My Left Ball Is Itchy

"OH MY MYSELF! WHY THE FUCK IS THE KING OF CURSES IN THIS WORLD?" Muzan yelled, sitting in a grand chair within a room that resembled an ancient library.

The room, belonging to the Kibutsuji clan, was filled with shelves stacked high with scrolls and books, each worth more than what an ordinary family could spend in dozens of generations.

Owning an entire library like this was a privilege reserved for wealthy and influential clans.

So, why was Muzan here, surrounded by all these ancient texts? Simple—he wanted to learn about the history of this world, to see how different it was from the one he came from.

But what he discovered? Well, everything was just royally messed up. For starters, there were martial artists like those from the wuxia novels he devoured in his second life.

Then there were jujutsu sorcerers straight out of that anime, Jujutsu Kaisen.

Fucking hell... there were even different races here. Muzan didn't find any of this amusing—not in the slightest.

The King of Curses could dismantle him without breaking a sweat, a thought that ran repeatedly through his mind.

And honestly, he wasn't wrong. But if he knew how much plot armor he had backing him, he probably wouldn't be so scared of Sukuna.

"Ugh! I just want to build a harem and live peacefully, dominating the world... Is that too much to ask?" Muzan grumbled in his thoughts, letting the scroll slip from his fingers, hearing it thud as it hit the wooden floor.

But he decided to put these worries aside for now; there were other matters at hand. Strangely, his mind felt sharper than ever, allowing him to craft plans that actually sounded solid.

"I wonder when Hatsumi will be back with the blood I asked for?" Muzan mused, standing up from the chair and stretching before casually strolling toward the exit door. He had sent Hatsumi out to fetch some human blood for him.

Sure, he was immune to the sun now, but that didn't mean he was free from the urge—or the necessity—to drink human blood to survive. Without it, a demon would grow weak and eventually lose all their powers.

This was exactly what had happened during his final battle with the demon slayers in his past life. Tamayo's drug had aged his body by 9,000 years in just three hours.

If he had consumed blood during that time, he wouldn't have become so weak. But that was all in the past—or was it the future?

Back to the present, he didn't really expect Hatsumi to actually go out and get human blood for him without any hesitation. It was almost surprising.

"I need to go see Father too," Muzan muttered to himself as he exited the room, stepping out of the towering structure that was basically a massive library in itself.

It had been three days since he, well, "sealed the deal" with Hatsumi—in simple terms, he had fucked the hell out of her.

During that time, he also received an order from his father to meet him today, though Muzan didn't feel much about it.

He barely remembered anything about his father, apart from his name and face. After all, it had been over a thousand years since his father had died in Muzan's first life.

Today would mark the first time in over a thousand years, two lives, and two deaths that Muzan would meet his father again.

"Sigh," Muzan exhaled as he exited the tower. He was already on the ground floor, so he didn't have to bother descending any stairs. Not that he could have, even if he wanted to—he wasn't allowed on the higher floors of the tower anyway.

Those floors housed books and scrolls so valuable that the clan had assigned an entire squad to guard them around the clock, with an even larger force dedicated to protecting the clan's estate.

As soon as Muzan stepped outside, he headed toward the building where his father resided. The place was massive, much larger than the homes of Muzan and all his siblings combined.

But it made sense; Muzan's father was the head of the Kibutsuji clan, a man with a reputation for having perfect foresight ability.

...

Standing outside his father's room, Muzan asked, "May I enter, Father?" Even though he was a demon king, Muzan still followed the formalities—he was, after all, a gentleman demon king.

"You may," his father replied almost instantly.

Muzan pushed open the door and stepped into the room. What greeted him was the sight of a middle-aged man with long black hair and brown eyes, seated calmly in a chair. This was Isamu Kibutsuji, Muzan's father.

"Sit, Muzan," Isamu said with a gentle smile, extending his hand toward a chair in front of him.

Muzan took the seat, facing his father directly.

"So... son, how's your health these days?" Isamu asked, his voice laced with concern, though it was painfully obvious that the worry was fake. Muzan could tell his father didn't really care about his well-being and in fact don't give a shit about him or his siblings.

"Thanks to the medicine Hatsumi gave me, I'm doing pretty well nowadays," Muzan replied, meeting his father's gaze without a hint of hesitation.

"Oh! I'm really glad to hear that," Isamu responded in a louder, more cheerful tone, though Muzan could sense the insincerity. "And, Muzan, I think it's time I tell you why I called you here."

As he said this, Isamu's tone shifted from gentle to cold, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping with it.

Muzan remained silent, watching his father closely, waiting for him to continue.

"I want you to attend a meeting with the imperial family on my behalf," Isamu said, his expression turning deadly serious.

Muzan wasn't shocked, but he was a little surprised. From what he had read in the books on the first floor of the library, Japan was currently ruled by a single empire, and all the major clans, no matter how powerful or influential, were under its authority.

For his father to send him to a meeting where he was personally invited, something definitely felt off.

"May I know the reason for sending me there?" Muzan asked, his voice steady, masking any hint of suspicion.

"My left ball is itchy..." Isamu replied, his tone flat and completely unbothered.

The absurdity of the statement left Muzan momentarily speechless. There was no way his father would send him to such an important meeting over something so ridiculous—or would he?

"I beg your pardon, father"

{A/N: May I have some comments, My Kind Sir?}