Single copy

An antique lamp burned out lonely on the table, illuminating absolutely only crumpled papers and books torn to shreds, with broken glass test tubes. The silence of the room becomes too loud due to the presence of living things in it. This living creature is now sitting on a chair with his legs crossed and his cold gaze fixed on the wall. This living thing turns out to be immeasurably stupid. Akaza is Dead It seems that this is not what he was counting on when he gave the order to stayd. Not for that he was counting. Akaza is dead. It’s disgusting to even mentally realize this. The tense silence is interrupted by a convulsive sigh, and Muzan grinds his teeth to firmly and angrily spit out: —Fool. Only past events float before eyes. He sees. Through his eyes. Saw. Through the eyes of Akaza. An unknown woman next to him. Akaza was kneeling in front of this woman. Akaza hugged this woman. Disappointment makes swallow bitterly and angrily, pressing your fingers into the armrests of the chair until your knuckles turn white. The demon who had served him so faithfully for hundreds of years. A demon who almost never brought him bad news and did not irritate him with his mere existence and presence, but on the contrary. A demon who consistently remained in his position for more than two hundred years, or rather his entire life. A demon whose amber eyes in the dark skies, bestowed by the kanji of the third moon, beautified, not deformed. A demon who deeply respects his creator is not out of fear of him. A demon who was and remains among his favorites. Akaza. He is snarling, angry and desperate, ready to rip the throats of all living things. But now, when the scarlet veil before my eyes is slightly blurred; when you manage to put rage back on at least some frayed leash; When the world around him focuses - he also sees something else. There, behind all his anger and madness, Muzan feels sorry. For the first time in his life, he regrets something. That crushing, incomprehensible feeling of guilt, which is hidden far in the depths of a rotten soul, hidden behind rage and growling. The veins are cut by this disgusting feeling. “I don’t care,” he convinces himself and doesn’t fall for his convictions, but buries his claws in his own hair and pulls, trying to muffle this oppressive feeling. In addition to guilt, rotten hearts give the brain a sign that there is some other feeling besides regret. But he doesn’t want to indulge in his thoughts anymore. All existing pillars are dead. Proof of this is the two bloody bodies at his feet, torn as if by a wild animal. A beast whose name is Kibutsuji Muzan. Because these two nonentities deserved it to be killed personally by him. The only thing that reminded them of their personality were barely intact earrings and a haori sewn in two patterns, stained with blood. The fighters are finished. Absolutely everyone and everyone. The Ubuyashiki family is dead. He pulled out this weed with his own hand, with roots. Now it would be worth strength into finding the girl. Although this is unlikely to become a real problem now. Now Muzan has almost won, soon the sun will not become an obstacle for him. And he should be in a good are in the mood that all your goals have almost been achieved? Should he be glad to have eternal life without limits? Should he say something to the demons kneeling in front of him, near the cooling bodies of the fighters? But all Muzan can do is open and close his mouth without emotion, thinking about the one about whom thoughts should sink into oblivion. Disappear. Abyss. Dissolves in the air. And yet, no one will respectfully listen to his comments and absorb them into themselves, take note of them, and not ignore them and roll their eyes as if it were commonplace, after a failed mission. No one will... Those two top ranks are the remnants of the Twelve Moons. They are nobody. They did everything that was required of them. They are of no use now; he doesn’t need them. Now the meeting of the moons is not accompanied by any lectures about the hierarchy, the first young one, or poisonous and deceitful spitting of idle talk from the second; neither bloodshed nor a stubborn, gloomy look from... third. And now there is nothing in the thoughts of those two, empty glances are directed at the floor. Empty glances are followed by silence. The silence that only the ancestor dares to break. —I...dissolve the higher moons. Your goal is and will remain to find the demon who defeated the sun. Go. The demons mentally shudder at such naked uncertainty of their king. Never before had his voice sounded with such gentleness. For some reason, now his usual irritation is muted by a degree or two. The fact that their ruler turns out to be not angry is obvious, but not for a few. They just know their king long enough and well enough to recognize it by how tense the space around them is, how how tightly his eyebrows are furrowed and how tightly his teeth are clenched. Thinking about inappropriate things in his presence, trying to find out the reason for such unusual behavior, is like signing your own death warrant. In the bright eyes of his subordinates there are no longer beautifully carved, rich black kanji. Now they are just ordinary black pupils. And the ink flowing down the cheeks is instantly absorbed into the skin. And in my head In the bright eyes of his subordinates there are no longer beautifully carved, rich black kanji. Now they are just ordinary black pupils. And the ink flowing down the cheeks is instantly absorbed into the skin. And in the head like a river flows a thought: What would Akaza's eyes look like without the kanji? And this thought flows out of my head under a strong pressure of water. Something is forcibly pushing her out of there. Muzan forcibly pushes her out of there. This time the blow of the biwa does not reverberate in the ears with the familiar ringing sound. But it gives him the opportunity to relax when two, no, three demons leave his chambers, including Nakime. He had completely forgotten about her. now a cold gaze, without a hint of the same type of irritation, is directed at the place where three demons had just bowed. Into the empty doorway of Fusuma. The imagination pictures in the head someone who will never be here again. He has to close his eyes for a second, clench his jaw tighter. He glances around the perimeter of the familiar room, superficially examining it for the hundredth, if not thousandth, time and sighs. Everything is pretty impersonal. Emptyed. Bare fusuma with patterns from the best artists of Kyoto, perfectly clean tatami, shoji wide open, beyond the threshold there is only the continuous darkness of the night and the dim light of the full moon.Bare fusuma with patterns from the best artists of Kyoto, perfectly clean tatami, shoji wide open, beyond the threshold there is only the continuous darkness of the night and the dim light of the full moon. The sickeningly perfect room could use one more detail... crap. Having filled his head with millions of thoughts today, another thought comes, small, microscopic, and out of-nothing-to-do, he decides to answer himself. He disbanded the higher moons because otherwise, he would have had to assemble a new composition, including all six. He will not be able to appoint another demon in his place. No. Do not assign. Muzan cannot imagine anyone else in his place. No one will replace him. No one will be. Akaza is the only one in of its own kind. The only copy that Muzan received from a greedy life. Was he so attached with his devotion? Unlikely. And yet the throat becomes drier and the ribs still tighten painfully. And still, for a second - just for a second, but before his eyes, the event that became the fatal beginning pops up. When a man appeared before him in the form of a demon. A man with the power of a demon. A man who abandoned humanity and the past, but ultimately fell because of it. The man who rushed into battle with the progenitor of demons, on his bare hands. He rushed when dozens of fighters were afraid. The composure on his face, Muzan grabbed it like the greatest painting, sealed it in his memory. He compared the blueness of his eyes to dozens of beautiful lakes and night skies during starfalls. A man who killed six dozen of the same people. A man whom he mistook for a demon. A man who impressed him and sat deep in his rotten soul. Daemon. One of the few to which he himself gave a name. Akaza. Overseas. Unusual. But so appropriate. St Once you plunged into the sea of ​​memories, you couldn’t come out dry. Something started to ache in the chest area again. It shouldn't be this way. Nothing can hurt a demon. From the king, the progenitor, their creator. Muzan must not mention or remember again. Should not. Crap. And this image is in my head again. And Muzan no longer tries to drive these thoughts away. Muzan just watches. Sl He watches how a familiar figure with predatory grace dodges blows and strikes back. He watches how his forearms tense as his fists hit the air, reverberating as a shock wave on his opponent. He watches the muscles roll under the white marble skin, bending the smooth lines of the tattoos in waves. He sees how the moonlight generously illuminates most of the battlefield, so amazingly it plays with the pink strands, coloring them in a cooler shade. If he had known himself a little worse, he would have thought that he had fallen in love with this demon. For some reason, the last thought gives off a bitterness that burns the root of the tongue. How did it come to this? And I can’t get rid of this image in my head, no matter how hard I try. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t uproot it, and you won’t be able to switch to something faceless and more suitable for searching that demoness for example, but.. not a damn thing. Because before the scarlet eyes, closed eyelids, there is again and again white marble, the bottomless depth of the eyes, the bright sun in their very center and tousled hair like a dahlia, which just needs to be undone. But this is something new. And he’s stuck with these depressing thoughts in this damn chair and he can’t control the apolypse in his head. Because Akaza is at the center of this apocalypse. Like its beginning. Like its reason. Like its final chord. WITH Kibutsuji clenches his teeth and closes his eyes to gray spots in the darkness. To an image perfected in detail. Skin marble. The sun drowned in the blue abyss. Hair swirl. And it cannot be limited to this image. Because thoughts are carried away furiously further. A little imagination draws an alternative ending. Another scenario. Where. Akaza. Not dead. And Muzan hates himself for these thoughts. An arrogant creature. A narcissistic creature. And he hates himself. What has this demon brought him to? Muzan wants to curse, but something stuck in his throat prevents him. Perhaps there is some wine stuck there. It’s stuck like a huge boulder, and you won’t be able to push it through in an endless lifetime. —Nakime,– he says quietly, and his voice alone is enough for the servant to hear and understand. This place, however, is no different from the rest of the fortress. Because there is no blood here. Because there are no traces of a past large-scale battle or even superficial hints of it. But Muzan knows, Muzan sees. Because he will not confuse this pink fabric with anything else, neither these hakama fabrics with a tightly tied belt rope, nor these beads intended for prayers. The nauseating sensation in the chest becomes more distinct. Muzan doesn’t have time to catch the moment when his knees grow into the floor, and the fabrics of other people’s clothes end up in his hands. There is a persistent pulsation in the back of his head, a burning sensation in his eyes - Muzan does not immediately notice this, and therefore does not immediately understand what the problem is. He raises his hand. He runs his fingers over his eyes and scratches. What is the problem? How many demons have died in his lifetime? And every time he didn’t care vertically or horizontally. So what the hell is going on now? Something breaks. And again, it’s impossible to catch the moment when the hands themselves press the tissues to their own chest with a force clearly aimed at breaking the ribs. He must bury all the memories Feelings about him, bury them so deep where they never would not see daylight. —What does one demon cost him? —Nothing. —And what did one single copy cost him, to which all seven hearts remained partial?