Prologue

Yoriichi stands before Kokushibo, aged yet unwavering. Kokushibo's six eyes glare at his brother, filled with a mix of envy and hatred.

Kokushibo staggered back a step, disbelief carved into every line of his face. His six eyes narrowed, flickering with a mixture of confusion and rage. How? It was impossible. No human should live past twenty-five—let alone him.

"How are you still alive?" Kokushibo's voice came out strained, as if the words themselves refused to leave his throat. "Impossible… Everyone with the mark should be dead before the age of twenty-five. How are you—?"

"Michikatsu…" Yoriichi's voice, gentle yet heavy with sorrow, pierced the air. His aged figure stood firm, the faint light of the moon brushing against his weathered features. "Why did you choose this path? Why did you choose to become a demon?"

"Do not call me by that name!" Kokushibo's snarl echoed through the air. The shadows seemed to tremble with his fury.

"I am Kokushibo! I sought strength—to surpass you! To escape the fate of dying as a mere human. Yet… yet even now—" His voice wavered, eyes blazing with an emotion he could not name. "Even now, you stand before me… old, frail… yet still—"

"This is heart-wrenching, brother." Yoriichi's voice cracked slightly, a tremor of anguish breaking through his usual composure. His hand tightened around his blade, though his eyes reflected only sorrow.

Yoriichi remains silent, sorrow reflecting in his eyes with tears.

Yoriichi grips his sword firmly.

In an instant, Yoriichi moves, as he slashes through Kokushibo with unmatched speed. Despite his age, Yoriichi's strength remains absolute. Kokushibo, stunned, can only watch as Yoriichi's blade cuts through him effortlessly.

"Why…" Kokushibo's voice cracked through the night, raw and ragged. His chest heaved as if each breath burned. "Why is it always you?"

Yoriichi stood silent, his crimson blade glinting faintly beneath the moonlight. His gaze, aged yet unwavering, held both sorrow and understanding. "Why do you always have to be the special one?" Kokushibo's voice, though calm, carried the weight of a thousand unsaid words. "You've managed to live a long life… despite bearing the mark."

Kokushibo's hands trembled as he tightened his grip on his blade, his six eyes burning with hatred, grief, and something far more fragile. "I hate you…" His voice dropped to a guttural growl. "I want to kill you… To finally surpass you." His breath hitched, the words catching in his throat as his eyes darted to Yoriichi's stance—the next strike would have severed his head without fail. "But my head… would've been cleaved off with your next blow."

Yoriichi said nothing. The silence between them stretched, thick with the weight of lifetimes. His fingers curled slightly against the hilt of his sword, the faint moonlight reflecting along its edge as if fate itself awaited his next move.

And yet—

The moment never came.

Yoriichi's body, worn from age and time, stilled. His breath faltered. His sword remained raised, but his frame no longer moved. His heart, so strong for so long, could carry him no further.

He stood there frozen in place like a monument carved from sorrow and strength.

A faint breeze stirred the air. Leaves whispered as they fell, brushing against the worn fabric of Yoriichi's haori. His lips parted slightly, but no words came forth.

Kokushibo stared in disbelief, knowing that if Yoriichi had struck one more time, he would have perished.

Seeing Yoriichi frozen in place, Kokushibo's six eyes burned with ruthless intent. Without a moment's hesitation, he lunged forward, his blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. The night seemed to hold its breath, the faint whistle of steel the only sound as death closed in.

The world stood still as Kokushibo's blade sliced through flesh and bone, severing Yoriichi's body in two. Blood spattered across the ground, dark and warm against the cold earth. The metallic ring of the sword's swing echoed into the night, followed only by silence—vast, suffocating silence.

Then, a faint clatter.

Kokushibo's gaze flicked downward, drawn by the small object that had tumbled from Yoriichi's torn haori. Amidst the blood and torn fabric lay a flute—now split cleanly in half by his strike.

For a moment, Kokushibo's breath hitched. His six eyes, always alight with predatory hunger, flickered with something unreadable as recognition dawned within him. His mind, despite centuries of darkness, began to stir—pulling fragments from a past he had long buried beneath hatred and envy.

'That flute…'

'The flute that I gave him'

The air around Kokushibo seemed to thin as images flashed through his mind: two young boys beneath the warmth of the sun, laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves. A younger Michikatsu, his hands trembling slightly as he extended the handcrafted flute toward his brother.

"Here… I made this for you."

"A flute? But I don't know how to play."

"It doesn't matter. Just… keep it with you, okay? Always."

Kokushibo's grip on his sword faltered. The distant echoes of that moment pressed against the walls of his mind, cracking through the stone-cold resolve he had forged over centuries of bloodshed. Beneath the layers of hatred, envy, and demonic hunger—there it was. A lingering fragment of something human. Something that had loved Yoriichi as a brother.

"…Why…" The word escaped his lips, raw and unsteady. His chest ached with an unfamiliar heaviness, as if his immortal heart had remembered how to break. "Why… did you still have this?"

The cold wind stirred his long hair as Kokushibo took a shaky step back, eyes fixed on the broken flute as though it might rise and condemn him for what he had done. His blade, still slick with his brother's blood, trembled slightly in his hand.

'This is who I am now, he reminded himself bitterly. I am Kokushibo. I have no need for sorrow… no need for regret.'

And yet—

Somewhere deep within the hollow chambers of his heart, something cracked.

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Meanwhile,

Far beyond the remnants of the battlefield, atop a distant mountain shrouded in mist, a lone figure stood. Cloaked in shadows and silence, the figure watched, unmoving, as if they had witnessed every heartbeat, every sorrow-laden breath exchanged between brothers. The wind carried not just the chill of winter but something more—an ancient presence, vast and unknowable, woven into the very fabric of the night.

The figure's eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood of their garment, reflecting the pale shimmer of the moonlight. There was no malice in their gaze, nor pity—only a profound understanding of the weight of fate and the cruel threads of destiny that had bound the brothers together. The mountain's silence deepened around them, as if the world itself dared not disturb the stillness of that moment.

And then, as softly as the wind itself, the figure turned away—disappearing into the mist without a sound, leaving behind only the faintest ripple in the air.

A breeze stirred gently against Yoriichi's face. Cool, soft, and faintly carrying the scent of cherry blossoms. His eyes shot open, the golden warmth of a distant sun brushing against his skin. The pain from his final battle was gone, replaced by a strange weightlessness as though his body no longer bore the scars of time and mortality.

Yoriichi stood beneath the pale moonlight, the cold wind brushing against his skin—a reminder that this was no mere illusion. Every breath filled his lungs with crisp, invigorating air, and every heartbeat resonated with newfound vitality. Yet, doubt still lingered.

'Is this a dream?'

His hand instinctively moved to his robe, fingers brushing against something small and familiar. Slowly, he retrieved it—a flute, though only half of it remained. His heart clenched at the sight.

'Brother.'

A wave of sorrow washed over him, heavier than the mountain's snow-laden winds. It was his brother's flute, the one Michikatsu had carved long ago. Even now, broken as it was, it held the essence of the bond they once shared—before envy and ambition tore them apart.

"I'll repair it someday," Yoriichi murmured, his voice carrying both promise and grief.

He tucked the flute back into his robe with delicate care, as though it might shatter further with even the slightest mishandling. The weight of the past anchored him, but the pulse of life within him urged him forward.

The mountain called to him—silent yet familiar, as if whispering secrets of forgotten memories. Each step upward was met with a strange déjà vu, a feeling that he had been here before. The crunch of snow beneath his boots echoed in the vast stillness, yet the serenity of the place felt… known.

'Why does this path feel so familiar?'

His gaze drifted across the snow-covered trees, their branches heavy with frost. The way the moonlight filtered through the pines—he had seen this before. But when? In a forgotten memory? A dream long past?

As he climbed higher, the cold no longer bit at his skin. Instead, it embraced him like an old friend. Every breath he took was filled with the essence of life—pure, untouched, and profoundly real.

'This isn't a dream.'

His senses were too sharp, his heartbeat too steady. He could feel the wind whispering through the trees and the snow melting against the heat of his palms. This was real—every step, every breath, every beat of his heart confirmed it.