The journey back to Ōsaka takes three days.
My escort consists of four guards hired by Father, all experienced swordsmen who take their duty seriously. They treat me with the careful deference one shows to traumatized children, speaking in soft voices, allowing me frequent rests, never pushing me too hard.
If only they knew how unnecessary their protection is.
I could slaughter all four before they drew their blades. I could drain them dry and leave their corpses for the crows. But that would be wasteful, and more importantly, it would raise questions I'm not ready to answer.
So I play the role. The quiet, withdrawn boy still processing his trauma. I speak little. I flinch at sudden movements. At night, I pretend to have nightmares, crying out in my sleep about demons and death.
They eat it up. By the second day, they're treating me like their own son, sharing stories to distract me, offering words of encouragement.
Humans are so easy to manipulate.
But the journey gives me time to think. Time to plan.
What awaits me in Ōsaka?
My "family" will be overjoyed at my return. Mother will weep. Father will try to hide his relief behind stern lectures about being more careful. Hanako and Shiro will bombard me with questions.
And I'll have to be the perfect traumatized son, accepting their comfort, letting them coddle me, all while maintaining my nightly hunts in secret.
The challenge excites me.
On the third day, we crest a hill and Ōsaka sprawls before us—a city of traditional architecture and busy streets, smoke rising from countless hearths, the distant sound of merchants hawking their wares.
Home. Or what passes for it.
"Almost there, young master," one of the guards says encouragingly. "Your family will be so happy to see you."
"Yes," I murmur. "I've missed them."
What a magnificent lie.
The Kibutsuji compound erupts when we arrive.
Before the guards can even announce our presence, the gates fly open and Mother comes running out, tears streaming down her face.
"Ryōta! Oh, Ryōta, my baby!"
She crashes into me, pulling me into a crushing embrace. I let myself go limp in her arms, let her tears soak into my shoulder, let her rock me back and forth like I'm still a small child.
This is what she needed. The relief. The catharsis.
"I'm home, Mother," I whisper, injecting just the right amount of trembling into my voice. "I'm sorry I worried you."
"Sorry? Sorry?!" She pulls back to look at me, her hands cupping my face. "Don't you dare apologize! You're alive! You're safe! That's all that matters!"
Father appears behind her, more composed but I can see the relief in his eyes. "Ryōta. Welcome home, son."
"Father." I bow respectfully, and he places a hand on my shoulder a rare display of affection from the stern merchant.
Then Hanako and Shiro burst through the gates, shouting my name, and I'm immediately swarmed by my younger siblings. They cling to me, asking a thousand questions at once, their voices overlapping in excitement.
"Did you really see a demon?"
"Were you scared?"
"How did you escape?"
"Did the demon slayers save you?"
I let myself be pulled into their enthusiasm, answering questions with carefully crafted half-truths.
The guards are invited in, given food and drink, thanked profusely for returning the family's precious heir. Father pays them handsomely more than agreed upon and they leave with bows and well-wishes.
Then the family gathers, and I'm forced to sit through an extended interrogation disguised as concern.
I tell them the story. The pilgrimage. The village. The demon attack. Hayato's death. Hiding in terror. Being rescued by demon slayers.
Mother cries throughout. Father's expression grows darker with each detail. Hanako and Shiro listen with wide, frightened eyes.
"I should never have sent you," Father says finally, his voice heavy with guilt. "If I had known."
"You couldn't have known, Father." I inject steel into my voice, just enough to show I'm not completely broken. "Demons are real. They're out there. And if I hadn't gone, I never would have learned to defend myself."
"Defend yourself?" Mother looks alarmed. "Ryōta, what do you mean?"
Here it comes. The next performance.
"The demon slayers taught me while I was recovering," I explain. "Basic swordsmanship. Breathing techniques. Father, I know it must seem strange, but... I don't want to be helpless again. If something like that happens if demons come here I want to be able to protect our family."
Father studies me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. "I've already arranged for a swordsmanship instructor. Master Takeshi one of the best in Ōsaka. He'll begin your training next week."
"Thank you, Father."
"But," he continues firmly, "you will focus on your studies as well. You're the heir to this family's business. Sword skills are useful, but intelligence and wisdom are more important. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
Oh, I understand perfectly. You want me well-rounded. Capable. Ready to inherit your little empire.
You have no idea what empire I'm actually building.
That night, after a lavish welcome-home dinner that I force myself to eat, I finally retreat to my room. The guards have been dismissed. The servants have gone to bed. The compound is quiet.
Finally. Privacy.
I lock my door and move to the window, sliding it open to let in the night air. The moon hangs heavy above Ōsaka, painting everything in silver.
Two weeks without hunting. Two weeks without feeding.
The hunger is a living thing inside me now, clawing, demanding, screaming for satisfaction.
I've suppressed it through sheer willpower, but now that I'm home, now that I'm safe behind the mask of the dutiful son...
Now I can let it loose.
I transform in an instant—teeth sharpening, claws extending, senses exploding into hyperfocus. The Total Concentration Breathing that I've been maintaining constantly amplifies everything further. I feel powerful. More powerful than ever before.
This city has no idea what's returned to it.
But I can't hunt in my own district. Too dangerous. Too many people who might recognize "young master Ryōta."
I need to go elsewhere. The slums, perhaps. Or the docks. Places where people disappear all the time and no one asks too many questions.
I leap from my window, landing silently in the garden below.
My body moves with impossible grace, clearing the compound wall in a single bound. Then I'm running across rooftops, a shadow among shadows, the city spreading out before me like a feast.
Where to begin?
I find my prey in the warehouse district.
Three men, drunk and belligerent, harassing a woman who's trying to make her way home. Their intentions are obvious, their lecherous grins visible even in the dim lamplight.
Perfect.
I drop from the rooftop, landing in the alley behind them with barely a whisper of sound. The woman sees me first a young boy appearing from nowhere and her eyes widen in confusion.
"Run," I tell her, my voice cold and flat.
She doesn't question it. Something in my tone, in my eyes, tells her this is not a suggestion. She flees, her footsteps echoing down the street.
The three men turn, irritation on their faces.
"Oi, kid. Mind your own business." "Yeah, scram before you get hurt."
The third one, slightly smarter than his companions, frowns. "Wait. You're that merchant family's kid. Kibutsuji, right? What are you doing out here?"
Ah. A complication.
But not an insurmountable one.
"I'm taking a walk," I say pleasantly. "Clearing my head after my recent... ordeal. You've heard about it, yes? The demon attack?"
They exchange glances. "Yeah, we heard. Rough luck, kid. But you should get home. Streets ain't safe at night."
Oh, the irony.
"You're absolutely right," I agree, stepping closer. "The streets aren't safe. There are monsters lurking in the darkness. Predators waiting to strike."
I smile, and let them see my teeth.
All of them.
"Monsters like me."
The first man doesn't even have time to scream. My hand punches through his chest, crushing his heart in an instant. The second tries to run, but I'm already there, my claws tearing out his throat in a spray of crimson.
The third the one who recognized me stumbles backward, terror written across his face.
"W-what are you?!"
"I am Dio," I whisper, savoring the moment. "And you have the distinct honor of being my first meal back in Ōsaka."
I feast.
The blood is exquisite. Warm. Rich. Flavored with their terror and desperation. I drink deeply from the third man, feeling power surge through me with each swallow.
Yes. This is what I needed.
When I'm finished, I dispose of the bodies using my flesh manipulation consuming them, breaking them down into nothing. Within minutes, there's no evidence except for blood stains on the cobblestones, easily attributed to a drunken brawl.
I wipe my mouth and straighten my clothes, composing myself.
That was satisfying. But it's only the beginning.
This city is full of prey. Full of opportunities. And now that I'm back, now that I have the perfect cover of the traumatized son recovering from a demon attack, I can hunt with relative impunity.
As long as I'm careful.
I return to the compound the same way I left over the walls, through the garden, back to my room. I clean myself meticulously, ensuring no trace of blood remains.
Then I lie down on my futon, staring at the ceiling, planning.
The next morning, I wake to Mother's gentle voice.
"Ryōta-kun? Breakfast is ready."
I sit up, the picture of a well-rested son. "Thank you, Mother. I'll be right there."
She smiles and leaves, and I take a moment to check my reflection. No signs of last night's activities. No hint of the monster beneath.
Perfect.
Breakfast is a family affair. Father discusses business. Mother fusses over whether I'm eating enough. Hanako tells me about a new friend she made. Shiro shows me a drawing he made while I was gone.
I engage with all of it. Smile. Laugh. Show interest.
And all the while, I'm counting the hours until nightfall.
After breakfast, Father takes me aside to his study.
"Ryōta, I want to discuss your training."
"Yes, Father?"
"Master Takeshi will begin instructing you next week, but I've been thinking. The demon slayers taught you some unusual techniques, yes? This 'breathing' method?"
Careful here. How much did I tell them?
"Yes, Father. It helps improve stamina and focus."
"Show me."
I demonstrate Total Concentration Breathing but only at a fraction of my actual capability. I make it look like I'm straining, like it's difficult to maintain.
Father nods thoughtfully. "Interesting. I've heard of similar techniques used by warriors in the past. If it helps you become stronger, safer, then I support it. But remember—"
"I know, Father. I won't neglect my studies or my business training."
"Good boy." He places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Ryōta. What you endured would have broken most children. But you've come back stronger. More determined. That's the mark of a true Kibutsuji."
If only you knew how right you are.
"I won't let you down, Father."
The days settle into a routine.
Mornings: Studies with my tutors. Calligraphy, mathematics, literature. I excel at all of it, it's child's play compared to the centuries of knowledge I accumulated in my previous life.
Afternoons: Helping Father with business matters. Learning the trade routes, the merchant contacts, the financial records. Boring, but necessary for maintaining my cover.
Evenings: Family time. Playing with Hanako and Shiro. Listening to Mother's stories. Being the perfect son.
Nights: Hunting.
I vary my patterns. Sometimes the slums. Sometimes the docks. Sometimes I travel to neighboring districts where no one knows the Kibutsuji family.
I select my prey carefully criminals, drunks, people who won't be missed or whose disappearances will be attributed to natural causes. I feed, I grow stronger, and I leave no evidence.
Within a week, I've killed eight people.
Within two weeks, fifteen.
And no one suspects a thing.
The city talks about increased crime, about mysterious disappearances, about a possible serial killer. But they never look at the merchant family's son, the poor boy who survived a demon attack and is recovering at home.
Why would they?
Then, one week after my return, Master Takeshi arrives.
The swordsmanship instructor is everything Father promised.
An older man, probably in his fifties, with a scarred face and the bearing of someone who's seen real combat. His eyes are sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
He bows to Father, then turns to me.
"So you're the one who survived a demon attack. The guards at the gate are already calling you 'The Lucky Boy.'"
"I don't feel very lucky, Master Takeshi," I say with perfectly calibrated humility.
"Luck is just preparation meeting opportunity," he replies. "Your father says the demon slayers taught you some basics. Show me."
We move to the training yard. He tosses me a wooden practice sword.
I catch it with perfect form.
His eyebrow rises slightly. "Good catch. Now, your stance."
I take the basic stance Tanaka taught me—deliberately adding a few minor imperfections.
Master Takeshi circles me, observing. "The demon slayers taught you well. But there are flaws. Your grip is too tight. Your stance is too wide. Your center of gravity is off."
All intentional, old man. But please, teach me what you know.
"I'm ready to learn, Master."
Over the next hour, he drills me on basics. His teaching style is different from Tanaka's—harsher, more demanding, less patient. He doesn't coddle me or treat me like a traumatized child.
I like him immediately.
"Again!"
"Your footwork is sloppy!"
"Faster!"
"If I were a demon, you'd be dead three times over by now!"
I let myself improve gradually, showing "natural talent" but not supernatural ability. By the end of the session, Master Takeshi is nodding with grudging approval.
"You have potential, boy. Raw potential. The demon slayers gave you a foundation, but there's much work to do."
"I'm ready for whatever training you think I need, Master."
He studies me for a long moment. "Your father wants you to learn self-defense. Basic swordsmanship. But I see something more in you. A hunger. An intensity."
Oh, you have no idea.
"The demon attack changed me," I say quietly. "I don't want to be a victim again."
"Good. Fear makes you weak. Determination makes you strong." He sheaths his practice sword. "We'll train every afternoon. If you work hard, if you push yourself, I can make you formidable. Not a demon slayer, perhaps, but capable enough to defend yourself and others."
"That's all I ask, Master Takeshi."
Liar. I ask for so much more.
Weeks turn into months.
I establish a new normal. Studies, business training, sword practice, family time, and nightly hunts.
My skills grow exponentially. Master Takeshi pushes me hard, and I let him think he's reaching my limits when I'm barely trying. The Total Concentration Breathing I maintain constantly makes every physical activity trivial.
My kill count rises steadily. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
I vary my methods sometimes quick kills, sometimes drawn-out feedings, sometimes experiments with my flesh manipulation. Each death teaches me something new about this body's capabilities.
And no one. Suspects. A. Thing.
I am the perfect son. The tragic survivor. The determined student.
But beneath it all, I'm becoming something else. Something more powerful than I ever was in my previous life.
The combination of my vampiric nature, this world's demon physiology, and the demon slayer breathing techniques is creating something unprecedented.
I am evolution itself.
Then, three months after my return, something changes.
I'm hunting in the warehouse district when I feel it.
A presence. Another demon.
Not close perhaps a mile away but unmistakable. The same energy I felt from that demon in the mountains. The same predatory aura.
There's another demon in Ōsaka.
My first instinct is territorial fury. This is MY hunting ground. MY city.
But then curiosity takes over. Who is this demon? Are they part of Muzan's hierarchy? Can I learn something from them?
Or should I simply eliminate the competition?
I change course, following the demonic presence through the darkened streets. It leads me toward the entertainment district geisha houses, gambling dens, places where people come to lose themselves in pleasure.
Perfect cover for a demon.
The presence is stronger now. Closer.
Then I see him.
A man in his twenties, dressed in expensive clothing, his face handsome but with eyes that gleam with unnatural light. He's outside a geisha house, talking to the proprietor, who seems nervous.
A demon. Definitely a demon.
But he's being... subtle. Not attacking. Not feeding openly. Just talking, negotiating.
Interesting. This one has restraint.
I move closer, staying in the shadows, listening.
"...and you're certain the girl won't be missed?" the demon asks.
"Certain, my lord. She has no family, no connections. She'll simply... disappear."
"Excellent. Bring her to the address I gave you tomorrow night. And you'll be compensated handsomely for your discretion."
The proprietor bows low. "Of course, my lord. Thank you for your generous patronage."
So this demon buys his prey. Clever. Less risk, less attention.
The demon turns to leave, and for a brief moment, his eyes sweep across the shadows where I'm hiding.
He stops.
"Who's there?"
Damn. He sensed me.
I could run. I could hide. But where's the fun in that?
I step out of the shadows, letting moonlight illuminate my face. A twelve-year-old boy, alone in the entertainment district at night.
The demon's expression shifts from wariness to confusion to... amusement?
"Well, well. What do we have here? A child? At this hour?" He tilts his head, studying me. "And you're... oh. Oh, this is interesting."
He can sense what I am. Just as I can sense him.
"You're not human either," he says, a smile playing on his lips. "But you're not one of Lord Muzan's demons. What are you, boy?"
I smile back, showing teeth.
"I'm Dio. And I think you and I should have a conversation."