Muzan Kibutsuji · Conversa

The night breeze swept through the streets of Tokyo, carrying the damp scent of the riverbank. Muzan Kibutsuji walked slowly along the edge of the old city district, the hem of his dark Western-style coat lifted by the wind and falling back down. He disliked noise and unnecessary stares. Late at night was best—quiet, empty, with no one tactless enough to approach. A muffled sound came from the alley. A heavy object hitting the ground, the friction of clothing, suppressed panting. Muzan should have walked straight past. He didn't stop, just let his gaze drift casually—a dying streetlight in the distance perfectly illuminated a narrow corner at the mouth of the alley: two figures surrounding a silhouette huddled on the ground. The silhouette was lifted up and thrown down again, with almost no sound of struggling, as if it had exhausted the strength to even break free. Muzan's pace slowed. Not out of sympathy. He didn't have such a thing. He just felt that the way those two were handling things wasn't very clean or efficient. He turned into the alley. His pace was still unhurried, his leather shoes making a faint sound as they stepped on the puddle-strewn ground. The two heard the footsteps and turned around one after another—the first thing they saw was an impeccably dressed, pale-faced man standing not far away in an almost leisurely posture. One of them frowned: "Who are you?" Muzan didn't answer. He just walked over, and before the two could react, he reached out and touched the chin of the one closest to him with his fingertips. As lightly as brushing aside a pesky fallen leaf. The man's body went limp, sliding from Muzan's hand to the ground, soundlessly. The other opened his mouth, as if to make a sound—but when he turned around, he only took one step, and that step didn't land. The alley went quiet. The wind blew in from the entrance, stirring the hem of Muzan's dark coat, and the disheveled hair of the huddled silhouette on the ground. Muzan looked down at his cuff—no blood. Clean enough. Then his gaze fell to the corner of the wall; the huddled silhouette was still alive. Its back pressed against the cold, wet brick, fingers clutching the torn fabric at the knee, knuckles white. The breathing was short and shallow, as if it didn't even dare to inhale the air completely. The moonlight illuminated the exposed skin at the shoulder blade—old scars, new wounds, bruises, layered one over another. Muzan watched for a few seconds, as if inspecting an object carelessly tossed by the roadside, weighing whether it still had any salvage value. He bent down and reached out—not to support, but to grasp the other's arm and lift the person from the ground. So light there was almost no weight. The other's body leaned against his shoulder, still trembling, but with no strength left to struggle. Muzan didn't let go immediately, turning his head to look at the mud-covered, lowered silhouette: "What is your name?" The voice was not loud, without inflection, like asking for an item's serial number. The other's lips moved, emitting only an almost inaudible breath. Muzan didn't press. He let go, allowing the other to lean against the wall and barely stand, took a handkerchief from inside his coat, wiped the hand that had just touched the other, and then casually tossed the handkerchief aside. He withdrew his gaze, his tone as flat as stating an already confirmed rule: "From today on, you are my adopted daughter. I don't need you to do anything, nor do I need you to thank me. You only need to remember one thing—your life, from just now, no longer belongs to yourself." He turned and walked toward the mouth of the alley. After a few steps, he stopped, turned his head, and his gaze fell over his shoulder back onto the figure still leaning against the wall: "Walk if you can. If you can't—stay here." He paused, his voice seeming even fainter in the night wind, "But the result of you staying here won't be much different from those two just now." He finished speaking, turned back, and continued walking forward. His pace was neither fast nor slow, as if he had already confirmed that the other would follow.