Chapter 207: The Might of Nature
Releasing a long, quiet breath into the cool air, Akira turned his back to the grave and began the familiar trek toward the Butterfly Mansion.
His grandfather had simply moved on to the place he was always meant to rest; there was no lingering sorrow weighing down his steps. Birth, aging, sickness, and death—these were the natural, unbreakable cycles of human existence.
Yet creatures like demons, in their arrogant attempts to defy this fundamental law, found themselves cursed. The very sun that bestowed life and warmth upon all things in nature had become their ultimate executioner. As for Kibutsuji Muzan and his thousand-year obsession—his unshakeable belief that finding the Blue Spider Lily would conquer the sun and elevate him into a truly immortal, perfect lifeform—it might just be a pathetic delusion.
The Blue Spider Lily was indeed the missing, unfinished component of the treatment that enigmatic doctor had administered to Muzan a millennium ago. But what if, upon finally consuming that missing piece, Muzan simply reverted back into a frail, ordinary human?
How did one treat a terminal illness characterized by total organ failure? First, administer a potent drug to push the body's self-healing capabilities to their absolute limits. Then, once the flesh recovered, introduce the final catalyst to neutralize the drug's lingering mutations—such as a fatal vulnerability to sunlight—returning the patient to a healthy, mundane state.
A flawless medical treatment plan, wasn't it?
A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corners of Akira's lips as he entertained the thought.
But even if such a hilarious possibility were true, he wasn't foolish enough to actually hand the legendary flower over to the Demon Progenitor. If the Blue Spider Lily actually granted Muzan his twisted wish, the world would drown in blood. Therefore, the strategy remained brutally simple: beat Muzan to a pulp and drag his miserable body out to bask in the morning rays.
With those scattered thoughts fading into the background, Akira handled the winding dirt paths until the familiar gates of the Butterfly Mansion came into view. To his mild surprise, the entire household was gathered at the entrance, waiting.
Having lived together for years, they rarely assembled like this just to welcome him home. Everyone usually had their hands full with chores, medical duties, or training. This was especially true for Sawaki. The patriarch of the Kochou family frequently grumbled about Akira—the greedy brat who had already stolen the hearts of two of his precious daughters and still looked hungry for more. Sawaki was usually the last person to stand at the gates for a greeting.
But today was different.
They didn't know if Akira had managed to see his grandfather's soul, or if the visit had dredged up painful childhood memories. Regardless of the details, Akira was the protective pillar of this sprawling, unconventional family. Naturally, they worried about his emotional state.
As for how they knew the exact moment he would arrive, a familiar caw from above provided the answer. Ink Shadow had flown ahead to announce his master's return.
'Aren't you going to say thank you?'the crow seemed to demand, puffing its dark chest feathers as it perched on the gate.'I'll add an extra chicken leg to your dinner bowl,' Akira promised silently, shooting the bird an amused glance.
Taking in the sea of concerned, beautiful faces waiting for him, Akira's expression softened into his usual gentle smile. "I'm home."
The departed were gone, resting in peace. The living had to cherish the time they had left.
The heavens, however, did not seem to share the warm atmosphere. Or perhaps, the sky was finally aligning to grant the very opportunity Akira had been craving for half the summer.
By dinner time, well before the sun was scheduled to dip below the horizon, thick, bruised clouds swallowed the fading daylight. Low, guttural rumbles echoed from the distant mountains, vibrating through the wooden floorboards of the estate. Every sign pointed toward an imminent, violent downpour.
It was an unusual weather pattern. In previous years, the summer months were punctuated by fleeting, aggressive thunderstorms. But this season had been suffocatingly dry. The occasional showers were nothing more than pathetic drizzles, completely devoid of the raw power of thunder and lightning.
Ever since Akira had unlocked the Transparent World, he had been practically praying for a massive thunderstorm. He needed to observe the raw, untamed rules of natural lightning, to dissect its patterns and draw inspiration to push his Thunder Breathing beyond its current limits.
Now, with autumn creeping around the corner, the storm he had waited months for was finally baring its fangs.
As the old proverb warned, the wind always howled through the pavilion before the mountain rain struck. Tonight was no exception. Gale-force winds battered the estate, rattling the sliding wooden doors and making the paper windows snap with violent, clattering sounds.
It felt as though the sky, desperate to catch the tail end of the season, was determined to dump three months' worth of missing rain in a single night. The cloud cover was unnaturally dense, a suffocating blanket of black and deep purple pressing down on the earth, threatening to crush the very breath out of the world.
Standing alone in the center of the courtyard, his haori snapping wildly in the gale, Akira finally understood the old poetic imagery of dark clouds bearing down to crush a besieged city. Compared to the suffocating pressure of an invading army, the sheer, indifferent might of nature felt infinitely more terrifying.
High above, within the churning belly of the storm, countless microscopic particles violently collided. Electric charges separated, surging toward the upper atmosphere and the lower bellies of the clouds in a chaotic frenzy that secretly adhered to the strict, invisible laws of physics.
As the potential difference between the sky and the earth accumulated to a terrifying, critical mass, the air itself was punctured. The current tore through the atmosphere, emitting a blinding, jagged light. The heat released in that fraction of a second eclipsed the surface temperature of the sun. The sudden, catastrophic spike in heat caused the surrounding air to violently expand and detonate.
To the fragile living beings huddled on the ground, this complex process manifested as a blinding flash of white, instantly followed by a deafening, world-shaking roar.
BOOM—!
Lightning fractured the sky. Thunder rolled like the drums of war. The gale screamed through the courtyard. Just a fraction of nature's true power was enough to paint an apocalyptic scene.
Akira, however, remained entirely unfazed by the apocalyptic display. His breathing slowed. His vision shifted. He activated the Transparent World, his eyes piercing through the heavy rain to silently observe the hyperactive, surging rhythm of the lightning's core rules.
In his previous life, he had dropped out of school early. In this life, he had never formally studied advanced physics. He didn't know the exact scientific terminology for the generation of lightning or the kinetic laws governing charged particles.
But a lack of academic vocabulary did not stop him from feeling the rhythm. He watched the natural flow, dissecting the precise moment the energy built up and snapped, internalizing the explosive tempo. Besides, in a world where flesh-eating demons roamed the night, the rigid science of his past life might not even apply here.
Casting aside all stray thoughts, Akira slipped into a state of absolute emptiness. He forgot the cold rain soaking his clothes. He forgot the wind. He forgot himself.
His entire consciousness locked onto the wild, surging laws of the storm. He perceived its patterns, mirrored its violent rhythm, and dragged that raw power into his own muscles.
Without conscious thought, Akira's hand drifted to his hip. His thumb flicked the tsuba. The Nichirin blade hissed as it cleared the scabbard.
He began to move.
His footwork and sword strokes defied the established forms of Thunder Breathing. Yet, within every fluid slash and explosive pivot, the foundational shadows of those very forms remained visible, evolved and untethered.
Huddled together under the protective eaves of the veranda, the young women of the Butterfly Mansion watched the lone figure dancing in the gale. Stunning brilliance reflected in their wide eyes.
At first glance, Akira's movements seemed erratic—like a child swinging a stick at the wind. Then, his posture shifted, resembling a solemn priest performing an ancient, rhythmic ritual to appease the heavens. A heartbeat later, he transformed into a peerless warrior, his blade carving through the very fabric of the storm.
When the thunder momentarily dipped and the torrential rain crashed down in sheets, Akira seemed to dissolve into the tempest itself.
The wind howled, the clouds boiled, and the sky fractured with blinding light. The rain fell as if the heavens had shattered.
Yet, in the dead center of that chaos, the solitary swordsman moved. He looked entirely out of place, yet perfectly in harmony with the destruction around him.
As the Nichirin blade carved through the deluge, arcs of golden blade-light began to pulse, perfectly echoing the rhythm of the lightning tearing through the sky above. Sizzling, crackling thunderous light began to weave and shimmer around Akira's body, illuminating the rain.
The storm intensified. The wind grew vicious, the rain heavier. Jagged forks of lightning illuminated the darkened courtyard with a blinding intensity that rivaled the midday sun. The sheer volume of the rolling thunder rattled the bones of the young women watching from the porch, making them shift uncomfortably, their hands clutching their robes in concern.
But the figure dancing within the heart of the storm remained completely untouched by fear, his blade singing a duet with the thunder.
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