The Infinity Castle shifted restlessly, its walls groaning like a living beast. Lantern light dripped across the lacquered floors, stretching shadows into long, jagged shapes. The Upper Moons stood scattered within the grand hall, each wrapped in their own menace.

Akaza’s laughter split the silence—raw, mocking, too loud for the sanctity of Muzan’s chamber. His eyes burned with defiance as he threw his words like daggers, scorning the numbered order, scorning anyone who thought themselves above him. His fists curled as though itching for a fight, his voice a growl echoing up into the vaulted darkness.

For a moment, the air itself stilled. Kokushibo did not move at first—he merely existed, a mountain of quiet pressure. His many eyes gleamed in the dimness, unblinking, unshaken. Then, with a motion too fast for sight, his hand grazed his hilt, and the sword hissed from its sheath.

A single stroke. The world seemed to lurch. Akaza staggered, blinking down at the empty space where his hand had been. Blood did not spurt; flesh did not scream. The limb simply fell away, disintegrating before it struck the ground.

The hall reverberated with the echo of Kokushibo’s voice, low and unyielding: