Chapter 118: Hell's Barrier

Kokushibo's voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the crackling of the hellfire that ensnared him. The once mighty demon, feared by many, stood with a stoic grace that belied the inferno consuming his form. His six eyes, which had instilled terror in the hearts of countless foes, now reflected a somber resignation.

"Is that so..." he whispered, his voice a ghost of its former thunderous authority.

The fire chain, a blazing shackle of condemnation, had impaled him with a searing finality. It was the work of a formidable adversary, one who had managed to do what so few could—bring the demon to his knees. Yet, even as the hellfire devoured him, Kokushibo's visage remained an enigmatic mask, devoid of pain, carved with the etchings of a sorrowful acceptance.

"I've lost again..." The words fell from his lips, not as a lament, but as a statement of fact, a realization that dawned with the clarity of the stars above.

His six eyes, now dimming like the twilight of his existence, lifted to the heavens. The celestial bodies bore silent witness to his introspection, to the memories that cascaded through his ancient mind. He remembered that fateful night, over three centuries past, when ambition had led him down the dark path of demonhood. He had sought to eclipse his younger brother, Yoriichi Tsugikuni, to stand unrivaled in the art of the sword.

But destiny is a cruel mistress.

On the night he challenged Yoriichi, the sight of his brother's white hair, the embodiment of time's passage, had filled him with a false confidence. Kokushibo, unchanged by the years due to his demonic nature, believed victory was within his grasp.

The clash was brief, a fleeting moment that shattered his illusions. Yoriichi, even in the twilight of his life, had been an insurmountable peak. With a single, restrained strike, he had laid Kokushibo's pride to waste. And with that same strike, Yoriichi's journey had reached its end.

That defeat had haunted Kokushibo, a specter that loomed over his every action, every thought, for centuries. And now, history had repeated itself. The one before him, the one he had deemed a worthy successor to Yoriichi's legacy, had bested him with a single, devastating blow.

Kokushibo turned, facing his conqueror, his six eyes now pools of calm. There was no malice, no burning desire for vengeance—only the quiet dignity of a warrior meeting his end.

"The enemy before me is unlike my brother; there will be no mercy, no restraint," he acknowledged, his voice steady, almost serene. "And so, as I faced you, I was prepared. Prepared to embrace the fate that awaits me."

His life, dedicated to the sword, had been a tumultuous journey of victories and defeats, of power gained and humanity lost. Now, as the hellfire claimed him, he understood the price of his choices.

"Go ahead!" he commanded, his tone imbued with the weight of finality. It was an invitation to the end, a silent plea to be released from the shackles of his obsession, to be freed from the hell that he had wrought upon himself.

The Ghost Rider waved his hand, and immediately the hellfire ignited all over his body, instantly turning Kokushibo to ashes.

He knew very well that for Kokushibo, any torture or humiliation would not cause him fear or despair; only by being completely crushed in battle, just like by Yoriichi Tsugikuni, would he despair.

Therefore, he did not use fancy tricks on Kokushibo as he did with other demons, but instead killed him with a single strike.

[Ding! Side mission completed, eliminate the Twelve Demon Moons, receive 1200 Penalty points]

[Ding! Legendary mission updated, Judge a thousand sinful souls across the multiverse, current progress 72/1000]

Hearing the system prompt, Jon let out a sigh of relief, the most troublesome task of the Twelve Demon Moons was finally done, which means, now all that's left is to finish off Muzan.

***

Jon's footsteps echoed in the stillness of the secluded area, a symphony of determination and dread. The magic suitcase lay before him, an unassuming vessel for the extraordinary. With a swift motion, he flipped the latches and climbed inside, the world above him shrinking away as he descended into its depths.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The cacophony of Muzan's rage reverberated through the confined space, a relentless drumming that threatened to break free. Jon's gaze was unwavering as he faced the box that thrashed with the fury of the demon lord within.

"Stay put, I'll let you out soon." Jon's voice was a calm promise, laced with the thrill of the impending confrontation. His fingers closed around the Elder wand, its surface thrumming with magical power.

The box, a prison of ingenious design, rattled with Muzan's wrath. Seven locks, each a sentinel of containment, stood between the demon and freedom. Jon's lips parted, and the incantation flowed forth, "Alohomora!" A blue light surged from the wand's tip, striking the first lock with precision.

Click!

Click!

Click!

One by one, the locks clicked open, surrendering to the spell's command. With each release, a panel of the box layered upon the last, forming a staircase that ascended to an inevitable climax.

Click!

And then, with a resounding boom, the final lock yielded. The box burst open, and Muzan's figure, a blur of malice and desperation, shot forth, aiming for the freedom beyond.

"Trying to escape as soon as you come out? Useless!" Jon's voice was the eye of the storm, tranquil amidst the chaos.

Muzan's flight was abruptly halted by a barrier of flame runes, an invisible wall that scorched and paralyzed. He plummeted to the ground, his demonic form writhing in agony.

Jon's smile was a crescent moon in the dark sky of the battlefield. "See, what did I tell you?"

Muzan's snarl was a twisted grimace. "What have you done to me?!" he demanded, his voice a serrated blade.

Jon's response was not in words but in the world that unfolded around them. The scenery morphed, flames danced like devils in a waltz, and the earth beneath them blackened to cinders. They stood in the heart of inferno, a domain of fire and retribution.

The Darkhold materialized, its pages fluttering open as if caught in a phantom breeze, revealing secrets that mortals were not meant to know.

"Barrier magic," Jon declared, his voice resonating with the power that coursed through him. "With my hellfire, and the forbidden knowledge from the Darkhold, I have crafted this domain. This is but the nascent form of my creation, which I have named Hell's Barrier!"

"In this realm, escape is a fool's hope. There are but two paths before you," Jon's smile was a harbinger of doom to Muzan. "Either I end your miserable existence, or you attempt to end mine."

Muzan's eyes, alight with a feral glow, locked onto Jon's. "You think you can kill me? Countless have uttered such bravado, yet here I stand, unvanquished!"

His form began a grotesque transformation, muscles bulging, skin tearing, as he became a monstrous amalgamation of blood and fury. "You speak of today as if it is the end, but it is merely a continuation of the futile struggle!"

Jon's composure was a fortress, unassailable by Muzan's bluster. "Indeed, I speak of today. For today marks the end of your reign of terror. Today, you will be held accountable for your sins."

"Accountable? Hahaha...!" Muzan's laughter was a chilling echo. "The price has always been paid by the swordsmen of the Demon Slayer Corps. You parade your righteousness, claiming to halt my path, but it is you who suffer. Consider the legions of swordsmen who have fallen before me. They invited their fate, and you, you will join them in oblivion!"

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