Too much, and yet not enough, time has passed, and the servant has yet to return to the master.

Unwelcome attention is given, and an ancient collar is tightened and strained.

A mind clouded is slowly exposed, but the warmth it finds outside is frightening.

The cogs of Fate creak and shift as a Demon screams in defiance.

And the Spirits that watch from afar have had enough, and move to intervene.

Paths cross and history may yet repeat, or it may branch.

But which way will the fire turn?

Muzan was not happy. He never truly was, but at this point in time, he was incensed. He had sent Waxing Moon One, Kokushibou. His strongest and probably most loyal servant out on a mission. It was a simple one, something not even the fake Waxing Moon Six could have messed up. So why hadn't he returned? It had almost been a week already. He should have returned the same night, the same hour even, it was so simple of a mission. He had only given Kokushibou so much extra time as he had never failed him before, and perhaps he had finally encountered someone interesting enough for him to actually turn. He knew that Kokushibou sometimes followed Muzan like the loyal dog he is, to judge the newly turned Demons and their worthiness of his Master's, no his God's, blood. Muzan could feel Kokushibou's mind through the link they shared, a distant, cool presence that grew stronger and faded away like the phases of the moon.

So he turned more of his attention towards that single strand with the intention of painfully tearing an answer from Kokushibou's mind as punishment for making him wait, and halted in his tracks. He was blocked by an all too familiar heat, one that made his hidden scars sear in remembered pain.

But that was impossible, HE was dead. He had seen it through Kokushibou's memories, of how he had cut the body of that MONSTER into pieces, with no small amount of twisted glee. He never should have felt this kind of heat again with HIS death. Not after he went through so much trouble of killing all those who wielded black blades whenever they popped up.

But he did.

It was back.

And it seemed to have infected his strongest servant. His many brains did nothing but enhance his panic with their added processing power. And his multitude of hearts only made his fear worse with how hard and rapidly they were beating out of sync.

He needed to have Kokushibou back in his grasp. He needed to run from that burning heat. He needed–

He needed to–

Uncaring of how the swine around him were crowding in hushed whispers at his shaking form, Muzan screamed.

He screamed, released his disgusting human disguise, and leveled the town.

Michikatsu was growing nervous. It had been a week since that fateful night, and he had yet to report to Kibutsuji. He knew that the longer he waited, the worse it would get. But what else could he do? If he returned, his memories would be picked through with a fine-toothed, jagged comb and his actions would be brought to light. Through the dancing, protective heat of the Kami, he could still feel the cold string that held him to Muzan-sama's whims like a beaten dog.

There was no escape for him. Kokushibou knew that. And yet he had gone and done something so massively stupid and detrimental to his own safety, as not simply leave the Kamado's as soon as he had broken the curse that the man, Yoriichi Tanjuro, had been inflicted with. Kokushibou quietly stewed in frustration at his actions. Despite the punishment he knew he would receive, if he was put back to six nights ago, he would do the same thing all over again. Making a decision, Michikatsu sighed in resignation at what was to come.

"Kie-san… Tanjuro-san. I… have… something I… need to… do."

Tanjuro stood just outside the door, staring after Michikatsu who had long since vanished from both presence and sight.

"Do you think he will be alright?" Kie softly asked. His eyes shone in the low light of late dusk as he turned to face his wife. She was composed, but her hands were wringing themselves together, showing her nervousness. He did not say anything for a long moment, thinking back to Sumiyoshi's recording of Yoriichi's life, before he took her hands into his.

"The Demon King is not a forgiving or understanding being." She looked up at him, brows furrowing in confusion. "He is a cruel, unforgiving creature that hates all life." He looked back towards the tree-line where the Tsugikuni had disappeared. Tanjuro could distantly feel a tether to the one who had turned him, and it was shaking with fear.

"And he has disobeyed a direct order. All we can do is pray that he will come back alive." Kie's entire body crumpled in worry as comprehension dawned. He took her into his arms and neither of them said anything as tears ran down both of their faces.

'Hinokami-sama, Sumiyoshi, Suyako. Please, please protect him. We owe him much. Yoriichi-san deserves to be able to be reunited with his Brother once he passes on.' Unknown to Tanjuro, something else heard his prayer.

The shadows darkened as white teeth flashed, this may prove to be a difficult request, and they so loved a challenge.

Michikatsu suppressed a shudder as he ran a fair distance from Mount Kumotori. Despite needing to get away for this to have any hope of working, part of him screamed at leaving the family behind. They were his and he needed to be there so he could protect them. But to protect them, he needed to buy himself time. Time that would not be given easily or painlessly. Arriving at a bandit camp that was holding out in a now ruined shrine, he felt guilt rise up and threaten to choke him. 'Please. Let this work.' he silently begged even as he closed his heart, opened six red-yellow eyes, and drew his blade.

Screams of terror echoed through the desecrated shrine as blood flew through the night air in a dance of death and destruction. Kokushibou rose above the massacre like a specter of doom, bloodstained fangs glinting in the waxing crescent moonlight, and laughed. There were two more similar camps to be targeted tonight, and it would not do to keep his Master waiting.

"Nakime." A monotone voice stated. There was the strum of a Biwa, and a tall, imposing figure appeared.

"You have kept the Master waiting, Waxing Moon One." a soft and hollow voice spoke. The figure said nothing, merely stared ahead, expression shrouded by his hair. The Biwa player did not need to see the face of the Demon that had looked out for her in his own, distant way to tell that something was troubling him. She knew what was coming for Kokushibou, that leveled town was only the first victim of their Master's rage.

"The Master is waiting."

Silence met her as the only Demon that showed her respect vanished. Her head softly dipped down as she recalled how a week ago, she had felt the beginnings of a pull on her Blood Demon Art before it had vanished like smoke on the wind. Idly, she began to play her Biwa.

If the tune was mournful and made the lights around her darken, well, no one was there to see it.

He blinked slowly as awareness both came gradually and abruptly at the same time. 'Where…?' He didn't know how he had gotten here, but he also did. Part of him noticed that there were voices close to him. Ones that rang familiar and safe. 'I am… home?' He grimaced and brought up a hand to soothe his aching head. Something solid, but slightly giving hit him instead, making the aching turn into a constant pounding. The voices around him paused. Squinting from pain and confusion he looked at the offending object. 'What…?' He was fairly certain it was his arm, but it was wrapped in cloth and reinforced with bamboo strips. Only the impression of blood in his mouth and a searing pain in his arm offered any explanation.

He tried to remember more, but it made the pain in his head worse, and he curled in on himself with a quiet whimper. His memories were fuzzy and mixed, he could not get them in any sort of order, and that scared him. He did not know what had happened exactly, it was all too jumbled. He could only parse that he had… followed someone important to him? That… that someone had been hurt… and had told him to run.

All at once, flashes of more memories came rushing back like water through a broken dam.

A boiling heat that threatened to burn his skin.

Angry and worried voices yelling.

Dull yellow-red eyes turning to shining red-black.

Screaming, his own or someone else's he didn't know.

Protection and safety offered and then accepted. A comforting, swirling warmth that brought green with it.

Fighting, flashes of pain and impressions of despair.

It was too much and too little all at once. He wanted to remember, but it hurt. He could feel his awareness slipping away like snow in his hands. Able to hold on for a while, but the harder he clung, the faster it dripped away.

Little flame. His eyes shot open and his head whipped around in alarm. Shocked exclamations surrounded him. There was a feeling of worry that wasn't his own, but was so intrinsically linked he did not know where else it could come from.

Calm little flame. Safe. He wanted to believe it, Kami knows he does, but it was too foreign for all he had known it his entire life.

His Breathing was an unnatural, but achingly familiar pattern. Deep and rapid and quick. It made him stronger for all it made the warmth and feeling of worry increase.

A pair of hands went for his shoulders, but he flinched and there was a cracking sound as something splintered.

Little flame, calm. Home safe. He was spiraling. He knew he was. But his panic at the voice that seemed to come from his soul did not let him calm down. "Tanjiro, breathe!"

"Onii-chan! Calm down!"

"Tan-nii!"

"Nii-san!"

Distantly, he heard shrieking. A dual-toned sound that should never come from a human. Fingers dug into his scalp and pulled against his hair. He tried to call out, tell it to go away, to stop hurting him. But the words tangled on his tongue and came out in an intelligible cacophony of dual-tones.

'Is that… me?' Strong, but gentle hands grabbed his exposed forearms, and his head shot up. Cracking against something solid and pointed.

The room stilled.

Eyes moved up in reflex to apologize and he stilled in confusion. He saw concerned and ferally kind, bright red eyes with cat-like pupils, mirrored by translucent, sad dark red eyes with round ones. Glowing red trembled and shook as they darted between the two, tears beaded in his eyes and dripped down his face.

Hiccupping he cried, "What happened to me?" Next thing he knew, he was being held tightly in a warm, comforting embrace. Low murmurs of words reached him, but nothing made sense as he desperately clung to the warmth. Despite fighting it, he found himself slipping back into that distant, imposing place.

No longer alone, for translucent eyes followed.

If he were a lesser Demon, Kokushibou would undoubtedly be dead a thousand times over by now. He knew that Muzan-sama would be… displeased with his delay to report back, but he had underestimated exactly how much. Half-remembered discipline from his time as a disgusting human child with a monster for a Father did nothing to keep his screams at bay. No, that honor went to Muzan-sama's claws in his throat. He did not fight back, he physically could not. His body was meticulously being torn apart ever so slightly faster than he could heal. He did not know how much time had passed. Every cell in his body, both his own and his Master's, was crying in pain as he was slowly rendered from the inside out.

His bones splintered and cracked, slicing through muscle before hitting the cool, open air of the estate his Master was currently residing in. His organs ruptured and pooled inside him before leaking out through the holes his shattered bones made. His skin bubbled and tore before sloughing off in bloody sheets onto the ornate wooden floor. Even as his blood boiled and pushed itself out of his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth from the force of his Master's punishment, staining his clothing and causing the nearby carpet to turn a blackish-red where the blood spray hit it, all he could do was kneel there and take it.

"Kokushibou," his Master called, voice even and calm, as if this was a simple business talk. Kokushibou weakly forced all six of his eyes open, vision blood-tinted and blurred, and met the glowing, pink-red veined eyes looking at the kneeling Demon of the Moon with barely concealed displeasure. "What have you to say?"

The Moon Demon could not speak, there wasn't enough of his body left intact to. The shadows darkened as he brought the memories of that night a week ago to the forefront of his mind, and let his Master see.

He was standing on top of a building in the outskirts of Tokyo, looking down at the barely illuminated streets. Innovation and modernization may be occurring, but it was the rich, affluent, and well-connected that were enjoying those boons so far. This place was not necessarily poor, but it wasn't without its hardships. Not even the loose cloth of his clothing made a sound as he turned towards the darker part of the city and moved down to the streets in a single, fluid movement. One moment the alley was empty, and the next it wasn't. No one noticed the purple-clad swordsman that suddenly appeared. It was just dark enough that they were more focused on getting to their homes, as if it would spare them from the horrors that stalked the night.

Paying no mind to the cattle that hurried this way and that, he walked through the crowd with a single-minded purpose. Find the miracle doctor, authenticate his claims, and either kill him or bring him to his Master. He firmly grabbed one of the passing prey by the shoulder and turned to walk down a side-street. He smelled fresh blood on this one, and its presence reminded him of something better left dead.

The prey was too surprised by the abrupt change in direction to react, and before it could do anything, he slid his hand over its throat and pushed them into a wall with enough force to knock the air from its lungs. False human eyes stared hollowly at terrified brown.

"Where is… the… Miracle Doctor." He rumbled, monotone. The prey couldn't say the answer fast enough, words tripping and knotting themselves over its' tongue. Once the answer was given, he released his grip and they took this opportunity to run, unknowing that blood was dripping down their front and staining their hands. Displaying it as the murderer it was. Horrified screams echoed from the main street, shortly followed by a pair of bangs that split the night. With a passing thought, the blood on his claws was absorbed into his body and he felt his strength increase slightly. 'A murdering Marechi. How… tedious.' He turned back onto the main road a few streets down, ignoring the commotion behind him. A shoulder brushed against his, but he paid it no mind. It was only a drunk member of the cattle going to look at the downed murderer.

It was not a threat.

He arrived at the home of this supposed miracle doctor and was less than impressed. Various herbs and plants were present, but none that were uncommon or hard to procure. The less said about the 'Miracle Doctor' himself the better. He did not need to see how the swine's blood moved to tell that it was lying. When he had pushed past the pathetic thing towards the back, its yells and demands to leave fell upon deaf ears as he tore through the pathetic excuse of a study. When he happened upon the journal, the demands turned into shrieks and it tried to stab him. Carelessly moving one arm, he sent the irritating gnat into a wall and briefly perused the journal. As he had thought, it was all a lie. Not bothering to hide his inhuman visage anymore, he turned his six-eyed gaze to the swindler.

"You… are a fraud." he stated as he loomed over the prey as the rightful predator he was.

Smoke rose lazily upwards in the night air, even as blood steadily dripped down to the muddy earth. He didn't look back, the pained screams and roaring fire painted enough of a picture as he walked by a worn Tori-gate and into the woodline, paying no mind to the lingering heat or the dancing shadows of the burning home moving across his skin. He came across the Slayers by happenstance, a moderately sized gathering huddled in the large clearing. Arguing voices cut off with a screaming silence when a frozen stone cracked in two as he tread upon it.

They drew their blades and between one Breath and the next, half of them were cut down. The remaining half screamed, in fear, in fury, in grief. It did not matter as they charged as well, and were promptly cut down. The last one to fall had an odd object around their neck, he did not pay much mind to it other than note it looked like some kind of prayer bead. As he straightened from the slaughter and opened his mouth to call for the Biwa, the heated shadows that lingered seared, and his vision turned black.

The next memories were fragmented, more brief glimpses and vague impressions than anything clear. There was a flash of light. The rasp of steel through bone. Human blood sat thickly on his tongue.

The heat was burning him.

His blood was writhing under his control.

A desperation for something so very cherished being swallowed by shadows.

A barely clear image of a broken shrine filled with bandits was swiftly replaced by bloodied snow and bodies torn asunder. Shouts and screams of pain and horror echoed through the dark haze. Clearing only once a suffocating silence fell to reveal shadow-twisted and torn bodies flung carelessly about at the feet of a statue all too familiar.

Glowing pink-red eyes subtly widened in surprise before they returned to their normal apathetic, but calculating stare. It seemed his strongest servant had somehow run afoul of a Kami worshiper and was summarily possessed by their patron. The shadows twisted as he thought of the desecrated shrine to that cursed being. He opened his hand, letting the barely conscious body to fall gracelessly to the floor, before releasing his control over his servant's body. Slowly, the Demon stitched himself back together. As soon as he could move, his oldest servant painfully hauled himself back into seiza, head facing the floor and awaited his Master's orders. Muzan couldn't help the brief flash of pleasure at seeing one so strong bowing to his whim. Thinking over what he had seen he spoke in a faux applauding voice.

"You followed orders, and efficiently at that." Here, his voice smoothly transitioned to a disappointed hiss, gushing with venom and thinly veiled disgust as the surrounding shadows darkened. "However, you failed to report. For this transgression, until you have hunted down every last follower of that Kami, you will no longer be seen by any other Demon."

Despite splintered bones sticking out of patchwork skin, the Moon Demon made a perfect bow and croaked through a ruined throat, "As… you… command… Muzan-sama."

"Now leave my sight." As always, there was no sound as his servant vanished from his senses. All but one. Muzan turned a fraction of his attention to the string that bound Kokushibou to him. Picturing it from where it was wound around the Demon's neck like a collar and running to twine around his hand like an eager dog. Soon, he would show those incorporeal spirits exactly who that Demon belonged to. And his servant would be his and his alone. In the flickering electric light, Kibutsuji Muzan grinned.

Unseen and unheard, the unnatural shadows laughed as it slipped away.

Kokushibou brokenly groaned through a tattered throat as he forced his barely functioning body to move. Muzan-sama had not been gentle with his punishment, he never was, but this would take longer than any punishment he had before to heal from. Keeping his one fully functioning eye on the fading shadows, he navigated his way through the forest. He needed to find shelter before long, it was nearly dawn and he had little idea where he was. He had heard his Master's orders and had bolted as soon as he was given permission to leave. He no longer had access to Nakime's formidable Blood Demon Art as either shelter or transportation. And his lungs were too new still to support his Breathing.

He was stranded, and the sun was going to crest the horizon soon, he could feel it.

Inwardly he despaired, he had bought the time and freedom he needed, but what use was it if he died. His ruined eyes watered. The pain of tears running down his raw and bloodied face made him stagger and fall. Michikatsu painfully moved his more healed hand underneath himself, planting it into the snow, and tried to use it to push himself to his feet. The bleeding muscle of his front only made it a few centimeters off of the ground before his trembling arm crumpled with a sickening snap, and he once more fell to the snowy ground.

He strained his muscles, desperately trying to leverage himself to his feet. But his battered and broken body refused to bow to his will. All he succeeded in doing was turning himself over and facing the rapidly lightening sky that spelled his death. For so long he had pursued the one regret his Brother had that could be amended. Long enough that he no longer cared what happened to himself along the way. His eyes slipped shut, he did not deserve to see the light of Dawn one last time. Overhead, he thought he heard an owl cry, followed by the jingling of bells as a fox yipped.

'How… odd.'

Daybreak had come a few hours ago, and only now did the herbalist let him leave. "I know why you are here, and I also know that I can't stop you. But know this." She had grabbed his left arm with a hand accustomed to the finesse of healing, and not the brutal strength of battle.

"If you hurt anyone on this mountain, any one at all." Here she tightened her grip so that her nails left red crescents in his arm. "I may be a mere herbalist, but I am also a Doctor. And my patients' health and safety will always be my priority."

Just the thought of the ridiculous notion that such a small woman would be able to take them, a Hashira, down made them want to laugh with how narrow-minded it was. But for some reason, they were unsure why, perhaps it was the instinctive terror from the night before, they felt that the woman was entirely prepared and able to follow through on the implied threat. They shook their body once to remove the phantom feeling of poison coursing through their veins. Keeping a brisk, but casual pace they headed towards the mountain. Something about how the entire village had tried to steer them away from the family there rubbed them the wrong way. It was obvious that they were hiding something. The question was, what was it, and why were they so desperate to protect it?

One way or another, they would find out.

"Why is it always me that gets the chores when the others cannot do something." A grumpy voice huffed as wood clanked and clattered as it was stacked. "I mean," there was a loud crack as a piece of firewood was put down harshly. "I get Tanjiro-nii and Tou-san. Kaa-san as well." Snow crunched underfoot as boot-clad feet stomped towards a bucket. "But the rest? The wood isn't that heavy, they could move a few pieces."

He huffed and carelessly swung his arm as he grabbed the bucket and headed down the worn trail towards the frozen stream, complaining all the way without any real meaning behind it. When he got there, the little dock they used was covered in snow and ice.

Too slick to use safely.

He swung his Father's hatchet at it in frustration, wincing when the abused wooden handle visibly cracked as it impacted the icy wood. Takeo took a deep, slow Breath. Recentering himself and pulling back his strength, before he carefully walked around the side of the dock to fill the water bucket. As he opened his mouth to complain again, a flash of color caught his attention. He wheeled around and threw the half-full bucket at it as he brought the hatchet up in the start of one of Hinokami's dances.

There was the singing rasp of steel and the hollow clatter of wood being sliced, followed by an angry growl as icy water hit the offender. Pausing, Takeo took in the stranger. He was about his Tou-san's height, and he was dressed in some kind of black uniform that had gold buttons not properly fastened, partially covered by a white haori that ended in vibrant flames. Messy, red-tipped, dark yellow hair framed similar-colored eyes that were set into a scowl as water dripped down the face and forked eyebrows. Takeo remembered Haruto's warning as his focus caught on the red and black, naked blade that glinted in the cold winter sun. He thought of his Father, who had woken up two days ago newly turned into a Demon and still adjusting. His Mother's easygoing and accepting countenance that was starting to buckle and crack under the rapid changes around them this past week. And Tanjiro, his older Brother who had briefly snapped out of whatever instinct-driven daze he was in. Who had proceeded to panic at something unseen, and then cried in their Father's arms before slipping away again. To a place not even Nezuko could reach him from, the day before. Sending a brief prayer to Hinokami as he twisted the woven bracelet his elder siblings had made on his wrist, Takeo called out, voice solid and unwavering, daring this stranger to give him a reason to Dance.

"Who are you?"

Those dark yellow-edged red eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened as he started to answer. First in surprise, then in anger that quickly turned to blind fury as his mouth closed with an audible click of teeth. The stranger's face contorted, and his mouth opened again to yell as his blade caught the late morning light, but was cut off by an explosion of snow and sputtering liquid flame as Takeo lunged.

Rengoku Shinjuro's vision was obscured as his surroundings turned a billowing white. He had been right about the village hiding something, but he had not expected the secret to be this. His body slowly turned in place, trying to keep track of the young boy hiding in the cloud of snow. He may be old, older than any currently active Hashira, but his senses were sharp as ever. He had known the second he had started up the well-worn mountain path that a strong Demon had been there recently. He had expected to run into a massacre when he reached the house. He had expected many things, but he had not expected to find a boy, barely more than a child, who reeked of Demon and reminded him of his lost one.

A flash of a darker shape appeared in the corner of his eye and he whirled around, blindly parrying a hatchet that somehow gave off the heat of a forge as the child used his momentum to flip over Shinjuro's head. Almost sending him to the ground with the force behind the maneuver. Stumbling to recover from the blow, he lost track of the boy in the thick snow filled with dancing lights and shadows.

'How is this possible?' he thought to himself. While the boy had the presence of a Demon around him, he himself was not one. Though Shinjuro could not help but feel that there was something… more to the child. The unnatural strength behind the strike he had parried made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. But when the child had spoken, demanding what Shinjuro was there for, where he normally would have kept his silence, he had found his mouth opening against his will to answer. His shock at his unwilling action had turned to rage as he processed what was happening. And when his rage overcame the impulse, he had brandished his blade in a silent threat, and prepared to demand who the child was and what he had done before he was cut off when the black-haired child lunged. Flinging snow into the air as a screen when he charged.

Again, a shadow appeared and this time he slashed, scoring a scratch on the child's shoulder. His stomach roiled in guilt and self-hatred at the boy's pained cry. 'Is this mission truly worth this?' He did not get to think much further as he was put on the backfoot by several quick blows executed with such force that his blade vibrated in his grasp as he fell to one knee. He felt a disturbance in the air behind him, and knew he would be too slow to completely avoid the blow. 'How worthless am I, that a mere child beat me.'

He turned regardless, attempting to meet the child's eyes before the blow hit, and his breath faltered, stuttered and froze. A translucent figure in an ice blue kimono edged with dark blue flowers hovered next to the boy.

"R-ruka?" The child stopped the hatchet only a hair's breadth away from hitting him, dark red-purple eyes filled with disdain. A head of black hair glinted red in the early afternoon light as the boy tilted his head. Eyes narrowed as a quiet curiosity entered them. The ghost of his wife moved in front of the child, protecting him from Shinjuro. The flame-haired man's grip on his weapon loosened.

"Who is Ruka?" This time, he could not stop himself from answering.

"My late wife." His wife's hand gently touched the hand holding the hatchet as he answered in a croak, causing the boy to flinch and crush the cracked wooden handle. Narrowed eyes flew open in surprise and locked onto the translucent figure. She said nothing, only smiled sorrowfully and reached out to cradle Shinjuro's face before fading away. Taking a deep, shaking breath that sounded eerily familiar somehow, the dark-haired boy stared assessingly at Shinjuro for a long moment before sharply nodding his head.

"Follow me, but do not think for even a second to cause harm to my family." Too shocked to do anything else, Shinjuro's body moved at the boy's command, sheathing his blade and tying the tsuba to the scabbard, ensuring that the blade could not be drawn. The boy gained a contemplative look at his actions, and opened his mouth to speak once more, "My name is Takeo. What is yours?"

Dazedly he answered, "Rengoku Shinjuro, Flame Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps."

He did not notice Takeo stiffen, too lost at the shock of seeing his late wife. "Well then, Rengoku-san." the boy drawled, "It seems that you have a story to tell."