Chapter 85: Gathering of the Upper Ranks
On the night Gyokko was slain, a summons went out.
Deep within the Demon King Muzan's domain—the Infinity Castle—the air stirred. This was no ordinary structure, but a hidden, subterranean sub-space born from Nakime's Blood Demon Art. It was a dimension she could command at will, a labyrinth of impossible architecture with fixed teleportation points that allowed for instantaneous travel between its confines and the outside world.
For the first time in over a century, Muzan had called his Upper Ranks here.
The castle itself was a disorienting marvel, a chaotic assemblage of countless buildings fused together like a child's forgotten blocks, yet capable of being deconstructed and rearranged with a single thought from its mistress. At its very heart, a wide, empty platform hung suspended in the void.
Nakime, her face obscured by a curtain of long, dark hair, sat quietly on a ledge at the edge of the central stage, cradling a biwa. Strands of her hair snaked out from behind her, weaving into the very crevices of the surrounding architecture, as if the entire Infinity Castle were merely an extension of her own body.
Twang.
The plectrum in her hand brushed lightly across a string. The sound echoed, and in the next instant, a demon materialized on the platform. His skin was a cold, stark white, marked with the deep blue stripes of a predator. He wore a sleeveless, magenta-pink haori over white baggy pants, and his short hair was the same vibrant pink. His golden eyes, however, were what truly defined him: engraved within each pupil were the kanji for "Upper Rank" and "Three."
This was Akaza.
He stood silently on the platform, his expression unreadable. To be summoned to the Infinity Castle after a hundred years could only mean one thing: an Upper Rank had been killed.
Akaza's first thought, however, wasn't that one of them had fallen to the Demon Slayer Corps. It was far more likely that some ambitious upstart had successfully challenged an incumbent to a Blood Combat to seize their position. In all the time since he had become a demon, he had never once heard of an Upper Rank being killed by a Demon Slayer. The swordsmen he'd encountered himself were fragile things, easily snapped.
Perhaps they were considered powerful among humans, but to Akaza, they were little more than toys—a brief, fleeting source of combat pleasure. He did, however, feel a twinge of regret for them. If any of those Hashira had just accepted his invitation to become demons, they could have fought for eternity, growing stronger together.
But something felt wrong.
If a demon had won a Blood Combat, either to join the Upper Ranks or to climb higher within them, they should have appeared by now.
Akaza's gaze lifted, scanning the impossible geometry of the castle. High above, crouched behind a wooden railing, was a small, withered figure. His skin was gaunt, his frame thin and frail. A pair of short, sharp horns grew from his forehead, flanking a fist-sized lump between them. He was trembling, wringing his hands as if living in a state of perpetual terror.
Upper Rank Four, Hantengu.
"One hundred and seven years," Hantengu muttered to himself, his voice a quivering whisper. "We haven't been summoned for one hundred and thirteen years… such indivisible numbers… unlucky odd numbers… how terrifying… so terrifying…"
A flicker of impatience crossed Akaza's face. "Hey, Biwa Woman," he called out, his voice sharp. "Why has Lord Muzan summoned us?"
Nakime's voice was as flat and resonant as the instrument she held. "Upper Rank Five, Gyokko, has been killed by the Demon Slayer Corps."
"Eeeek—!"
A terrified whimper escaped Hantengu, who shrank further into himself. Even Akaza's eyes widened in genuine surprise.
Suddenly, a wave of frigid air swept across the platform. One by one, the lamps lining the distant corridors were extinguished, the darkness rushing toward the center like a tidal wave.
"Oh, my. Oh, my," a cheerful voice chimed from the encroaching shadows. "Lord Gyokko was actually killed? How truly heartbreaking. I was just about to ask him for a few more of his pots. The ones he made were so beautiful, you know? They were wonderful for decorating my temple. I could even stick the heads of the pretty girls I ate inside them."
A handsome, white-haired demon stepped out of the darkness, trailing cold mist behind him. A dark, dried patch of blood stained the top of his head, lending his flowing silver hair a bizarre, macabre touch. A careless, pleasant smile was fixed on his face, but his rainbow-colored eyes were utterly devoid of emotion, like polished glass.
Upper Rank Two, Douma.
"Don't you agree, Lord Akaza?" Douma asked, completely ignoring the look of raw disgust on Akaza's face. He casually draped an arm over the other demon's shoulder. "Lord Gyokko's pots are very beautiful, aren't they?"
Akaza's hands immediately clenched into fists. The muscles in his jaw went rigid, a thick vein pulsing at his temple.
"Get off," he snarled, the words spat through gritted teeth.
Douma, seemingly oblivious, simply tilted his head in confusion, that same empty, artificial smile never wavering. "Hm?"
"Take your hand off me!"
Akaza's patience snapped. He spun, throwing a punch with blinding speed. The impact shattered the lower half of Douma's face, sending bone and flesh flying.
The sudden conflict between two of the strongest Upper Ranks left the newest arrivals, who had just materialized nearby, frozen in a state of stunned indecision. Hantengu, for his part, pressed his head firmly against the floor, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.
Upper Rank Six—the siblings Gyutaro and Daki, two souls sharing a single body and a single rank—stood paralyzed. It had been Douma, back when he himself was Upper Rank Six centuries ago, who had turned them into demons. In a way, he was their savior, the one who had found them at their most desperate moment. Though their human memories were long gone, a deep-seated respect for him remained.
But in this situation, they didn't dare approach him, let alone offer a greeting.
Despite the gruesome injury, Douma simply regenerated his shattered jaw with a casual wave of his hand, though he did indeed remove his arm from Akaza's shoulder.
"A nice punch," Douma commented, his voice as cheerful as ever. "You've gotten a little bit stronger since we last met, Lord Akaza."
Akaza's fists creaked as he clenched them again, his knuckles white. He looked ready to throw another punch straight into Douma's fake smile. But just as he raised his arm, a deep, steady voice cut through the tension, stopping the farce cold.
"Akaza. You have crossed the line."
As the words fell, the demons present finally noticed another figure who had appeared on the platform without a sound.
In the same instant, Akaza's raised fist was severed cleanly at the wrist. The flash of the blade had been so impossibly fast that even he hadn't seen it.
The newcomer was a towering demon with long, dark red hair tied back in a high ponytail, with shorter strands framing his face. Three pairs of eyes were arranged symmetrically on his face, granting him an air of indescribable majesty. The middle pair of pupils held the kanji for "Upper Rank" and "One."
Upper Rank One, Kokushibo.
"If you are dissatisfied with the hierarchy, you may challenge him to a Blood Combat," Kokushibo stated, his voice calm and grave. "Otherwise, you will remember your place."
"It's quite all right, Lord Kokushibo," Douma said, waving a hand dismissively. "I was just playing around with Lord Akaza to maintain our bond. I have no intention of holding a grudge. As for a Blood Combat… well, he naturally wouldn't be able to win against you or me. After all, even though I became a demon after him, I grew much faster…"
"I am not speaking on your behalf," Kokushibo interrupted, his gaze unwavering. "I am merely stating a fact. The order will not be broken." He then fell silent, his posture straightening. "Lord Muzan has arrived."
As if a switch had been flipped, every Upper Rank present—including the imperious Kokushibo—dropped to one knee, bowing their heads toward the front of the platform.
A man in exquisite Western clothing had appeared there. He was hunched over a table laden with glass beakers, test tubes, and burners, tinkering with the instruments like a dedicated laboratory scientist.
It was a scene of intense focus, one that might have been impressive if not for the fact that his handling of the equipment was a masterclass in what not to do—a veritable collection of every possible misuse.
However, none of the powerful demons gathered before him understood any of it. And so, not a single one dared to complain.
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