Chapter 2: The New Flesh
The fusion of the Demon King template was not a pleasant experience. It felt like being submerged in scalding water for several agonizing minutes. Shuichi Mayumi's body steamed, tendrils of white vapor curling from his skin. He gritted his teeth, his one good hand clutching the back of the sofa as heat roiled and tumbled within him, remaking him from the inside out.
He watched, a detached part of his mind fascinated and horrified, as the empty space below his right shoulder swelled. Bone regenerated at an impossible speed, weaving a new lattice, followed by the creeping growth of muscle, tendon, and nerve. Finally, skin flowed over it like pale wax, seamless and whole. In moments, his right arm was restored, as if the amputation had never happened. No scar, not even a hint of imperfection.
Inside him, a silent, cellular war raged. The familiar, human cells were swiftly and utterly overwhelmed, consumed and replaced by something denser, colder, and far more potent.
…
Nearly an hour later, the violent process subsided. Shuichi slumped forward, drenched in cold sweat as if pulled from a river. His body thrummed with a quiet, alien energy.
"Congratulations, host. Your arm has been restored."
The system's voice was, as ever, toneless.
The Demon King template was, of course, the intended gift. By delivering it now, the system hoped to offset its tardiness—a cheap, logical trick. It believed that with mutual effort, performance metrics could still be optimized.
And the results were tangible. Shuichi now possessed not just two arms, but a profound, internal redundancy: the latent potential for multiple brains and hearts. A robust design.
"System," Shuichi said, his voice hoarse. As he spoke, he flexed his newly restored right hand. The palm split open vertically, revealing a gaping maw lined with needle-sharp fangs. A chill, unrelated to his sweat, settled in the room. "Tell me. Is this a 'ghost'?"
"Yes."
Shuichi was silent. This… was not the ephemeral spirit he had vaguely imagined. This was something visceral, corporeal, and monstrous.
Fine, he thought, letting the mouth in his palm seal shut, leaving unblemished skin behind. Becoming a wispy phantom was never his goal. This solid, powerful form was preferable. He could feel the strength coiling in his limbs, a desperate urge to test it against something—or someone. But caution, honed by a decade of vulnerability, held him back. He was in Konoha, a place of watchful eyes and hidden powers. How did this 'Demon King' strength compare to a jounin? A Kage?
As if sensing his hesitation, the system interjected. "The host's synchronization rate with the Demon King template is currently sub-optimal. The primary objective should be to increase fusion percentage and gain finer control."
"Sub-optimal?" Shuichi raised an eyebrow, surprised. To him, this felt like unimaginable power. But from a shinobi's perspective, perhaps it was mediocre.
"Current synchronization rate is approximately 41%. Consumption of flesh and blood energy will increase this rate and assist the host in mastering the Demon King's power."
"Flesh and blood energy?" Shuichi caught the term. A cold knot formed in his gut. "You don't mean I have to…"
Eat people.
The unspoken words hung in the air. Suddenly, the familiar feeling he'd gotten when his palm split open clicked into place. The template's origin became horrifyingly clear.
"So the 'Demon King' is the demon of Kibutsuji Muzan."
His face fell. His impression of that particular "king" was… poor. And now he was becoming a version of it. The irony was profoundly bitter.
"By the way, system," Shuichi said, his voice shifting to a dry, pointed tone. "You show up a decade late. Where's the compensation? The apology gift?"
The system, which had been feeling quietly pleased with its solution, faltered internally.
"Did I not provide the Demon King template?"
"That's what you owed. I want compensation." Shuichi's logic was cold and merciless. "Don't think I can't figure it out. Your name has 'Demon King' in it. This template was my starting package, wasn't it? You being late doesn't make giving me my due a bonus."
He was bluffing, reasoning from how a pathetic, corner-cutting corporation might operate. But the system's prolonged silence confirmed his guess. It had tried to pass off the base package as a consolation prize.
After a strained pause, a notification chimed, softer than the others.
[Acquired: Refined Nichirin Sword]
Shuichi stared at the empty air where the notification had been.
The system offered no further explanation.
A deep, profound silence filled the apartment.
"…What," Shuichi finally said, each word flat and heavy, "am I supposed to do with a Nichirin Sword?"
"Host, you cannot blame me for this." For the first time, the system's voice held a faint, plaintive strain. "It is the most significant compensatory asset I can allocate."
Shuichi bit back a scathing retort. The anger was there, but a colder, more pragmatic part of him reasserted control. This thing is incompetent, but it's all I have. Endure.
He sighed, the sound weary. "Forget it."
He moved to the bathroom, washed the sweat and residue of transformation from his skin, and changed into clean, dark clothes. Outside, full night had fallen, the village lights glowing against the black.
A new concern surfaced. Kibutsuji Muzan's demons feared the sun. This template likely carried the same lethal weakness. Coupled with his inexplicably regenerated arm, discovery would mean being dragged into a lab for dissection. He doubted the Hokage's scientists would grow wisteria.
Looking at the moonless night, Shuichi made a decision. If no solution presented itself, he would re-sever the arm. If he could suppress this regenerative ability, he could remain Shuichi Mayumi, the disabled restaurant owner. A perfect disguise.
Decision made, he left his apartment. The night air was cool. His home was on a quiet, peripheral street, deserted at this hour. His mind turned to a specific nuisance—a drunken lout who had frequented his shop before the Kyuubi attack, always causing trouble, often requiring the Uchiha police to intervene. A perfect, unsavory test subject.
He walked, and upon turning a corner into a particularly dark alley, his features shimmered and shifted. His face became that of a man in his twenties, with sharp features, black hair, and crimson eyes—a complete stranger. With his new appearance settled, he moved with purpose toward a remembered address.
As he walked, he whispered, voice barely a breath, "System. If a demon I create consumes flesh and blood… do I gain anything?"
The system perked up internally. Proactive hosts improved efficiency metrics! "Yes, host. Seventy percent of the flesh and blood energy they obtain will be converted directly to enhance your power and synchronization rate."
Shuichi's expression in the darkness did not look pleased. The system, misreading his hesitation, quickly added, "For created demons, thirty percent is sufficient sustenance. Providing more leads to waste and complacency. They need hunger to hunt efficiently. The seventy-thirty split is standard and optimal."
A slow, understanding nod. Then, with a face of utter sincerity, Shuichi asked, "I see. So, it's a flexible allocation?"
"In essence, yes. The distribution parameters can be… interpreted."
"Good," Shuichi said, his tone calm and final. "Then adjust the share. I will take eighty percent. They can have twenty."
The system processed this. It was a deviation from base protocol. But the host's synchronization rate was the primary KPI. And a more powerful host would generate more opportunities for data…
[Parameters adjusted. Flesh and blood energy distribution set to 80/20, host/demon subordinate favor.]
"Acceptable," Shuichi murmured, a faint, cold smile touching his borrowed lips as he melted deeper into the shadows of Konoha, a predator on a quiet, personal hunt. His first step into the Twelve Kizuki had begun not with a grand declaration, but with a ruthless renegotiation of terms.
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