Warmth.
That was the first thing Muzan noticed. His body felt warm for the first time in years. Not the flickering heat that sometimes gathered in his chest before fading, but real warmth that spread through his limbs and settled into his bones.
He opened his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through a window, casting golden rectangles across a wooden floor. The ceiling above him was smooth and clean, not the cracked surface he'd memorized in his hut. The air smelled like fresh tatami mats and cherry blossoms instead of mold and decay.
Muzan sat up.
The movement was effortless. His arms didn't shake. His muscles responded immediately to his commands. He looked down at his hands and found them steady, the skin healthy instead of the translucent grey he'd grown accustomed to.
His heart beat in his chest with a strong, regular rhythm. No stuttering. No sudden stops. Just a steady thump that felt foreign after twenty years of irregular failure.
This wasn't right.
The door slid open. A woman entered carrying a tray with tea and rice. She had long black hair and a face Muzan recognized only from the single portrait his father had kept. His mother had died giving birth to him. He'd never seen her move or smile or speak.
But here she was, setting the tray down beside his bed and looking at him with concern.
"You slept late today," she said. "Are you feeling all right?"
Muzan stared at her. His throat felt tight. He tried to speak but no words came out.
She reached over and placed a hand on his forehead. Her touch was cool and soft. "No fever. That's good. You've been pushing yourself too hard with your training lately."
Training. Muzan looked down at his arms again and saw lean muscle instead of wasted bone. His hands had calluses on the palms and fingers, the kind that came from gripping a sword for hours each day.
"I'm fine," he heard himself say. The words came automatically, spoken by a part of him that seemed to know how to navigate this situation.
His mother smiled. "Good. Eat your breakfast and get dressed. Your teacher will be here soon."
She stood and left the room, sliding the door closed behind her.
Muzan sat in silence, trying to understand what was happening. The last thing he remembered was the root crushing his chest. The pain. The darkness closing in. He should be dead.
Instead he was here, in a body that worked, with a mother who shouldn't exist.
He looked around the room and found it filled with things that suggested a life he'd never lived. A rack holding practice swords. Scrolls stacked neatly on a low table. Clothes folded in a chest. Everything was clean and well-maintained, the possessions of someone who had purpose and routine.
The tea on the tray was still steaming. Muzan picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. The taste was sharp and earthy, real enough that he could detect the subtle bitterness beneath the sweetness.
He set the cup down and stood. His legs held his weight without trembling. He took a few experimental steps and felt the smooth flex of muscles that actually worked. No pain in his joints. No numbness in his feet.
This had to be a dream. Or perhaps he'd finally died and this was whatever came after. Some kind afterlife tailored to show him what his life could have been if he'd been born healthy.
But it felt real in a way dreams usually didn't. The texture of the tatami under his feet. The slight breeze coming through the window. The distant sound of someone chopping vegetables in another part of the house.
Muzan walked to the window and looked out. A garden stretched beyond, carefully maintained with stone paths winding between flowering bushes. Beyond the garden he could see other buildings that suggested a large estate. Nothing like the small hut he'd lived in for the past year.
A figure was walking up one of the paths. Tall, with long black hair tied back. Even at this distance, Muzan could see the man moved with the careful control of someone trained in combat.
The man reached the house and disappeared from view. Moments later, Muzan heard voices from the main hall. His mother greeting someone. A deeper voice responding.
Footsteps approached his room. The door slid open.
The man who entered was perhaps thirty years old, with a stern face and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He looked at Muzan and nodded once.
"You're awake. Good. We have work to do."
Muzan found himself responding without thinking. "Yes, sensei."
The word felt natural on his tongue, like he'd said it a thousand times before. Part of him knew this man's name was Michikatsu, knew that he'd been studying under him for years, knew the routines and expectations of their training.
But another part of him, the part that remembered dying in the dark, knew none of this could be real.
"Get dressed," Michikatsu said. "Meet me in the courtyard in ten minutes."
He left without waiting for a response.
Muzan stood alone in the room again. He looked at the practice clothes folded neatly in the chest, then at his own hands that worked without pain or weakness.
He could refuse to play along. Could demand answers about where he was and how he'd gotten here. But what would that accomplish? If this was some kind of afterlife or final dream before death, fighting it seemed pointless.
And if he was being honest with himself, part of him wanted to see what this life felt like. Just for a little while.
He got dressed and made his way to the courtyard.
---
The training was brutal.
Michikatsu worked him through forms and drills with relentless precision. Strike, block, pivot, strike again. Each movement had to be exact. Every stance had to be held until Muzan's legs burned with the effort.
But his body responded. Muscles that had never existed in his real life flexed and strained and grew stronger. Sweat soaked through his clothes as the sun climbed higher, but he didn't collapse. His heart kept beating steadily, feeding oxygen to limbs that actually worked.
"Your form is sloppy today," Michikatsu said, watching Muzan complete another sequence. "You're distracted."
Muzan lowered the practice sword and tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, sensei."
"Sorry doesn't improve your technique." Michikatsu picked up his own sword. "Again. And this time, focus."
They went through the sequence together. Michikatsu's movements were fluid and precise, each strike flowing naturally into the next. Muzan tried to mirror him and found his body responding better than he'd expected. The muscle memory was there, built over years of practice he'd never actually done.
After another hour, Michikatsu finally called a halt. "Better. But you're still holding back. I don't know why, but I can see it in your strikes."
Because this isn't real, Muzan thought. Because I'm waiting to wake up back in that cave, or to simply stop existing.
But he didn't say that. Instead he bowed and thanked his teacher for the lesson.
Michikatsu studied him for a long moment. "Something is troubling you. If you need to talk about it, I'm here."
The genuine concern in his voice made Muzan's chest tighten. This person wasn't real. None of this was real. But the emotion felt authentic in a way that made it hard to dismiss.
"I'll be fine," Muzan said.
Michikatsu didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Rest for now. We'll continue this afternoon."
---
The days blurred together.
Muzan fell into the rhythms of this life because there was nothing else to do. Morning training with Michikatsu. Afternoon studies with tutors who taught him history and strategy. Evenings with his family, eating meals and discussing the day's events.
His mother was kind and attentive. His father, when he returned from his duties as Daimyo, was proud and encouraging. Genzo was there too, older but still sharp, telling the same stories about Muzan's grandfather that the real Genzo had told.
It should have been perfect. This was everything Muzan had never been able to have. A healthy body. A complete family. A future that extended beyond the next time his heart stopped.
But knowing it wasn't real poisoned everything.
He found himself watching for inconsistencies. Waiting for the dream to crack and reveal the truth underneath. Sometimes he'd catch himself in the middle of a conversation and realize he had no memory of how he'd gotten there. The gaps would fill themselves in retroactively, his mind supplying details that felt like memories but couldn't be.
At night, he'd lie awake and try to remember the hut. The crack in the ceiling. The way Genzo's hands shook when he lifted the bowl of broth. The sound of his own heart stopping and starting.
Those memories felt more real than anything happening around him. But they were also fading, becoming less sharp each time he reached for them.
One evening, his mother found him sitting alone in the garden. She settled down beside him without speaking, just keeping him company in the gathering dark.
"You've been quiet lately," she said eventually. "More than usual."
Muzan didn't know how to respond. What could he say? That she was dead? That this entire life was an illusion his dying mind had created?
"I'm fine," he said.
She reached over and took his hand. Her fingers were warm and solid. "You can tell me anything, you know. That's what mothers are for."
The kindness in her voice broke something inside him. Tears started running down his face before he could stop them. He tried to pull away but she held on, pulling him against her shoulder the way she might have when he was small.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it together," she said softly. "You're not alone."
Muzan cried until he had no tears left. She held him the entire time, not asking questions or demanding explanations. Just being there.
When he finally pulled away, she brushed the tears from his face with gentle fingers. "Better?"
He nodded, even though nothing had actually changed.
"Good." She stood and helped him to his feet. "Come inside. Your father wants to talk to you about something."
---
His father's news was that he'd arranged for Muzan to begin taking on some administrative duties. Nothing major at first, just sitting in on meetings and learning how the territory was managed.
"You're getting older," his father said. "Eventually, you'll need to take over as Daimyo. Better to start preparing now."
Muzan listened and nodded in the right places. Part of him absorbed the information, filing it away like it mattered. But another part kept thinking about Uncle Shinji, who had stolen everything in the real world. About being exiled to a forgotten village to die alone.
None of this would last. This future his father was planning didn't exist.
But he went to the meetings anyway. Sat through discussions about tax collection and trade agreements. Met with merchants and petty nobles. Played the part of an heir learning his responsibilities.
The months passed. Muzan's body grew stronger from constant training. His understanding of politics and administration deepened. He became exactly what his father hoped he'd be.
And every night, he'd lie in bed and wonder when this would end.
---
It happened on a morning like any other.
Muzan was in the courtyard, working through sword forms by himself. The movements had become automatic, requiring no conscious thought. Strike, pivot, block, strike again. His body knew what to do.
He completed a sequence and stopped to rest. The sun was warm on his face. Birds were singing in the nearby trees. Everything was peaceful and perfect.
And wrong.
Muzan looked down at his hands on the practice sword. They were steady and strong, showing no signs of the weakness that had defined his real life.
He thought about Genzo dying in his place. About the blood soaking into the bed. About his heart stopping as the intruder's scythe cut his throat.
Those things had happened. He knew they had. But they felt distant now, like stories someone had told him years ago instead of his own memories.
This life was replacing them. Overwriting the truth with something better but false.
Muzan dropped the practice sword. The wooden blade hit the ground with a dull thud.
He closed his eyes and tried to hold onto the memories that mattered. The crack in the ceiling. Genzo's wrinkled hands. The metallic taste of fear when the screaming started outside the hut.
Real things. Things that had actually happened.
When he opened his eyes again, his mother was standing at the edge of the courtyard. She looked concerned.
"Muzan? What's wrong?"
He stared at her. She'd never existed. His real mother had died the day he was born, bleeding out before she could even hold him. Everything he knew about her came from the single portrait his father had kept.
This woman was an illusion. A fantasy his mind had created.
But she looked so real. The concern on her face was genuine. She cared about him because that's what mothers did.
"Nothing," he said. "I'm fine."
She didn't believe him, but she nodded. "Come inside when you're ready. Breakfast is waiting."
She left.
Muzan stood alone in the courtyard. The sun continued to shine. The birds kept singing. Everything remained peaceful and perfect and wrong.
He picked up the practice sword and went back to training. The movements were automatic. His body knew what to do even while his mind was elsewhere.
That night, he dreamed about the cave. About roots crushing his chest. About darkness and pain and the certainty of death.
He woke gasping, his heart pounding. The room was dark and quiet. Moonlight filtered through the window.
Muzan sat up and looked around. Everything was in its proper place. His practice swords on the rack. His scrolls on the table. His clothes folded neatly.
All the pieces of a life that had never happened.
He got out of bed and walked to the window. The garden was silver in the moonlight, beautiful and serene.
Real enough that he could almost believe it.
But he couldn't let himself believe. Because if he accepted this as real, he'd lose whatever remained of his actual self. The sick, dying boy who'd spent twenty years waiting for his heart to stop for the last time.
That person deserved to be remembered, even if no one else would do it.
Muzan pressed his hand against the window frame. The wood was solid under his palm. He could feel the grain of it, the slight imperfections in the surface.
It felt real.
But so had Genzo's hand when the old man had fed him that last bowl of broth.
Muzan closed his eyes and made himself remember. The numbness in his tongue. The way swallowing had been difficult. The warmth of the broth going down even though he couldn't taste it.
Small, specific details that couldn't be faked.
When he opened his eyes again, the room looked slightly different. The edges were softer, like he was seeing everything through water.
He blinked and the effect disappeared. Everything was solid again.
But he'd seen it. The crack in the illusion.
Muzan went back to bed but didn't sleep. He spent the rest of the night holding onto his real memories, going over each one carefully. Genzo's face. His father's exhausted determination. Uncle Shinji's false sympathy.
The truth, no matter how painful, was better than this beautiful lie.
---
Morning came. His mother brought breakfast. Michikatsu arrived for training. The day unfolded exactly as expected.
But Muzan was watching now. Looking for the seams.
He found them in small moments. The way conversations sometimes looped back on themselves. How certain phrases were repeated with the exact same inflection. The way his father's expression never changed when Muzan said something unexpected.
They were reacting to him, but only within certain boundaries. Like actors following a script with room for improvisation but no ability to truly deviate from the core narrative.
During training, Muzan deliberately broke form. Instead of completing a strike properly, he threw the practice sword at Michikatsu's feet.
His teacher stopped and looked at the fallen weapon. "What are you doing?"
"I don't want to train today."
Michikatsu's face showed confusion, then concern, then disappointment. "Is something wrong? Are you injured?"
"No."
"Then pick up your sword. We have work to do."
"What if I refuse?"
The question seemed to genuinely puzzle Michikatsu. He stood there, clearly trying to process a scenario outside his expected parameters. After a long moment, he said, "Why would you refuse? Training is important. You know this."
"But what if I don't care about training anymore?"
"Then I'd help you remember why it matters." Michikatsu's voice was patient, like he was talking to a confused child. "Muzan, I don't understand what's happening. Please talk to me."
Muzan picked up the practice sword. The moment he did, Michikatsu's confusion faded and they went back to training as if nothing had happened.
The script had been disrupted briefly, but it had corrected itself.
That night at dinner, Muzan asked his father about Uncle Shinji.
His father looked confused. "Who?"
"Your brother. Shinji Kibutsuji."
"I don't have a brother, Muzan. I'm an only child."
Of course he was. Because in this perfect world, there was no uncle to steal everything. No betrayal. No exile to a forgotten village.
His mother reached over and touched his forehead. "Are you feeling all right? You've been saying strange things lately."
"I'm fine."
But he wasn't. And this wasn't.
---
The breaking point came a week later.
Muzan was sitting with Genzo in the garden. The old man was telling a story about his grandfather, the same story he'd told dozens of times before. Muzan had heard it so many times he could recite it word for word.
Halfway through, he interrupted. "Genzo, how did my mother die?"
Genzo blinked, startled. "Your mother? She's not dead, young lord. She's inside making dinner."
"My real mother. The one who gave birth to me."
"That is your real mother." Genzo looked genuinely concerned now. "Young lord, what are you talking about?"
"She died when I was born. She never got to hold me or name me or see what I looked like. My father kept one portrait of her and that's the only reason I know what her face looked like."
Genzo's expression cycled through confusion, concern, and worry. "Young lord, you're not making sense. Your mother is alive and well. Perhaps you should rest. You might be coming down with a fever."
"I'm not sick." Muzan stood. "Or rather, I am. I've been sick my entire life. My heart stops multiple times a day. I can't walk without help. I was born dying and I've spent twenty years waiting for it to finish."
"Muzan, please sit down." Genzo reached for him but Muzan stepped back. "You're talking nonsense. You're perfectly healthy. You've always been healthy."
"No, I haven't." Muzan's voice rose. "Nothing about this is real. Not you, not my mother, not any of it. This is just a dream or an illusion or something my dying brain created before the end."
Genzo stood as well, moving with more speed than an eighty-year-old should have. "Young lord, you're frightening me. Please calm down and let's talk about this rationally."
"There's nothing rational to talk about. You're not real. None of this is real."
Footsteps behind him. Muzan turned to find his mother and father approaching, both looking worried.
"Muzan, what's going on?" his father asked. "We heard shouting."
"Tell them," Muzan said to Genzo. "Tell them how you died protecting me. How the intruder's scythe cut you almost in half and you smiled anyway because you were happy to serve the family one last time."
Genzo's face showed only confusion and concern. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Because it didn't happen here. Because this isn't real."
His mother stepped forward. "Muzan, you're scaring us. Please tell us what's wrong."
"You want to know what's wrong?" Muzan felt something building in his chest. Not his heart failing, but something else. A pressure that demanded release. "What's wrong is that you died giving birth to me. What's wrong is that I've been dying since the moment I was born. What's wrong is that Genzo is dead and I'm probably dead and this entire perfect life is just a lie to make death easier."
His father moved toward him. "Son, I think you need to lie down. You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in weeks." Muzan backed away from all of them. "Every day I spend here, I lose more of the truth. Pretty soon I won't remember what was real at all. I'll just be part of the dream, living out a life that never existed."
"Please." His mother's voice broke. There were tears in her eyes. "Please just come inside. We'll figure this out together."
The tears looked real. The pain in her voice sounded genuine. She believed she was his mother, believed she'd raised him and loved him and had every right to be worried about him now.
But she was wrong. She was a fiction. An echo of what might have been if the world had been kinder.
Muzan looked at all three of them. His perfect family that had never existed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't stay here."
"Where would you go?" his father asked.
"This is your home."
"No, it isn't. It never was."
Muzan closed his eyes and reached for the memories he'd been protecting. The hut. The cave. The pain and fear and certainty of death. They felt faint now, almost worn away by weeks in this false paradise.
But they were still there.
Real things. True things. Things worth holding onto even if they hurt.
He focused on them, pulling them close, letting them fill his mind until there was no room left for the illusion.
The garden began to fade. Not dramatically, just a slow dissolution like morning mist burning away in sunlight.
His family called his name. They reached for him, their faces showing confusion and fear and love.
They didn't understand why he was leaving. To them, he was choosing to abandon a good life for no reason at all.
They couldn't comprehend that they were the abandonment. The cruel trick. The false hope offered to a dying boy in his final moments.
Muzan opened his eyes one last time to look at them. His mother. His father. Genzo. Michikatsu. All wearing expressions of genuine concern for someone who had never truly existed in their world.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For showing me what I could have had."
Then he let go.
The world shattered like glass, and Muzan woke up to reality.