Nightfall of Vengeance: The Massacre by Muzan

As Roxana made her way through the bustling market, the air was filled with the mingled scents of fresh herbs, spices, and the underlying aroma of baked goods. She moved with an ease that belied the weight of her secret endeavors, greeting the familiar faces of vendors and passers-by with a warm smile.

"Good day, Roxana," greeted Mr. Haruki, the fruit vendor, as he polished an apple on his apron and offered it to her. "Your presence brightens the market, as always."

"Thank you, Mr. Haruki," Roxana replied, accepting the apple with a gracious nod. "Your kindness is a beacon in these trying times."

As she continued, her path intersected with Mrs. Hoshi, an elderly woman known for her medicinal herbs. "Roxana, dear, have you come for more of the nightshade? Your interest in my herbs is always so... intriguing."

"Just browsing today, Mrs. Hoshi. But your knowledge is invaluable to me, as ever," Roxana said, her eyes scanning the array of herbs with practiced interest.

The market's vibrant life seemed to cocoon Roxana from the shadows that lingered at its edges. However, that illusion of safety was shattered when a woman's voice called out to her.

"Excuse me, miss?" the stranger said, a sense of urgency in her voice. Roxana turned to find a woman, seemingly distressed, her eyes darting around anxiously.

"Yes, can I help you?" Roxana asked, her attention fully on the woman, unaware of the figures stealthily approaching from behind.

"I—I'm looking for my son. He's wandered off, and I can't seem to find him anywhere," the woman said, wringing her hands, a picture of maternal panic.

"Of course, I'll help you look. What does he look like?" Roxana asked, stepping closer, her innate kindness overriding any sense of caution.

"He's—"

But the woman's words were cut short as Roxana felt a chilling presence behind her. Before she could react, a sharp pain flashed across her throat, a warmth spreading rapidly down her neck. The market noises dimmed as she reached up, touching the source of the warmth with trembling fingers, her eyes wide open with shock.

The woman before her stepped back, her expression transforming from distressed to detached, as Roxana's knees buckled. The faces of the five men loomed over her, their expressions a mix of determination and regret. The market around them seemed to pause, a collective gasp rising from the crowd.

Roxana's thoughts raced, her vision blurred, the vibrant colors of the market fading into shadows as she collapsed, the last glimmer of sunlight caressing her face. The perpetrators vanished into the chaos that ensued, leaving behind a silence more profound than the bustling life that had filled the market moments before.

As sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, Roxana had yet not returned. Muzan paced the confines of his darkened room, a sense of unease gnawing at him. He had grown accustomed to Roxana's timely returns, her presence a constant in the chaos of his existence.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Muzan summoned his parents, who lived in fear under the same roof as their transformed son. "Go to the market," he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative, devoid of any familial warmth. "Find Roxana. She should have been back by now."

His parents, a mere shadow of their former selves, nodded silently, too intimidated to voice their concern. They hurried to the market, hoping for any sign of Roxana but fearing the worst.

The market was in disarray, whispers and mournful cries filling the air. It didn't take long for them to find Roxana, her lifeless body surrounded by a somber crowd. The sight struck them with a grief so profound it rendered them speechless, their hearts breaking not only for Roxana but for the son, they could no longer recognize.

Disheartened Muzan's parents returned, their steps heavy, their faces etched with unspeakable grief. The air around them felt charged with the burden of the news they carried. It was their intention to retrieve Roxana's body from the market place, but they were afraid of Muzan's reaction.

"Muzan," his mother began, her voice trembling, "it's Roxana. She's... she's no longer with us. In the market, there was an attack—"

"An attack?" Muzan interrupted, his voice rising, a dangerous edge to his tone. "What do you mean? Speak clearly!"

His father, struggling to maintain his composure, stepped forward. "Son, someone... someone killed her. Roxana was found dead at the market. We are so, so sorry."

The room seemed to spin, the words echoing in Muzan's mind like a cruel joke. Disbelief quickly turned into a burning, all-consuming rage. "Sorry? You're sorry?" he spat out, his voice laced with venom. "My Roxana is dead, and all you can say is you're sorry?"

"Muzan, please, we share your grief," his mother pleaded, her eyes wet with tears. "We must mourn her together, as a family."

"A family?" The word erupted from Muzan like a curse. "You ceased to be my family the moment I became this... monster. You just stood by, watching, fearing me!"

His father, mustering every ounce of courage, intervened. "We're still your parents, Muzan. We love you, despite everything. Let us help you through this, please."

But Muzan's heart was a void, filled only with darkness and a thirst for vengeance. "Help? You think you can help me?" His voice was a low growl, his eyes gleaming with malice. "You're useless! Just like you were useless at saving her!"

Before his parents could react, Muzan unleashed the full extent of his demonic power. In a fit of blind rage, he struck, the room filling with a chorus of tragic cries that ended as abruptly as they began. His parents, the last link to his human past, lay motionless, victims of the very monster they had hoped to save.

Breathing heavily, Muzan stood amidst the carnage he had wrought, his rage giving way to a profound silence.

"I will not let this go unanswered," Muzan vowed through gritted teeth, his tears evaporating in the heat of his anger. "They will know the suffering as I have. I will make them regret the day they took you from me."

As night descended like a shroud over the Aogashima village, a palpable dread settled in the hearts of its inhabitants. The darkness was not just an absence of light but a harbinger of the nightmare about to unfold.

The specter of Muzan emerged from the settled night's deepest shadows, cloaked in the ethereal glow of moonlight and the cold embrace of vengeance. Gone was the man who once walked among the villagers, his presence now replaced by the essence of a nightmare incarnate. His eyes had transformed into twin beacons of unholy fire, mirroring the inferno of grief that ravaged his soul.

In a whirlwind of rage, he shattered doors like brittle bones as he moved house by house. The splintered wood gave way to a chorus of bloodcurdling screams. Inside, a macabre ballet of death unfolded.

Steel met flesh in glistening arcs, spraying crimson across walls once filled with laughter and dreams. The whirlwind of Muzan's fury turned him into a sculptor of death, turning warm bodies of the living into cold statues.

Muzan, an obscene artist, covered the ground in grotesque red art. A suffocating miasma clung to everything Muzan touched as the metallic tang in the air thickened.

Limbs were strewn in discordant angles, their once lively gaze now fixed sightlessly on the grim tableau overhead—a chaotic fresco of bone fragments and gore, carelessly flung across the canvas of night by the indifferent strokes of violence.

No corner of the village was spared; everywhere was evidence of the massacre that unfolded under the cloak of darkness. The ground was slick with blood, the air thick with the iron scent of it.

By the time the first light of dawn threatened the horizon, the village had been transformed into a macabre tableau of retribution. Nearly the entire population lay extinguished, their lives snuffed out in a single night of horror.

In the center of the village square, Muzan sat, a solitary figure among the devastation he had wrought. In his arms, he cradled Roxana's lifeless body, her death the catalyst for this night of endless sorrow. Around him, the corpses of the villagers formed a grotesque throne, a chilling monument to his despair and rage.

Muzan's eyes, once filled with a demonic gleam, now held a hollow emptiness. The massacre had not brought him peace, nor had it eased the ache of Roxana's absence. Instead, he was left with the silence of a village that no longer existed, a silence as profound as the darkness that had descended upon his soul.

As Muzan sat in silence, a black smoke began to seep from him, a manifestation of his soul's torment, swirling around him in a dance of despair. This smoke, invisible to the eyes of any human, was a symbol of the darkness that had now consumed him entirely, a darkness that promised retribution to those who had wronged him.

"Ah, everything is unfolding just as intended. Muzan, my dear, you were indeed a captivating puppet.."