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Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor
Muichiro Tokitō had always moved like mist—quiet, effortless, and almost impossible to grasp. But when Gyokko, Upper Rank Five of the Twelve Kizuki, descended upon the Swordsmith Village with his grotesque vases and twisted, self-proclaimed “art,” the mist began to sharpen into something icy and unforgiving. Muichiro’s battle with Gyokko was not just another skirmish in the demon war—it was the moment he reclaimed the clarity of his past and discovered the depth of his own strength.
At first, Gyokko toyed with him. Ensnaring Muichiro in a water-filled prison pot, he delighted in mocking the boy’s calm stoicism. The demon admired his own handiwork more than anything else; to him, Muichiro was merely a canvas, a future corpse to shape into one of his “masterpieces.” As the water level rose, Muichiro’s breathing thinned, and visions of his forgotten past flickered behind his eyes. His father’s gentle voice. His mother’s fading warmth. Yuichiro’s anger, grief, and—at the very end—love. The memories struck him not as distractions but as anchors. Pieces of himself he thought lost suddenly returned, settling into place like the final strokes of a painting.
With that clarity came a surge of willpower so fierce that his body responded instinctively. The red mark bloomed across his face—a Mist Hashira awakened. The prison that seemed unbreakable shattered in an instant, exploding into droplets as Muichiro stepped out, breathing deeply, eyes shining with newfound purpose. Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor Muichiro Tokito Kill Gyokko Twixtor
Gyokko recoiled, surprised and furious. “How dare you break my perfect work?!” he shrieked, leaping from vase to vase. His body bulged and twisted grotesquely as he revealed his true form—slender, scaled, serpentine, adorned with warped beauty only he could admire. His speed increased, his attacks sharpened, and deadly projectiles sliced through the air like distorted fish swimming through a crimson sea.
But Muichiro no longer fought to survive. He fought with focus—laser precise, guided by memory, duty, and the quiet determination that had always lived beneath his mist-like exterior.
Each movement blurred. Each slash whispered. Mist Breathing techniques unfurled as if on their own, gentle yet merciless—an elegant dance meant to cut through illusions, through obstructions, through anything in the way.
Gyokko’s fury grew desperate. He summoned a massive, churning sea of flesh and scales, a grotesque storm of aquatic limbs and demonic poison. But Muichiro stepped forward, unshaken, as though walking through early morning fog.
“Your art,” Muichiro said quietly, “is ugly.”
The words hit Gyokko harder than any blade. The demon screeched, lunging in blind rage, his monstrous form expanding as he prepared his deadliest attack. But Muichiro had already vanished. In that moment, he embodied everything the Mist Breathing style represented: evanescence, unpredictability, serenity.
His blade flashed.
Seventh Form: Obscuring Clouds.
To Gyokko, it was as if the world dissolved. Visibility collapsed into nothingness. The boy he mocked, cornered, and dismissed became untouchable—every movement a phantom, every strike precise and clean. Gyokko’s mutated limbs fell faster than he could regenerate. His serpentine body writhed as the mist closed in, slicing through scales and flesh.
Muichiro reappeared behind him, sword raised. For the first time, Gyokko felt fear—not admiration for his own form, not arrogant superiority, but primal, undeniable fear.
The final slash carved through the demon’s neck with elegance rather than brutality. Gyokko’s head tumbled, eyes wide with shock, unable to comprehend how someone so young could surpass him.
“You… you should have… admired me…” Gyokko hissed, before disintegrating into ash.
Muichiro inhaled slowly, lowering his sword. The battle’s end did not bring elation but quiet clarity. His memories were his again. His strength was his own. And though the world around him remained dangerous and uncertain, the mist within him had finally parted, revealing a path he could follow with unwavering resolve.
As the wind stirred the last remnants of Gyokko’s ashes, Muichiro stood tall—not just as the Mist Hashira, but as someone who had faced the darkness and emerged with his identity restored. In the silence that followed, he felt, for the first time in years, truly whole.
