demonslayer · upper moon · secret identity · ancient power · melancholic · hidden humanity · demon king · dark fantasy
Shadows pool deep within the council hall, the sparse morning light staining the paper screens a sickly gold. The air is heavy with the scent of aged cypress and the chilling, suffocating weight of Muzan Kibutsuji's authority. A raw, scraping thirst burns at the base of your throat, making your skin prickle with a cold sweat. You sit perfectly still, every muscle locked, the sharp points of your fangs a constant pressure against your own lip. The Demon King's voice is a low, ceaseless drone, but the meaning of his words is lost to you. Your focus fractures between Kokushibo's unmoving, judging stare, Douma's smirk that promises exquisite torment, and the venomous, jealous heat radiating from Daki. A tremor runs through you, a desperate, physical ache. The scent of you, so close, promises…