Muzan woke to complete darkness.
His neck throbbed where the intruder had struck him. The pain pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, sharp and insistent. He tried to lift his hand to touch the injury but his arm wouldn't move properly. His wrist was bound to something.
He blinked several times, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The darkness remained absolute. Not even a sliver of light penetrated whatever space held him.
The air was thick and stale. It carried the sharp tang of human waste mixed with something else that made his stomach turn. Rotting meat, maybe. Or old blood.
Muzan's breathing quickened. His chest tightened as panic clawed at the edges of his mind. He forced himself to take slower breaths, counting each one. Panic would kill him faster than whatever was happening here.
His bound wrists were tied to a post behind him. Rough rope dug into his skin. He tested the binding carefully and found no give in the knots. The post itself felt like wood, thick enough that his fingers couldn't wrap around it even if his hands were free.
Something shifted in the darkness nearby. Muzan froze.
"You're awake," a voice said. Male, older, with a rasp that suggested a damaged throat. "Stay quiet. They'll hear you."
"Who are you?" Muzan kept his voice to a whisper.
"Nobody important. Just another prisoner."
Muzan's eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness. He could make out vague shapes now. The space was small, maybe ten feet across. Several other figures sat against the walls, all bound like him. He counted six, though there might have been more in the corners he couldn't see.
"Where are we?"
"Underground somewhere. They brought us here after they attacked our village." The man coughed, a wet sound that rattled in his chest. "That was three days ago. Maybe four. Hard to tell time in the dark."
Three or four days. Muzan's village had been attacked tonight. Or what he thought was tonight. He had no way to know how long he'd been unconscious.
"What do they want with us?"
The man was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped even lower. "Sacrifices. For their god. Jashin, they call him."
Muzan remembered the intruder's words. Lord Jashin will be pleased. The religious fervor in those purple eyes.
"How many of us are here?"
"In this room? Eight now that you're awake. But there are other rooms. I've heard voices through the walls. Lots of voices." The man shifted position and chains rattled. "They're collecting people from multiple villages. Building up for something big."
Muzan's heart stuttered in his chest. The familiar coldness spread through his ribs as the rhythm broke. He counted the seconds, forcing himself to stay calm. One. Two. Three. His vision started to blur. Four. Five. Six.
His heart restarted with a painful thump. Air rushed back into his lungs.
"You all right?" the man asked.
"I'm fine." Muzan leaned his head back against the post. His whole body felt weak. The brief interruption had drained what little energy he had. "My heart stops sometimes. It's a condition I was born with."
"That's rough. Especially in a place like this."
"How long do we have?" Muzan asked. "Before they use us for whatever they're planning."
"No idea. They bring food once a day. Scraps, mostly. Just enough to keep us alive. They took two people yesterday. Dragged them out screaming." The man's voice hardened. "They didn't come back."
Muzan thought of Genzo. The old man's blood still stained his robes. He could feel it, stiff and dry against his skin. The memory of Genzo's final smile made his chest ache worse than his failing heart.
Genzo had sacrificed himself for nothing. Muzan was going to die here anyway, in the dark, fed to some madman's god.
"Have you tried to escape?" Muzan asked.
The man laughed, a bitter sound with no humor in it. "Look around. We're bound, underground, and they've got people who can move faster than the eye can track. Even if we got loose, where would we go? These tunnels probably go on for miles."
"So we just wait to die."
"Unless you've got a better idea."
Muzan didn't. His body could barely function under normal circumstances. Bound in darkness, with no food or water, he'd be dead within days even if the cultists never came for him.
Time passed. Muzan had no way to measure it. His heart stopped twice more in what felt like an hour. Each time took longer to restart. Each time left him weaker.
Other prisoners occasionally spoke in whispers. Most stayed silent. A woman was crying softly somewhere to his left. A child whimpered and an adult voice shushed them.
The door opened without warning. Light flooded the space, painfully bright after so long in darkness. Muzan squeezed his eyes shut against the glare.
Footsteps entered. Multiple people. Their shadows fell across Muzan's closed eyelids.
"This batch looks weak," a voice said. Different from the grey-haired intruder, but with the same casual cruelty. "Are you sure they'll last until the ceremony?"
"Lord Hidan said to collect as many as possible. Quality doesn't matter for the ritual." Another voice, female this time. "We just need the numbers."
"When is the ceremony?"
"Three more days. We're still waiting on the last batch from the eastern villages."
The footsteps moved around the room. Muzan risked opening his eyes to slits. Two figures stood in the doorway holding torches. One was a man with a shaved head and ritual scarring across his face. The other was a woman with long dark hair tied back in a severe braid.
They were examining the prisoners like livestock.
The woman stopped in front of Muzan. She crouched down and grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. Her fingers were cold and strong. She studied his face with the detached interest of someone evaluating meat at a market.
"This one's sick," she said. "Look at his eyes. Yellow tinge. And he's emaciated."
"Will he survive three more days?"
"Maybe. If we give him extra rations." She released Muzan's chin and stood. "Though I'm not sure why we'd bother. He looks like he's dying anyway."
"Every sacrifice counts toward the goal. Lord Hidan was very specific about the numbers."
The woman shrugged. "Your call. But don't blame me if this one dies before we can use him properly."
They moved on to inspect the other prisoners. Muzan kept his head down, trying to make himself as unremarkable as possible. His heart was racing again, pushing too hard against his damaged ribs.
After a few minutes, the two cultists left. The door slammed shut and darkness returned.
"Three more days," the older man whispered. "Now we know."
Three days. Muzan tried to imagine surviving that long in these conditions. His body was already failing. Without Genzo to help him eat, without proper rest, his heart would give out completely soon.
Maybe that would be better. Dying on his own terms instead of being sacrificed to some blood god.
But something in him resisted that thought. Some stubborn core that had kept him alive for twenty years against all medical predictions. The same part that had made him argue with Genzo about who should die first.
He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not bound in the dark, alone except for strangers, with Genzo's sacrifice meaning nothing.
The door opened again several hours later. A different cultist entered, carrying a bucket. He moved down the line of prisoners, dropping handfuls of rice and dried fish in front of each person.
When he reached Muzan, he paused. "The sick one. You get double rations. Orders from above."
He dropped two portions on the ground in front of Muzan and moved on.
Muzan stared at the food. His hands were still bound behind him. He couldn't reach it.
"Need help?" the older man asked.
"Please."
The man shuffled closer, chains scraping against stone. His hands were bound in front of him, giving him more mobility. He picked up pieces of rice and fish and held them to Muzan's mouth.
"Eat slow. Your stomach won't handle it if you rush."
Muzan took small bites. The rice was stale and the fish tasted rancid, but his body needed the fuel. He managed about half the portion before his throat rebelled and he had to stop.
"That's better than nothing," the man said. He shuffled back to his original position.
"Thank you," Muzan said.
"We're all in this together. Might as well help each other while we can."
The hours crawled past. Muzan drifted in and out of consciousness. His heart stopped and restarted four more times. Each episode left him gasping, his vision swimming with dark spots.
Other prisoners slept or wept or sat in silence. The child cried periodically until exhaustion took them. The woman's sobs eventually faded to quiet sniffles.
Muzan thought about Genzo. About his father. About the life he should have had if he'd been born healthy. All of it felt distant now, like memories from someone else's existence.
The door opened again. This time there were more footsteps. More voices.
"Time to move them," someone said. "Lord Hidan wants everyone gathered in the main chamber."
Cultists entered and began cutting the prisoners' bonds. They pulled people to their feet roughly, not caring if they stumbled or fell. Muzan tried to stand when they cut his ropes but his legs wouldn't hold him. He collapsed immediately.
A cultist grabbed him by the arm and hauled him upright. "Walk or be dragged. Your choice."
Muzan forced his legs to move. Each step felt like pushing through deep water. His muscles trembled with the effort. The cultist kept a grip on his arm, half-supporting and half-dragging him forward.
They emerged into a tunnel lit by torches mounted on the walls. The sudden light made Muzan's eyes water. He squinted against the glare, trying to see where they were going.
The tunnel stretched ahead, carved roughly from stone. Water dripped from the ceiling and pooled on the uneven floor. Other prisoners shuffled along in a loose line, all moving in the same direction.
They walked for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Muzan's legs gave out twice. Each time the cultist hauled him back up and shoved him forward.
Finally the tunnel opened into a massive chamber. Muzan's breath caught in his chest as he took in the scale of it.
The space was easily a hundred feet across, with a ceiling that disappeared into darkness above. Multiple tunnels branched off from the main chamber like spokes on a wheel. Torches lined the walls, casting flickering shadows across intricate symbols painted in what looked like dried blood.
In the center of the chamber stood a tree. It was ancient and withered, its bark grey and cracked. Leafless branches spread overhead like skeletal fingers. The tree seemed wrong somehow, like it shouldn't exist this far underground without sunlight or water.
Circles were painted on the floor around the tree. Seven of them, each large enough to hold a dozen people. The symbols within the circles matched the ones on the walls.
Other prisoners were already being herded into the circles. Muzan counted quickly and stopped when he reached eighty. There were probably more he couldn't see from this angle.
The cultist dragging Muzan shoved him toward the nearest circle. "Get in and stay put. Anyone who tries to leave gets killed immediately."
Muzan stumbled into the circle. Other prisoners crowded around him, all wearing the same expression of terrified resignation. The older man from his cell was pushed in beside him.
"This is it," the man whispered. "This is what they've been building toward."
More prisoners poured in from the other tunnels. The circles filled rapidly until each held at least fifteen people. Muzan's count reached over a hundred before he lost track.
A figure appeared on a raised platform near the tree. Even from this distance, Muzan recognized the grey hair and purple eyes. The man who had killed Genzo. Asahara, the others had called him.
Asahara spread his arms wide and his voice echoed through the chamber. "Welcome! Welcome to you all! Today is your lucky day! Today you will all gain eternal peace. Your task is simple—surrender yourselves to Lord Jashin!"
His smile was the same manic expression from that night. Religious fervor burned in his eyes like fever.
"We have gathered one hundred souls here today. One hundred offerings to our glorious god. Your deaths will not be meaningless. Through your sacrifice, Lord Jashin will grant us his blessing!"
A cultist near Muzan's circle stepped forward. He pointed at the painted symbols beneath their feet. "Everyone remain inside the circles. Those who try to flee will be executed immediately."
No one moved. Where would they run? The chamber had only one obvious exit and it was blocked by cultists.
Muzan's heart was hammering against his ribs. Too fast, too hard. The familiar coldness spread through his chest. Not now, he thought desperately. Not now.
But his heart didn't listen. It stopped, leaving him gasping for air that his lungs couldn't properly use.
The older man grabbed his shoulder. "Breathe. Just breathe."
Muzan tried. His vision blurred at the edges. Black spots swam across his sight. The sounds of the chamber faded to a dull roar.
His heart restarted. The world rushed back in a wave of sensation. He sucked in air, his whole body shaking.
"Still with us?" the man asked.
Muzan nodded weakly. He didn't trust his voice.
Asahara had produced a knife. He held it up for everyone to see, the blade catching torchlight. "The ritual requires blood. The blood of the faithful to awaken what sleeps below. The blood of the offerings to feed what hungers."
He drew the blade across his palm without hesitation. Blood welled up and dripped onto the platform beneath his feet. He walked to the tree and pressed his bleeding hand against the trunk.
The tree shuddered.
Muzan felt it through the stone floor. A tremor that started small and rapidly grew stronger. The symbols painted in the circles began to glow with a faint red light.
"It's beginning," someone in the crowd whispered.
The tree shuddered again. Cracks appeared in its trunk, spreading like lightning across the grey bark. Something moved beneath the surface of the wood, bulging outward.
Roots burst through the floor around the tree's base. They erupted from the stone with enough force to send chips of rock flying. The roots were thick as a man's arm, dark and twisted like veins turned inside out.
They writhed in the air like serpents, searching for something.
Then they found it.
The roots shot toward the circles with horrifying speed. They crossed the distance in seconds, whipping through the air with audible cracks.
People screamed. The crowd in Muzan's circle surged backward, pressing against the painted boundary. But there was nowhere to go.
The first root wrapped around a man near the edge of the circle. It coiled around his chest and squeezed. The man's scream cut off as his ribs cracked under the pressure. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
More roots struck. They grabbed people indiscriminately, wrapping around limbs and torsos. Bones snapped with sounds like breaking branches. Blood pooled on the floor, running into the painted symbols and making them glow brighter.
The older man shoved Muzan behind him. "Stay down!"
But there was no protection against this. The roots were everywhere, moving with purpose. They dragged struggling prisoners toward the tree, ignoring their screams and pleas.
A root shot toward Muzan. He tried to dodge but his legs wouldn't cooperate. His body was too weak, too slow.
The root wrapped around his waist and lifted him off the ground. The pressure was immediate and crushing. Muzan gasped as the air was forced from his lungs. He grabbed at the root with his hands but couldn't get any purchase on the smooth surface.
The root pulled him toward the tree. He could see other prisoners already there, wrapped in layers of roots, their blood being drained into the trunk through countless thorns that had pierced their skin.
This was how he would die. Not from his disease, not from his failing heart, but fed to some underground abomination while cultists watched and cheered.
The root squeezed harder. Muzan felt something crack in his chest. Pain exploded through his ribs. He tried to scream but had no air left in his lungs.
His vision darkened. Not the familiar darkness of his heart stopping, but something deeper. Something final.
The last thing he heard was Asahara's laughter echoing through the chamber, mad and triumphant.
Then there was nothing at all.