a mythical flower that doesn’t exist?” Enough already.

Not once was he shown proper respect. Muzan treated him like a disposable pawn, despite Akaza being Upper Moon Three—his so-called right-hand man.

But Kokushibō… had something Akaza had yearned for, for centuries.

The truth behind martial strength.

If he could learn directly from a swordsman as transcendent as Kokushibō, then perhaps—just perhaps—he, too, could reach that final realm.

A peak far beyond what he’d ever touched, even after centuries as a demon.

And more than anything—

Kokushibō promised to form something new.

A group of warriors.

A gathering of pure fighters who devoted themselves wholly to the path of martial arts.

That alone had sealed Akaza’s loyalty.

Now that he had gathered seventy-two successors from across the land, Akaza couldn’t wait to see them transformed into demons—and to test them one by one in battle.

No one was allowed to leave until he was done.

…And of course, the most important reason Akaza left Muzan’s side?

There’s no Dōma here.

That smug, creepy bastard with his fake smile and obnoxious laughter—

Akaza could live a thousand years and still never stomach him.

— — —

Kokushibō, now fully resembling a human, gave Akaza a calm nod.

“Seventy-two, huh… I wonder how many will survive my blood.”

“Well done, Akaza. Truly.”

“Come. Let’s go meet them.”

This is how you treat loyal subordinates, Akaza thought, feeling just a bit smug—and very pleased.

He rose to his feet and led the new Demon King toward the outer hall.

— — —

One month later.

Most of Kyūjō’s external wounds had healed, but his internal injuries… were another story.

He could feel it every time he moved.

His right lung—pierced straight through by Kokushibō’s blade—was permanently damaged.

Using Breathing Techniques again? Completely impossible.

And worse, the Mark he had awakened… the Soul Burning technique he invoked to break his limits—

They had pushed his body far past the point of no return.

According to Tamayo’s diagnosis, Kyūjō wouldn’t live past twenty.

He was sixteen now.

Even walking for too long left him breathless, like his lungs were caving in.

It reminded him of the final days of his old life—when cancer had eaten away his body back on Earth.

Looking down at his fragile form, Kyūjō chuckled bitterly.

“So much for living strong and healthy in this new world…”

Still, he didn’t regret it.

Because he remembered—clear as day—that morning when the sun rose behind him, and his blade severed Kokushibō’s neck.

He had changed something in this world.

And that alone… was enough for him.

He believed it: in the final battle ahead, the Demon Slayer Corps would never again have to face that monster.

— — —

But the truth was far crueler.

After that final strike, Kyūjō had fallen unconscious.

He didn’t know that Kokushibō hadn’t truly died—that his head had been retrieved by Akaza and taken away.

Even Ubuyashiki Kagaya had trouble accepting what happened next.

That’s why he chose to hide the truth from Kyūjō.

Because for a boy who had given everything—who had burned his life away to kill that demon—this truth was simply too cruel to bear.

— — —

Now, Kagaya sat quietly in his office, surrounded by intelligence reports and recent updates.

News from the shadows was spreading.

The one now calling himself the Martial Demon King—Kokushibō—was on the move.

And he wasn’t hiding his presence.

He believed in one thing only: his own strength, and the sword in his hand—the blade known as Kyokokukamusari.

He was now a demon unbound by Muzan’s blood, free from the chains of the former king.

And in his eyes, no one—not even Muzan—was a threat anymore.

The sun was the only thing he feared.

To Kokushibō, Muzan was a coward.

“He had the strength to change the world… yet cowered in the shadows, hiding behind humans.”

“A man like that isn’t fit to lead me.”

(—Kokushibō: “A true man who walks beneath the heavens should never serve beneath another for long.”)

— — —

Meanwhile, the Demon Slayer Corps, which had stood for centuries, had already noticed the change in the demons’ behavior.

Their numbers were growing—quickly.

And now, these demons referred to themselves as Martial Demons.

They no longer followed Muzan.

They followed Kokushibō.

To Kagaya, that could only mean one thing—

After Kyūjō’s blade struck his neck, Kokushibō didn’t die.

He evolved.

He surpassed his limits.

He had become a second Demon King.

And what was worse…

These Martial Demons—though still few in number—were all frighteningly skilled in combat. Every single one of them wielded some form of martial discipline or swordsmanship.

According to the latest reports, not a single one was weaker than a Lower Moon Demon.

Fortunately, they didn’t seem to be actively hunting humans.

At most, they came out once a week to feed.

The rest of the time?

They trained in seclusion.

They polished their techniques.

They followed the path of battle in the darkness.

They were solitary demons—fighters lost in their obsession with strength.

— — —

Kagaya rubbed his temples with both hands.

Every time he thought about it, a sharp ache pierced his mind.

This war… this endless struggle between humans and demons—

It was far too heavy.

Tachibana Kyūjō, the greatest swordsman of his generation, had given everything.

He came within a breath of death itself.

And yet, instead of ending the era of demons…

He had given rise to something even more terrifying.

What a cruel, bitter irony.

Even now…

Kagaya couldn’t bring himself to tell Kyūjō the truth.

— — —

“Two Demon Kings… Two Demon Kings…”

Kagaya whispered the words over and over as he stared blankly ahead.

And then—

something flickered in his eyes.

As if a thread of light had pierced through the dark.

As if… he’d just found a new possibility.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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