The Villagers' Desperate Scheme

As Muzan stepped into the sanctity of his room, the air was already perfumed with Roxana's presence, her signature fragrance weaving a momentary veil of peace over his tumultuous thoughts. The mere scent brought an unbidden smile to his face, a rare moment of solace in his otherwise darkened world.

Roxana, perched by the window with an ancient tome spread before her, looked up as Muzan entered. The moonlight framed her silhouette, casting her in an ethereal glow that seemed to dance around her, making the room feel like a realm detached from the horrors of the night.

"What are you doing?" Muzan asked, curiosity piqued by the sight of the arcane book.

"I'm researching," Roxana replied, her voice a melody of hope and determination. "Researching a cure... for you."

A spark of excitement flickered in Muzan's eyes. "A cure?" he echoed, the word foreign yet intriguing on his tongue.

"Yes," Roxana nodded, her gaze locked with his. "You've become an all-powerful demon, Muzan-sama. But your weakness to sunlight... it may stem from damaged herb's essence within you. If we can find more of this herb, there might be a way to fully cure you. Then you can be all powerful and roam in the sunlight once again!!"

The possibility sent a surge of excitement through Muzan's veins. To walk in daylight again—it was a dream he hadn't dared to entertain since the time he was sick and on the deathbed.

"But," Roxana's voice trailed off, a shadow of doubt clouding her expression. "The only person who knew of this herb was Doctor Akiyama. And despite being his assistant, he never revealed to me where it grew."

"We'll find it," Muzan asserted, the weight firm in his voice. "Your support is all I need, Roxana."

Roxana's eyes shimmered with an unspoken promise, a testament to the depth of her commitment. "You have my support, Muzan-sama. Together, we will uncover the secrets that Doctor Akiyama took to his grave. We will scour the ends of the earth if we must."

The resolve between them was palpable, a bond forged in the crucible of shared purpose. Roxana rose from her seat by the window, closing the distance between them. Her presence was a beacon in the darkness that had enveloped Muzan's world, her determination a mirror of his own.

"I will start by revisiting the doctor's research notes," she proposed, her mind already racing with plans. "There may be clues he left behind, perhaps unwittingly, that can lead us to the herb. We'll also need to explore his personal correspondence and diaries. Anything that might hint at the location of this herb."

Muzan, his thoughts swirling with the newly kindled hope Roxana had ignited, paused, a thought surfacing amidst the turmoil of his emotions. "Roxana, have you ever considered... becoming like me? We could be together eternally, beyond the reach of time."

Roxana, caught off guard by the question, hesitated. The moonlight revealed a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "Muzan-sama, I... I cherish what we have. But to embrace the night as you have, to become a demon... I don't know if I'm ready for such a transformation."

Her words, laden with unspoken fears and doubts, hung heavy in the room. Muzan felt a pang of sadness, realizing the chasm that lay between them. "I understand," he murmured, his heart heavy with the thought of causing her pain. "I would never wish to force this upon you."

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Roxana turned away, leaving the room and Muzan enveloped in a silence that spoke volumes. Muzan, left alone with his thoughts, realized that despite his newfound power, there were still things beyond his control. Hurting Roxana, the only beacon of light in his darkened world, was something he could not and would not do.

In the week following Muzan's transformation, his nocturnal hunts had escalated from a horrifying novelty to a grim routine, with fresh tales of terror coursing through the village at dawn every night.

Having recovered from his initial shock, Muzan had become overwhelmed with dread; emboldened by his newfound power and the apparent helplessness of the villagers, he didn't need the shadows anymore. As if to flaunt his invulnerability, his acts of predation grew more brazen - kinda like a hunting sport.

In the wake of Muzan's transformation and the ensuing tragedies the villagers, bound by grief and fueled by vengeance, found themselves driven to measures they once would have considered unthinkable.

Under the cloak of dusk, a private assembly was convened, not in the town hall as was customary for communal grievances, but in the locked up confines of an old barn on the outskirts of the village. The location was deliberate, chosen for its isolation, a testament to the dark tenor of the meeting.

The air inside the barn was thick with tension, a palpable manifestation of the collective anxiety and resolve of those gathered. Among them were farmers, blacksmiths, and homemakers—ordinary people pushed to the brink by extraordinary circumstances. The assembly was a mix of stern faces, each one a story of loss and desperation.

"He's not the boy we once knew. He's a monster," one villager said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"Look at what he's done to us," began a middle-aged man, his voice cracking with emotion. "Our homes are filled with the echoes of those we've lost. We can't let him continue this reign of terror."

"We've been watching him, watching his house," whispered a burly man who had taken it upon himself to coordinate the surveillance of Muzan's abode. "There's a girl, Roxana, living with him. Came out of nowhere, she did. Always by his side, yet none knows whence she came."

"Yes, Roxana. She's always been by his side. He cares for her, more than he ever did for his own kin," a woman added, her eyes reflecting the pain of her lost child.

Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Few villagers had been vigilant, their eyes seldom straying from the comings and goings at Muzan's house. It was through this relentless observation that Roxana had come to their attention, her mysterious presence igniting speculation and, eventually, a dark determination.

"If he feels nothing for us, for the lives he's taken, perhaps we can make him understand our grief... by taking what he holds dear," a man said, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of their collective sorrow.

"But Roxana is innocent; it's not right, targeting someone who's done us no harm," voiced a middle-aged woman, her expression torn between moral conflict and the ache of personal loss.

"Yes, but she is his weakness. To make the demon feel our pain, to make him pay, we must strike where it hurts him most," the first villager said, his resolve hardening.

The decision to target Roxana was not made lightly; it emerged from the depths of their collective despair, a desperate strategy born of the belief that to hurt Muzan, they must aim for what they perceived as his heart.

"Plans are already in motion," continued the burly man, his tone grave. "We know she frequents the market on Thursdays, believes herself unnoticed. But we've seen. We know. A small group of us will confront her there. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Tragic, but necessary."

"That scum of a demon will feel the pain like never before. Anyways, he doesn't come out in sunlight, right?" a villager whispered, the plan taking on a more sinister edge. "It's the perfect time. While he hides from the sun, we strike at his heart, and he'll finally understand the true cost of his atrocities."