The void was endless.
There was no ground to stand on, no sky above. No sound, no sensation—only a silence so absolute it devoured thought itself. And yet, something remained. A flicker of rage. Of defiance. Of will.
Muzan Kibutsuji's consciousness drifted through that nothingness like a dying ember caught in the still air. His body, the perfect vessel he had cultivated for centuries, was long gone—destroyed by the united efforts of the Demon Slayers. His empire of monsters, his dream of immortality—all gone.
But hatred is a powerful thing. It can transcend flesh. It can survive even death.
Muzan did not weep. He did not regret. He seethed.
> "This cannot be the end. I will not be reduced to a memory. I am eternal..."
He repeated those words to himself in the dark, his voice not spoken, but felt in the very essence of his fragmented soul. Time passed—maybe seconds, maybe centuries. It meant nothing in the void.
And then—a pull.
At first, it was subtle, like a ripple through water. A disturbance. Muzan reached for it, instinctively drawn toward the sliver of existence. And it responded, growing stronger—until it seized him. A force unlike anything he had ever encountered gripped his essence and dragged it through the fabric of reality.
Pain followed.
Searing, unimaginable agony as his consciousness tore through the dimensions, compressed and reshaped. Then—a sudden release. Like air flooding into collapsed lungs.
And he was reborn.
---
Land of Fire – Warring States Era
A boy lay dying among the ruins of a battlefield. His body, no older than seven, was barely held together by torn armor and blood-soaked cloth. His chest had been crushed by a powerful blow—likely from a member of the Uchiha or Senju clans, who were locked in another brutal conflict.
His eyes were wide open, staring into the smoke-filled sky. His lips trembled as the last breath escaped his lungs.
Then… the body twitched.
Muscles spasmed. Bones cracked, shifted, realigned. Blood pulsed through his veins again, but it was darker—thicker. The boy's shattered ribs began to fuse, his pale skin regaining color as if rewinding time. His eyes snapped shut—and then opened wide.
Not the boy's eyes anymore.
These eyes were hollow, black pools of endless malice, rimmed in a crimson glow. He gasped—a sound that was neither human nor beast—and sat up violently.
"I live..." Muzan whispered, his voice hoarse, alien in the boy's throat. "But this... isn't my world."
He staggered to his feet, surveying the carnage. The battlefield was littered with corpses—some with headbands bearing the emblem of a fan, others with leaves or swirls. Blood soaked the earth, and chakra still lingered in the air like smoke after a fire.
Muzan inhaled sharply.
> What is this energy...?
It wasn't the familiar scent of fear, nor the pulse of human vitality he had once fed on. This was something different—elemental, living, vibrating through the air itself. Power that moved mountains, tamed flames, and bent water.
Chakra.
He extended a trembling hand, palm open, and felt it—pulsing faintly in the trees, in the wind, even in the bloodied soil beneath him. He smiled, a slow, sinister grin that stretched across his borrowed face.
> This world is ripe.
And it shall be mine.
---
One Week Later — A Remote Village
The villagers called him "Kuro."
He had wandered into their outskirts barely clothed, bloodied and dazed. They assumed him a war orphan. A kind-hearted herbalist took him in, fed him, and nursed his wounds.
But something about the child unsettled them.
He never blinked. Never cried. He watched everything—everything—with the cold scrutiny of a scientist studying ants. He mimicked their language with uncanny precision. He asked odd questions.
"Where does chakra come from?"
"Is it inherited?"
"How does one manipulate the cells in another's body using chakra?"
They laughed nervously, passing it off as curiosity. But animals refused to approach him. The shrine maiden claimed the child carried a taint. And then… people began to disappear.
It started with livestock. Then bandits who wandered too close. And finally—villagers. One by one, they vanished, leaving no trace but a faint scent of iron and the occasional smear of blackened blood.
Muzan didn't care to hide. He had learned much in those days.
This world offered him infinite potential. Chakra systems could be hijacked. Kekkei Genkai, bloodline traits—he studied them, dissected them with his newfound control over human biology. He learned how to inject his corrupted essence into a person's chakra coils and mutate them into something… else.
> Not demons.
Something more refined.
He stood beneath a red moon one night, clutching a test subject—a missing-nin from a small mercenary clan. The man screamed as black tendrils pierced his back, merging with his chakra, warping it.
When it was done, the ninja rose—eyes hollow, skin gray, voice guttural.
"My will is your command," the creature rasped.
Muzan simply nodded.
"Excellent."
---
Years Passed – Foundations of Hidden Villages
As the Senju and Uchiha drew closer to establishing peace, laying the groundwork for what would become Konoha, Muzan withdrew into obscurity. He no longer needed to roam.
He created a lair—a series of underground tunnels, built beneath the forests far beyond the reach of the Five Great Nations. There, he continued his experiments, gathering lost souls, disgraced shinobi, and orphans no one would miss. He infected them, rewrote their chakra coils, turned them into servants, spies, and weapons.
He never revealed his true name.
To some, he was the Demon Sage.
To others, the God of Cursed Flesh.
But in every whisper, every fearful legend passed between rogue clans and mercenaries, one detail remained constant:
> He could not die.
And he was building an army.
---
Present Day — Konohagakure
The Hidden Leaf Village buzzed with life.
Shinobi bustled across rooftops. Children laughed in training grounds. Chunin and Jonin patrolled the streets in teams. The scent of ramen drifted from Ichiraku's, and cherry blossoms danced on the breeze.
Yet something in the air had changed.
Naruto Uzumaki stood atop the Hokage Monument, his arms crossed, brows furrowed. He couldn't explain it, but a cold sensation had crept into his chest that morning. Not fear exactly—but awareness. Like a predator had entered the forest, silent and unseen.
"Hey," Sasuke's voice echoed beside him. "You feel it too?"
Naruto nodded slowly. "Yeah… something's wrong."
Far below them, walking among the crowd like a ghost, a man in pale robes passed unnoticed. He was tall, elegant, with long black hair and eyes that shimmered between crimson and gold. His expression was unreadable, his steps graceful. His chakra signature was masked so well that even the ANBU failed to mark him.
But he watched. Every movement. Every heartbeat. Every kekkei genkai in the blood of passing clans.
> The Uchiha.
The Hyuga.
The Uzumaki.
> This village is a garden, Muzan thought, his smile cold. And I am the gardener.
He passed a group of Genin. One child caught his eye—a boy with pale skin, wild eyes, and a faint aura of instability. Muzan paused for a moment, whispering something that only the boy heard:
"You have potential… child."
And then he vanished into the crowd.
---
Elsewhere – A Hidden Chamber
Dozens of bodies knelt before a throne carved from stone, their forms twisted by Muzan's corruption. They wore no headbands, only crimson cloaks etched with black veins.
Muzan stood before them, hands clasped behind his back.
"The world has grown complacent," he said, voice smooth as silk. "They build their towers. Form their alliances. Chase illusions of peace."
He turned slowly, crimson eyes burning.
"But we… we are the future. My blood flows through you. My will guides you. And soon…"
He raised a hand.
A ripple of dark chakra exploded from him, filling the chamber.
"…the world will know fear again."