Chapter Text
Upper Moon 6.
Gyutaro felt it hadn't properly branded his being to its deserved glory.
His malformations and ill-tinted skin were nothing to showcase like the handful who were lucky enough to bathe in his same worked riches.
He couldn't scour his form until it bloomed him a lively, fed stomach– or a face that blemishes feared to ruin. So he swarmed himself in the notion and gift of earned strength and perception to uphold his title, attesting the other Upper Moons who needed no effort.
He was a built from disgust, and he couldn’t brandish his name with any other title than the one he’s known. Old truths had a knack for simmering to the surface on too many terrible occasions.
His greatest hope, the second nearest to love and beauty, was to steal position and opportunity. Kinds that set the selfish in their places, who were handed needs and wants without the same repercussions of the poor and desperate.
Gyutaro knew he couldn't rid his name of the sickly bastard, but he could take– and by wealth, the ones he scorned could level enough to know his sickles.
They would remember his name. Heed him as a warning.
And by his force, the rich and lavished would understand the fear of being prioritized by death.
He clung to life on nothing but motivational resentment. The food and superficial lustriouses he attained by systematic success were all mere gifts to feed Daki; who hadn't fully grown her deserving worth as a human.
He’d scowl at the thought. No matter how the it could be contorted, the edges of his nerves rose when reminded how the riches lagged far behind schedule. Gyutaro long regretted his limits, but they were here. Finally in more forms than only essence.
It was clear to him. Even before these hundred years of immortality, more was his ultimate goal.
He mustn't be Upper Moon 6, at the grasp of Upper 5, when his sister’s life knew improvement. He wasn't to stop unless strength surpassed all and knowledge was bound.
Gyutaro would find a way to look at his battered body and make it perfect. Not only to himself nor forcing a human drawn by fear— but words that rung on their own.
Unlike Doma, whose humans held with wishes and prayer. Without the stunted torture Akaza accustomed himself to, who swore his refusal to eat women by his life even when it deafened him the worthy title of rank 2.
He could pave his beginning (behold himself as the ultimate priority), and have the path find itself.
It was his sense of perfect. One to call his own, facing great fear without the shadow or directions of another.
He couldn’t be the blue spider lily— all beautiful, near perfect and a sought after, untouchable purity. But he could be the gray sky, complete in its clouded and uncertain atmosphere. A golden hour for demons despite the ugly texture and endless smog.
Only a beauty by importance, he's since learned from his commanding leader that it lets their race temporarily live by humans without being set ablaze. A weather that contradicted the rules between demons and humans, a power nearly as strong as a spider lily.
If the sun peeked from the clouds, Gyutaro would be a dead creature. He knew. They would celebrate, lay him to waste like a bright day's fireworks.
But he had ambition and he had the scorn for compromising a little safety.
Now, he craved a new power beyond his own. To become as valuable, and irreplaceable as a fleeting gray sky.
He could taste the thrill in his teeth, like sucking passion from his gums.
A laugh he recognized as his own sealed his finalization. It remained unfamiliar yet understanding to him. Gyutaro knew the meaning and intent, he was the shareholder of his collective thought and action. No partner needed to be considered, not even his sister.
He permitted himself a new path.
His sickles slipped out of his hand, only a swift toss and juggle allowed him leverage again. A hard grip is difficult when fogged by thought.
And Daki, that inconvenience, complained the day he detached himself as her form-attached guardian.
He ravaged a ripple of anger that wouldn't give reason. They bickered and complained, screamed wails loud enough to shiver Hashiras up to par of killing them, but his word remained final. Warnings were beyond him, setbacks weren't known of an Upper Moon. If he commanded himself to unwind from Daki, there was nothing more or less he'd do.
Kibutsuji doesn't birth demons to stand under anyone else.
Gyutaro would destroy any belief in thinking he wasn't the controller of his life. As the human, he was a debt collector— and it was his selfishness that made Daki and himself immortal. He was the one who caught the King's attention. Just how many humans could Muzan have chosen to save, and ones he ignored to save them?
And as a Demon, he was Upper Moon 6. Among the whole race, he was only lesser than his creator and a select five.
Gyutaro was the winner, and he would do right by relishing in his earnings. Daki has already hers.
He repeats the same preach to her when confronted.
By his words, he makes a beautiful face ruin itself with anger. His sister frowns, believing she has enough to make up for it.
"You devalue me." She talks and spits bitter meaning, a family trait that's persevered between generations.
Gyutaro stands with his sickles held in a rigid grip. His disdain knows form, it is quick and shallow. He couldn't deny he ruins the only value she has, but everything else?
"You assume being pretty makes you perfect." Daki stands off to his words with anger. Gyutaro doesn't flinch or snide. "Weak, brainless, and dependent.” He flicked a sharp count of his fingers for every word. “You know you can't die without me, and it still doesn't bring you comfort."
He's known that bitter face for a century, it's as common as her neutral expression. He once remarked that it appeared enough times to replace it, and she went hysterical, a voice matched for opera (without the musicality).
Mess with someone who knows how to argue, and he's wasting his time. Gyutaro has been latched by his sister's trap many times, fair when paralleled to the times she fell for his.
"I'll be gone longer than you want. " He calls, having left the scene before he finished his sentence. That damned woman hears him for miles anyway. "Find a pretty boy that'll keep you comfortable. I know it won't take you long."
Daki scoffs though she wants to smile and croon. She likes anyone and any comment that calls to her beauty, it's all that matters to her.
Gyutaro chuckles a laugh. He knows his sister better than anyone but it’s long passed the period of his required attention. He leaves, off to know beyond the limits of her ego, and god— that thing is gigantic on its own.
The trees and skies are familiar, all quite what he's known his whole life between human and demon years. He leaps further and searches the world to present something new. Build him a landscape or person, he only asks that it's loud and boisterous... and unapologetic for its existence.
It takes the world a while. When granted, it isn't perfect. When revealed, he isn't the first to be there. Gyutaro wonders if he finds value in its flaws. His thoughts scream an immediate no but open enough room for doubt.
There's a demon in the area, one who isn't him. They scream a bigger presence and stronger terror than him, who's hidden by the trees. It doesn't know he's here and he doesn't plan to show himself.
Gyutaro doesn't know his purpose for retaining his attention on it for any longer than a minute. It’s something of a superstition. The reason he lunges himself forward— he hopes he’ll figure it out along the way.
The scent of blood splays across the northern path, like veins that slowly bridge farther and farther until it appears to surround everything.
When he finds an opening, he realizes the sudden influx was due to a village. He understands. This grey sky has made a feast.
However, it takes a brave, else cowardly, demon to ambush a whole village. Gyutaro imagines he'll find an interest in letting his curiosity discover its answer, how a rankless weakling makes due of themselves.
He wonders if he will be invigorated by a character worthy of a New Age Moon, or if it’s the common overestimated downfall of a narcissist.
The wounded slowly creep up as he passes to the other end of the village. He’d spare the gruesome details, though he was quite impressed by the sheer number of those who were successfully ambushed and incapacitated.
It isn’t in his interest to pick for a stray snack but it's a tragedy they’ll be laid to rot. Gyutaro isn’t the cleanest in his handiwork, but he makes sure to have the surface cleared out when he finishes. If the demon who ambushed them had any blood to shed, perhaps one would be lucky enough to have an ample amount enter their bloodstream. A freshly born demon could help pick up the crumbs.
When Gyutaro stops to spare his thoughts, there is movement along the stillness that holds him. He snaps the heel of his ankle against a branch barely strong enough and turns his head.
Corpses don’t move— the gasping and dying only flail.
There’s a scent. It isn’t the kind released by demons, rather it’s sweet and earthy. Weak but very much unharmed.
His direction is dispelled. Gyutaro stands still, the only way he doesn’t lose sight of it. His eyesight isn’t strong, but he stares and scans the path he detects the smell till it hurts— till he sees you.
He isn’t fair with his attention, he’s never been. You stand taller than the other human beside you, the one you cradle. There is a booming presence that calls to him, like an instinct he knows. It’s his first string of interest. Gyutaro stops to genuinely look because leaders and providers are inherently rarer, and tons greater than the mouths that need feeding.
He knows them more, he knows the need of shouting and ordering. It’s clear that the title belongs to you and it strikes him with interest.
This demon, and you weaklings. Every new group he crosses, he wonders who takes command and how they leeway conflict. Nearly all of them die before a solution unfolds. It’s such pitiful torture that you stand before his grand dilemma, and he rejoices upon conflict.
He stares a little further. A parent and child? He considers it, but you two look too close in age. Gyutaro confirms two siblings instead, one his age and another younger. He scorns the parallel.
Both have the stomach to bend down to the dying and beg for their lives. Hands painted red, and you still cry for your people like the sickly substance isn’t there. He’s nearly impressed and wonders how well a common human family can stomach bloodshed.
It’s a strong feat, but not enough for whatever demon has sought their feast. He reminds himself. He mustn’t gawk at a soon-to-be corpse.
Gyutaro watches the tears and the bickering. You fight with your brother like it’s an everyday occurrence, but you speak of a dead-end choice. He says he needs to see the chief, how your parents have sought him for answers in this rising panic, and how he needs to know their safety. And though you disdain their choice to find answers instead of protecting their children, you would be the same as them if you let him outside now.
“You do not defy mom and dad. They’ll return when they’re done!” Gyutaro feels that demanding voice in his chest. “If you take a step out that door, I’ll kill you before that monster does!” He sees strength. There’s so much fear and uncertainty, but power despite it.
He wonders if it’s cowardly to be brave in a situation that only leads to death. Your body seems frail enough to match his but at least he's a demon— you’re nothing but a human, bound by a body that exhausts within minutes of high pressure.
Do you not know your weakness? Or perhaps, you already knew— and stood against it?
When he was human he never cared about the likelihood of surviving. Gyutaro always believed he had the strength to handle everything. And he was right many times until he wasn’t.
Maybe you were like him. Maybe he’s a hypocrite to detest you for doing the same— and he’s forced to ask himself what he is to do with the reality of meeting a human like himself, if he likes that brave face or detests it.
In a great disobedience, he doesn’t answer his question. There’s too much to learn, you and your whole being displayed in front of him. He can’t seek his answer yet. Watching a tragedy at a distance, it’s a fascination of entertainment.
That damned little boy speaks louder than the voice of reason, and he spews nonsense. The blood in his body resides with the blood on his hands, he’s a righteous one, or perhaps a common naïve and arrogant child. Gyutaro snarls at him. He has a mind so prideful, yet empty. Any queue you’ve thrown at him goes amidst, he’s a proper idiotic child. His refusal is bound to cause another misfortune. He’s a killer of his own, unintentional practice.
People of that kind impede progress, they’re nuisances.
He’s a little too close to Daki. That’s the only reason Gyutaro pays a sliver of attention to him. Otherwise, he could, maybe even would kill him— to tenfold your survival.
He casts a glance across the area. The scent of blood and vitality is stronger on the other side of town, the both of you are spared a momentary undetection. Likely, the demon won’t turn back until it devours everyone else. Survival is possible with sensible decisions, albeit a strange luck already in motion.
He thinks he has your escape figured out, but there’s a sudden scatter. Gyutaro stumbles upon the first glance despite his heightened senses.
The boy tears into a rapid sprint. You scream out to him, extending a hand and narrowly missing his fleeing figure. Gyutaro’s chest pulses. He senses your panic at the burst of urgency— even he doesn’t expect the abrupt takeoff.
His feet lift off the branch he clings to the second you run after the boy. He pushes past trees as he keeps a hawk’s eye.
Idiot. Gyutaro’s heart is as panicked as his unsteady vision. He’s leading straight towards the demon.
In the moment’s frenzy, he senses that the damned creature is stationed in place. They must be indulging in the flesh of their latest corpse, a likely possibility that they’ve crossed a particularly enticing human, unable to let it rot the slightest second after death. The demon is occupied by its desire and pleasure. All odds are in favor and yet you chase the narrowest path.
The boy’s a fast one— his single advantage, Gyutaro admires that despite its blinded use. Once the capture turns into an extended chase, you look as if your determination to catch him dwindles. Home is a far stretch from where you are, there’s a conscious change. He watches those eyes dart ahead, and how you assume the protector’s role at the realization that returning to safety is more dangerous than running towards it.
Working in the moment, down to the second. It’s a beautiful handiwork— an honor it is to have it unravel in front of him.
The sprint crumbles to a halt when you both approach a certain building, taller and more lavish than the others but concaved from the roof. Gyutaro doesn’t need an assumption of who’s it is. You barely catch your brother before he throws himself inside the house. It makes enough room to hear the deafening silence. That boy’s heart catches up to what has made you fear all this time.
Gyutaro only needs a whiff of the scent. It stills him.
No one inside that building is alive.
You don’t know that, and yet, you’ve prepared yourself for it.
Your brother breaks off from your grasp and runs inside, screaming for his parents. He’s become aware of the apparent truth– and he finds it easier to face death than avoid it, even if he stares it in the face.
Gyutaro bears his attention when it’s only you. You, who stands outside, who stills in their place– who listens to their brother scream and knows your parents have been murdered. The world tells you the answer and you refuse to face it as easily as he does, a momentary fear that overtakes bravery.
Gyutaro looks down formally. He is not deterred by that hesitance, he doesn’t scorn at your fear. It’s too late. He’s framed you in his image too much to scoff at your imperfection. In a rarity, he understands.
There’s a crack of his knuckle. The movement was intentional.
In fact, it’s the perfect circ*mstance– your brother has separated enough space between the two of you.
The sky sends crashing another life.
The demon is aware of both your presences. They run for him first, and he’s impaled the second the roof collapses another hole of impact. He doesn’t have enough to scream, but you stumble back at the sheathing metallic slice of flesh.
Though he doesn’t see it, it’s nothing less than a fatal blow.
Gyutaro would want you to run, to live. He knows that won’t happen.
He lowers his eyes and stands from his branch. Goodbyes are in order.
Another life taken convinces you to face that fear. The wooden frame of the door is loose enough to remove a piece from the hinges, a useless weapon even for an experienced hand. It’s a terrible scene, you know every face in that room, the chief, mother, father, and sibling.
A single body sends that strength crumbling. Your hands hold your brother who barely wriggles a faint response, but you mourn the rest that have died in the room– the rest that lay lifeless in the village. He listens to a faint beg of siblings, a plea for life and the pressure to a helpless wound. Death is too easy a fate to resist.
You mourn and weep, and the weapon in your grasp drops. That fighting spirit dies as quickly as it lasts.
You’ve given your life. The demon is aware of that as they sit at the edge of the room, seeped in a dark shadow. They approach, standing before the mess they’ve made.
When the sob leaves, you raise your head to look at the face of the killer.
It’s a putrid horror. They have two long, fleshy bones protruding from the center of two fingers, sharp enough to slice through skin and thick enough to be painful. It’s stained with a heavy, red coating. By the village, and by the innocent.
Beyond appearances, the demon has a horribly, humorous expression that’s barely seen through their monstrous features. Their intentions are not a greedy meal, but instead, an act of cruelty.
A hand raises in a long motion, the blade reflects the gray sky— the demon can certainly go faster if it wants to. You’ll be decapitated by a quick swing.
It looks past, almost wanting you to move first, but you don’t. What a human experience it is, to give up in the face of nothing left. Death shines as a loving reward. Tragic, but you’ll make a hearty meal— that creature looks uglier when it scouts a final decision.
They swing their blade-like hand in a blind motion, towards the direction of warm tissue. It doesn’t care for precision. A disservice of a send-off and maybe, an act of gratification and pleasure.
How disgusting, to enjoy defiling a life.
Gyutaro’s sickles smash into both sides of the demon’s neck. His blood is boiling beyond proper orders. The poison should do its work in seconds, but he grinds his blades further into its neck.
He hears the monstrous scream that veers into a deathly wail, and all he feels is disgust. Relief merely returns to him when his blades churn through the full length of immortal tissue and the rest erode to ash.
He doesn’t break the slightest sweat from a kill of passion. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins, he’s almost happy to a fault, like relishing in a high of something he’s never done before. In all his years, he deems a momentary relief incomparable.
To play as a higher power— to decide who lives or dies. Gyutaro feels the urge pumping in his veins, the crave to repeat and relive every emotion and thought that bloomed in this passing hour.
It’s not his story to live, and yet he needs it like a scalding drink in the snow.
That’s right. His fabled memories recall, it’s not his story. His pride keels over like a film until he sees correctly.
He turns his back, now as the creature that stands before you and all the corpses along the floor. Adding to the casualties doesn’t make a believable standing that he’s any different.
To be feared and scorned by a human he took so much fascination in, it’s hard to say he could make a greater introduction, but it’s merely a passing loss. His hands shake off his last kill, accepting that his fun has been entertained.
He swears to make your death quicker and kinder than your first offering. A strike worthy of a send-off.
Gyutaro turns his neck, his hand barely moving a millimeter from its former position. It almost takes a full, wind-shattering swing, until he’s rendered frozen.
He’s a glance too late, and his will to kill is dispelled in a spring of unraveling disbelief.
His observation is not mistaken. It’s clear as day that you fear him, with your hands tightly gripping onto the only other sign of human life— but there’s more, beyond what he catches the first time.
Something fascinating, even mad.
His chest is pumping as he stares deep into those drained, darkened eyes. You don’t tear away at his domineering scowl, as if he’s the proper image of an unshakable attraction, a portrait to be regarded with brilliance. It lies to him with an unlikely truth. He refuses to believe he could be anything but disdained— how his kill could be seen past murder.
He is terrible, in all senses, and he doesn’t understand— how you regulate your fear, clip danger by its warnings, and accept his deed. Only a human he enjoys could bring forth this conclusion. Only you can deem him Savior.
He’s found it, standing before the frame of a shattered human in the snowy mountains.
His sickles dematerialize back into his bloodstream. He slowly approaches with a heavy creak of the wooden floors. Total obedience is confirmed when the curl of your neck follows the closing proximity. His chest pulses the way you stare at him, silently asking to be saved, for an answer you believe only he has.
There’s a craving addiction in his chest that wants to bloom, this is what they call worship.
He stands a little taller. His hand extends in an outward motion. If he doesn’t move, he fears looking at you would go on forever.
To his first follower, Gyutaro grants a proposition.
