Chapter Text
The sunlight is warm on his face, gentle in a way he has almost forgotten. Beyond the engawa, Ruka’s garden lies in silent serenity, its greenery washed in soft light, untouched by the wind.
Kneeling, he exhales slowly through his nose and leans into the soothing comfort of the morning’s rays. Soft footsteps brush across the wood, drawing closer as his mother approaches. The faint trace of her familiar fragrance lingers in her wake as she takes her place beside him.
As if she had never left.
She holds out a cup of tea, and he accepts it without hesitation. The ceramic is warm against his palms, yet the tea carries no scent at all.
They sit together in easy silence, taking in the stillness. Something in his chest aches at the sight of her, and Kyojuro realizes with quiet certainty that he has missed this.
The moment between them stretches, neither willing to break away nor face what comes next. When the cup grows cold in his hands, he knows the time has come. He sets it down beside him and finally turns toward her.
“Hahaue?” Kyojuro says softly.
She turns to him, her crimson eyes taking in his face as she smiles.
“You’ve grown,” she finally speaks, her voice a caress.
Kyojuro lets out a quiet breath of laughter. “Yes. It has been some time since we last sat here.”
Her hand rises, brushing lightly against his cheek. “You have done well.”
The words settle deep in his chest, heavier than he thought possible, stirring parts of him that should have been long buried.
“I only did what any Hashira would do.” The words leave his mouth with true conviction, but seated before his mother now, he adds more softly, “I did what you taught me.”
“I remember,” she says, the warmth in her voice unchanged. “I am so proud of you.”
Something in him gives, and Kyojuro falls silent. Ruka sees it in his eyes and slips her hand from his cheek to rest on the back of his head, guiding him forward. He doesn’t resist, lowering himself until his temple rests against her shoulder.
She wraps her arms around him, and for a moment, he is a child again. His vision swims as he sinks into her warmth, her hand moving slowly through his hair, pausing now and then to pinch the red tip of a golden lock between her fingers.
He lingers a moment longer than he should, then draws in a steady breath as his composure settles once more. When he finally pulls back, he offers her a brilliant smile.
“I am grateful that I was able to see you again, Hahaue. Although I wish we had more time together, my heart is at peace. I will die without regret.”
For the first time since their reunion, her smile falters. Her hands return to her lap, clutching the fabric of her kimono. The change is so slight, so unlike her, that Kyojuro nearly misses it.
“It is not your time yet, my son.”
Confusion washes over him, followed by tension as the most recent memories come unbidden—the eruption of flame, skin like tempered steel catching his blade, the unbearable pain as a fist drives clean through him, and those eyes… molten gold set within fractures of blue that catch the light like shattered glass.
A breath escapes him, sharp and uneven, almost a laugh. He shakes his head lightly.
“You misunderstand. The wounds I sustained… there is no coming back.”
She holds his gaze, her expression soft, but there is a strain beneath it now.
“No,” she murmurs. “Your life has not yet left you.”
Her eyes search his, looking for something he has yet to understand.
“You have been given another path.”
Kyojuro opens his mouth to argue, then stops. The thought feels… misplaced. To question the limits of his body now, here, with her, seems almost absurd.
The stillness breaks when, from the far side of the room, the shoji slides open with a soft scrape.
Footsteps follow, measured and unhurried against the tatami as someone approaches. For a moment, Kyojuro thinks of his father. He begins to turn, a greeting already forming, but his mother’s hands return to his face, holding him in place. He startles at the sight of tears threatening to spill from her eyes. What once felt comforting now presses in around him.
“Forgive me, Kyojuro,” she whispers, her voice unsteady. “You cannot rest yet.”
Her fingers tighten against his skin.
“Your strength is still needed.”
Kyojuro stares at her, eyes wide and mouth slack, the air leaving his lungs all at once. He doesn’t react when the presence kneels at his back—not his father, Senjuro then? —and settles against him. A hand slides around his middle, firm and unyielding, pulling him closer.
His mother’s hold loosens and his gaze drops at once, drawn to the hand gripping his stomach. There, unnaturally pale skin and blue-dipped fingers lie in sharp contrast against the black fabric of his uniform. Red fingernails dig into his abdomen, scraping along unbroken skin where his body was once torn open. His blood runs cold.
The presence at his back shifts.
“Don’t die, Kyojuro,” Akaza breathes against his ear.
The cold shatters, replaced by a deep, rising heat. His hand shoots to where his katana should be, closing on nothing but air. The presence trembles with a quiet laugh.
“Don’t die,” he repeats.
Become a demon, Kyojuro. The words uncurl in the Flame Hashira’s mind, insistent, seeking—reaching, reaching—and failing to take root. They break against him and fall away, leaving him unchanged.
“Never,” Kyojuro says aloud, and the presence behind him stills.
His hand moves again, snapping to the wrist at his middle, fingers locking around cold, pale skin. At the contact, the presence jolts against his back and vanishes. The false calm of this place goes with it.
Heat erupts in roaring waves. The engawa buckles beneath him, wood blackening as flames tear their way through, devouring the room in a single, violent breath.
Kyojuro is on his feet in an instant, staring at the now empty space his mother once occupied.
Fire surges higher, burning everything in its path as the illusion collapses around him. The last thing he hears before the blackness claims his vision is the demon’s voice.
Don’t die. Don’t die.
The sun shines on a field freshly marred from battle. The Kakushi arrive quickly to clean the area and tend to the wounded, but even they hesitate to approach the Flame Hashira’s body.
He’s kneeling, head bowed as if in prayer. The blood that coats his face doesn’t hide the smile still etched on his lips, giving him an almost tranquil appearance that is incongruous with the ruin of his body. It feels wrong to move him, as though doing so will tarnish the moment with the cold reality of his death.
A pair of Kakushi stand before him, glancing at each other, their unease plainly shared. In the distance, the grieving cries of the young Demon Slayers carry across the field. A crow perched on the train watches over them with a single beady eye before letting out a sharp caw.
Eventually, the braver of the two steps forward. She lays out a long length of heavy cloth, then gently lowers the Flame Hashira down. He’s still warm to the touch, but his head lolls unnaturally to the side, shattering the illusion that he is anything but dead. His body lands on the cloth with a muted thump, and she allows herself a moment to look at him.
She recognizes him, of course. She has been dispatched to many scenes involving the Flame Hashira, though until now, he had always been on his feet—overseeing their work or quietly mourning those he could not save. Although they have never spoken, Rengoku has always carried himself with a bright, commanding presence. Seeing him now, lying there, that light extinguished, pulls at something deep in her core until it aches.
Her comrade’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, gentle and reassuring. She doesn’t look up, afraid that doing so will snap the last thread of control she has over her emotions. With a stiff nod, she steels herself and returns to her work.
As she begins wrapping his body for transport, she’s careful not to look at the void through his center. Meanwhile, the second Kakushi frees the sheath from Kyojuro’s belt, setting it aside with practiced care. It’s then that he notices the broken katana still clutched in the Hashira’s hand.
This isn’t unusual. Demon Slayers, particularly Hashira, are often difficult to separate from their Nichirin swords, even in death. He expects resistance as he takes hold of the white-wrapped hilt and pulls.
It slips easily from the calloused fingers of its owner, and the Kakushi releases a breath of relief. That breath catches in his throat at the sudden and painful pressure around his wrist, making him snap his focus downward.
He watches in horror as the Flame Hashira’s hand closes around him.
A scream tears from him, so terrified he doesn’t recognize his own voice. He loses his footing and lands hard on the ground, his wrist still locked in the Hashira’s iron grip. Frantic, he claws at the thick fingers until they release him.
His comrade stares wide-eyed, the color draining from her face. Before she can react, a strange movement catches her eye. Despite the earlier hesitation, her gaze moves directly to that spot at Kyojuro’s middle.
Through the torn fabric of his uniform, where a fist-sized hole once gaped, fresh blood wells as organs regrow and pulse with life. Flesh bordering the wound ripples grotesquely, slowly knitting itself closed.
Kyojuro gasps, his chest struggling to rise as he draws in a single, weak breath. His eyes remain closed, his smile long gone, replaced by a grimace of pain. Both Kakushi stare at the Flame Hashira’s face, their expressions—once filled with grief and admiration—twisting into pure, unrestrained fear.
The estate is vast, but the luxury of it is lost on Akaza. Material things have never held his interest, unlike the humans who so fiercely covet them.
This place makes his skin crawl.
He launches from the shadows without a sound, his body twisting through the air before landing lightly on the balcony. In the next motion, he pulls open the doors, letting the late-evening air spill into the room. He knows better than to cross the threshold.
Inside, a child dressed in strange, modern clothes stands before a bookcase, his attention fixed on the pages of a wood-bound book. He does not look up.
Akaza takes in the sight once, then drops to one knee, fist planting firmly against the floor.
“I have come to report, Muzan-sama.”
Slowly, the page stills beneath the boy’s fingers. When he finally turns, the childlike softness is gone from his face, stripped clean in an instant. In its place, something ancient emerges, his eyes gleaming with a cold, inhuman light. Muzan fixes his gaze on the kneeling demon before speaking in a low, malicious voice.
“Did you find what I seek?”
As always, Akaza does not hesitate. “I investigated, but there was no credible information. I could not confirm its existence.”
A moment passes. A page crinkles, then rips.
“I did not find the Blue Spider Lily.”
“… And?”
“As you commanded, I killed one of the Hashira. You may rest assured.”
The room becomes thick with silence. That is never a good sign, but Akaza knew the moment he set foot here that he would not be leaving unscathed.
“Akaza, you appear to be under a misconception.”
Upper Moon Three braces for the onslaught.
“The Hashira lives.”
The words slip past his defenses. For a heartbeat, Akaza forgets himself and begins to lift his gaze. Muzan’s power crashes through him before their eyes can meet. Glass cracks and doors rattle against their hinges as the room shudders under the weight of it.
“How dare you show your pathetic face to me—you, a demon who couldn’t kill one measly human!”
Every vein in his body constricts as his blood ignites. His regeneration stirs, then halts, seized by an unseen force. His limbs shake uncontrollably and his eyes strain in their sockets. Blood spills from his mouth.
It does nothing to quell the Demon King’s ire.
“What I seek is the annihilation of the Kisatsutai. I want every last Demon Slayer dead so they never sully my sight again.”
Akaza forces himself to be still, swallowing the scream clawing up his throat. The wood beneath his fingers splinters as he braces against the floor.
It feels as if his body is dissolving from the inside out.
“This is not a complicated task… and yet you failed me.”
Mercilessly, the pressure intensifies. He goes blind in one eye, and sound distorts into a high, relentless ringing.
“Why didn’t you finish them off? I sent you because I trusted you’d get the job done, Akaza… Akaza! … Akaza!”
His restraint slips for a single instant. He chokes as blood floods his throat, forcing its way past clenched teeth and bubbling from his nose. His hand, trembling beneath him, is slick with it.
Muzan’s voice cuts through the haze of agony.
“You disappoint me. How far you have fallen, Upper Moon Three.”
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends.
Akaza’s body surges to repair itself. He remains where he is, unmoving, head bowed. Only his ragged breathing breaks the silence, along with the soft, steady drip of blood pattering against the floor.
Unperturbed, Muzan turns toward the bookshelves again, his features back to doll-like perfection. “Leave me.”
Akaza rises. He bows, then backs out of the room. By the time his feet touch the grass, the only trace of what he endured is the red smears at his eyes and mouth. He wipes at his face absently, his gaze unfocused.
The Hashira lives.
A strange sensation blooms in his chest, spreading outward and lingering at the edge of his thoughts. The memories come easily—the strength he exuded, the precision of his strikes, the relentless intensity…
…and those wide, unwavering eyes, bright like the sun he cannot recall, meeting his without fear.
His fingers twitch restlessly at his side.
“Rengoku Kyojuro,” he whispers to the night, a slow smile pulling at his lips.
“I look forward to our next battle.”