At the funeral held by the Kibutsuji family, the hall was filled with mourners dressed in black kimonos. They knelt in silence, incense smoke curling through the air as more guests arrived through the sliding doors to pay their respects.
"Waaah… my child… my poor child…"
The beautiful woman knelt at the side of the hall, covering her face as she wept softly. Her body trembled; grief filled every part of her being.
At the center of the hall lay the funeral's young subject—Kibutsuji's firstborn son. The infant rested quietly in a small coffin adorned with flowers and silk, dressed in ornate ceremonial robes. No one noticed that the baby's tiny fingers twitched—just slightly.
It's so dark…
So cold…
Am I… dying again?
I don't want to die… I don't want to die!
I want to live… my life has just begun… I want to live…
Somewhere deep within the darkness, a faint, fragile consciousness stirred. It was small and unformed, yet filled with an overwhelming will to survive.
Devour… devour…
A powerful presence loomed nearby—a darker, older consciousness, instinctively drawn toward the new one. Its hunger pressed forward, urged by a primal desire to consume that flicker of life.
I… want… to live!
Thump! Thump!
Under the command of that desperate will, the baby's tiny heart began to beat again. Blood surged through his body, warmth returning to the skin that had been ice-cold only moments before.
And then—
Inside the silent funeral hall of the Kibutsuji family, a sharp, piercing cry suddenly broke the air like a thunderclap.
"Waaah—! Waaah—! Waaaahhh!"
The wailing echoed through the hall.
"My child! My child!"
The mother, who had been kneeling and sobbing moments earlier, lifted her head in shock. Tears still wet on her cheeks, she rushed forward and leaned over the coffin.
The baby's half-open eyes, his twitching little fingers, his loud, healthy cries—all of it proved the impossible. The child had come back to life.
She gathered him into her trembling arms, clutching him tightly as tears streamed down her face, falling onto the baby's warm skin.
"You're alive… you're alive!"
Hearing the cries, Kibutsuji Muzan—the child's father—rushed from the adjoining room. He froze at the sight before him, disbelief written across his face.
In all his years, he had never witnessed such a thing. A baby, pronounced dead and prepared for burial, revived on the day of his own funeral—with no medical intervention, no explanation.
"Quickly! Have the nurse prepare to feed him at once!"
Muzan turned to the servants and barked his orders, then looked to his wife with gentler eyes.
"My lady, take him to the inner room. Let the nurse feed him—his body will need nourishment immediately."
The woman, still dazed by joy and disbelief, nodded quickly and hurried toward the inner courtyard with her newborn in her arms.
The guests remained frozen where they knelt. None of them had ever seen such a thing. The dead revived before their eyes—the host of the funeral brought back to life. A miracle unlike any they had ever witnessed.
"Everyone…"
After ensuring his wife and child were cared for, Muzan turned to face the guests. His expression was unreadable, his voice calm yet commanding.
More than ten years later.
In a shadowed room, a pale-skinned boy with black hair leaned weakly against the wall, a book resting in his slender hands.
Since his miraculous rebirth, over a decade had passed—but he had never once stepped beyond the walls of his room. His body was frail, his health constantly failing. He lived surrounded by caretakers and servants who tended to his every need.
If he had been born to a poor family, his fragile body would not have lasted this long. It was only because he was the son of the wealthy Kibutsuji family that he still drew breath.
Though he could now sit up and read, his body was still no stronger than that of a newborn. He had long lived the life of an invalid.
An ordinary person would have given up long ago—perhaps even chosen to end it all rather than endure such a wasted existence.
But the boy, Kibutsuji Muzan, possessed an unbreakable will. Despite his suffering, he clung fiercely to his obsession with survival.
The room reeked of medicinal herbs. Beside him sat an empty bowl, recently used for drinking a bitter tonic prepared by a wandering physician who had come years ago after hearing of his strange illness.
There was still no cure, but the treatment had stabilized him somewhat. He could now move short distances on his own—a small miracle in itself.
"Muzan! My life-prolonging medicine has finally succeeded!"
The old doctor burst into the room, excitement shining in his wrinkled face. The strong scent of herbs followed him like a cloud. He stepped between the paper screens, blocking out the sunlight, his tone trembling with pride.
"Is that so?"
Muzan didn't even lift his head, calmly turning a page in his book. His voice was soft, disinterested.
"I mean it this time, Muzan! This is my closest success yet. This medicine can extend your life—it may even restore your body's vitality!"
The doctor's tone was earnest, desperate to convince him.
"You said the same thing last time," Muzan replied evenly, closing his eyes. "And the time before that… and the time before that."
"It's not easy!" the doctor protested. "To create a medicine that can defy death—such a thing has never been done! I must experiment, refine, and adjust. Even if this batch doesn't cure you instantly, it will bring you closer to true recovery."
Smack!
Muzan shut the book with a soft thud and looked up at the doctor. His crimson-tinged eyes glimmered faintly in the dim light.
"Then," he said quietly, "I'll look forward to the final result next time."
He took the small pill and the dark potion from the doctor's hand and swallowed them without hesitation. Within seconds, his vision blurred. A wave of exhaustion swept over him.
Bang!
Muzan collapsed, falling into a deep unconsciousness.
"Ah—!"
The doctor blinked, then chuckled nervously. "Ah, I forgot to mention—the medicine will put you straight to sleep! It needs time to take effect… but well, since you're already out, I suppose it doesn't matter."
He crouched beside Muzan's limp form, pulling strange instruments from his bag. Adjusting his glasses, the old man began to observe and record the boy's physical responses, muttering to himself as he filled a small notebook with notes.