Chapter Text
[Volume 1, Chapter 1 – Rebirth of The Scorned King]
Rejection.
It was funny, really. Muzan was very intimate with that word. Far too much for his liking. It followed him since the day he was spat out into this world, and from that day forward, it haunted him like a shadow—always behind him, always reminding him that he wasn’t made for this world.
From birth, life rejected him, but he forced his way into being—forced the world to acknowledge his existence. The result of his insolence was that his body was far too frail—bones too weak, blood too thin, and flesh so tender that even the faintest of cuts would spell out his doom. Every doctor within the country that was willing to see him had told his family that he would not live past twenty years old.
Most people when they were told that they wouldn’t get to live past early adulthood, would shrink into themselves and allow themselves to wither away and die.
But not Muzan.
Muzan rejected that notion totally and utterly.
His parents, bless their souls, had done everything they could for him. They fetched every doctor from across the world to try and help him. To make him strong. To make him a true heir to the Kibutsuji Clan. But no matter what medicine those doctors gave him, no matter what combination of drugs that were forced down his throat, nothing would make him whole.
His parents despaired at that fact, and lost all hope for him. But Muzan refused to kowtow to fate. He would not die. So, despite his family telling him to give up and to accept his fate, Muzan continued to allow doctors to approach him.
Each doctor gave a unique method to try and cure his ailment, but nothing would bear fruit. Nothing would heal his rapidly failing body. It got to the point that upon his nineteenth birthday, Muzan had begun to even accept snake oil salesmen to approach the door to see if they could heal him. Not even they could do it.
On the evening of his twentieth birthday, when his body had mostly failed him leaving him bedridden, the last doctor in a line of snake-oil salesmen approached him with a supposed cure-all medicine created out of a flower that was said to only exist on Mount Kumotori. That flower was The Blue Spider Lily, which was known for having healing properties if fully consumed alongside a concoction of drugs.
Muzan only ever consumed half of the drug before killing the doctor after being told that he had to wait an extra day to take the other half, and said other half had yet to be prepared. Because of his lack of patience, he had doomed himself.
Or, so he thought.
Because when he killed the doctor, some of the doctor’s blood had made its way into his mouth.
Perhaps it was because of the doctor’s blood mixing with the drugs and the blue spider lily that had turned him into what he became. Perhaps it was the gods punishing him for acting like a petulant child. But whatever the case might have been, all Muzan knew was this: He had become a demon. A monster of myth. A beast that wore the flesh of a human and consumed them by the dozen. A fate worse than death, some might say. But to Muzan, it had been a true gift. No longer was he weak. No longer was he frail. No longer would he die at the young age of twenty.
He would live forever!
Or so he wished.
The sun scorned him. Humanity feared him. The life he wanted to lead was robbed from him. Coupled with the unquenchable desire to consume flesh, Muzan fled his estate, but not before slaughtering his entire clan, save for one child, and disappearing into the night—after all, it was his clan that had birthed him in that frail, weak state. They were to blame for his fate.
Over the months, he learned that by consuming others, he would gain more power. So, that was exactly what he did. He would consume, devour, and gain strength by night, recover by day, and repeat the process. For five years, he lived by those instincts. Like a beast hunting prey. Until, one day, he learned that he could turn others to his kind by sharing his blood.
It didn’t take long for Muzan to realize that he had become something more than a regular demon. While demon’s could not reproduce naturally—which he had attempted to do once or twice before eventually giving up—they could reproduce by having their blood inserted into either a corpse or a living person.
Muzan would proceed to amass an army of demons who were loyal to him and him alone. Granted, his army was not meant to take over Japan, but rather, his goal was to strike fear into humanity—to show them that they were the weak ones. That they were the ones who should fear an early death, not him.
To Muzan, it was the ultimate revenge.
Humanity had birthed him a weak body, and turned him into this thing. But instead of disappearing and becoming nothing more than a folktale, Muzan wanted to keep humanity on their toes. To make them watch their every step, to fear every shadow, and doubt their neighbours and family.
From that day forth, Muzan Kibutsuji became The Demon King.
For 500 years, from the Heian Era to the Sengoku Era, Muzan lived as he pleased. Killing, eating, turning, and terrorizing towns. A group of people calling themselves The Demon Slayer Corp popped up around the Kamakura Era and the Muromachi Era to kill him and his demons. While a few of them had killed some of his weaker demons, none of them ever came close to those who he had dubbed The Upper and Lower Moon’s, let alone himself.
All except for one, and that man had two titles. The one the slayers gave him, and the one Muzan gave him.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni, The Sun Breather. The very first to invent breathing styles—the bane of Muzan’s existence. The man who struck fear into The Demon King. The man who made the once proud and boisterous Muzan Kibutsuji a meek, pathetic creature, and forced him into hiding.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni, The Great Bastard. Demon to demonkind. Wretch and terrorizer of The Demon King and all those who would serve his majesty. The man who would eventually pave the way for a new era of Demon Slayers more powerful than the last, forcing demonkind to lurk in the shadows.
He and those who followed him wove fear into Muzan’s many hearts, prompting him to go even as far as turning Yoriichi’s brother into a demon. Even when Yoriichi died, Muzan still feared him. Still looked over his shoulder whenever he stepped outside, waiting for when Yoriichi would turn the corner and hunt him just as he had all those years ago.
It instilled a great fear into Muzan, and that fear was what eventually led to Muzan making the worst mistake of his entire life.
He created The Second Coming of Yoriichi.
He created Tanjiro Kamado.
Not literally, of course. But the simple action of killing the Kamado family out of paranoia due to their connection with Yoriichi caused a domino effect, which led to his current situation—his death.
Muzan had been killed—his body poisoned and burnt by the sun, but not before throwing a final Hail Mary in an attempt to stay alive. He infected Tanjiro with his blood in a vain attempt to turn him into his successor—to create a secondary Demon King, one more powerful than the last, and usurp his body in order to achieve his life-long desire of finally basking in the sun.
And yet, despite his words of temptation—despite his desperation and his pathetic final pleas for mercy, Tanjiro rejected him. He purged the blood, and had somehow managed to cure himself of the infection using reverse-engineered demon blood, created by Tamayo.
Muzan should have known that was what would have happened.
Muzan should have known that Tanjiro would have chosen humanity over demonkind.
And so, as he had so often encountered, for the third and final time, life rejected Muzan Kibutsuji. A man who feared death, only having ever wanted to live. A man who, despite his many, many faults, only wanted to have a chance at a normal life.
Muzan’s soul fell into the fiery pits of hell—the place where he belonged. All demons were sent to hell, ne’er to return to the land of the living. They were not even given the chance to reincarnate, for they had forsaken their natural born lives to become monsters.
He felt the fires of hell encircling him, closing in, the crimson flames caressing his very soul. It burned worse than even the flames of the sun. He tried to reach out towards the light as he plummeted further and further into the abyss, but to no avail.
Muzan tried to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with a concoction of various emotions and feelings—anger, sadness, remorse, hatred, longingness—widened the further he got from the light of life.
It was ironic. When he was alive, he awoke on a bed of flowers ready to be cremated. In death, he was surrounded by the very same flames. The flames of death. His mind raced with various thoughts, but the one that kept circling back to him was a thought that he had never once had up until now.
What would be his legacy, if any at all?
Humanity never believed demons existed. Demon’s were seen as nothing more than fairytales, even during his time alive. He lived as he had died, an afterthought, rejected by society and the world. His family, for as much as they had cared for him, never tried to get to know him. The Ubuyashiki Clan, the descendants of The Kibutsuji Clan, despised him as much as he despised them.
The only ones who would be left to tell his tale would die before they reached thirty.
Then, it dawned on him. What would come of him and his memory.
He would be forgotten in the annals of history. Everything he had worked to accomplish and achieve would be buried. His name, face, identity, and work would be left to rot. His very existence would never be remembered, and his actions would only become folklore for his country.
And as he fell deeper into the fiery pits of hell, as his soul burned away into nothingness, the words of Kaguya wormed their way into his mind.
“I know what eternity is. Eternity is human feeling. Only human feelings last forever and are undying. My death will not be insignificant. If anything, it will only further boost their morale. For the first and last time, thank you, Muzan.”
Kaguya’s final words ate at him, just as the flames of hell were destroying him, and while at first Muzan believed Kaguya was mocking him, the truth was rather simple. Kaguya had seen him for what he had been. A man who was lost. Lost and without a purpose. Stumbling in the dark, trying to find meaning in life.
Kaguya, despite his hatred, did not reject him. Instead, Kaguya tried to understand him, and in that understanding, he had found the answer that Muzan had been longing for.
Kaguya, a human, had found an answer for eternity.
Memories.
Memories that would not exist of Muzan.
The Demon Slayers had accomplished their goal. They purged him of life and eternity.
The fires of hell crawled over his soul, dragging him deeper and deeper, smothering him, forcing him deeper into hell.
No…
This would not do.
Muzan’s arm breached the hellfire, heavily burned and covered in welts and rotting flesh. His claws hooked onto something, as he dangled off what his heavily damaged eyes could recognize as a small tear in the abyss.
With a herculean effort, Muzan swung his other arm toward the tear in the abyss that was hell, and tore it open more.
He would not be forgotten!
He was Muzan Kibutsuji!
He was The Demon King!
He was Eternal!
He was Perfection!
Muzan pulled with all of his might, ripping his still burning soul from the fires of hell, pulling himself toward the light he had made for himself. Just as he had been born in flames, he would be reincarnated from the depths of hell itself.
Whoever said that demons could not reincarnate was a fool. They had clearly never met him before. He refused to be rejected.
“Damn you!” Muzan roared, cursing himself as he pulled. His mutilated and burned body was crumbling, falling apart at the seams. If even just a sliver of his existence poured through, that was more than enough to grant him a second chance.
He reached his heavily burned hand into the light as he could feel his skin tearing apart. Muscle tore and bones began to crack as the hell fire tried to absorb him back into the flames, but as his hand breached the abyss and touched the light, a wicked smile plastered itself on Muzan’s face.
The fires roared, burning brighter than before, but that was fine with him. From the elbow down, his arm broke off, before sliding into the light. A victorious laugh echoed throughout the abyss as he was plunged deeper and deeper into the flames.
“I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN!” Muzan shouted, the flames overtaking him as he cackled victoriously. “DID YOU SEE THAT, KAGUYA! DID YOU SEE MY TRIUMPH! EVEN IN DEATH, I AM ABOVE YOU!”
And triumph he did.
Because as that arm drifted about in the light, it began to twitch, shrinking down to the size of an infants arm and healing, before that arm grew the rest of its body. A small, healthy baby boy. As that baby drifted toward another, brighter light, parts of itself began to change. Tips of fingers were replaced by sharp claws, and the baby’s jaws strengthened to give it the capability to chew through human bones.
The babies teeth sharpened, and its sense of smell strengthened. Multiple hearts appeared within its body, all placed throughout in various locations, although smaller than the main heart. With that came multiple smaller brains attached to those hearts—a life insurance of sorts, in case the main heart and brain was to be destroyed.
Finally, the last change made just before the baby reached the light, was a crucial change. One that would alter the baby from now unto forever—even moreso than it was already altered.
There was a common saying that every living being knew instinctively.
The newer generation was always superior than the previous generation. It did not matter if it was a biological organism or a manufactured product. Advancements were always better.
And this was no different.
Because when Muzan died, and when his soul clung desperately onto Tanjiro as he had turned into a demon and conquered the sun, a bit of that power had passed down to Muzan.
And that power had passed down to this newborn demon.
The power to reject the sun’s damnation.
This newborn demon would be able to exist under the preview of the very thing that Muzan sought to conquer.
And as that baby crossed over from the light of life into the world of the living, surrounded by the sounds of beeping machines and extremely bright light, the baby began to cry—a sign of life. The male doctor that held the baby in his gloved hands announced the baby’s delivery, as the mother of the baby let out a tired cry of joy.
The wet nurse carefully took the child from the doctor, and passed the boy to its mother. The mother soothed the child, putting him close to her chest. The child, recognizing its mothers heartbeat, quietened down. The loud noises slowly disappeared, and the only thing the infant focused on was the breathing and heart beat of his mother.
And while the baby could not understand what the mother was saying, it did pick up one thing. A thing that sounded like a name.
“Izuku—”
Izuku… Izuku… The infants name was Izuku.
It was often said that a name was what completed the soul. Just as this newborn infant had been created from the remnants of a man who had been the supposed pinnacle of life, this newborn’s name reflected that previous purpose, even if it did not know that yet.
It wasn’t long after Izuku received his name, that his eyes began to open.
They were expecting something normal.
But Izuku was not normal.
Unlike so many children before him, Izuku’s pupils were not soft and round like most human eyes, which was something that the doctors and the mother had expected.
Izuku’s eyes were sharp, and cat-like. Piercing and frightening.
And, what was even more bizarre, was that Izuku’s eyes were not green like his mother’s, nor were they brown like his father’s.
They were a bright crimson red—the same shade of colour as blood.
Words were thrown—words that Izuku did not understand. But what he did understand was the strange, yet welcoming look on his mother’s face. A face with bright green eyes, soft round pupils, and a youthful glow to her expression. Emerald green hair framed her face and draped over her shoulders, and her lips were turned up in a smile.
Her mouth opened, and sounds came out that Izuku didn’t understand. The only thing that Izuku understood was his name being spoke back to him. His clawed hand reached out at his mother, and as his mother stuck a finger into his tiny little hand.
A curious sound fell out of his mouth, which prompted his mother to make a sound that echoed with joy. Izuku had only been alive for a few minutes, but as far as Izuku had been concerned, his mother was someone who he knew he could trust.
And, as far as Inko Midoriya was concerned, regardless of how her son appeared, and regardless of his eyes, she knew that Izuku destined for greatness. After all, that was why she gave him that name. His name, Izuku Midoriya, was supposed to mean that he was destined for greatness, like what all mothers wanted of their children.
But whether or not Izuku, his mother Inko, or the doctors in the hospital room knew it or not, the reality of the situation and the implications of Izuku’s birth had not dawned on them.
Because for the first time in two-hundred years, a demon was created.
Now, in The Era of Peace brought about by All Might, where the world had long forgotten about the scourge that was demonkind, in an era where nicherin blades and their creation was long since forgotten by the communities that had once produced them, and in an era of Quirks, demonkind would once again encroach on humanity.
And this time, it would not go away.
This time, it would not be forgotten.
[To Be Continued]