Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes he'd see flashes of light. He'd have visions of the sun's warm embrace, a gentle smile upon a stranger's face. At times he’d hear the faint sound of a sickly man coughing. He even heard a young woman's voice, pleading with him from some far-off astral plane, her voice sweet like the chime of bells to his ears…

He'd reach towards her, arms stretching desperately for the golden light that surrounded her distant figure.

But then just as she came, she would disappear. The warmth gave way to a clammy coldness that he despised. Darkness would come rushing in, clawing at his body and pulling him back down into the depths of his hellish existence.

Who were these people? And why did they draw him in, captivate him, like an ant to an opened jar of honey?

Yet the moment he'd try to recall, the memories would be torn away from his grasp, leaving him with nothing but the few scraps and whispers he held in his hands.

And he would scream, bellow, curse the gods for giving him such a fate. Why would they test him? Give him a taste of the heavens, so close that they were nigh tangible, and then rip them away? Was this a kind of punishment? What had I ever done to deserve this? He would cry, lifting his face to the inky abyss he now called a sky. He tried to claw his way to the surface where he knew the light would be, but every time the darkness would pull him back down.

He would drown every time. Inky darkness poured into his open mouth, smothering his screams and cries for help. He could feel himself choking, his lungs filling with the shadows that haunted him, cutting off the air that he needed. And every time, he could feel his mind turning foggy and cold with despair.

He could not even remember his own name, much less that of the woman he heard plead with him almost every day. Defeated, he let the darkness claim him as his master's voice echoed through the abyss, accepting the fate it bestowed upon him:

AKAZA

And his eyes would open once again, all memories dissipating as the darkness cheered for their victory once again.

The cycle would repeat whenever he’d allow himself to rest. It was an endless loop of hope and despair. Each time, the visions grew more vivid, more tantalizing. He could almost taste the sunlight on his skin, and feel the gentle caress of a breeze he couldn't remember ever experiencing. 

The woman's voice became clearer, her words almost decipherable.

 Come back to us, she seemed to say. We're waiting for you.

I don’t know you. Akaza would speak, his voice echoing in the shadowy landscape of his mind. He was one of the fated demons, one of the strongest of even the strongest of his kind. Why would he give up the gift of power his master had blessed him with for some woman whose face he couldn’t even recall?

The darkness, ever-present, seemed to pulse with malevolent glee at his confusion. It whispered to him in the voice of his unseen master, promising power, promising purpose. 

Forget them, it would hiss. They are nothing. You are mine.

And yet, even as he surrendered to the inky void, a part of him rebelled. A tiny spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished. It clung to the scraps of memory, to the echoes of that woman's voice, to the warmth of a sun he couldn't recall seeing. The fragments of a past churning like a pot soon to boil over.

It was weakness, his demonic heart shouted to him. Each beat of that accursed organ sent waves of burning shame through his veins, scalding him from within. He was different than those pitiful humans who died off like flies in the summer heat. While they were bound to a mortal existence inevitably whithering away like ash in the wind, they were the ones who were supposed to suffer. But, If this was true, then why was it that those pathetic, fragile, humans could find their sense of peace and joy when he could not? He was stronger, he was powerful! He deserved it so much more than they did. Right?

But power always has a cost. The little voice whispered to him.

What cost had he paid in exchange for this new existence? What did he lose to the master he so dutifully served? He couldn’t help but wonder.

But just as the doubts began to take hold in his ravaged mind, he could feel his master’s will take hold once again. 

Enough of this nonsense. His master was the only thing he needed. His master, although morally dubious, would make him stronger. He needed to gain more strength, yes, that was it, perhaps he had not gained enough to make him worthy of such peace. He had to do more.

And Hakuji drowned. His conscious self was buried beneath the inky darkness once again, thus allowing him to rise.

The weak have no rights in this world. He thought to himself as he opened his eyes once more, his hands rubbing at his forearms to fend off an imaginary pain. The phantom ache pulsed in time with his racing heart, a reminder of a weakness long ago that he couldn't quite remember, yet desperately needed to overcome.

He had to get stronger. He just had to. The very thought consumed him, burning through his veins like liquid fire. It was more than a desire—it was an obsession, a primal need that clawed at his insides. A memory of warmth, of gentle voices, of a life beyond the endless struggle for strength. But he crushed it mercilessly, his fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms.

Weakness is death, he reminded himself, his eyes gleaming with a fierce, inhuman light. And I choose to live.

Chapter Text

Regenerating a limb with barely even a thought, he walked away from the slayer's corpse. His demonic instincts screamed at him to devour the fallen warrior, to savor the strength that would flow from consuming such succulent flesh. And yet... he faltered. Perhaps it was the way the slayer's face seemed soft, almost like the petals of a delicate sakura flower. The human had been weak, only lasting a little more than a fraction of a second against Akaza's onslaught. But his eyes—those eyes were round and... beautiful. Yes, beautiful was the only word that could give them justice with their delicate shade of pink. The slayer's flower-shaped pupils had reflected such gentle beauty that Akaza had felt a pang of regret as he watched them grow dark in death. Something about this particular human was different. Almost like a strange reluctance tugging at the edges of his consciousness, forcing him to turn away and leave it to rot.

And it disgusted him like nothing else. Such weakness from an uppermoon demon was nothing short of pathetic.

Disgusting , he spat, beating himself up mentally.

Despite his self-hatred, he still did not turn back, opting to find a different prey to satiate the undying hunger that burned in his gut. As he moved through the shadows, seeking new victims to sate his hunger and quell his self-loathing, he heard a familiar sound. The strike of a biwa sang angrily in his mind, its harsh sound cutting through his thoughts like a blade. 

Then, he was falling through the air, the world around him blurring and shifting. Such a sensation of reality tearing and reconstructing around him had always been disorienting. For a brief moment, his consciousness was split into an infinite number of planes, something that would shatter the minds of any lesser being with their fragile psyches. With a practiced ease that could only come from centuries of the same song and dance, he landed atop one of the infinite platforms in his master's palace, the Infinity Castle stretching endlessly above and below him.

Impossible geometry extended in all directions, a sight to behold and marvel at. Akaza could remember the first time he had been summoned, a most unpleasant memory that he did not wish to delve into.

Clearing his mind of any intrusive thoughts, Akaza looked up, he could see Naikime sitting at her usual perch, biwa in hand. He did not bother greeting her; after all, trust did not exist among their kind. Only hierarchy and power. This was something he resented greatly, though he would never dare voice his opinion in fear of death becoming his unexpected visitor. Akaza spotted a lower moon demon skittering along a distant walkway, its posture hunched in permanent deference. Pathetic. At least the Upper Moons maintained their dignity, even in servitude.

With a practiced ease that could only come from centuries of the same song and dance, he landed atop one of the infinite platforms in his master's palace, the Infinity Castle stretching endlessly above and below him. The air here was thick with Evil, each heavy breath a reminder of the power that lay only a few meters in front of him. This close to his master, even Akaza felt small, a sensation that he despised with every cell in his body.

Without hesitation, Akaza dropped to one knee, his head bowed in deference. Before him stood Lord Muzan, the king of demons, a figure of terrifying beauty and unimaginable power.

Muzan's presence was suffocating, his very existence an affront to nature. Eyes like pools of liquid crimson gazed down at Akaza, so vivid that even freshly spilled blood would seem dull and lifeless in comparison. His raven hair, darker than the void between stars, framed a face of porcelain perfection. Skin so white, it was almost insulting to one’s eyes, seemed to glow in the dim light of the chamber, an unnatural whiteness that spoke of power beyond any human’s comprehension.

This is his master.

This is his captor , whispered a treacherous part of his mind, one that Akaza quickly crushed with fury. His loyalty would not be questioned, not now and not ever. 

This is my master . He whispered once more. And he would serve him for the rest of all eternity.

Muzan spoke, not bothering to even look in Akaza’s direction. He was a king, and kings need not acknowledge the presence of those who may as well be dirt beneath their feet. His voice was a contradiction in every bit of its essence– soft as silk yet sharp as a blade, each syllable perfectly formed and precisely delivered. It flowed like dark honey, deceptively smooth and rich, yet it carried an unmistakable poison within its sweetness. When he spoke, he demanded the eyes of all who neared him, lest they dare face the punishment for disrespect.

Most unsettling was how human it could sound when he wished it to—cultured, educated, almost gentle—before subtly shifting to reveal the ancient, inhuman intelligence behind the carefully constructed façade. The transition was always jarring, like discovering a venomous snake coiled in a child's toy box.

Even Upper Moon demons found themselves instinctively holding their breaths, their bodies remembering on a cellular level who had granted them their power and who could take it away just as easily.

For a brief moment, Akaza felt a jolt of terror consume him. Was his summoning a mere coincidence, or had Muzan sensed his moment of weakness? The latter seemed more likely. Nothing escaped his master's notice for long, not even their own thoughts were private.

"You allowed a slayer to die without consuming him," Muzan's voice came soft as silk, yet penetrated Akaza's mind like needles of ice. Not a question. A statement of fact. Of cours,e he knew. Muzan always knew.

"The flesh did not appeal to me, Lord Muzan," Akaza replied, keeping his voice steady despite the danger radiating from his master. "I sought more worthy prey."

A silence stretched on between them. Akaza winced, biting back a snarl, as he felt the bladed probe cut into his mindscape. His master’s consciousness brushing against his own burned like a physical brand.

It hurts almost as much as the first tattoo I had been given as a child… The thought flashes through Akaza’s mind, faster than he could think, and slippery like an eel in the deep ocean. However, before he could ponder on its meaning, Muzan’s consciousness tears it to pieces, and the memory fades from Akaza’s mind. 

"Your appetites are your own concern," Muzan finally said, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts. "But your strength is mine. See that it does not waver."

"Never, my lord," Akaza responded, still kneeling, averting his gaze from those terrible red eyes.

Afterall…

He was his master’s Unrivaled Fists of Hell. To serve and remove pests from his master’s path was his only job. No demon slayer had ever withstood more than a handful of his blows for many centuries. Hashira, the pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps, might last longer than most, but even they fell before his technique, their blades shattering against his fists, their breathing styles insufficient against his overwhelming speed and power.

And he was pretty fucking good at it. 

Yes, this was what he was made for. Combat. Victory. The thrill of testing himself against the strongest the humans could offer. Not sentiment. Not regret. Not pink eyes that reminded him of...

"You have a new assignment," Muzan's voice cut through his thoughts. 

"There is a village in the north where a troublesome Hashira is visiting. Kill everyone. Leave no witnesses."

Akaza kneeled even lower, his forehead nearly touching the ground. "It will be done, my lord."

"See that it is. You are dismissed." 

Standing in one fluid motion, Akaza turned and walked toward the edge of the platform. Beyond it lay only empty space, a dizzying drop into terrifying nothingness. He stepped off without hesitation, letting gravity claim him. As he fell, he castle's magic took hold, warping space around him, sending him back to the world of humans.

And if those pink eyes still haunted him? He would simply kill enough slayers to forget them. He would drown that shade of pink in the red blood of the innocent. Perhaps then he could truly serve his master the way he was meant to.

But, until then, it was back to the hunt. Back to what he knew. Back to what he was good at. 

Back to drowning and choking? His treacherous mind hissed in his ear.

A flicker of something— No, someone —danced at the edges of his consciousness. A face both cherished and feared, for what it represented. For what it could reduce him to, even now.

Each heartbeat brought another flash of recognition, another crack in the carefully constructed wall between then and now.

Akaza’s body tensed, muscles rippling and coiling beneath his whitish skin. In a moment of rage, he took his fist and plunged it into his chest. Ribs shattered and flesh tore apart as he breathed heavily, teeth bared in a silent fury. The pain was enough to snap him out of the haze of hesitation, enough to remind him of his purpose.

FOOLISHNESS.

He could taste the bitter tang of the word along with the blood in his mouth as he felt his flesh knit back together without a second thought. The sensation of his ribs realigning, shattered remains of bone piercing through the remaining flesh, as if an unseen puppeteer had jerked on their strings, thus snapping them back. Even as the fragments of bone caused more damage as he healed, muscle fibers writhed and undulated as they reconnected before smooth, unblemished skin rippled over and sealed up the wound.

And yet... and yet that slayer's eyes. Pink like the fallen petals of a sakura tree. Or perhaps, like *her*.

He frowned as the mysterious figure came to mind once again. Who was she?

Why does she haunt him so?

And why, of all things, does he seem to miss her?