Demon Slayer: Upper 0 seems to be a waste

What is death?

It is the end of life, the end of existence, a fateful conclusion.

For most people.

This sounds almost like a good thing in some way.

Because most people who think that way have never experienced death, or even come close to it, they don't know what it feels like, they don't understand what it's like, and they only see death as something far away and predetermined.

Ignorance breeds fearlessness, which in turn leads to recklessness.

But Muzan was different from these foolish and ignorant people, different from humans, and different from those idiots who didn't understand the nature of death at all. He had truly touched the boundary of death.

again and again.

Rather, it seems that he was too close to death even before his memories were born. Death, like a ghost, became an inescapable, eternal nightmare for that child before ghosts were even born.

Death is a fear buried deep within the body, following every drop of blood, every cell, intensifying with every breath.

He nearly died several times before he was even born.

When he was dragged out of the womb, which should have been the safest place, and driven out of his body by his mother's best efforts, and truly came into this world, his heart really stopped.

It was as if at that moment he realized that this was a world far more dangerous than his mother's body, a world where countless dangers truly existed, and death had indeed raised its scythe and swung it at him.

But I didn't want to die, I was afraid of dying. I was afraid and trembling again and again in the amniotic fluid. Even though I was abandoned by my mother, even though I was close to death countless times, I didn't die, did I?

You've survived so many times, haven't you?

Then why go and die now? Was all that effort, fear, and resistance in vain?

I want to live, I'm so afraid of dying.

So when the first scorching heat, threatening to burn an infant, appeared in this cold world, it was before everything was truly beyond repair.

My heart finally started beating.

It throbbed violently and intensely.

He uttered his first question to this cruel world, with the desperate, pitiful cries of an infant, with tears and the pain in his throat, with a deafening heartbeat.

But the world did not treat him kindly because of this, not even a little bit.

There are no gods in this world, and no one in this world has ever tried to protect or shield him. Illness and death still follow him like a shadow, whispering in his ear every minute and every second in a voice only he can hear.

You're about to die... Struggling is useless, resisting is useless, you're going to die anyway...

The biting wind of death always lingered around the back of his neck.

Cup after cup of hot soup, bowl after bowl of medicine; prescriptions covered the floor of his room before he learned to walk, and nothing changed after he learned to walk.

My sense of taste was almost completely numb, but my physical condition didn't improve at all. The shadow of death lingered, and my fear of death only increased over time.

Why is the world so cruel to him? Why is he the only one being treated this way? What did he do wrong? Why, why, why?

But there is no answer to such a question, and no one can answer it.

The cruel and cold world is unreasonable.

Normal, healthy people cannot understand him, because they do not know how terrifying it is to feel like you could die at any moment. You cannot walk normally in the sun, you cannot be alone or go out by yourself. All you do is stay in your sickbed, smell the bitter herbs, and wait for one prescription after another, waiting hopelessly and expecting that the next bowl of medicine will be of some use.

May he gain even a little more.

Just one good point is enough.

No.

Healthy people wouldn't know what this feels like.

Just as he couldn't understand what the world looked like through the eyes of a healthy person, why sunshine made people happy, why people would laugh and play even in the rain, and why children would play outside the high walls when snowflakes were falling while he was curled up in his blankets.

He knew nothing about what it felt like to be healthy, what it felt like to be free, or what it felt like to not fear death. He didn't even know if he would be alive tomorrow.

What does the world use to torment those who are still alive?

Use time, use hope, use expectation.

Hope is worn down by time, and expectations are buried by the years.

In the end, all that remained was endless torment.

The turning point came when he was almost out of hope. It came after countless struggles and battles with death, after countless nights of gritting his teeth, clenching his fists, and trembling.

Those medicines worked on him for the first time; he briefly experienced health and freedom.

But it was just a dream.

It was all a bubble, and when it burst, it left a sticky liquid on his hands.

He is no longer free.

It's not that you've escaped death.

He was locked in the darkness, and the sun became the first heat the infant felt. He didn't need the torch to touch him; he knew how painful it would be and how it would bring death.

He seemed healthy, yet he wasn't. He had gained a healthy body, a strong physique, and almost immortal abilities. But was this liberation? It didn't seem so. He became a ghost like death itself, hiding in every dark corner, avoiding the sun that chased him.

He never knew what the freedom of feeling the sun on your skin felt like before, and he never will know again.

Only darkness, only night, only the cold, stinging memories forever haunted him.

Did he escape that night when he was trembling in bed?

That doesn't seem like it.

He simply escaped from one death into another.

Just like he said.

How this world torments those who are still alive.

Use time, use hope, use expectation.

Every night, every minute, he would peruse those books, searching for hope, for the possibility of healing, and for a way to survive.

But no, and I was frustrated time and time again.

However, just like the countless nights he had endured, he once again found a way out and encountered a possibility.

The blue spider lily—that was his only hope of escaping death.

And so that became everything from then on: finding that flower, finding hope for life, finding the only thread to escape death and leave this real hell.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

What exactly is death?

Muzan's understanding of this word surpasses all descriptions in any book.

But what exactly is life?

Muzan felt that this was an answer he couldn't come up with.

He has a long lifespan, an endless lifespan, and is almost immortal.

But he never had a real sense of life or living.

How easy it is to die.

But how much effort does one have to work to even get a chance to live?

Perhaps that's why he turned Rinko into a demon.

How familiar that dying child was! Standing in that snow, it was as if he saw his past self, such a pitiful existence. Even he had at least received medical treatment. But this child? He touched skin colder than a ghost's, as cold as the snow.

We may die; human life is so fragile.

But he didn't die.

It was as if he had endured one night after another.

The boy reluctantly crawled back from the brink of death.

Go back to him.

Perhaps this is the gift he deserves, he thought.

After all, it was all his own choice. He was the one who agreed to take in the child, he was the one who asked Tamayo to treat the child, he was the one who taught the child all of this, and he was the one who created a possibility for life.

This child should have died that night, in the snow, but he changed that possibility.

So this is a gift he deserves.

Therefore.

When the child stood there, stepping on blood, looked up at him, and asked if he was leaving, an idea suddenly came to him.

Since he saved the child, since he rescued the life, then it's his freedom to decide how to make that decision. Isn't it good to become a ghost?

If he becomes a ghost, all of the child's problems will be solved.

Win-win.

Even better than he expected, the child was willing to become a ghost, just like him, grabbing at even a spider's thread, but unlike him, this child had him, and this child only had him in his eyes.

Ah, this is his gift, this is his existence.

Unlike other people, unlike other ghosts, this child is different.

Perhaps it was because it embodied his hopes.

Rinko is indeed a completely unique oni.

How different are they?

In a world that only knows how to plunder and take, there appears a being that only knows how to give.

what.

It's so bright and glaring.

For other existences.

however.

How wonderful!

For Muzan.

For this being who is the only one to bear the selfless sacrifice of that child.

He seemed to have finally found a sliver of solace and a sense of security in the shadow of death.

It was as if he had finally grasped a spider's thread and escaped a little from the shadow of death.

-

Accidents always happen when you least expect them, just when everything is on track.

Muzan met the person he would never forget.

Jikuni Genichi.

The man stood there like an ordinary person, without any difference, without any sense of threat or murderous intent.

However, he just swung his knife and slashed at me like that.

It was as if the deepest fear etched in one's heart had been awakened.

Death had not left him for a moment; the deadly knife was still pressed against his neck.

"What do you value your life for?"

That's what the man asked him.

What did he value his life for?

This seems more like the question Muzan wanted to ask in return.

What is life? What does it feel like to be alive? What does it feel like to bask in the sunlight? What does it feel like to have such a healthy and strong body? What does it feel like to be unrestrained and free? What does it feel like to not be afraid of dying at any time?

I don't know, I don't know anything, and this man is unlikely to give me an answer.

To someone who wants to kill him, someone who has personally brought death upon himself, any words he utters are nothing but meaningless nonsense.

Live on, live on, you must live on.

You must survive.

He's already worked so hard for so long, he's endured so many years, he should have hope now.

You must survive.

Live at all costs.

Rinko seems to have been created just for him.

They came to him when he was most confused and helped him find meaning.

She rushed to his side when he was at his most vulnerable, becoming his sacrifice.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

This was created specifically for him.

It was a life he created with his own hands.

So it would be only natural for me to die for him.

Because he needs to survive.

To live.

He has already given his all and given everything just to survive, hasn't he?

When it devoured the boy, Rin was still alive. The pain wouldn't last long, since the boy was already covered in wounds.

The flesh and blood it devoured grew wildly in the blood.

New skin grows from the burned flesh.

He broke free from the knife's restraints and fled into the shadows. Some people were trying to stop him, and of course, others would try, but at this moment, it was all meaningless.

In those brief few seconds, he was the stronger one.

The effects of those medications were temporarily suppressed.

The regenerated arms, with their waving thorns, reap lives.

He is creating new deaths here.

No one can stop him anymore. He will hide. The strongest members of the Demon Slayer Corps have all died here, and he can create even more demons, countless demons.

before that.

He needs to deal with the remnants of the Ubuyashiki family first.

Tonight.

All we need to do is wait until the sun comes out...

The moving body suddenly froze, blood rushed from the nasal cavity, from the ears, from the corners of the mouth, the hands were shaking, and the legs had no strength.

The moment he knelt on the ground.

Tamayo's dying words echoed once more.

Go to hell, Muzan.