A man stood solemnly by a grey-gravel road.
The uncut green grass around him formed a field.
It wavered and pranced in the wind as the man stood perfectly still.
The moonlight illuminated the setting in a foreign silver hue.
Not a single mistake was present in his every movement.
He had smooth, lush, parted black hair.
His eyes were of a faint inky black and were unwavering as they scanned at the man before him.
"Muzan."
His voice spat the name in a mutter and transe.
Images of what this man had done to his subordinates merely a few minutes ago caused his left hand to shake with anger.
The scenes replayed before him.
Skulls being crushed. Hearts being yanked. Necks being grasped before legs stopped flailing and eyes overturned white.
He placed his hands on the hilt of his blade and they slowly settled down upon feeling the cold steel that had aided him in hundreds of battles.
