One week after the massacre, Muzan crossed into the Land of Iron.
The journey had been uneventful by design. He had traveled with a merchant caravan making the mountain crossing, hidden among traders who never looked too closely at their fellow travelers. His chakra reserves had returned to full capacity after he had fed well before leaving the Fire Country behind. Of his seven hearts, five beat steadily in his chest while the remaining two regenerated slowly, knitting back together cell by cell deep within his torso. Each heart required enormous amounts of chakra to heal completely and the process would take weeks to finish.
The Land of Iron sprawled between three mountains that the locals called the Three Wolves. Snow covered everything in sight and ice clung to rooftops and cobblestone streets. The cold bit through Muzan's clothes with sharp teeth, but his body barely registered the temperature. His demon physiology no longer responded to heat or cold the way human flesh did.
He walked through the streets after nightfall when fewer people were outside to notice him. Yellow light spilled from windows and doorways onto the snow-covered ground. Steam rose from vents in regular puffs. People hurried past him bundled in thick furs and wool, their breath visible in the frigid air.
Muzan had never truly seen these streets before. During his time here, as a sickly human child, he had been too weak to leave his bed for more than brief periods. His memories of the Land of Iron consisted mostly of ceiling beams and the faces of doctors who could do nothing for him.
Now he could walk these streets and see them clearly. The architecture was different from Fire Country buildings, with steeper roofs designed to shed heavy snow and foundations built into the mountainside. Moonlight reflected off the snow and created a pale illumination that lit the streets almost as well as daylight would have.
Muzan passed a food stall that remained open despite the late hour. Warm light poured from inside the canvas-covered structure and steam rose from cooking pots in steady streams. The smell of cooking meat and broth drifted out into the cold air.
He stopped walking.
The smell should have been appetizing. He remembered finding such smells pleasant only a few weeks ago when he had still been human enough to eat normal food without consequences.
Now the scent made his stomach turn with instinctive revulsion. His body rejected it on a fundamental level. But he recognized the smell from his memories, recognized the warm light and the sound of people inside eating and talking in animated voices.
Part of him wanted to feel normal again, even if only for a moment.
Muzan pushed aside the canvas curtain and entered the stall.
Several men sat at low wooden tables eating and talking loudly. Their conversation filled the small space with noise that echoed off the canvas walls. A few glanced at Muzan when he entered and their eyes widened slightly at his appearance, but they quickly returned to their meals without comment.
He found an empty table near the back wall and sat down on the wooden bench.
A young boy appeared almost immediately from behind a curtain that separated the cooking area from the dining space. He couldn't have been older than twelve years and wore an apron that was too large for his frame. His eyes widened when he got a clear look at Muzan's face.
"You look really cool, mister!" the boy blurted out, then immediately flushed with embarrassment at his own outburst.
Muzan blinked in surprise. "Cool?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically despite his red face. "You just have that look, you know? Like the heroes in the stories my grandmother tells. All mysterious and strong-looking."
"I see." Muzan glanced at the menu board hanging behind the boy, though the characters blurred together and he didn't particularly care what he ordered since he wouldn't be able to keep it down regardless. "Bring me something simple then. Soup and rice would be fine."
"Right away, mister!" The boy hurried off toward the cooking area, still grinning with excitement.
Muzan turned his attention to the other customers in the stall.
Three men at the nearest table were deep in conversation that they were trying and failing to keep quiet. One of them was a heavyset man with gray streaking through his dark hair at the temples. He spoke in low, careful tones that suggested he was discussing something he didn't want overheard.
"I don't like it at all," the gray-haired man said quietly. "Shinobi fighting this close to our borders is one thing, but they're fighting inside our territory now. That's completely different."
A younger man across from him shook his head with obvious frustration. "What can any of us do about it? Lord Shinji allows it to happen. He takes their money and looks the other way when they kill each other in our streets."
"It's wrong," the first man insisted, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and lowered it again. "The agreement has always been absolutely clear. Shinobi nations don't interfere with the Land of Iron's internal affairs and we don't take sides in their conflicts. That's how it's been for generations."
"That was before everything changed," a third man said quietly while staring into his bowl. "The old ways don't seem to matter anymore."
Muzan listened without looking directly at them or giving any indication that he was paying attention to their conversation.
The food arrived quickly. The young boy set down a bowl of miso soup that steamed heavily, a plate of grilled fish that still sizzled slightly, and a bowl of white rice. The presentation was simple but the food looked fresh and well-prepared.
The smell hit Muzan immediately and his stomach turned violently. The scent that should have been appetizing instead smelled putrid and revolting, like rotting meat that someone had tried to disguise with spices.
"Enjoy your meal, mister!" The boy stood there watching him with bright, expectant eyes that clearly hoped for approval.
Muzan forced his face into what he hoped resembled a genuine smile. "It looks very good. Thank you."
The boy beamed with pride at the compliment and hurried away to help other customers.
Muzan stared down at the food in front of him. His eyes told him the meal was fresh and properly prepared, but his other senses screamed at him to get away from it immediately.
He picked up the wooden chopsticks from beside the bowl. They felt strange in his hands even though he had used chopsticks countless times before his transformation. Everything about this simple action felt foreign now.
Muzan brought a small amount of rice to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.
The texture was immediately wrong in a way that made his throat tighten. The rice felt mushy and disgusting against his tongue. The taste was even worse, like ashes that had been mixed with spoiled grain and left to ferment.
He forced himself to chew despite his body's protests. He forced himself to swallow despite the way his throat tried to close against the intrusion.
He took another bite of rice, then another, maintaining the pretense of eating normally.
The men at the nearby table continued their conversation with voices that grew slightly louder as they became more agitated.
"Three civilians died just last week," the gray-haired man said with poorly concealed anger. "They were caught in the crossfire when Earth Country shinobi fought Cloud Country shinobi near the eastern merchant district. Just ordinary people going about their business."
Muzan reached for the soup bowl and brought it to his lips. The smell alone nearly made him vomit on the spot, but he forced himself to take a sip anyway.
The liquid touched his tongue and every instinct in his body screamed at him to spit it out immediately. The taste was rancid and foul in a way that made his previous reaction to the rice seem mild by comparison.
He swallowed the mouthful of soup and felt it burn down his throat like acid.
"I heard about that," the younger man muttered while stabbing at his food with obvious frustration. "My cousin knew one of the people who died. He was just a shopkeeper who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"And Lord Shinji did absolutely nothing about it," the third man said bitterly. "He didn't even acknowledge that it happened, let alone punish the shinobi responsible or demand compensation from their villages."
Muzan set the soup bowl down with careful precision. His hands remained perfectly steady on the outside, but inside his body was staging a full rebellion against the food he was forcing into it. His stomach twisted violently and bile rose in his throat.
He reached for the grilled fish, hoping irrationally that it might be different from the other food.
It wasn't different at all.
The gray-haired man's voice dropped even lower until it was barely audible over the general noise of the food stall. "Some of the samurai tried to speak up about it. They petitioned Lord Shinji directly to enforce the old neutrality rules again and stop accepting bribes from the shinobi villages."
"What happened to them?" the younger man asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
There was a long pause before the first man responded. "They're all gone now. Some were transferred to distant outposts on the borders. Others just disappeared without any official explanation."
Muzan chewed the fish mechanically and forced each bite down his protesting throat. During his time at the Uchiha camp he had never eaten normal food at all, too focused on other concerns to notice the absence. Now he realized that another piece of his former human life had been stripped away permanently.
"Even Mifune Michikatsu hasn't been seen in months," the younger man said with obvious concern. "Not since he tried to confront Lord Shinji directly about allowing shinobi to use our territory as a battleground."
Muzan's hand tightened around the chopsticks hard enough that the wood creaked under the pressure.
"The strongest samurai in the entire Land of Iron," the gray-haired man said quietly, "and he just vanished without a trace. If that's what happens when you speak up against Lord Shinji's policies, then what chance do the rest of us have?"
The third man leaned back against the canvas wall with a defeated expression. "So we keep our mouths shut and our heads down. We survive however we can. What else is there to do?"
Muzan set the chopsticks down on the table with deliberate care.
Michikatsu Tsugikuni had been his teacher when Muzan was still a sickly child confined to his bed most days. Muzan's father had hired Michikatsu to train him in the way of the sword, believing that physical training might improve his failing health even though every doctor had said the illness was terminal. The training hadn't cured Muzan's condition, but Michikatsu had never given up on him despite the obvious futility. He had adapted the lessons to work around Muzan's physical limitations and taught him what he could about the philosophy of combat and the discipline required to master the blade, even when Muzan could barely hold a training sword for more than a few minutes without his hands shaking from exhaustion.
Michikatsu had been kind and patient in a way that few people were with dying children. He had treated Muzan like a real student rather than a lost cause or an obligation to be endured.
And he had been the primary reason that Shinji had never dared to kill Muzan and his brother Genzo outright after banishing them from the family. Michikatsu's reputation, his position as the Mifune, and his sheer presence had kept them safe from direct assassination. Shinji had feared Michikatsu's potential response too much to risk it.
Now Michikatsu was missing, presumably disappeared by Shinji just like the other samurai who had objected to the new policies.
The men at the next table had moved on to safer topics of conversation that wouldn't get them arrested or disappeared.
Muzan looked down at the half-eaten meal in front of him. His stomach was churning so violently that he could feel the food trying to come back up. His body was desperately attempting to reject the foreign matter that didn't belong in his system anymore.
He placed several coins on the table, more than the meal actually cost, and stood up from the bench.
The young boy appeared at his elbow almost immediately with an eager expression. "Was everything good, mister? Did you enjoy it?"
Muzan forced another smile onto his face even though it felt like a grimace. "Yes, it was very good. Thank you."
The boy's entire face lit up with genuine happiness at the compliment. "Then please come back anytime! I'll make sure you get the best seat in the house!"
Muzan nodded in acknowledgment and pushed through the canvas curtain back out into the cold night air.
The frigid wind hit him immediately and cut through his clothes, though he barely felt it. He walked ten paces down the snow-covered street, then twenty, putting distance between himself and the food stall.
Then he turned abruptly into a narrow alley between two buildings and vomited violently.
Everything came up at once in a painful rush. The rice, the fish, the soup, all of it expelled from his body in a series of convulsions that left him gasping. His body rejected the normal food completely and absolutely.
Muzan stood in the alley with one hand braced against the cold stone wall for support while he caught his breath. The expelled food steamed on the ground at his feet in the freezing air, creating small clouds of vapor.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the mess on the ground.
This was what he had become. Something that couldn't even successfully pretend to be human anymore. Something that found ordinary food revolting on a physical level. Something that could only survive by consuming blood and flesh torn from living bodies.
The young boy's enthusiastic voice echoed in his memory: Like the heroes in the stories.
Muzan laughed, though the sound came out harsh and bitter in the empty alley. He was no hero.
Snow had started falling again in soft, steady flakes that drifted down from the dark sky. The streets were growing emptier as the hour grew later and most people retreated indoors to escape the cold.
Muzan walked without any particular destination in mind, processing what he had overheard in the food stall.
The Land of Iron had been built on the principle of neutrality between the warring shinobi nations. Unlike the Five Great Nations whose military forces consisted of shinobi who used ninjutsu, the Land of Iron's strength came from samurai who channeled chakra through their blades rather than performing hand seals for techniques. Their traditions were older and more rigid than those of the shinobi villages.
For generations there had been an unspoken agreement between the Land of Iron and the shinobi nations. The Land of Iron remained strictly neutral in all conflicts between shinobi villages and didn't take sides or allow its territory to be used for warfare. In return, the shinobi nations didn't interfere with the Land of Iron's internal governance or try to establish military presences within its borders.
That agreement had kept the Land of Iron safe and prosperous while the shinobi nations tore each other apart in endless cycles of war.
But now Shinji was breaking that agreement for profit. He was accepting bribes from Iwagakure to allow their shinobi to use the Land of Iron as a battleground against their enemies. He was permitting fights to spill into civilian areas and ignoring the deaths of his own people. And when samurai tried to object or uphold the old traditions, they disappeared.
Even Michikatsu, the strongest samurai in the country and the one person Shinji should have feared, had vanished.
Muzan stopped walking in the middle of an empty street. Snow collected on his shoulders and in his hair while he stood motionless.
The Uchiha clan was gone, destroyed in blood and fire. That chapter of his existence had ended with Amanai's dying words: For us you will always be Uchiha Muzan.
But Muzan wasn't Uchiha anymore and he wasn't entirely human either. He was something else now, something that couldn't die through normal means, something that survived by consuming others.
He looked up at the three mountains that were barely visible through the falling snow and the darkness. The Three Wolves loomed over the capital city somewhere in that direction.
Shinji sat in his fortress counting blood money and making deals with shinobi while breaking agreements that had protected this country for generations. He had grown bold enough to make even Michikatsu disappear rather than tolerate opposition.
Muzan's hands curled into fists at his sides.
He had returned to the Land of Iron without any clear plan, driven only by a vague sense that this was where he needed to be. This was where he had been born, where he had spent his childhood dying slowly, where his brother still lived somewhere in exile.
But now a purpose was beginning to form in his mind.
Michikatsu had protected Muzan when he was weak and dying, standing between him and Shinji's ambitions without asking for anything in return. The debt had never been repaid because Muzan had been banished before he could do anything meaningful.
Perhaps it was time to settle that debt, assuming Michikatsu was still alive to be saved.
Or perhaps it was simply time to take back what should have been his from the beginning, before illness and exile had stripped everything away.
Muzan started walking again through the falling snow. His footsteps left clear prints in the fresh powder that began filling in almost immediately behind him as more snow fell.
The night stretched ahead with hours remaining before dawn would come. He had time to make plans and gather information before taking any action.
He pulled his coat tighter against the cold that he couldn't actually feel and disappeared into the dark streets.