Write Me the Kanji for Sun

by AnOrdinaryButtercup

Summary:

Broken and miraculously mended back together, Kyojuro returns home to his family, dead set on recovering and resuming his duties as Hashira. He doesn’t expect that the demon who nearly killed him would seek him out again—with flowers and another impossible proposal in tow. Not to turn him into a demon, but to become friends.

 

Or: a story in which Kyojuro finds himself teaching an Upper Moon how to write.

Chapter 1: Homesick

Notes:

I’m so excited to share this story with you all! I’ve been working on it for the last six months, basically since I got sucked into the Demon Slayer fandom—and especially into the wonderful, infinitely deep AkaRen abyss. Those two completely spiraled me out of reality, haha.

I’ve read loads of fanfics about them, and while I love the story of Akaza kidnapping Kyojuro and tending to his wounds, I wanted to take a different approach to force them into delicious proximity. It’ll be just as indecent and insensitive, but Akaza is a decades-old demon who feeds on humans. What else would you expect? No sugarcoating here. Kyojuro has plenty of reasons to hate him. And he’ll hate and love-hate Akaza real good in this fic! xD

In the End Notes, I’ve put together a small glossary for the Japanese words I’ll be using frequently. Not everyone may know them, so hopefully, this saves you from looking them up. I didn’t include words like yukata or katana, etc., but if there’s anything you’d like me to add, feel free to let me know!

So, buckle up and please enjoy—it’s going to be a long ride! ♥

A warmth, sweet and soft like sunlight, swells in Kyojuro’s chest as he spots the figure of his little brother in the distance. Senjuro sweeps the entrance like every morning, blond hair tied back against the summer heat and hakama¹ dusty from cleaning the house.

Kyojuro’s hand tightens around the crutch that holds him upright, but he forces himself not to rush despite his heart pounding against his ribs with the joy and relief of reunion. Coming home at long last—it feels like five years, not five months.

As his brother turns his head and their eyes meet, Kyojuro smiles, wide and bright, with bottled-up love and longing.

The broom clatters to the dirt and a cloud of dust billows up.

“Ani-ue!”²

Senjuro runs to close the last meters separating them. Tears streak down his face as he flings himself into Kyojuro’s open arms.

“Careful, kid,” the Kakushi, who escorted Kyojuro back to the Rengoku Estate, chides. “Not too firm.”

Kyojuro hates that everyone treats him like he’s something fragile—a piece of pottery carefully glued back together. The twinge of pain zapping up his stomach as Senjuro clings to him is nothing. It’s not even worth a flinch. He locks his arms around his brother, as firm as he can, pulling him into his chest and breathing in the familiar scent of green tea leaves and charcoal.

Senjuro seems to have grown a bit, or maybe it’s Kyojuro’s hunched form that makes them almost the same height now. It’s a little disheartening that he doesn’t fit as perfectly into his embrace as before, but Kyojuro thanks the gods and Buddha that he has gotten the chance to hold his brother again after everything. He survived, if barely. He’s alive, because of an absurd miracle. He’s—

“I’m home,” he murmurs into his brother’s hairline—and can hardly believe the words himself.

Senjuro’s breath hitches. “Welcome home.”

Kyojuro’s heart tightens with a familiar ache. The moment of homecoming after weeks on missions is always bittersweet, but this time is different. This time, no one dared to hope he’d make it—not even his brother. Kyojuro has worried him sick. Probably their father, too. How can he ever make up for this?

His thoughts come to a sudden halt at the sound of his luggage being set down on the ground.

The Kakushi shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I’ll bid my farewell here.”

Kyojuro nods. “Thank you for everything.”

“It was an honor, Flame Hashira!” he exclaims with a deep bow before spinning on his heels. In a quick stride, he rounds the corner of the residence’s defensive wall and disappears from sight.

Senjuro shifts in Kyojuro’s arms. His fingers uncurl from the fabric of his yukata as he takes a step back, quickly brushing away the tears. A wobbly smile fights its way to his face instead.

“Let’s go inside. I’ve prepared some iced tea.”

Warmth blooms in Kyojuro’s chest again. “That sounds great. I could use a little refreshment.”

He reaches for his bag, but Senjuro inhales sharply and slips between him and the luggage.

“I’ll carry that!”

Kyojuro frowns at him. “But it’s heavy.”

If it were just some spare clothes and his mended haori,³ he’d have no objections, but most of his things consist of books.

After waking from the coma, he had requested some of his favorites to be brought from his home to the Butterfly Mansion, hoping to distract his mind from the searing pain caused by this unnaturally patched-up stomach wound—or rather, by those poisonous cells still circulating through his body.

On sleepless nights, when the agony became unbearable and made him bite the blanket to muffle his groans, he turned to his books, reading through the bouts of spasms and the haze of painkillers until he passed out from sheer fatigue.

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t carry this bag, Ani-ue. You’re still recovering.”

He knows that determined glint in Senjuro’s eyes well; it’s something they have in common. Further arguing would fall on deaf ears. Still, Kyojuro hesitates, his attention drifting from his brother’s face to the strap of the bag. A part of him wants to insist, to remind Senjuro that he isn’t weak, that he doesn’t need help, that he can bear the weight of his own luggage.

But the burn in his blood is unrelenting and like a slap back into reality.

Senjuro isn’t wrong. Kyojuro’s body is healing, and if he hopes to regain his full strength, he needs to accept that rest is part of the process—and be patient. This is the hardest part.

Taking a deep breath, Kyojuro forces a smile. “All right, I’ll leave it you.”

Senjuro beams. “You can count on me, Ani-ue!”

He hoists the bag up with more ease than expected. Well, he’s no child anymore, perhaps growing up faster than Kyojuro is ready to accept.

They make their way to the gate, Senjuro slowing his steps to match Kyojuro’s halting pace as he steadies himself on the crutch.

The walk here has drained him more than he wants to show his brother. He tries not to huff, refusing to sling his free arm over Senjuro’s shoulder and lean on him for support. Relying on his little brother—when it had always been the other way around—tightens his chest with guilt.

He’s the heavy luggage here. The burden. And the thought makes bile rise in his throat.

Perhaps Kocho had a point when she advised him to stay longer under her care. But the prospect of one more day in the Butterfly Mansion—surrounded by this antiseptic smell, thin, scratchy hospital sheets, the constant doting of the attendants, and worse, the fleeting pity in their eyes ... He couldn’t stand it anymore. All he wanted was to come home. Be with Senjuro. Check on his father. Find some peace of mind.

Kyojuro bites his lip as an apology threatens to spill from his mouth. No. He won’t trouble Senjuro more. He’s the big brother. He needs to be strong for the both of them.

As they pass through the gate, Kyojuro lifts his gaze, and he and Senjuro stop dead in their tracks.

Their father leans against the door frame leading to the genkan,⁴ a roll of paper in one hand and Kaname perched on his shoulder, fluffing his jet-black feathers. He looks even more tired than the day Kyojuro left on his last mission—heavy bags under his eyes, his curls a mess of bed hair, and his yukata loosely draped over his lean form. Just a shell of a strong man who once loved his family passionately and whom Kyojuro deeply admired. But there’s no passion in his eyes anymore, no fire—only a cold, hardened gaze, like extinguished embers.

“Chichi-ue⁵,” Kyojuro acknowledges, offering a polite smile. “I’m home.”

His father’s eyes flick to the crutch before he snorts, holding up the scroll. “They’ve brought instructions on how to take care of your wounds. You should’ve stayed there. What do you want here? You’re such a burden.”

Senjuro claws his fingers into the sleeve of Kyojuro’s yukata, gasping silently.

Kyojuro swallows against the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry.” I just wanted to come home.

His father huffs and steps aside with a curt nod, making room for them to pass. The crutch clicks against stone as Kyojuro limps past him.

“This is what you get for becoming a swordsman,” Chichi-ue murmurs with bitter spite. “For never having any real talent.”

The stench of sake clings to him like a second skin, and Kyojuro’s stomach flips with worry. It’s only morning, but the pungency of alcohol already assaults his nose. This close, he notices the red-rimmed eyes of his father. He’s drunk, maybe from the night before, maybe longer. It makes sense now. His words cut so much deeper when the alcohol dulls his mind.

Did he drink more while Kyojuro was in the hospital?

Kyojuro’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. He slips off the zori⁶ in the genkan and meets Senjuro’s nervous gaze.

His brother seems more shaken by their father’s dismissal—probably because it’s the only side of him he’s ever known. But surely, Chichi-ue doesn’t mean the cruel things that sputter from his mouth. Despair and grief still claim his tongue, even after all these years since their mother’s passing. Kyojuro firmly believes that he had tried to dissuade them from becoming swordsmen, not out of doubt, but out of fear. Fear of losing them, too.

Even so, Kyojuro’s chest aches as he takes the scroll from his father’s outstretched hand and steps into the hallway with Senjuro by his side.

The sharp thud of shutting fusuma⁷ doors echoes down the corridor as their father barricades himself again.

Senjuro heaves a sigh of relief before offering a warm yet shaky smile. “I’ve prepared your room, Ani-ue. I’ll take your luggage there, and then bring you tea.”

“Thank you, Senjuro,” Kyojuro replies with a reassuring smile of his own. “It’s not too hot yet, so let’s sit outside.”

They meet on the engawa⁸ a few minutes later. Kyojuro hasn’t finished reading through all of Kocho’s instructions when Senjuro joins him, balancing two ceramic cups and a carafe of cold-brewed tea on a tray. Kyojuro rolls up the scroll and puts it aside.

“By the way,” Senjuro says as he pours the tea, “someone sent flowers after you were hospitalized. There was no name or message attached, so I don’t know who they were from.”

Kyojuro hums thoughtfully. “Could have been from the Corps.” Since the Demon Slayer Corps isn’t officially recognized by the state, anonymous gestures like these are safer. “Do you remember what kind of flowers they sent?”

“I think lilies.”

“Really? What an odd choice.”

Lilies belong at a funeral, not on a sickbed. The neighbors usually brought Haha-ue⁹ irises, peonies, or plum blossoms to pray for her recovery. She had always been fascinated by flowers and used to do ikebana¹⁰ arrangements and oshibana¹¹ before her strength left her. But lilies? In March?

“They were bright pink and really beautiful, but their scent was so heavy I couldn’t stand it,” Senjuro says, and his eyebrows curl up in mild amusement. “Now I know how demons must feel around wisteria.”

They both break into a short, lighthearted laughter before falling into a pleasant silence. As they sip their cold tea, the furin¹² chime softly, and the wind carries the familiar, resinous scent of pines from the yard. Kyojuro’s heart almost bursts with joy. Being alive and home—it’s such a blessing.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

For today, Senjuro has postponed all his studies and chosen to spend the whole day with Kyojuro. And despite Kyojuro’s protests, his little brother insists on tending to his every need, seemingly desperate to prevent him from lifting a single finger. In the end, Kyojuro can’t find the will to refuse him.

They have cold soba for lunch and play sugoroku¹³ in the shade of Kyojuro’s room the entire afternoon, fanning their faces and sharing the okashi¹⁴ Kyojuro got from one of Kocho’s servants. Humidity clings to their skin, even with the shoji¹⁵ fully removed from their frames and bamboo blinds draped to shield them from the sunlight. The breeze barely stirs the hot air, offering little relief. Kyojuro’s wound pulses, but he doesn’t wince, doesn’t allow a flicker of discomfort to cross his face.

When the evening settles and the churring of the cicadas fades, Senjuro helps Kyojuro unpack. Books are returned to their chest, clothes are folded and stacked in the cabinet, fresh rolls of bandages, a bottle of sanitizing solution, ointments, and Kocho’s medicine find their place in a wooden box.

Kyojuro hesitates as he touches the fabric of the Flame Hashira haori. His fingers linger a bit too long, drawing a worried glance from Senjuro. With a sharp twinge in his stomach, Kyojuro stores the piece of clothing away. It’s hard to accept, but he won’t wear it anytime soon, if ever. A part of him can’t abandon the hope of returning to his duties one day. Before leaving the Butterfly Mansion, he even requested a new sword, which is still weeks away from being ready. Kyojuro will use the time to get strong and healthy again.

For dinner, Senjuro prepares all of Kyojuro’s favorites. The kitchen is filled with the warm, cloying scent of roasted onions, the rich aroma of miso, and the faint crackle of oil as Kyojuro peels the sweet potatoes from last year’s harvest. It’s a simple task, and yet, he had to wring it out of Senjuro’s hands. He can’t stand feeling useless while his brother does all the work.

Kyojuro’s not good at cooking, but he can at least assist. It’s been so long after all. He can’t even remember the last time they cooked together. Or spend this much time together. But back when their mother was still alive, the kitchen had always been a place where their family gathered.

“How’s Chichi-ue doing these days?” Kyojuro asks, careful, but the question hangs in the room as soon as it’s out.

Senjuro sets the knife down with a clink. “He ... He started to drink more since you almost ...” The words clump in his throat and he rolls the carrot on his cutting board around as if to distract himself from tearing up again.

A wave of guilt crashes over Kyojuro, heavy and suffocating.

“I’m sorry I’ve worried you both,” he murmurs softly. “But everything’s going to be okay from now on.”

A sniffle cuts through the air and for a moment, the kitchen is wrapped in a stifling silence. Senjuro wipes his eyes, then turns to Kyojuro with a fragile smile.

“Yes,” he croaks. “Thank you, Ani-ue.”

Kyojuro wishes he could say more to soothe his brother, but there are no magic words that would make things better in an instant. For tonight, though, in this small space of their house, things feel a bit lighter.

Even Chichi-ue joins them for dinner—disgruntled, and only after Kyojuro’s softened him up for several minutes through the closed fusuma door.

It’s good to see him eat and drink some water. Kyojuro would’ve liked to give him fewer worries and fewer reasons to reach for sake, but he’s still in a pretty bad shape himself. His stomach can’t bear too much food at once, even if it’s Senjuro’s amazing home-cooking, and his hands tremble as he sets down the chopsticks after one bowl of rice and miso soup.

“Ani-ue, you are finished already?” Senjuro asks with disbelief.

“It was delicious, Senjuro! But my appetite is only coming back slowly,” Kyojuro tries to calm him. “In a few weeks, I’ll eat ten bowls of your miso soup!”

Chichi-ue makes a gruff noise from across the table. “Tch. What then? You take up the sword again and get yourself killed for real this time?”

Kyojuro softly furrows his brows, locking eyes with him. “Chichi-ue—“

Their father’s fist crashes down on the table, rattling plates and ceramic cups. “You and I, we’re weak, Kyojuro. Too weak to make a difference in this world. After being broken beyond belief, you still can’t see that?”

“We were born stronger than others,” he retorts, keeping his voice steady. “If all people with power thought and acted like you, the world would be a very dark place.”

His father’s nostrils flare, and for a second, the tension between them swells. But then, he heaves himself up, swaying slightly. Without another word or glance, he turns and leaves. Kyojuro’s throat tightens as he watches his father’s back retreat into the hallway.

His rejection is familiar, almost routine by now, but that doesn’t mean it stings any less.

After cleaning the table, Kyojuro moves to fetch water for the dishes, but Senjuro stops him, insisting that he’ll take care of it after tending to his wounds. He urges Kyojuro to leave everything else to him and rest for the night.

In the dim light of the ofuro,¹⁶ Senjuro rolls up his sleeves and gently peels away the eyepatch and the sweat-soaked bandages that cling to Kyojuro’s torso. His sharp inhale bounces from the walls as the jagged, angry tissue is laid bare. But he doesn’t press for details, doesn’t ask Kyojuro why the scar mirrors itself on his chest and back. And Kyojuro is grateful for that. He wouldn’t know what to tell him, anyway.

A hole with the width of an arm had been punched through him—from solar plexus to spinal cord. Shattering his bones, crushing his insides to a pulp. No human could have survived this. Kyojuro was certain he was dying when the ghost of their mother appeared before him. He felt himself slipping away while the blood pooled beneath him and the cries of the Kamado boy faded in his ears.

And then he woke up. A month later.

He opened his eyes to darkness, all limbs tied to a hospital bed. No sunlight reached the room, and his body was whole again—impossibly so. The gaping hole in his chest had been replaced by dark scar tissue. His left eye pulsed, but worked just fine—as if it had never been smashed.

At first, Kyojuro thought it was all a dream. But something burned like acid under his skin, shaking him out of his daze. It wasn’t the kind of pain he knew from battles. This was a deep, gnawing agony rolling over him in waves, making him convulse against the restraints Kocho had refused to remove until she was absolutely sure he wouldn’t transform and spiral out of control.

Sitting in the warm steam of the ofuro, with Senjuro’s kind hands tending to him, the memory feels distant. Yet the burn in his veins reminds him that this is reality.

“Ani-ue,” Senjuro murmurs as he carefully dabs a damp cloth around the edges of the scar. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Kyojuro replies with a faint smile. “You don’t have to be so gentle. Just rinse it with water.”

He sits quietly as water cascades down his back and chest, cool and soothing.

Back in his room, Senjuro applies the thick ointment to the scars and wraps fresh bandages around him. Calmly, Kyojuro guides him through the motions.

He doesn’t tell his brother that the bandages and the eyepatch serve no real purpose anymore. His flesh has long since mended, and it’s not these injuries that sap his strength, but something coursing through his blood. And Kocho’s instructions run on a loop in his head: Don’t expose your wounds to sunlight until I’ve completed my research.

Senjuro helps Kyojuro into his yukata for the night. Once snug and perfectly fitted to his broad chest and shoulders, the cloth now hangs loose on his frame. Panic flashes in Senjuro’s eyes as he ties the obi, but he stays silent. After burning some mugwort to ward off insects, he prepares a hot pot of tea for Kyojuro and finally leaves him to rest.

When the fusuma slides shut behind his brother, Kyojuro swallows one of Kocho’s wisteria pills before sinking into the futon with a low exhale. It’s still early, but the exhaustion from the day pulls him into the sheets. He doesn’t find the will to reach for one of his books or sit at his chabudai¹⁷ to practice calligraphy, so he simply gives in to the weight of sleep.

The first night back home is painful, but less so than he feared. He wakes twice to the sharp pain in his stomach, sweat collecting on his brows and in the crook between his collarbones. The painkillers dull the worst of it, and he drifts back into uneasy dreams of flickering flames and dark kanji¹⁸ carved into a pair of glowing golden eyes.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

Two days later, a courier delivers flowers to their doorstep—three beautiful pink lilies, identical to the ones sent months ago. And again, there’s no name, no message. Even the courier admits he’s clueless about the sender. That morning, he found a handful of coins weighing down a piece of paper scrawled with such messy hiragana that he could barely decipher it as “Rengoku Kyojuro.” He recalls delivering the same flowers to their house before. They aren’t from his shop—in fact, he’s never seen lilies like them.

To Kyojuro, this feels like some sort of stealth mission from the Corps. Perhaps Kocho informed the Master about his return to his family’s estate. If so, he’s touched by the thoughtful gesture and wants to honor it, asking Senjuro to arrange them in the tokonoma¹⁹ of his room despite their overwhelmingly sweet, almost unpleasant scent.

Still, it’s strange. The same flowers in March and August ... Kyojuro doesn’t know much about botany, but could lilies—like wisteria—bloom all year round in some places?

He doesn’t dwell on the thought for long, though.

After breakfast, Kyojuro tells Senjuro to focus on his studies again. He himself spends the afternoon on the engawa, sitting in the shade, reading an old woodblock print and feeding Kaname dried corn kernels.

As night rolls over the village and both Senjuro and Chichi-ue retire to bed, Kyojuro sits down at his chabudai, grinding ink. A large, blank sheet of rice paper lies in front of him. It feels like ages since he last dipped a brush into ink to draw a few strokes. His fingers tremble slightly, still frustratingly weak, but he pushes through. Without practice, even a katana grows dull. His body is no different—it just needs sharpening. He’s rested long enough now, and calligraphy is something he can start with.

The scents of wisteria incense burning on the engawa and the pink lilies in the room swirl through the air in a heady mix, while the calm sounds from outside ground him in the moment. Frogs croak in the rice fields and leaves rustle in the gentle summer breeze.

But then, everything falls silent. Unnaturally fast.

Kyojuro’s pulse skyrockets, and his heart leaps into his throat as though it’s trying to choke him. He knows this ghastly feeling all too well.

As if yanked up by invisible threads, he rises to his feet.

Standing, let alone moving, is painful without the crutch, especially as the jab from his scar steals his breath away. But he grits his teeth to keep from doubling over.

The obnoxious presence feels muted—suppressed on purpose—but even after half a year of inaction, every fiber of his body remembers.

A sudden crash echoes through the night as pottery shatters on the engawa. The smoky scent of wisteria incense ceases. And the monster is here. It steps into his room, bearing its fangs into a grin.

Impossible.

How did it find him here?

Senjuro!
Chichi-ue—!

“It’s careless to leave the shoji open at night,” the vile creature sneers. “One could misunderstand it as an invitation, Kyojuro.”

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] hakama : traditional pants worn over a kimono [return to text]
[2] ani-ue : old and very polite way to say “Big Brother”; used in Samurai families [return to text]
[3] haori : traditional jacket worn over a kimono [return to text]
[4] genkan : entrance area of a Japanese house, where shoes are removed [return to text]
[5] chichi-ue : old and very polite way to say “Father”; used in Samurai families [return to text]
[6] zori : traditional Japanese sandals [return to text]
[7] fusuma : painted sliding doors made from wood and paper to separate rooms in traditional Japanese houses [return to text]
[8] engawa : veranda of traditional Japanese houses [return to text]
[9] haha-ue : old and very polite way to say “Mother”; used in Samurai families [return to text]
[10] ikebana : Japanese art of flower arrangement [return to text]
[11] oshibana : Japanese art of pressing flowers [return to text]
[12] furin : wind bells that make a tinkling sound in the breeze and stand for summer in Japan [return to text]
[13] sugoroku : traditional Japanese board game similar to backgammon [return to text]
[14] okashi : Japanese sweets, often enjoyed with tea or given as gifts [return to text]
[15] shoji : sliding doors made from thin rice paper [return to text]
[16] ofuro : traditional Japanese bath [return to text]
[17] chabudai : low table [return to text]
[18] kanji : the Japanese writing system consists of three scripts—hiragana and katakana (syllabary), and kanji, which are characters of Chinese origin [return to text]
[19] tokonoma : alcove in a Japanese room to display art, flowers, or other decorative elements [return to text]

Chapter 2: My Killer, My Savior

Ink seeps into the tatami¹ floor in dark, messy blotches that will leave their mark forever—just like Akaza did, all those months ago. Normally, time flashes by, quick and meaningless, but their grand, dazzling fight feels like decades ago.

Kyojuro stands there, once broken and now pieced back together. Clad in a simple yukata. Fiery hair tied up in a messy bun. Exhaustion tugs at the corner of the one eye that isn’t covered by a patch.

Black continues to trickle from the brush he clutches so tightly as if he could slice Akaza’s head off with it. It’s not his sword, yet his fighting spirit blazes with the same unwavering resolve that had blown Akaza’s mind the first time. Maybe he can even manage to gouge out his eyeball with that flimsy stick. Akaza would love to see him try. And a shiver of excitement ripples through him at the thought.

“Are you here to finish what you failed to do that night, demon?” Kyojuro spits.

Akaza curls his lips at the word. “Akaza.”

For a brief second, confusion crosses the Flame Hashira’s face before hardening into a scowl again.

“My name is Akaza,” he feels the need to clarify. “Did you forget it already, Kyojuro? I’m hurt.” He taps the place on his chest where his heart would be, but his tone is flat, devoid of any real emotion.

“I couldn’t care less about your name!” Kyojuro hisses through gritted teeth. “Stop the obnoxious chitchat and just get it over with!”

Akaza plants a hand on his hip. “I’m not here to kill you tonight. In fact, I have a proposal for you.”

“Save your breath,” Kyojuro interrupts sharply. Damn, he looks pissed. “No matter what you propose, I will never become a demon! I thought I made myself clear last time!”

“Never?” Akaza echoes, letting his gaze drift toward the fusuma² leading from the Hashira’s room deeper into the house, where his little brother and father sleep, blissfully unaware of the beast prowling around their estate.

Nothing’s easier for an experienced predator than suppressing its presence.

“Should I go wake up your brother?” Akaza drawls innocently, fighting the grin on his face as he sidesteps toward the door. “Maybe he can help me change your mind?”

In an instant, the color drains from Kyojuro’s face, and the fire in his eye flickers like a dying ember. “Leave my family out of this,” he rasps.

He’s not at his throat yet—which mildly surprises and disappoints Akaza. It might be the wiser decision, though. In this poor state, Kyojuro wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Their fight has wrecked him. And months hidden away in some Demon Slayer hospital clearly hadn’t been enough to restore him. Kyojuro is nowhere near to the powerful man Akaza clashed his fists with.

His back is hunched miserably, his shoulders sagging like those of a beaten dog. Tremors ripple through his body as he struggles to stay upright. His muscles have dwindled, replaced by bones wrapped in skin, and his breath rattles like pebbles trapped in a jar. The sound sets Akaza’s teeth on edge.

And here he was, tracking down Kyojuro’s home, biding his time, waiting so patiently for his return—only to find this? They can’t have a rematch like this. Kyojuro’s too weak. And too damn stubborn to be turned and make this easy for the both of them.

Disgraceful. Pathetic. Unworthy. Humans take too long to heal. And even if they do, they’re never the same.

“Don’t worry now,” Akaza says, even though he isn’t sure if the words are meant for Kyojuro or himself as he strides back to the center of the room. “I won’t hurt your family as long as you show a little effort to hear me out.”

Kyojuro follows his every step with a sharp, burning eye.

Fury and disappointment bubble in Akaza’s blood, but he shoves them aside. He’s not going to give up now. He’s put so much brainpower into this plan—invested time he could’ve used for training. But pumping muscles and hunting like mad won’t cut it anymore. Not if he wants to crush Upper One. Make him eat dirt the next time they battle for ranks. He came this far, with Muzan-sama’s approval and all. No way he’s leaving empty-handed tonight.

“Of course,” Akaza drags, “the offer still stands. Given your appearance, nothing would make me happier, but turning you into a demon isn’t the proposal I have for you this time.”

Kyojuro raises one of his thick, dark brows, still knuckling the brush like it’s a dagger. “What then?”

Nice. He’s all ears now.

Akaza’s lips curve into a smile—hopefully good-natured enough to pass as truce. “Let’s spend some time together and get to know each other better.”

Kyojuro’s pulse stumbles audibly. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a completely harmless offer, right?” Akaza chirps as he drops onto the tatami and crosses his legs.

The glare Kyojuro gives him could pierce an iron wall. His fighting spirit flares for a second, and his hand twitches as if tempted to strike a blow. But with arms this thin, the punch wouldn’t be more than a butterfly’s wing grazing Akaza’s cheek.

“You and I, every night”—and soon, for all eternity—Akaza continues in a chant. His fangs nudge his lower lip as he grins wide enough to split his face. “I’ll prove to you that I’m very disciplined. And reliable! We probably have more in common than you think! You just need to give our friendship a cha—”

“Don’t mess with me!” Kyojuro snaps, voice stretched taut. He clearly wants to shout from the top of his lungs but holds back, for the sake of his family. Humans are all the same. “What makes you think I would accept that offer? I won’t allow a demon to invade my home like that!”

His hands tremble at his sides, and the drumming beat of his heart pulses loudly in Akaza’s ears. It’s so amusing to watch him grapple for control.

“Careful now, Kyojuro,” Akaza warns with a playful edge. “Who do you think sent you those flowers, asking politely for a ceasefire?”

His gaze flicks to the corner of the room where the pink lilies from Muzan-sama’s greenhouse sit pretty, on full display, arranged in front of a long paper scroll—like they mean something to Kyojuro. Akaza’s touched, really.

Blunt horror floods Kyojuro’s face. “They’re from you?!”

Well, Akaza doesn’t exactly take pride in it. Those flowers wouldn’t have been his first choice to propose friendship. Their cloying stench is so overpowering it makes him gag. How can Kyojuro even sleep in the same room with them?

Regardless, they worked wonders in finding the Hashira’s home—the perfect scent trail to follow. After Akaza narrowed his living area down to a handful of villages, all he needed was a way to bypass the wall of silence the Demon Slayers had built with their tight-lipped, pretending-to-know-nothing villagers. And who would expect something as innocent and pure as flowers to come from a demon?

Akaza hates resorting to underhanded tricks like this. Loathes it. Scheming isn’t his style. It’s cowardly. Weak. Problems are meant to be solved with fists, not cheap, flowery games. Brute strength has brought him this far, but it’s no longer enough to push him further, to help him grow even stronger. He needs a sparring partner who can wield a sword and knows his way with Breathing techniques—and oh, Kyojuro has more than proven himself worthy. Even on his deathbed.

“I’ve gifted you even greater things than flowers, Kyojuro!” Akaza gushes, exhilarated. “You’re alive because of me!”

Kyojuro grimaces. “I almost died because of you!”

“Ah, but my cells saved you!” His heart pounds wildly against his ribcage now. “Didn’t they?”

“How do you—“

“Isn’t demonic regeneration incredible?” Akaza’s voice bubbles over. He’s buzzing with raw energy. “After having your guts skewered, there was no hope for you—and yet, here you are! Pitiful and weak, sure, but in one piece again!”

“Enough!” Kyojuro spits, voice cracking under the strain of keeping it down. “I’m done hearing you out, demon! Kill me or leave!”

Akaza’s smile drops like a heavy stone into a stream.

He doesn’t get it. Kyojuro’s had a taste of a demon’s power, of the supremacy, the unparalleled might—and yet, he’s not the least enticed? Isn’t already on his knees, begging Akaza for his blood to turn him?

Annoyed, he clicks his tongue. “Hey now. Show your savior some hospitality.”

“You’re not my—!” Kyojuro cuts himself off, biting down on the word as if it’s venom. His spirit flares, so fierce it steals the breath Akaza didn’t know he was holding. “It doesn’t matter what you propose to me! I’ll refuse every single one of your rotten offers!”

The night after their fateful battle, Akaza was dead set on tracking down and massacring that pathetic crybaby of a boy who had dared to call him a coward, relishing the thought of ending him in the most gruesome way possible. But instead, he found the Flame Hashira still battling for life. It was a tough decision—letting a man of Kyojuro’s caliber survive and cripple. He feared it would tarnish the memory of what he once was.

But this ... oh, this is exquisite. Unrivaled. This power, this defiance, this fighting spirit—Kyojuro is a beast, radiating like sunlight that, if Akaza were to reach out, would surely burn him alive.

Akaza grins wide, a manic hunger for blood surging through him that he can barely contain.

“Your father is just two doors away, completely dead to the world, snoring off the sake,” he sneers, more than ready for the challenge. “Can you get your sword fast enough before I reach him? Or your baby brother?”

He plants a hand on his knee, his body coiled and prepared to pounce if Kyojuro continues to refuse.

Kyojuro’s anger rockets like a column of fire, only to flicker with uncertainty and panic as the full weight of Akaza’s threat seeps in.

He hasn’t moved an inch from his spot. Perhaps he’s still in pain, unable to walk without assistance. He must realize he stands no chance.

The brush in his hand sinks, and his grip around the wood loosens.

Good. At least he’s being reasonable. Yet Akaza can’t help but feel a jab of disappointment.

Cutting Kyojuro’s ties to the human world would be the easiest path. But if he were to harm his family, Kyojuro would only hate him more—and Akaza isn’t here to earn his hatred. He’s here to win his trust.

For a long moment, the room is thick with tension as their gazes lock in a silent battle.

Then, Kyojuro takes a sharp breath. “And how, exactly,” he begins, with scorn and narrowed eye, “do you imagine this to go down? I mean—you, paying me visits at night? You do realize that I have to sleep?”

Akaza groans. “Humans sleep too much.”

“I’m still recovering from ... from what you did!”

With an exaggerated sigh, Akaza rolls his head back. “Just entertain me for a few hours and then go to bed. That’s not too much to ask for, is it?”

“I will not fall asleep in front of a demon!”

“And I don’t want to watch your ass-boring sleep,” he retorts. “I’ll leave when you’re too tired.”

Kyojuro’s scowl deepens. “And you think I’ll buy that lie? You found my home already, you can come in anytime, and you expect me to believe you will not kill my family or me on a whim?”

“I don’t have anything to gain by killing your family,” Akaza says in a cold, detached tone. “Your brother’s a weakling and your father’s a pathetic drunkard with poor fighting spirit. Even if I were starving, they wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

“How dare you—“

Kyojuro’s outburst is cut short by a harsh cough that rattles through his lungs like stones tumbling over brittle wood. He doubles forward, breath catching in his throat and one hand clutching at his chest.

Akaza cringes. It’s unbearable, seeing a strong man reduced to this. And for a split second, the familiar urge to end his life claws at him.

But he made Kyojuro like this. He can’t make excuses now. Can’t take the easy way out. Even if it stings.

“Get some rest,” Akaza forces the words out and pushes himself to his feet.

He can’t completely wipe the disgust from his face, but there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Not when Kyojuro is this wrecked. And Akaza did promise to leave when he’s too tired.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.”

By the time Kyojuro finds his voice again, Akaza’s already outside on the engawa.³

“You will not come back here!“

Akaza sighs and spins sharply on his heels. “Let me make myself clear one more time.”

Obviously, Kyojuro hasn’t understood a thing. It’s about time he learned the basic law of nature—eat or be eaten. There are no choices, no compromises. It’s that simple.

“I’m stronger than you, so you’ll play by my rules,” Akaza says, cutting. “Don’t even think about running away with your family like a coward. I’ve committed all your scents to memory. No matter where you go, I’ll find you. And when I do, I won’t show mercy anymore.”

Kyojuro’s face is cold and rigid like stone, but the erratic thudding of his pulse and the faint tremble rippling through his body betray the panic he so desperately tries to hide.

Finally, he is really listening.

“Write to your Demon Slayer friends or anyone else for help and your brother will be the first to die,” Akaza continues, tone shifting into a cruel snarl. “You can’t trick me. I will notice when you send a crow, when other Hashira visit you, when you try to lead me into a trap.”

Akaza doesn’t want to believe that Kyojuro would stoop so low as to deceive him. But relying on hope alone is foolish.

Kyojuro’s protective instinct is strong—and so predictable. He won’t sacrifice his family. Still, that stubborn sense of honor and devotion to humanity could drive him to reckless decisions. And Akaza has no desire to kill him over something stupid, so he needs to make the rules of their arrangement abundantly clear.

“I’ll always be close. Don’t forget that.”

The words hover, heavy with menace, and from the look of terror on Kyojuro’s face, Akaza knows the message has landed.

Kyojuro swallows hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbles. Any impulse of defiance seems to have been snuffed out like a candle.

Perfect. There’s nothing more to say.

Akaza turns again, ready to vanish into the night, but Kyojuro’s rasp halts him again.

“I want to ask you one thing.”

He steps onto the engawa, wobbling pathetically on his wooden crutch.

Akaza glances over his shoulder, waiting.

“How did you find me here?”

At that, he bares his fangs into a smirk. “I’m a hunter, Kyojuro. Once I’ve tasted blood, I don’t stop until I get what I want.”

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! And a huge THANKS to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter! It blew my mind how many people are actually interested in this ff! I’m incredibly happy ~♥

With this, the stage is set, friends. But do you think Akaza knows that this is not the way to gain someone’s trust? Haha. I hope you enjoyed the chapter from his perspective. It’s been forever since I wrote his detached, menacing, obsessed demon “voice”. So far, I’ve only written texts where he’s already head over heels for Kyojuro, but writing him like this for a change was so much fun. Feel free to let me know what you think!

And for all those who are wondering, I try to upload at least once or twice per month. I’ve finished the first drafts of four more chapters, and I could blast them out faster, BUT I’m a very slow writer and life might get busy very suddenly, so I don’t want to run out of nibbles to feed to ya too quickly, haha. Please bear with me. The next chapter will definitely come ;)

See you then! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] tatami : straw matting used as flooring in traditional Japanese rooms [return to text]
[2] fusuma : painted sliding doors made from wood and paper to separate rooms in traditional Japanese houses [return to text]
[3] engawa : veranda of traditional Japanese houses [return to text]

Chapter 3: The Right Decision

The old wood of the house creaks under the weight of his crutch as Kyojuro limps as silently as he can through the hallways. The broken stillness presses down on his chest, and his eye flits restlessly to the shifting shadows cast on the walls by the bright moonlight.

His pulse suffocates him. With his senses on high alert, he can’t shake the feeling that the presence of Upper Moon Three still lingers—sharp and cold, like shards of ice pricking the back of his neck.

Kyojuro’s fingers cramp around the handle of the crutch wedged firmly under his armpit as he pushes open the fusuma to the little treasure chamber where his family keeps their most precious belongings. The Flame Hashira haori is one of them, alongside keepsakes of Haha-ue—some of her hair bands and favorite kimono, a delicate comb in a lacquered box, and the oshibana¹ artworks she didn’t want to sell. Most of these are things Chichi-ue couldn’t bring himself to part with.

Kyojuro turns to a large chest standing in the corner beside a framed picture of pressed cherry blossoms that are purple specks in the dark. His body protests as he pushes through the pain to kneel. He slides the lid open, and the faint scent of aged wood puffs into his face.

Inside the chest, the katana of his father rests, wrapped in blazing red silk.

Kyojuro’s hands tremble slightly as he takes the sword and pulls the fabric away, revealing the white-golden ornate saya² and hilt, with a crest shaped like a flame, much like his own katana that broke in his last battle.

He draws the blade halfway, the scabbard as pristine as the day it was sealed away. Despite the years it’s still sharp enough to slice through a thick neck.

Good.

The metal sings as Kyojuro sheathes it again before rising to his feet, tottering on the crutch while clamping his other hand around the sheath.

He can’t stay unarmed. Not when a demon has promised to return. Kyojuro will not let his guard down again, nor allow himself to feel safe in his own house.

Just how—how did that monster even find him here?

Hashira estates are usually well protected, but there have been incidents where Upper Moons discovered former residences.

How many Hashira families had Upper Three massacred? Does it have experience hunting down the strongest Demon Slayers?

Either way, the situation is dire. The Hashira estates are centered around the Ubuyashiki family as a core of defense, and if the demon learns that—if it relays this information to Kibutsuji Muzan—the entire backbone of the Demon Slayer Corps, maybe even the whole Corps, could be wiped out in an instant.

Kyojuro can’t let that happen. Not over his dead body. He needs the demon to stay in the dark, to believe his only concern is protecting his family.

His father’s decision to lay down the sword and shut it away alongside his duties had once been a shocking revelation. Now, it feels like fate. At least Chichi-ue won’t look for it anytime soon. Won’t grow suspicious. It’s better that both he and Senjuro remain unaware of what transpired tonight. One slip, one careless move, and they might get themselves all killed. And Kyojuro can’t—mustn’t—make a mistake now.

As he passes through the main living space on his way back to his room, he takes a moment to sit down in front of the family’s ancestral altar. A small picture of Haha-ue stands in the center of the cabinet, flanked by a vase of seasonal flowers Senjuro bought and sticks of unlit incense. The faint scent of sandalwood lingers in the air—Chichi-ue must have burned some before going to bed.

Normally, Kyojuro would do the same and ring the bell for a proper prayer, but it’s the middle of the night. So, instead, he folds his hands together and bows his head.

Haha-ue ...
Our family is in danger, and it’s my fault.
But I swear to you, I will not let Chichi-ue or Senjuro come to harm.
I will protect our family and claim that demon’s head.

Kyojuro rises, but before leaving, he lifts his gaze to the shelf of the gods, placed high above in the room. He claps—carefully, but loud enough to attract the gods’ attention—and lowers his head again.

Kami-sama, please lend me strength.

Back in his room, the heavy scent of the pink lilies arranged in the tokonoma³ slams into him like a blow.

Their false beauty, their disgustingly sweet fragrance—everything about them has soured.

They are as much a threat to his peace as the creature that visited him this night.

They have to go.

Kyojuro halts before them, a determined look on his face.

With a strained inhale, he lets go of the crutch. It meets the tatami with a soft thud as he unsheathes his father’s sword. The silver blade gleams in the diffuse light of the andon,⁴ its polished steel seeming to catch fire in his grip as it turns glowing red.

The katana feels unfamiliar—the hilt harder to hold, the weight less balanced in his hands. It’s too large for him, but until his own sword is reforged, it will have to do.

He takes a stance, positioning himself as if preparing to cut bamboo. The vivid pink of the blossoms screams at him, but no matter how many controlled breaths he takes, he can’t strike.

People probably died for these flowers.

They don’t look like they would bloom naturally outdoors, so the demon must have fetched them from a shop—from a place where humans work, live, sleep ...

Cutting down these flowers means cutting down those lives with his own hands—desecrating them after they’ve already died for him.

His heart thuds with guilt, a sick feeling churning in his stomach, as he lowers the sword. After a moment that stretches endlessly, he summons the strength to sheathe it and tuck it into the obi of his yukata.

With a groan, he picks up the crutch from the floor, grabs the vase with the cursed lilies, and limps down the hallway to the guest room. He leaves them on the table there without a second glance.

Like this, he doesn’t have to stand their hideousness, doesn’t have to drown in their stench.

And yet, sleep doesn’t come to him that night.

He lies on the futon, wide awake, with a choking pulse and one hand on the hilt of the sword, waiting for the demon to break its word and return.

But it doesn’t.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

“Ani-ue,” Senjuro says the next morning, cautious, as if treading on glass. “Why did you put your flowers in the guest room?”

At the question, the rice slips from Kyojuro’s chopsticks, dropping back into his bowl with a wet flop.

For a second, a scowl crosses his face. “They stink,” he mutters quickly before stuffing his mouth with food again.

He can’t wait for them to wither so he can throw them out with the trash.

Senjuro watches him worriedly, no doubt noticing the sharp edge in his voice and the dark circles under his eye. “Ani-ue, didn’t you sleep well?”

Immediately, Kyojuro corrects his expression and slaps on a smile. “I didn’t! Maybe because of the full moon last night!” he deflects, even though the lie burns like acid on his tongue. “But don’t worry! I’ll rest in my room today!”

This seems to relieve Senjuro somewhat, and Kyojuro feels a pang at how quickly his brother brightens when he asks for another bowl of rice.

Senjuro’s joy is palpable as he prepares the refill. Kyojuro keeps his positive facade firmly in place, though the pit in his stomach grows and grows and he doesn’t feel like eating at all. But if it helps put Senjuro at ease, he’ll gladly eat until he bursts. Besides, he will need all the strength he can muster for the upcoming night.

Kyojuro spends the whole day in his room with the bamboo screens lowered and a Japanese history book in his lap. He doesn’t grasp a single word, tapping his fingers restlessly on the tatami as he ponders his options.

Sending Kaname to the Master and calling for help would be the most rational decision. The right decision. Especially in his weakened state. Even back then, with a healthy, sturdy body and his own sword in hand, he had been pushed around by that demon like a cat’s toy.

But now?

Now, there isn’t even a sliver of hope for him to slay an Upper Moon.

Kyojuro isn’t a fool.

But if he lets the demon inside tonight without fighting to the death, he could be accused of treason—and lose his head instead.

Either way, he is a dead man. Doomed to die since that fateful night. He has no regrets sacrificing himself again if it means taking down that vile creature with him—this time for sure. But first, he needs to get Senjuro and Chichi-ue out of danger. Stall for time. Trick the demon.

How many hours—days—would it take for other Hashira to come to his aid if he sent his crow now? Could they get his family to safety fast enough? What if the Upper Moon saw Kaname leaving the estate? How close is its hideout? Is it watching Kyojuro even now, with the sun up, from the shadows?

Kyojuro doesn’t know. He doesn’t know—and that’s why he can’t act rashly. Or his father and brother will ...

As Senjuro brings him tea and okashi⁵ in the afternoon, Kyojuro is struck by the realization that half the day has passed in a blur. With his heart racing, he finds himself wishing for time to just stop, and for dusk to never come.

When they have dinner together in his room, it feels like their last moment of peace. Kyojuro barely looks Senjuro in the face, his gaze fixed on his bowl, his stomach like a heavy stone as he forces down the little dishes his brother has caringly prepared. But everything tastes like sand on his tongue.

Sweat beads at the back of his neck as the sun starts to set.

His brother helps him clean and prepare for bed again, yet Kyojuro’s muscles remain tense and his nerves on edge. There’s no trace of tiredness in his bones—only dreadful readiness.

Perhaps this is the last time he’ll ever see Senjuro and his sweet, oblivious smile; the last time he’ll hear the disgruntled shuffle of Chichi-ue down the hallway, ringing the bell at Haha-ue’s altar before fetching another bottle of sake.

Did Kyojuro’s early return seal his family’s fate? Is this the end of the era of the Flame Hashira?

Maybe Kocho was right. Maybe he should have stayed at the Butterfly Mansion longer.

But the demon—it has already been spying on his family in his absence ...

The thought makes Kyojuro’s stomach curdle, and he fights the bile rising in his throat as he pulls Chichi-ue’s sword from beneath the blanket of his futon, just as Senjuro closes the fusuma behind himself with a soft, “Good night, Ani-ue.”

“Good night, Senjuro.”

He doubts it will be a good one.

Sitting at the chabudai feels like sinking down onto hot charcoals. Kyojuro grinds ink slowly and takes up the brush with his dominant hand—the one that doesn’t rest on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicks constantly to the shoji. This time, he left it open in a true invitation, daring the demon to come and taste his steel.

The night creeps in, maliciously, and Kyojuro’s pulse drums under his skin.

How long will the monster make him wait? Let him suffocate under the weight of death’s premonition? It didn’t strike him as the patient type, the kind that enjoys mind games. It favors violence in both actions and words, after all.

But hoping for it to not show up—to have lost interest—is superstitious.

The flame inside the andon flutters. And then, Upper Moon Three is back, bringing wind and dread with it.

Kyojuro is at its side in the blink of an eye. The Flame Breathing, dormant for so long, flares up in his chest, spreads like a wildfire.

It hurts as he dashes forward. There’s no crutch to lean on—only this single burst of furious energy. His whole body protests, his muscles scream in agony, but he doesn’t let the pain weaken his strike as he aims straight for the demon’s neck.

The blade of the katana hisses through the air—and meets an obstacle as hard as a boulder. Upper Three’s underarm.

Kyojuro gasps through the impact, a fierce strain ripping through his body. His Breathing falters. He’s only standing because his father’s sword is lodged deep in this creature’s flesh.

He tries to pull the blade free, but it doesn’t budge.

Upper Three grins with manic glee in its eyes. “Nice try!” it rumbles, sounding disturbingly pleased. “But way too slow!”

Kyojuro stares at it in bewilderment, waiting for the blow that will smash his skull, counting the seconds as the Upper Moon just beams at him, still like a statue.

“You—” Kyojuro takes a breath, his heart stumbling, almost leaping out of his mouth. “You are not angry?”

He was certain it would take his attack as rebellious act, as a violation against their deal he never agreed on, and slaughter him and his family without a second thought.

But it just tilts its head, confusion swimming in its inhuman eyes. “No. Why should I?”

“Because I tried to kill you,” Kyojuro deadpans.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t!” it replies cheerfully, not wasting a beat.

This thing is out of its mind.

“Last time we fought, you came so close to beheading me!” it buzzes with excitement, relaxing its muscles enough for Kyojuro to finally wrench his sword free.

Gravity pulls at him, and his legs are about to buckle as he stumbles back, but his pride refuses to let him drop to his knees in front of a demon. With a heaving chest and a spinning head, Kyojuro forces himself to stand.

Then, in slow, deliberate steps, he drags himself back to the chabudai, his eye never leaving the creature that delightfully babbles on.

“No human ever sliced this deep into my throat!” It shuts the shoji as it follows him into the room— his room! “But you’re far from your former strength, Kyojuro! You still have a long way to go to get back in shape!”

Kyojuro tunes out its drivel, and picks up the brush to continue where he left off—drawing messy kanji that reflect his inner turmoil, which only plummets further as that vicious thing unceremoniously flops down on the futon Senjuro had prepared for the night.

Kyojuro scrunches his nose in blatant disgust. “Not there,” he bites out. “Sit over here.”

He points to the spot in front of his table—exactly where the demon would be in his line of sight, even with his gaze lowered to the paper.

It clicks its tongue in clear offense. ”You afraid I’ll soil your futon?”

Kyojuro directs a sharp glare at the stains its bare feet have left on the floor. “Well, you’ve already ruined the tatami.”

“Then give me a towel next time,” it huffs, and Kyojuro loathes the sound of this—next time.

Still, it rises and strides toward its assigned place, settling down with crossed legs.

Kyojuro will have to clean the futon by morning without Senjuro noticing ...

“You might not believe me,” the creature warbles on, annoyingly persistent in filling the silence, “but I take good care of my hygiene. A demon’s nose is really sensitive, Kyojuro. There’s almost nothing worse than bad body odor.”

Kyojuro doesn’t care, doesn’t need to know what it likes or hates or does on sunny days—there’s no point in knowing at all. He’s allowing its presence, not accepting it. It wants to be friends with him? The closest they’ll ever get is when his blade slices through its neck.

His grip strains around the brush as he dips the tip back into ink.

For a blissful moment, the demon falls silent, watching Kyojuro draw the wobbly kanji for patience on the rice paper, though he prefers to read it as perseverance. Because gritting his teeth and enduring is all he can do to keep his family safe for now—even if there’s no real safety left in this house.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

The night drags on, as does the next—smothering and grating in its monotony. Kyojuro fails again to claim the demon’s head, and it seizes the chance to ramble on about their fight, praising his swordsmanship, his indomitable fighting spirit, going on and on about its eagerness for a rematch, and never once granting him a second of peace.

Occasionally, he shoots it sharp, annoyed glances, but that only seems to encourage it to keep talking, talking, talking. As if it has been starving for conversation for centuries.

An hour—a single hour of its insufferable presence is all Kyojuro can stomach before retreating to bed, literally seeking refuge in the sheets. And as promised, the demon leaves him be.

But on the third night, its endless tirade takes a turn.

It eyes Kyojuro’s brushwork with narrowed eyes, irritation making its tone crack as it snarls, “Why waste time on this ass-boring calligraphy?”

It’s not the first time it has sneered at his writing practice. Because it doesn’t understand a thing.

“You should be building your strength, Kyojuro. You’ve lost all your muscles since our fight—I can barely stand to look at you.”

As if he cares. He didn’t ask for its opinion.

“Hey.” Its tone rises. “When will you stop pouting?”

He’s not pouting.

“Talk to me already.”

With all his might, Kyojuro keeps silent, pressing his lips into a thin line as his patience stretches taut. But he’s not the one who loses it first.

With a sharp sigh, the Upper Moon suddenly stands, pivoting on its heels and striding toward the fusuma leading into the house.

The panicked stutter of his heart yanks Kyojuro out of his stubbornness.

“Where are you going?” The words tumble out, raw and frantic.

The demon pauses at the door, throwing a cold glare over its shoulder. “Paying your brother a visit.”

“N-no, wait!”

The brush slips from Kyojuro’s fingers, rolls across the paper, and smudges the half-drawn kanji for rescue as he scrambles to stand, gripping the crutch for support.

Upper Three spins sharply. “Stop ignoring me, then,” it barks. Malice drips from its voice. “This wasn’t part of the deal. I said entertain me, not bore me to death.”

The words land like another punch to the gut.

So this is as far as his silence will get him. Kyojuro tried—really tried—not to interact, not to feed the monster the attention it so blatantly seeks. But it won’t lose interest and just leave peacefully, either. It will only get angry. Angry enough to resort to violence because that’s what it knows best. Kyojuro shouldn’t push its boundaries further. Not if he wants his family to see the next day.

Here, in this house, he doesn’t hold any power anymore.

This fact sits like a lump of lead in his stomach. He hates this—hates his own helplessness. But if he can’t kill the demon, can’t drive it away, then there’s only one option left. Play along. Buy himself more time to find a way out of these shackles.

Kyojuro’s shoulders sink in defeat, and he lowers his gaze to the black sea of ink bleeding through the paper. “You asked why I ‘waste my time with ass-boring calligraphy,’” he murmurs, swallowing the bitter pill. “But it’s not boring. Calligraphy helps me clear my mind and hone my concentration, which is just as important when wielding a sword. It’s a discipline that doesn’t strain my body, so it’s the best I can do while waiting for the next check-up to get approval for my rehabilitation training.”

He keeps his tone neutral, steadying his breath as he sinks back onto the zabuton,⁶ his fingers tracing the brush on the table with deliberate care, as if weighing the significance of his next words. “The thing about calligraphy is ... once the brush is in your hand, you have to commit and pull through. It’s like wielding a sword—you only have one chance.” He pauses, lifting his head to look at Upper Three, that seems to hang on his every word with surprising vigilance.

“This dedication can lead you into a state of no mind, in which you’re detached from everything else and don’t perform wasteful movements or thoughts,” he continues firmly. “It’s called mushin.”

At that, the demons’s glare sharpens, drilling into him.

“So this,” it begins, “is training for you?”

Kyojuro’s chest tightens with unease at the eager gleam in the Upper Moon’s eyes.

“Teach me.”

Wait. What? He must have misheard.

“W-What?” he sputters his thoughts aloud.

Within a heartbeat, Upper Three sits in front of the chabudai again, vibrating with energy, his tone carefree once more. “I’ve never learned how to write kanji.”

“You want to learn how to write?” Kyojuro feels utterly stupid repeating this, but his brain struggles to process this turn of events.

Why would a demon want to learn how to write anyway?

Upper Three’s thin eyebrows draw into a confused frown. “Yes,” it says slowly. Oh, it must definitely think he’s an idiot.

Kyojuro clears his throat that suddenly feels very dry. “Okay, eh”—he fumbles to clear the table from the blotchy mess—“before you start with kanji, you should learn how to write kana.”

“No need,” it cuts in. “I can write hiragana and katakana.”

Kyojuro exhales sharply. “And do you know how to read kanji?”

He loathes that he has to probe for more information just to know where to start. It’s absurd to even consider teaching that thing. But if this keeps the personal entanglements to a minimum, if it gives him something to focus on, maybe it’ll make the time he has to spend in its presence pass faster.

“Oh, I can read quite alright,” it says, a little too smug about something this trivial. Well, trivial for humans at least. “Over the last decades, I had to read tons of books about botany, human medicine, and Chinese healing arts.”

Had to? And then books this complex? A mindless beast like that? What era was it even born in? Did it have access to education, or did it start studying only after leaving its humanity behind—after finding itself with too much time to spare?

“Do you like—“ reading?

Kyojuro bites his tongue before the word can fully form in his mouth.

Why should it matter what that oni⁷ likes, where it came from, when it was hurled into this world? It probably doesn’t even remember its past.

Upper Three tilts its head slightly, like a cat eyeing its prey, waiting for the question that never comes.

“Never mind,” Kyojuro mumbles, laying fresh paper on the table.

Unrolling the brush wrap, he picks the cheapest one he can find—suitable enough for practice—and shifts gears into sensei⁸ mode. This, at least, is something he can control.

“You should start with the basics,” Kyojuro says and motions for the demon to sit next to him, despite the prickling discomfort crawling down his spine at the thought. But he has to show how it’s done.

With unnerving enthusiasm, the Upper Moon settles beside him, and a familiar, off-putting scent hits his nose. Earthen and metallic—like a blood-soaked blade left to rust. It makes the hairs on his neck bristle, and he instinctively feels for the sword by his side, curling his fingers around the hilt in a brief rush of alarm before he forces himself to let go again.

He takes up his own brush instead and demonstrates a few simple strokes, explaining the importance of pressure and speed, failing to imagine that this is not a demon beside him.

Upper Three watches closely, then mimics the movements.

But the brush in its hand snaps. Of course it does. A battle-crazed monster learning something as delicate and sophisticated as calligraphy is downright ridiculous.

The world has truly gone mad.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! ♥

I thought calligraphy would be a fitting hobby for Kyojuro, given his love for Japanese traditions and culture. Since I can decipher some kanji but not write them, the idea that Akaza can’t either just sprang to life.

And of course, a huge thank you to everyone for all the kudos and lovely comments on the last chapter! I’m truly speechless that so many people enjoy my writing! (o´▽`o)

 

A few words about Shintoism, Buddhism, and oni in Japan for all those who are interested:
Shintoism, the indigenous religion of Japan, teaches that kami-sama (gods) dwell in all things—mountains, rivers, stones, even in a grain of rice. There are good and evil kami, but they’re not strictly separated because, as we all know, nature can be both kind and destructive. All kami can be considered spirits, but not all spirits qualify as kami-sama, which blew my mind. This just made me think of “Spirited Away” by Miyazaki Hayao.

As an interesting side note: Oni (demons or ogres in Japanese folklore) are usually considered spirits, not gods. They are often viewed as evil creatures bringing calamity, disease, and misfortune, but they can also act as protectors and guardians—which I find quiet endearing in regard to Akaza and Kyojuro.

Only the worst people turn into oni while alive, and they are the ones who cause problems for humans. I think this fits Muzan quite well, as he was the first human to turn into a demon in the Heian period—when folklore about oni began to spread. But I’ll share more interesting facts and findings about demons in other chapters’ notes.

Back to the main topic: Buddhism arrived in Japan in the 6th century, primarily via the Korean peninsula. By that time, it had already been influenced by Chinese thought, including Confucianism, which contributed to the practice of ancestor veneration. During the Edo period, Shintoism and Buddism blended together, and today they coexist harmoniously. Many rituals incorporate elements from both traditions, and older houses often feature both a kamidana (a Shinto altar enshrining kami-sama—the one Kyojuro literally looked up to) and a butsudan (a Buddhist family altar). They are sometimes displayed in the same place, for example, the main living area.

Shinto is practiced for life events such as birth, marriage, and seasonal festivals. Buddhism is associated with funerals and memorials. Since both religions are deeply embedded in daily life, many Japanese people don’t consider themselves strictly religious. Instead, these practices are often seen as cultural traditions rather than religious beliefs. That’s why I made Kyojuro pray to both.

 

Hope to see you next chapter! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] oshibana : Japanese art of pressing flowers [return to text]
[2] saya : the sheath of a katana [return to text]
[3] tokonoma : alcove in a Japanese room to display art, flowers, or other decorative elements [return to text]
[4] andon : lamp made from rice paper and a wooden frame, lit with burning oil [return to text]
[5] okashi : Japanese sweets, often enjoyed with tea or given as gifts [return to text]
[6] zabuton : seat cushion for sitting on the floor [return to text]
[7] oni : you know this one ;) [return to text]
[8] sensei : teacher, instructor [return to text]

Chapter 4: Sun and Moon

hi 日 — day; sun.

The lilies are still in the house. Akaza smells them over Kyojuro’s delicious sweat and strained human breath.

He didn’t sever their bond after all. It makes Akaza’s stomach flutter with joy, even though the scent fades with their inevitable demise. Flowers are so short-lived, so fragile—withering too fast, too soon. Just like humans.

Well, whatever. He’ll just bring Kyojuro a new bouquet. Some wildflowers, maybe. With a nicer smell. Sunflowers are in full bloom right now. He passed a field of them outside the village the other night. They’d be perfect.

Akaza inhales with relish.

It takes all of Kyojuro’s strength to hold his katana steady as he pushes forward with a groan. The blade slices into Akaza’s neck, but no deeper than a paper cut.

He didn’t even bother to stop the strike this time, despite anticipating it with every fiber of his being. The prospect that Kyojuro might try to kill him every night from now on sends an ecstatic thrill through him.

“I despise you,” the Hashira hisses low into his face, anger blazing hot in his big right eye.

“Well, I happen to like you,” Akaza retorts. “That’s why I decided not to kill you. For now.”

Refreshing the warning seems appropriate every so often. To keep Kyojuro in check. Akaza can’t watch him around the clock or control where his crow goes, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Before each visit, Akaza checks the surroundings, scans for new scents and listens intently for signs of strangers in the house. He isn’t an Upper Moon just because of his strength—his senses are masterclass, honed over decades.

As Kyojuro tries to pull away, Akaza’s hand darts forward to grab the wrist of his sword hand. He digs his thumb into warm human skin, holding him in place. The Flame Hashira gasps in shock as Akaza yanks the obi of his yukata loose and unashamedly brushes the front aside, exposing the aggressive red scar on his stomach.

“What a sight to behold. I punched right through here, but you made it out alive.” Akaza grazes his fingers over the fragile tissue, mesmerized. “That’s quite impressive, Kyojuro. Such a strong will to live.”

Kyojuro grinds his teeth at the touch, and bites back that whimper of pain lodged in his throat. It must still hurt. It looks raw. Sensitive. Makes the water pool in Akaza’s mouth and the claws of hunger rake down the walls of his stomach.

“Don’t touch me!” Kyojuro barks, struggling against his grip—just as futile as embers fighting against a typhoon. “And stop calling me by my first name!”

Akaza swallows the sudden rush of appetite and blinks up into Kyojuro’s stormy face. “But this is what friends do,” he deadpans.

“We’re not friends!”

His lips curl, and for a second, the tempting thought of snapping Kyojuro’s wrist, of breaking him all over again, surges through him. Pain makes people surrender faster after all. But Kyojuro isn’t that weak, even with this wretched body, and Akaza doesn’t really want to hurt him now. What he wants is a swordsman as his sparring partner, who can teach him how to best powerful Breathing users. Meeting Hashira every decade or two does nothing to prepare him for another blood battle against Upper One. Akaza can’t waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity over a few spiteful words thrown at him in the heat of the moment.

Kyojuro is perfect—a masterpiece. Or at least he was when they first met. But his flame is still burning. Akaza can feed it with the right fuel and bring it back to its full, blazing glory.

So, he’ll just brush Kyojuro’s warped perception of their friendship aside.

Releasing him, the Hashira wastes no second. He takes a crutchless, unsteady step backward, putting as much distance between them as possible before sheathing his sword and quickly fixing his yukata.

For an irritatingly long time, they don’t speak. Just stare at each other across the room, like an abyss has opened between them. Kyojuro’s eye burns with spite, and Akaza feels a nudge in his guts as his initial excitement fades.

He can’t stand this silence.

“So,” he drawls, forcing his expression into one of goodwill, “what kanji will you show me tonight?”

For a split second, a scowl crosses Kyojuro’s face. Then he sighs. “We keep it simple.”

He limps back to his table and sinks onto the zabuton. Sitting seems to be such a relief to him that it’s downright pitiful.

Akaza ignores the flicker of irritation at the word simple—or at witnessing Kyojuro’s obnoxious frailty—and pads after him.

The previous night, he refreshed the correct stroke order. Dug it out of the dusty back room of his mind. Top to bottom, left to right. He wrote the first kanji of one to three. Basic horizontal lines a two-year-old could produce. But Kyojuro insisted on starting from scratch, as if Akaza never held a brush in his entire life.

He doesn’t care about drawing beautiful kanji like the Hashira. It’s a waste of his nights. He isn’t here to perfect strokes—he’s doing this stupid, ass-boring calligraphy to reach mushin.

Could mushin and the Realm of the Highest be the same? Just different words from different disciplines describing the exact same concept—the zenith of ultimate detachment?

Bone-shattering training and endless hours of meditation tearing his patience to shreds couldn’t bring Akaza there. Maybe calligraphy could.

As he sits down beside Kyojuro, the leaping pulse of a human heart zaps through his nerves like a spark. The nervous rhythm definitely betrays Kyojuro’s outward calm, but his hand remains steady as he dips the brush into ink and draws the first character on the paper—the kanji for sun and day.

Starting with this one, huh. Is that his way of mocking Akaza? A form of payback? How amusing.

“The kanji for sun,” Kyojuro says in a flat tone, as if Akaza couldn’t actually read. “It’s simple and consists of only four strokes.”

He demonstrates it again, slower this time, pointing out where to put pressure before handing the brush over to Akaza.

But the flimsy stick snaps in two on the second stroke, and ink splatters like blood across the paper. Ah, damn. It’s not the first one he’s broken. Last night, at least two more suffered the same fate. Why the hell are these things so fragile?

“Could you at least try and control your demon strength a little?” Kyojuro reprimands with a sharp frown. “I’ll be in trouble explaining this to my brother.”

Akaza clenches his jaw at that human’s insufferable, patronizing way of speaking. “I’ll try. But no promises.”

He switches to a fresh sheet of paper and directs all his attention on holding back this time. But the strokes turn out fat and wobbly, bleeding through the paper.

“You don’t have to apply so much pressure,” Kyojuro comments from the side, sounding more like a teacher now and less like a venomous snake. “The weight of your hand is enough.”

Oh, finally, a rare piece of useful advice.

Akaza nods and changes the paper again. Loosening his wrist and letting his hand fall seems to do the trick. The gravity takes over while he focuses on drawing straight lines. The result is neat. Recognizably the character for the fucking day.

“Again,” Kyojuro orders firmly, his face unreadable and blank like the fresh page Akaza pulls up.

He suppresses the annoyed click of his tongue and does as he’s told. Getting irritated over trifles won’t bring him closer to the Realm of the Highest. It’s like with meditation—patience is the key. Despite clearly teetering on the edge, Kyojuro has never slipped so far. Always the noble, dedicated perfectionist. For sure, he must’ve ...

“Have you ever reached mushin?” Akaza asks between the strokes, curiosity bubbling over inside him.

Kyojuro doesn’t answer immediately, hesitates too long, and Akaza throws him a glance from the corner of his eye.

“No,” he finally admits, almost bashful. “When I became a Hashira, I barely had time to practice calligraphy and fully immerse myself.”

That’s ... a letdown. Akaza has hoped Kyojuro might be the one to guide him to the Realm, but there’s really no shortcut. It seems he’ll have to find the way on his own and just practice harder. Harder than Kyojuro ever has. No reason to give up now.

And yet, he can’t quite mask the disappointment in his voice. “I see.”

Kyojuro suddenly clears his throat and throws a judgmental look at the paper. “Draw it again.”

Akaza whips his head around. “What? Why?”

“Can’t you see? It’s totally crooked.”

And like this, Kyojuro makes him repeat the kanji—over and over and over. At some point, Akaza stops counting. This is more punishment than training. He understood the stroke order the very first time. He’s no peabrain. But each kanji he draws looks the same. And it takes every ounce of his self-restraint not to flip the chabudai over.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

tsuki 月 — moon.

The light of the andon¹ flickers, casting restless shadows over the table strewn with rice paper. Each page is marred by ugly, black scribble. There are no other words for what his uninvited visitor produces.

Kyojuro dreads the nights more than ever—not for what lurks in the dark, nor the pain that leaves him sweating on the futon. The real nightmare has already taken up residence in his house. It sits right next to him, will do so every night from now on, and there’s no escaping it.

With a low sigh, Kyojuro rotates the warm cup of Sencha tea in his hand. He watches closely as Upper Three smears the character for moon, head tilted to the side and tongue gliding over his left incisor in concentration. The sight is too innocent, too disarmingly benign, like a schoolboy doing his homework, and Kyojuro’s heart clenches with horror.

Those are the fangs of a beast, capable of tearing through flesh and breaking bones. His flesh. His bones. In fact, the demon already has, but with its fist.

Kyojuro’s scar throbs at the memory, and the pain twists like a knife inside him. He draws in a sharp breath, clamping down on his lip to muffle the groan.

In an instant, the Upper Moon’s gaze snaps to him, brush hovering over the page, the kanji unfinished. Yellow eyes pierce through him with the hyper-awareness of a predator.

Kyojuro straightens his back and smooths a palm over the ceramic in his hands. “Did I tell you to stop?” he asks, keeping his tone steady, instructive, despite the burn melting his insides.

“Your wincing makes my skin crawl.” Upper Three says, toneless.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” he shoots back and drops his gaze to the paper. “Finish the kanji, would you? Remember, once the brush is in your hand—“

“—you have to commit and pull through,” it finishes, rolling its eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’d be fully committed if you weren’t twitching like a weakling beside me. This pain obviously bothers you. Why don’t you just turn into a demon and be done with it?”

Kyojuro narrows his eye. “I won’t. Don’t think a little pain will make me yield.”

“We’ll see,” the demon growls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of its lips.

Bile surges up Kyojuro’s throat. “Stop talking and focus.”

“Yes, sensei,” it responds with mock obedience, then goes back to writing.

But to Kyojuro’s chagrin, it doesn’t keep its mouth shut for long.

Laying down the brush, Upper Three glances at the page littered with a dozen repetitions of the same character, none of them alike. There’s no consistency, no filigree or grace, and yet the demon looks oddly pleased with itself.

“The kanji for moon is so much nicer than that of the sun. Don’t you think so too, Kyojuro?”

He doesn’t answer, pretending to be busy flushing the bitter taste of dread from his tongue with a large sip of tea.

“Do you have a favorite kanji?” it continues, as if it hadn’t just been ignored.

Kyojuro hates indulging in the small talk the Upper Moon always tries to drag him into. As if they’re friends!

“Mine is the one for battle.”

What a surprise.

“Can you show it to me next?”

Kyojuro sighs, finally caving in and humoring the demon with an answer before it gets mad again. “We go in the order I dictate.”

Its expression darkens, mouth clamping open as if to protest, but Kyojuro won’t have any of it.

“You learn the basic kanji first and work your way up to more difficult ones. It’s the same as with any other discipline, be it swordsmanship—or martial arts.”

The words hang in the air, and Upper Three holds his glare for a few heart-thudding seconds, then scoffs. “Fine.”

The tension in its posture eases, and it seems Kyojuro just found some common ground. It’s not that hard to read after all. Speaking the language it understands might bring the beast to heel.

He can work with that.

 

 

~ ☽ ~

 

 

chikara 力 — strength.

The fourth night, Akaza insists on learning the kanji for strength. It’s a simple one with only two strokes—less than the characters for sun and moon have. That’s what convinced Kyojuro, though he still curled his lips in distaste, as if Akaza’s request shattered his perfect order of whatever.

The Hashira should ease up a little. He’s taking this too seriously, issuing orders like Akaza’s learning surgery, not writing.

Frustration simmers under his skin. There’s nothing worse than being bossed around by someone who’s so much weaker. But at least Kyojuro is talking to him now, even if it’s just about pressure, speed, and don’t use so much ink.

Using his family as leverage to force him into becoming a demon has crossed Akaza’s mind—more than once. But they’d probably choose seppuku² before they ever let their high-born bloodline be tainted. Just offering never worked with Hashira. So, this time, he needs to be thorough. Show Kyojuro the bright side of living as a demon. Right now, he’s weak, cornered like a wounded deer that lashes out in despair. First, Akaza needs to gain his trust, then coax him to feed from his hand. Which means spending the next nights in this strange set-up, enduring lectures over his poor handwriting. Once Kyojuro accepts him, it’ll all be worth it. Akaza’s patience will pay off.

With an enthusiastic flick, he completes the kanji and rests the brush on the inkstone to view the result. The black bites right back at him, stark against the white paper as it settles. The edges look sharp and clean, and Kyojuro gives a wordless nod of approval. Pride swells in Akaza’s chest.

At last, he got it right in under thirty attempts or so. Strength is straightforward and easy, like it should be.

“The kanji is so simple,” he bubbles, breaking the silence, “but achieving its meaning takes a lot of will and effort.”

“It’s a simple kanji for simple-minded people,” Kyojuro replies off-handedly, before muttering into his teacup, “Not surprising you mastered that one so quickly.”

The insult burns like hot iron.

Akaza’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “What’s so simple-minded about pursuing strength? If you have it, you can do anything. No one can dictate your life. No one—”

A rush of raw, excruciating humiliation crashes through him, the memory of his blood battle with Upper One as fresh as an open wound, even after twenty years.

The centuries-old fart didn’t even break a sweat when he severed Akaza’s limbs. Shredded his flesh. Crushed his fists and skull to pulp, over and over again, until regeneration became a struggle of its own. Their fight raged on for days and nights within the Infinity Castle Muzan-sama had granted them for their duel. And in the face of his powerlessness, Akaza’s initial thrill quickly flipped into desperation and blinding wrath.

Worst of all, though, was being spared and staying alive after that mortifying defeat—Upper One thanking him for the exhilarating fight before turning his back and walking away with the hakama billowing behind him.

The memory curdles in Akaza’s gut like blood. Never fails to leave a foul, rotting taste in his mouth.

He has never felt this helpless. This weak. Even after decades of training, after slaughtering hundreds of humans, it wasn’t enough. He was weak—is still so. Too damn weak.

His jaw locks, hard, and his fists clench in his lap.

“No one stands above you when you’re the strongest.”

His growl vibrates through the room like thunder.

Kyojuro’s brows knit together, and he sets down his cup, turning in his seiza³ to face Akaza head-on. “Nothing’s wrong with pursuing strength—as long as you do so for the wellbeing of others.”

Akaza doesn’t miss how the Hashira’s hand glides back, deliberately settling on the hilt of his sword, as though it could save him if Akaza were to seriously attack.

“That’s stupid, Kyojuro,” he hisses instead. “Building strength only to throw your life away for the sake of the weak and cowardly? If you don’t care about rising high, then why fight at all?”

“It’s the duty of those born strong to protect the weak. There’s nothing stupid about that,” Kyojuro fires back. “Even most animals have the instinct to defend their young.”

“Because they don’t want their species wiped out.”

“As do humans.” His blazing fighting spirit blows Akaza straight in the face, and it would impress him—if the heat of his conviction wasn’t such a pain in the neck right now.

“The weak don’t contribute to a species’ survival,” he snarls, disgust claiming his tongue. “They can’t change the world. They’re useless, so nature sorts them out quickly. Only the strong persist. It’s as simple as that.”

“As someone who’s already unnaturally strong,” the Flame Hashira presses on, annoyingly stubborn and unyielding, “have you ever asked yourself why you want to get even stronger? What exactly are you fighting for?”

At those words, more images carve through him—of his flesh being smashed under Upper One’s sole, of Upper Two’s cold claws raking down his arm, and of Muzan-sama’s wrath sending his cells into a rampage.

“To become the strongest,” Akaza rumbles. So they can all kiss my ass for once.

There’s a moment of stifling silence as both of them are locked in a seething stare-down.

Then, Kyojuro speaks again, his tone dripping with contempt, “I despise people who strive for power only for their own gain. It’s meaningless.”

Akaza’s pulse vaults. “Meaningless?” he repeats lowly, fighting every urge in his body not to seize the Hashira by the throat and just squeeze. To show him what it means to be on the wrong end of the food chain. “Everything you protect with words and sword is meaningless. Your oh-so-noble, starry-eyed ideals almost got you killed, remember?”

“My death wouldn’t have been in vain,” Kyojuro replies instantly. His voice cuts like steel. “That night, I protected many lives—from you.”

With finality, he stands, unwavering and without his crutch, as if to prove something.

“We’re done here for tonight.”

Akaza rises to his feet as well, his gaze drilling through Kyojuro. He yanks the paper with his new kanji from the table, rolling it up and clenching it in his hand.

In silence, he crosses the room, but the anger boils beneath his skin, and he throws the shoji open with a loud rattle. The wooden frame creaks in protest under the force.

“You know, Kyojuro”—he casts a final, lashing glare over his shoulder—“that kind of thinking will get you nowhere. You may willingly risk your life for other people, but they would never do the same for you. Because humans are weak, selfish creatures. Sooner or later, you’ll come to see that. And I’ll be there to catch you when that happens.”

Notes:

As always, thank you so much for reading! ♥

Some research insights:
There’s a funny Japanese saying of “tossing the chabudai,” which literally means flipping the table over in frustration. I just had to include it for Akaza’s unravel.

Mushin in calligraphy is actually a real concept, rooted in the principles of Zen Buddhism. To master Zen calligraphy, one must clear the mind and allow the brush to flow naturally, rather than forcing it through practice or effort. It reminded my of the Realm of the Highest that Akaza wants to reach so desperately.

Also, I’m using the Kunyomi (Japanese) reading for the kanji headings. This reading is typically used when the kanji appear alone. Akaza will learn only single characters for now, which don’t always form a “word” in the way we understand in English. Often, a single kanji has multiple meanings or readings, and when combined with other kanji or kana (hiragana & katakana), they form a word.

Hope to see you next chapter!

 

—Glossary—
[1] andon : lamp made from rice paper and a wooden frame, lit with burning oil [return to text]
[2] seppuku : ritual suicide of samurai [return to text]
[3] seiza : formal kneeling position [return to text]

Chapter 5: Respect the House Rules

yama 山 — mountain.

With a wet, disgusting splat, the severed hand of the demon lands on the engawa, still clutching a bunch of sunflowers. Yellow petals are sprayed with red, and heat erupts in Kyojuro’s lungs.

His blade sings through the air as he follows up with another swing, aiming for the neck this time.

But Upper Three stops the strike—knuckles meeting steel with a sharp clang.

It grins wickedly. “You’re getting faster on your feet. Attacking me every night ... Is this good training for you?”

Kyojuro has no patience for its nonsensical questions.

“How many people died for these?” he hisses and directs his gaze to the flowers drowning in a puddle of blood.

He couldn’t cut through them the moment Upper Three appeared with them on his engawa, presenting them like some gruesome peace offering. And now, although every fiber in his body screams at him to do so, he can’t crush them under his heel.

“What a question to ask!” The demon gasps in fake indignation. “After I went through so much effort to pick them for you!”

“Stop this!” he bites out, his voice strained as the strength slowly seeps from his limbs and his body protests to stay upright. “I don’t want any flowers from you!”

Upper Three sighs, shaking its head as if Kyojuro is the unreasonable one here. “You know, I don’t do this for anyone. You’re really insensitive, Kyojuro. Or ...” It pauses, just long enough for the words to settle before its tone slithers into cruel mockery. “Or, are you just shy? Too manly to accept flowers, perhaps?”

Kyojuro’s fingers tighten around the hilt of his father’s sword, knuckles paling under the death grip. A vein pulses at his temple, and the urge to strike again surges through him, but he doesn’t let himself get swept away. It would only rile that thing up further.

So he exhales the heat from his chest and sheathes the katana.

Without another word, he turns and limps back into his room to fetch the crutch he discarded. Behind him, the demon dares him—almost begs him—to fight some more, but Kyojuro blocks it out. Its prattle blurs into meaningless background noise.

In the doorway, he pushes past the Upper Moon before it can follow him inside, and carefully steps down from the engawa.

There’s a moment of welcome silence. Wind stirs the trees in the garden, and thunder rumbles in the distance.

“Where are you going?”

Confusion bends Upper Three’s voice, but Kyojuro doesn’t humor it with an answer and heads straight for the well at the far end of the yard.

At the protesting groan of wood, his muscles tense up in anticipation, and he snaps his head around.

The demon closes the gap in a single leap, landing right in his path with clenched fists and bared fangs.

“Don’t ignore me,” it growls.

Kyojuro stares into its face, eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m getting water,” he retorts coldly. “To wash away the blood.”

Upper Three clicks its tongue. “Why bother? The sun will take care of it.”

But sunrise is hours away and Chichi-ue and his brother are still moving around the house. Senjuro could come check on him again and see panels of the engawa soaked in blood. Talking his way out of that would be difficult.

“My family’s still awake. They might see.”

“Your brother is, but your father passed out from the sake long ago,” the demon corrects him, and Kyojuro hates that it knows.

The Upper Moon showed up so early tonight that he barely had time to lunge for his father’s sword. The summer storm that’s been brewing since this afternoon is likely to blame. Dark clouds blot out the sun, luring demons out long before most people have even readied for bed. And the prospect that Kyojuro can’t send it away after an hour with the excuse of being tired, when his little brother hasn’t even gone to sleep yet, sends him into a quiet, creeping panic.

A flash of lightning crackles across the night sky, skeletonizing the mountain range in the northeast as Kyojuro trudges through the garden. The Upper Moon falls into step too close by his side, chatting eagerly again and making snide remarks about how pathetically slow he is without his Breathing.

Kyojuro halts and turns sharply. “Keep your voice down until we’re back in my room, would you?”

Upper Three makes a dismissive sound, but at least it stops talking and instead watches him with a sardonic smirk as he leans his crutch against the well and hooks a bucket to the pulley’s rope.

It doesn’t offer to help—but what did he expect?—as Kyojuro lowers the first bucket into the depths before hoisting it back up, filled to the brim with dark, cold water.

Kyojuro suppresses the ragged exhale lodged in his lungs, carefully balancing the load as he tilts the bucket to split the water evenly into a second one.

“You can’t handle two full buckets?” Upper Three sneers while it lounges against the wooden frame of the pulley. “I can’t believe how weak you’ve become.”

Sweat rolls down Kyojuro’s temple as he sets down the bucket. The frustration of being called weak in circles boils over. With a determined glare, he whirls the second tub down the well and hauls it up once it’s full. After securing both to opposite ends of a long bamboo pole, he plants his feet firmly into the ground and takes a stance to lift.

The demon’s grin widens in satisfaction. “That’s the spirit,” it jibes, clearly pleased.

Kyojuro snarls, followed by an involuntary groan as he swings the pole across his shoulder, nearly losing balance and tumbling over. Water sloshes over the bucket rims, but he catches himself on the pulley block, revoltingly close to the demon’s thick arm.

A sharp pain tears up Kyojuro’s spine as he straightens his back with a huff. Senjuro would scold him for his stubborn pride, always pushing himself at the cost of his own health. But he’s sick of everyone treating him like he’s frail—even that Upper Moon who broke him in the first place.

Once steady and in control of the water swashing back and forth in the tubs, Kyojuro grabs his crutch and thuds toward the house.

In quiet splashes, he washes the puddle of blood away, then tosses the severed hand into the shade beneath the engawa, where the sun will take it by morning. Finally, he rinses the sunflowers and puts them into a vase.

“Aaaah,” the demon drawls, “you like them after all.”

As it speaks, it wipes its feet with the towel—one of the rules Kyojuro has enforced—before stepping onto the tatami.

Kyojuro doesn’t react to its comment and instead limps to the fusuma, vase in his free hand.

“Stay here,” he hisses, nudging the door open with his foot.

He moves down the hallway as quietly as his crutch allows, dumps the flowers in the guest room—he’ll come up with an excuse for his brother later—and makes his way back.

The Upper Moon is already seated at the chabudai, poised in perfect seiza. Too well-behaved, too humble, and brimming with energy. It looks kind of ... happy?

Kyojuro frowns but shakes his head and does what he’s obliged to do.

The first kanji he demonstrates tonight is mountain. Because it’s obvious why the demon brings him flowers and obeys his rules. It wants to worm its way into his heart. Gain his trust. But Kyojuro’s not stupid. His heart is a mountain. No matter how long the night, no matter how much force or courtesy the demon applies, it will never reach the peak. Never see what lies beyond. Because Kyojuro reserves that for humans alone.

 

 

~ ☽ ~

 

 

ki 気 — spirit; mind.

“Do it again.”

Akaza jerks his head up and glowers at Kyojuro. “Why? It’s perfect!”

Thunder crashes outside, like an echo of his growing annoyance. His initial good mood is long gone—buried six feet under.

The Hashira barely blinks. Exhaustion pulls at his eyelid, but his gaze blazes. “No, it’s not,” he retorts, pointing to a thick, horizontal line. “You used too much pressure here.”

“Who cares? I’ve memorized the stroke order, so show me the next kanji!”

“We will not proceed until you get this character right.”

Akaza groans in exasperation and rolls his head back.

The flowers have done absolutely nothing to soften Kyojuro’s stubborn hostility. He traps Akaza in an endless loop of perfecting this damn kanji—always one stroke too thick, too thin, never measuring up to his high and mighty standards. With every failed attempt, Akaza’s composure frays more and more. He never thought Kyojuro would be this hard to please. It drives him mad.

He hasn’t broken any more brushes lately, but the urge to feel something snap in his hands claws fiercely at him now. He grits his teeth and forces his muscles to relax, fighting back the violent surge of anger.

Akaza’s the one making the rules here, not Kyojuro. He won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. Won’t surrender to some lousy kanji. This is just a test. Yes. Kyojuro’s testing his limits, his patience, his resolve to become friends.

“You wanted to learn calligraphy, and I want you to learn it right,” the Hashira continues as he changes the sheets of paper on the table. “This is my role as sensei. Or would you throw a half-assed punch without caring about technique and be satisfied with it?”

The words send Akaza reeling. “Okay!” he barks. “I’ll do it again!”

He exhales sharply and steadies his hand holding the brush. It’s not that he can’t follow instructions—he puts up with Muzan-sama’s non-comical orders all the time—but Kyojuro’s weaker. And there’s something about his unrelenting teaching style that rubs Akaza the wrong way.

Tonight, he arrived extra early, hoping they might finally bond when they have more time together. Kyojuro strictly limits their interactions and always dismisses him too soon, like he can’t stand his presence longer than a mere hour.

It makes Akaza seethe, but he promised. Promised to leave once Kyojuro has humored him for a while and is too tired to go on. And Akaza’s a man of his word, even if he wants to demand more time. Nights are dull and can sometimes feel terribly long.

But Kyojuro’s still healing.

As frustrating as it is, humans need proper rest to recover. Pushing him would only slow down the process, and that’s the last thing Akaza wants. He can’t afford for Kyojuro to go from fragile to fragile and gray before they battle again. But maybe Akaza should remind him not to push his luck and get too comfortable in ordering him around ...

After grudgingly passing that stupid kanji for mind, the Flame Hashira sends him away as usual.

Rain drums loudly on the engawa, and Akaza dreads stepping outside. He doesn’t want to leave—he hates rain—but he doesn’t ask to stay longer. Only weaklings would do that. And Kyojuro wouldn’t let him anyway.

So, he rolls up the papers of all his kanji exercises and stuffs them down his pants, wedging them securely into his fundoshi¹ in the hope they stay dry there.

A flicker of disgust crosses Kyojuro’s face at that, but Akaza is already spinning on his heels. He throws the shoji open and takes off, speeding through the night as fast as he can.

The world blurs in shades of black and green and gray as Akaza cuts through the thicket of the nearby forest leading up the mountain. Trees whip past and sturdy branches snap under his feet. Lightning cleaves the sky and slams down around him in blinding flashes, turning night to day. The gods seem intent on striking him down but only manage to set some trees and bamboo ablaze.

Wood cracks and shrieks in his wake, and Akaza pushes forward. Faster, faster. Faster.

But the downpour beats him.

By the time he reaches his hideout, he’s drenched to the bone, and ink bleeds across the pages.

He really hates rain—rain and humans who get too confident in their authority.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

nushi 主 — head [of a household]; owner [of a property].

The steady hum of the sumi² ink stone grinding against the rough surface of the suzuri³ no longer soothes Kyojuro’s mind like it used to. Now, it only reminds him of the agonizing ordeal that’s kept him shackled for nearly two weeks.

Heart thudding, he glances toward the shoji leading to the yard, bracing for the familiar rush of cold dread seizing him by the neck, and the soft thud on the engawa.

His father’s sword rests by his side, easing his nerves a little—though he wishes it were his own, lighter and made for his hands. But he doesn’t dare send Kaname to his swordsmith to ask how much longer the forging of his own katana will take.

The water turns black as it thickens, pooling in the well of the suzuri. Kyojuro grinds and grinds away in circles, zigzags, and hollow automatism, probably making more ink than he’ll need that night.

He forces himself to stop there, setting the sumi aside. The brush feels heavy as he draws the first line on a blank page. The ink is dark and dense enough, the brush roll and a stack of rice paper within reach. With this, he has set everything up for the punishing cycle his nights have become.

A sudden knock on the fusuma sends his pulse skyrocketing. But it steadies just as quickly when Senjuro’s voice filters through.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Ani-ue.”

“What is it?” Kyojuro calls, putting the brush down and drawing the sword closer to hide it from sight.

His brother slides open the door. He sits in seiza, hands folding back in his lap. “You have a visitor.”

“This late?”

Kyojuro doesn’t expect anyone, except his tormentor.

“I don’t know. I was planning to go to bed, but then someone called out at the front door.”

Kyojuro’s frown deepens. “Who is it?”

“He didn’t introduce himself, but he said you two were good friends.”

With a sharp inhale, Kyojuro rises on his crutch.

“He’s in the guest room,” Senjuro adds and stands as well.

He follows behind Kyojuro as they make their way through the house.

Who would visit at this hour, unannounced? Someone from the Corps? Is it some kind of emergency? Or maybe it’s the Kamado boy? While lying in adjacent hospital beds at the Butterfly Mansion, Kyojuro had invited him to his estate should he ever find the time.

Regardless, all these possibilities are disastrous, and his heart trashes against his ribcage like a trapped animal.

The Upper Moon could arrive any moment now. If it noticed Kyojuro meeting with someone from the Corps, it could misinterpret it as dealbreaker and take Senjuro’s life.

Whoever it is, Kyojuro has to send them away quickly before—

As he enters the guest room, an unfamiliar face stares back at him.

There, on the tatami, sits an attractive young man with short black hair, wearing a gray-blue yukata that makes his light skin appear even paler. His blue eyes, framed by long pink lashes, gleam with golden rings around the pupils.

It’s not a Demon Slayer, and the prickling sensation under Kyojuro’s skin fades—only to spike again as the man laughs.

“Ah, Kyojuro! It’s been so long!”

Hearing his first name used so casually—by a stranger at that—in front of Senjuro makes him flinch. But that’s not what unsettles him. Because oh—he knows that voice. It’s the stuff of his worst nightmares.

The dark outlines of the kanji for upper and three briefly flicker through the man’s—demon’s—eyes, and Kyojuro swallows against the lump in his throat. His grip on the crutch tightens until his knuckles ache.

Even now, he can’t sense its presence. There’s no repulsive scent, no oppressive aura. Only the oldest, strongest, most skilled demons can suppress their malicious nature this masterfully.

A chill slithers down his spine.

He has never witnessed anything like this. But then again, he has never faced an Upper Moon before.

Fortunately, Senjuro, still behind him, hasn’t noticed the change in that vile creature’s face and stays unaware of the danger sitting right in front of them.

“I heard you got in a terrible accident!” Upper Three chirps with a saccharine smile as Kyojuro doesn’t react. How dare it. “You really look horrible!”

His eyelid twitches.

This is mockery. No. It’s yet another threat.

Senjuro looks up at him, concerned. “Ani-ue ...?”

“Senjuro,” he says curtly, “please make us some tea.”

He needs his brother out of the room, or he can’t think straight.

Senjuro gives a quick bow. “Yes, right away.”

The fusuma shuts, and the air in the room grows heavy with menace.

Kyojuro crosses the room in measured steps and halts before the demon, towering over it as his free hand curls into a fist. The Upper Moon glances at it before meeting his eye with a provocative grin that stretches its lips taut.

The urge to punch with all his might, even if the impact shattered his knuckles, is overwhelming. And the demon seems to anticipate it. An eager glint flickers through its disturbingly human eyes.

“What are you pulling?” Kyojuro hisses.

Upper Three tilts its head, that smug smile on its terrifyingly pretty face unwavering. “What do you mean? Don’t you like my human form?”

The word alone makes Kyojuro’s stomach churn. As if a human appearance was something to simply slip on like clothing and wear for amusement.

“I tried my best here,” it continues, unbothered by the fury radiating off Kyojuro. “I rarely do this. Only cowards hide among the weak.”

“That was not my question,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“Ah, come on, Kyojuro,” Upper Three drawls. “How long do you want me to sneak in through the back yard? What am I—a secret lover you want to hide from your father? Where’s your hospitality?”

Kyojuro’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “You don’t deserve to come in through the front door. You’re not welcome here, de—“

He bites his tongue at the soft footsteps tapping over the wooden floor, drawing closer.

A moment later, just as Kyojuro presses himself to sit across from the Upper Moon, the fusuma slides open, and Senjuro reenters, mumbling, “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

Kyojuro keeps his gaze locked on the Upper Moon, its expression challenging, as Senjuro carefully sets down the tray with tea and okashi between them. The seconds his brother kneels there, within the demon’s reach, Kyojuro unarmed and unable to protect him, stretch into an unbearable infinity.

Dead silence hangs in the air, and Senjuro fidgets, hands scrambling in his lap as if he doesn’t know where to put them. His gaze darts back and forth between the two of them.

“Are you okay, Ani-ue?”

Kyojuro forces himself to relax his face, smoothing out his furrowed brows as he offers a small smile. “Yes, don’t worry,” he says, his tone calm and free of any edge. “Please go to bed now.”

Worry swims in Senjuro’s eyes, but he nods and leaves—hopefully straight for his room.

Upper Three’s disguise crumbles away like brittle tapestry, revealing vivid pink hair, sickly ashen skin marked by blue demon crests, and razor-sharp fangs.

“Hmm, such a nice kid,” it purrs, glancing toward the closed door for a beat before turning back to Kyojuro. “He smells a bit like you, just a tad sweeter.” Its grin sharpens. “And so much weaker.”

The thought that it spoke to Senjuro—alone—makes Kyojuro’s stomach twist.

“Stay away from my brother,” he growls, his voice lethal once again.

He’ll definitely chop its head off. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

The demon rolls its eyes. “I promised not to hurt him, remember?”

“Let’s make it clear one more time,” Kyojuro says. His hands fist the fabric of his yukata as he fights the impulse to grab that monster by the throat. “We’re not friends. I’ll never become a demon. I don’t like you, and I don’t trust a single word that spills from your filthy mouth.”

The demon leans forward, its face like winter cold—indifferent and monotone. “What can I do to change your mind?”

By the gods, nothing!

The retort burns on his tongue. He wants to shout it, but he’s too tired to continue this pointless conversation. The demon will never understand, so he settles for something it can get into its thick skull.

“Don’t come in through the front door.”

It opens its mouth as if to protest, but Kyojuro stands, crutch digging into the tatami. “If you want to write kanji tonight—or any other night for that matter—follow this one rule. You’ll come in through my room, and only my room. Never the genkan⁴. You got that?”

Hot anger zaps through the Upper Moon’s eyes, and it’s outright horrifying how quickly its expression shifts back into that overly confident smirk.

“Fine,” it says as it rises to its feet as well, morphing back into its stupidly handsome human form. “I’ll follow your house rules. For now.”

Kyojuro scowls at the mockery in its tone but brushes aside the jab of his own irritation. “Then leave the way you came, so my brother won’t grow more suspicious.”

Tea and okashi untouched, they step into the hallway together. He escorts the demon back to the entrance and makes sure that it disappears past the gate. But it turns around again, waving at him with an infuriatingly innocent smile.

“Get well soon, Kyojuro!” it calls as if they were old friends, and Kyojuro grimaces in disgust.

Then, Upper Three vanishes from sight. But it’s not gone. A touch of its aura lingers in the air, intentional and taunting.

Kyojuro sags against the door frame of the genkan, weak relief and abiding horror swirling in his blood like poison.

There’s no doubt—the demon waits for him in his room. Should he return there immediately or take his sweet time, delaying the inevitable?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to change. He can’t escape these shackles—not while he can barely stand on his own, let alone swing his sword without jarring pain. But he’s done pitying himself. And sick of resting. Starting tomorrow, he’ll push his body beyond its limits.

With grim determination, he limps back to his room.

As he pulls the fusuma shut behind him, Upper Three is sitting there, legs crossed and grinning wide. The front of its yukata hangs shamelessly open, exposing its chest and navel, while the fabric rides up over its strong thighs. In the dim light of the andon⁵, the dark-blue markings on its skin look like sharp lines of black ink.

Kyojuro sighs heavily. “One hour—“

“Three,” the Upper Moon cuts in, as if that’s the bare minimum Kyojuro owes it for respecting the house rules.

“Two,” he counters firmly as he moves to the chabudai.

“Two and a half,” it keeps pressing.

But Kyojuro doesn’t budge. “Two hours and not a minute more. I still have to sleep.”

It snorts. “Alright, fine. Just because I feel considerate tonight.”

As Kyojuro sits beside it, the demon grins triumphantly, but he swears on his father’s blade it won’t be laughing for much longer.

Notes:

As always, thank you so much for reading! Writing this chapter was so much fun! When I plotted the final scene, I was already so hyped I couldn’t wait to finally write and post it, haha.

Hope to see you next chapter! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] fundoshi : traditional Japanese underwear for men [return to text]
[2] sumi : solid black ink stick [return to text]
[3] suzuri : ink stone for grinding and collecting ink [return to text]
[4] genkan : entrance area of a Japanese house, where shoes are removed [return to text]
[5] andon : lamp made from rice paper and a wooden frame, lit with burning oil [return to text]

Chapter 6: Threats and Cold Scalpels

hi 火 — fire.

Pressing his tongue against a fang, Akaza slashes the final line down in one long stroke. The ink gleams in the dim light as it settles on the page.

Kyojuro hums lowly beside him. It’s the only acknowledgment he ever gives, but it makes Akaza’s chest swell with pride. The Hashira has fewer and fewer reasons to criticize, nag, or make him redo the characters just to try his patience.

“Show me fire next,” Kyojuro says, slowly spinning the teacup in his hands.

The first month since he returned home and they began these unique bonding sessions has passed in a blur. They’re through with the basic kanji any elementary school kid should be able to write. But to burn them into memory, Kyojuro insists on repetition, testing meticulously whether Akaza remembers each stroke order.

He must think he’s not dedicated enough, even though it’s a piece of cake. Akaza practices on his own during the day with a small notebook and a crappy brush, trying to sink into mushin whenever he’s not absorbed in the mechanical routine of his workouts.

As he dips the brush in ink and draws the smooth, flowing lines of fire, Kyojuro’s gaze on his hand feels heavy. Like a silent judgment. But Akaza remembers that one best. It’s Kyojuro’s kanji after all—so ordinary, yet blazing with temper and fiery determination.

It must be thanks to that very determination that the Flame Hashira has grown healthier these past two weeks. He moves faster now when he comes at Akaza, so deliciously desperate to take his head. His grip on the sword is as firm as it is on the brush when demonstrating the strokes. No trembling. No leniency. Even when he’s on his feet, the crutch spends more time lying around than holding him up.

Although his hunched posture is still an eyesore, satisfaction washes over Akaza. Perhaps Kyojuro will start training soon. He can’t wait for that divine inferno to flare up again and smack him in the face like it did during their first battle.

Akaza inhales. Kyojuro’s scent next to him is warm and strong, like sunlight might feel on skin. And yet there’s something so inherently human about it. The musky tang of sweat, mixed with the herbal, greasy scent of the ointment soaking his bandages, hangs in the air. Thick and intoxicating.

Saliva pools in the back of his throat. Akaza gulps, but his gums throb painfully, tugging at his fangs that ache for a taste.

“I have to leave for a few days.” Kyojuro’s voice cuts through his daze.

Akaza blinks and looks up from the kanji. “What?”

Involuntarily, his eyes drop to the Hashira’s hand holding the teacup first, then trail up the length of his forearm, the smooth curve of his pale neckline, before finally settling on his stern, scrutinizing face.

Akaza wets his lips. “Where will you go?” he asks, husky, when Kyojuro stays silent for too long.

“I have a check-up with my doctor.” The Hashira swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “In other words, I’ll be meeting people from the Corps.”

Akaza’s focus snaps back into place, the words hitting him like a club to the head. His gaze sharpens. “That’s against our deal.”

“I know.” Kyojuro tightens his grip on the cup. “That’s why I’m telling you now. I have to see my doctor, do that health check, and get new medicine. I don’t know how long it will take.”

“Will they give you the OK to train?”

“If my recovery has progressed, they might,” Kyojuro replies, tense as a drawn bowstring.

With a soft clink, Akaza drops the brush into the inkwell. His fingers twitch into fists, then loosen again as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, staring at the Hashira with cold intensity. “Then you’re allowed to go.”

Annoyance flickers over Kyojuro’s face, but before he can argue, Akaza continues, “But”—his voice sharp, commanding—“if you breathe a word about me or our arrangement, I’ll make sure to take your brother, your father, your entire neighborhood down with me when you and your little ant army come for me.”

Something wavers in Kyojuro’s eye at that, dimming the flame of his fighting spirit. Hesitation. Fear.

“Think about it carefully.” Don’t make a mistake now, Kyojuro. Don’t ruin this. “If you get others involved, you’re putting a lot of innocent lives on the line. And wouldn’t that make everything you fought for at the train crash site meaningless?”

Kyojuro’s jaw tightens, his teeth grinding together.

“Keep your word,” Akaza murmurs, softer now, “and I’ll keep mine. No harm will come to your family or anyone else around you.”

Click.

Metal rings in a high, clear note, like music to Akaza’s ears, as Kyojuro’s fingers curl around the hilt of his sword, drawing the blade—just oh so slightly.

Akaza sighs, then splits into a grin. “Come on, Kyojuro! Smile!” he says, pouring glee into his tone. “You’re healing well! I’m sure they’ll give you permission to train! Then we can fight again and you can try to kill me, fair and square!”

Kyojuro glares daggers at him, and with a swift motion, he unsheathes the sword fully, pressing the cold steel against Akaza’s neck. Blood oozes, trails down, and gathers in the hollow of his collarbones.

”The next days without you will be a blast.”

Akaza’s smirk only widens. “I’ll miss you too, Kyojuro.”

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

Kyojuro takes a deep breath. The sunlight tickles his nose as he slowly steps down from the engawa, both hands free, belly warm and full from breakfast, with Senjuro right behind him, gripping the crutch—just in case.

“Is it okay, Ani-ue? Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine, Senjuro.” Kyojuro smiles, carefully pressing his bare feet into the hardened ground. He flexes his toes, then rocks back and forth on his heels, and bounces lightly on his knees to loosen up his legs.

These last two weeks have really worked in his favor.

When he looks in the mirror, his reflection doesn’t shock him anymore. The once pale skin, hollow cheeks, and dark circles have softened into something healthier. Something stronger.

He sleeps through the nights now, and with every wisteria pill swallowed, the searing pain in his veins dulls a little more. Months have passed, and at last, the medicine is taking effect. His human body is triumphing over the demon poison.

Occasionally, his wounds still twinge, like any fresh scars would, but it’s no longer enough to wake him. No longer enough to keep him from laying down the crutch and taking a few tentative steps—first through the house, always trailing a hand along the wall for support, then across the yard.

Just like the previous mornings, Kyojuro places his trust in his own legs and cuts through the garden in slow circles, Senjuro never straying from his side. Sometimes, Chichi-ue shoves open the shoji of his room to watch, gruff, or make snide remarks. But today, his door stays closed.

Regardless, Kyojuro’s spirit soars.

After all that enforced idleness, his muscles have dwindled, but every day, he walks a little longer, a little farther. And every day, it hurts less, the sharp sting in his tendons and the fire in his calves waning with each step.

He asks for seconds when they eat now, and the light that spreads over Senjuro’s face fills him with warmth and contentment.

Within the last weeks, his body has grown stronger, his balance steadier, his movements quicker—all thanks to the vow he made to himself. To push beyond his limits. To pull through, just like in calligraphy, and claim that demon’s head—and then many more.

Kyojuro feels confident about today’s check-up as he rests on the engawa after his walk through the yard. Sipping iced tea, he waits for the Kakushi to arrive and escort him to the Butterfly Mansion.

He would have gone alone, but Senjuro didn’t approve, and Kocho would likely have objected too.

So when the Kakushi calls out at the entrance of the Rengoku Estate, Kyojuro already has his bag packed for the coming days.

Swiftly, he applies the kind of expensive wisteria fragrance the Support Team of the Corps always uses to avoid being targeted by demons. It will mix with the sweat on his skin, masking his scent for a while. If Upper Three plans to follow him tonight, the perfume might at least throw its sharp senses off track.

Kyojuro won’t risk exposing the Butterfly Mansion to an Upper Moon. It’s bad enough he’s put up with this cursed arrangement for so long without telling anyone. He can’t endanger the Corps more than he already has. But maybe meeting another Hashira is his chance to finally turn the tables and end this on his terms.

However, that sliver of hope doesn’t erase the demon’s lingering threat, and the thought of leaving his family behind like hostages makes Kyojuro’s stomach drop.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he bids farewell to Senjuro and, finally, to his father—though only through the fusuma—before heading off.

Despite the Kakushi’s insistent warning, Kyojuro walks halfway without the crutch. Within minutes, his legs burn like fire, every step ripping through his muscles. But he clenches his jaw, breathes through the pain, and bites back any sound of discomfort.

Just as his knees buckle and he is about to collapse, the crutch is shoved into his hand with a reprimanding huff. “Please use this, Flame Hashira. If I don’t deliver you in one piece, the Insect Hashira will poison me in my sleep.”

Kyojuro exhales, the sound coming out as half a laugh. The Kakushi might be right about that. Behind her sweet smile, Kocho conceals something dark and ruthless. She would not hesitate to poison Kyojuro too if he kept refusing her instructions. And according to her, the crutch is still necessary.

So, Kyojuro grips the wooden handle firmly and leans on it for the rest of their trip to the neighboring village. It’s a two-hour walk through green rice fields and a dense forest. The sun beats down, merciless, and although the woven straw hat shields his face and neck, Kyojuro is drenched in sweat by the time the bamboo fence of Kocho’s residence comes into view.

They enter through the open gate, following a stone-paved path lined with vibrant flowers in blue and white—and pink. The sight twists something in Kyojuro’s gut, and he scans them closely.

There are no lilies. And the only scent reaching his nose is that of freshly washed fabric.

In the midst of the garden, white bedsheets hang from wooden frames, swaying gently in the breeze. A young woman in a blue Slayer uniform stands between them, fastening another piece of linen into place.

Kyojuro’s crutch clinks against the stone, drawing her attention.

“Flame Hashira!” She turns toward them, blinking away the confusion as if she had been expecting someone else. “You’re finally here! Kocho-san is awaiting you!”

“It took longer than expected because he insisted on walking without the crutch,” the Kakushi calls out, voice laced with exasperation, and Kyojuro stiffens at the pointed rebuke.

The girl—what was her name again?—frowns. “I see. But I hope there was no accident?”

Kyojuro’s really awful with names ...

“There wasn’t!” he interjects with a measured smile. “I’m doing splendid!”

Still wearing that stern expression, she studies him for a moment before giving a short nod and gesturing toward the smaller of the two buildings. “That’s good to hear. Please, allow me to escort you to the examination room.”

At that, the Kakushi bids him goodbye and leaves him with the girl. Kyojuro follows her into the house, the silence broken only by the steady tap of his crutch against the wooden floor as they make their way through the hallway.

She introduced herself after he woke from his coma—he remembers that much. But names slip through his mind like water through fingers, and it would be rude to ask again.

With confident strides, she leads him into a small room he knows well. The air is cool, but heavy with the sterile bite of antiseptic.

“Please have a seat. I’ll go get Kocho-san,” the girl says, her tone curt and strict. And then, without waiting for a response, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The sudden stillness bears down on Kyojuro. He lowers himself onto the stool, with the crutch jammed between his knees. Absentmindedly, he runs a nail along a deep ridge in the wood while his gaze drifts to the bookshelf to his left.

The room is organized, yet bursting at the seams with medical tomes, journals about oni folklore, and Corps-intern investigations on demon physiology. Posters and printouts of articles are pinned to the walls, alongside a detailed sketch of a human skeleton. Below, notes, tools, and even more books are neatly, perhaps strategically, arranged on a table.

Among them, there are many things he would like to read, though he doubts he’d understand any of them. Kocho is something else—just two years younger than him, but so much sharper, and the only Hashira who relies more on her brain than her muscles.

Suddenly, the door creaks open, and inside steps the petite figure of the Insect Hashira, Shinobu Kocho.

“Rengoku-san,” she greets him with an enchanting smile, her voice smooth and welcoming as she takes the seat across from him. “It’s good to see you. How are you?”

His mouth feels dry as he mirrors her smile and responds energetically, “I’m fine!”

He’s anything but fine, but Kocho is a keen observer, so he does his best to mask the tension coiling inside him. He can’t afford for her to notice that something is wrong—especially when he hasn’t figured out what to do about the problem waiting for him back home.

“I’ve heard you walked half the way without the crutch,” Kocho comments, carefree and without judgment.

“Yes.” Kyojuro meets her soft gaze, which somehow still manages to get under his skin, as if aiming to strip away any pretense. “I don’t want to rely on it forever, so I thought I’d slowly start walking without it.”

“That’s great. But please don’t push yourself.”

Her words are meant to be warm, but they don’t reach him the way they should.

Kocho takes the metal tray from the table, which is prepared with three glass tubes, a syringe, sanitizing solution, gauze, glass dishes, and a scalpel.

“Well then, I’d like to take your blood first,” she says with her smile frozen in place.

Giving a short nod, Kyojuro rolls up the sleeve of his yukata and offers her the crook of his right arm.

Kocho disinfects her hands and glides her fingers over a thick, prominent vein. Swiftly, she wipes an antiseptic-soaked cloth over the same spot before selecting a needle from the tray. With the precision of someone who has done this a thousand times, she presses the tip against his skin.

Kyojuro stays still and fixates on her composed face as a short, sharp pinch jabs through his arm.

His gaze drops again, the first tube filling rapidly with his blood.

“How’s the pain lately?” Kocho asks in a light tone while swapping the containers with practiced ease.

“It got better,” he says. “I sleep through the nights now. The pills finally work.”

She inserts the last tube and blinks up at him, her lips curling at the edges as though she’s fighting to keep her smile. “The wisteria-based medication I developed for you worked the whole time, Rengoku-san,” she chants, but it sounds more like a chide. “The concentration of demon cells in your system was simply too high for you to notice any effects at first. Your body was too busy with rejecting and decomposing them. The fact that your pain is receding means the concentration of those cells is lower now. And that’s why I wanted to check your blood—to make sure.”

“I see.”

In other words, he’s turning back into a real human. Soon, he won’t have to swallow poison to fight poison, and he’ll be free of the grime in his veins.

This is the perfect moment, served to him on a silver platter. He should tell Kocho about Upper Three—the very demon that infected his blood and now invades his life to see the transition through. By befriending him.

It goes without saying that all its efforts are a waste of time. It will come to the same realization soon enough. If Kyojuro waits too long, his family will be slaughtered. He might even be accused of treason for keeping quiet, for allowing that monster in his house, even teaching it to write. According to the Corps’ code, he’s currently fraternizing with the enemy.

He should tell Kocho. Together, they could come up with a plan to bring down the Upper Moon.

But ...

But hesitation shackles his tongue. Kocho is someone who wouldn’t mind risking a few lives for the greater good. In that regard, they differ fundamentally. She criticized him once for being a starry-eyed idealist. And she’s not the only Hashira holding that opinion. To his frustration, not even the only human.

As she presses the gauze against the hollow of his arm and withdraws the needle, her lips move.

Kyojuro doesn’t catch the words, but without thinking, his hand replaces hers, pushing down harder than necessary on the puncture, as though this could stop his thoughts from spilling out.

A cold pit opens up in his stomach.

Maybe it’s for the best if he deals with Upper Three alone. No innocent people should be dragged into this mess. Only he himself should bear the consequences of his mistakes. If the check-up goes well and he trains hard enough from now on, he could sever the demon’s head in due time, and no one would ever know what transpired between them. Afterward, he can commit seppuku¹ and face his rightful punishment for failing the Corps, the Master, and the other Hashira.

“Rengoku-san.”

Kocho’s airy voice pulls him from the storm brewing in his head.

“Are you in pain?”

Kyojuro blinks at her, then at the distinctive wrinkle between her brows. Quickly, he flashes a smile, but it feels brittle. “Ah, no, no! I was just focusing on compressing the wound! I could’ve used some Breathing, too! Would’ve been faster!”

“I don’t want you to use any Breathing yet. Let’s wait until after my examination.”

His smile wavers. “Right.”

“I’d like to take a sample from the scar tissue now.” Kocho smiles again, serene and friendly. “How’s the wound on your stomach? Does it still hurt?”

Kyojuro swallows against the lump in his parched throat. “It twinges now and then.”

“That’s normal.” Kocho takes up the scalpel and sterilizes it. “It’s a fresh scar after all, and the wound was really deep, even though the demon cells helped you through the worst of it.”

The word helped makes his stomach lurch.

Kocho sits closer. “Please remove the top of your clothes.”

Silently, Kyojuro slips out of his yukata sleeves and pushes the fabric off his shoulders.

She takes in the wound, clinical like a professional.

The scalpel between her fingers glints in the sunlight spilling through the window. “I’ll cut out a tiny patch from the scar on your stomach and scrape some skin from the area around your eye,” she informs him.

He nods and endures.

The blade sinks into his flesh. It’s quick and precise and hurts less than the sanitizing solution and the stitches that follow. Kyojuro tightens his grip around the crutch and breathes through it.

Then, without ceremony, Kocho lifts the eyepatch. His lashes cling together, sticky from debris and sweat, and he blinks against the sudden light.

Methodically, she swipes a clean cloth over his eye socket before scraping along his lower lid with the sharp edge of the scalpel. Flecks of skin trickle into a small glass bowl in her hand.

It’s over in seconds, and Kocho screws the lids on her samples. “Okay, that’s all I need. I’ll have the results in two days. Please rest for now. Have some tea and rice crackers in the garden, and make yourself comfortable. I’m here if you need anything.”

Kyojuro gets dressed and rises on his crutch, beaming though it feels fake. “Thank you, Kocho!”

She answers with her most disarming smile. “I’m glad you’re healing well, Rengoku-san.”

Yes. He’s too. He just wishes he would heal faster.

 

 

~ ☽ ~

 

 

The trace fades in the middle of a rice field. Blades rise high around him, like scrawny shadows reaching for the moonlight, and Akaza curses under his breath.

This could’ve been his direct route to one of the Demon Slayer’s most important outposts, maybe even to their mastermind, Ubuyashiki.

But the sun had been up all day. No chance to follow Kyojuro’s trail sooner. And now it’s too thin. Only the wisp of another scent remains, burning in his nose like acid and clawing at his throat. Wisteria.

So that’s how it is. Kyojuro still distrusts him that much ...

Akaza’s gaze cuts through the field, searching for any sign of which direction the Hashira might’ve taken. But it hasn’t rained in days, and there are no footprints to follow. And the scent is gone.

Kyojuro is gone.

There’s nothing more he can do. Akaza can only wait for him to come home. Again.

With gritted teeth, he spins on his heels and heads back. Guided by unlit stone lanterns lining the path up the northeastern mountain, he makes his way through the forest to a small Buddhist temple tucked away near Kyojuro’s village. It’s supposed to ward off demons and evil spirits, but clearly, it does a shitty job.

Akaza pushes open the wooden door to the rectangular hall—a space so cramped he can barely lie down diagonally. Rice paper, covered in the kanji he’s written, spans the walls from floor to ceiling, layer upon overlapping layer.

Sunlight doesn’t reach him here, and for hours, he can sit on the zabuton² he placed in the center of the room, reading ass-boring books about blue flowers or practicing his writing.

He might as well do that now. Go for another run later. Do some push-ups. And uproot some trees.

The forest is dense, so a few fallen boles won’t draw attention.

Besides, not many people stray this far at night. Humans fear the dark—as they should. But even if someone wandered to his temple after sunset, Akaza wouldn’t kill them. Could be one of Kyojuro’s neighbors, after all.

Akaza can’t hunt too close to his village. He can’t afford to be noticed by other Demon Slayers. He’s strong enough to make smarter decisions than that.

Lifting the loose floor panel where he stashes his few belongings, he pulls out a battered notebook.

After sliding the wood back into place and repositioning the zabuton over it, he settles down and flips through the pages. Kanji flash by, blurring into one another, until he lands on the first blank one.

With his legs crossed and his butt comfortably seated, he snaps open the creaking lid of his old copper yatate³, dips the small integrated brush into the ink-soaked cotton, and begins to scribble down all the kanji Kyojuro has drilled into him so far.

Akaza writes and trains, trains and writes. There’s not much else to do, and it feels like any other night before he started visiting Kyojuro. Dull and meaningless. Practice usually helps to block out the sense of time, but tonight it’s different.

Minutes, hours bleed into one another, like the kanji on the pages. The rhythm of his brush against the paper feels detached from his body. The strokes are slow, almost mechanical. Time stretches longer than usual, and Akaza loses focus more and more as his thoughts drift toward Kyojuro.

What is he doing now?

Ah, right. Probably sleeping.

How did his check-up go? Will he take up his sword again soon?

The desire to clash fists with his blade again throbs painfully in Akaza’s muscles.

When will Kyojuro be back home?

He can’t stand the idea of waiting another half a year. He’ll lose his mind before that.

The small temple hall suddenly feels more cramped than it should, an odd emptiness hanging between his ribs like a chunk of lead. The silence, inside and outside of him, is unnerving.

Then, a familiar jolt rips through him. Sharp. Cold. It slices through his mind, and his thoughts spill out, bare and exposed, like the guts of a carcass.

Akaza closes the notebook and yatate, puts them aside, straightens his back.

Muzan-sama.

He’s here. With him. In his head.

“Akaza,” Muzan-sama says, voice frosty like rime. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Notes:

Thank you for reading, as always! ♥

I can’t believe this fic has already gotten over 200 kudos! Thank you all so much! This means the world to me!

Now, it’s finally time to shine some light on how Kyojuro survived and what Akaza and Muzan agreed on. I actually planned to write only one chapter about it, but I realized I was a bit too optimistic there :’D

Some research insights:
In Buddhism, the northeast is called kimon (鬼門, meaning demon’s gate), and is considered an unlucky direction from which evil spirits and demons are believed to enter. That’s why temples and shrines were often strategically built in the northeast of cities, villages, or estates to ward them off. I decided to have Akaza living in one of these temples to show that such protections don’t work on strong demons like him.

See you in the next chapter!

 

—Glossary—
[1] seppuku : ritual suicide of samurai [return to text]
[2] zabuton : seat cushion for sitting on the floor [return to text]
[3] yatate : portable writing tool with ink reservoir and brush [return to text]

Chapter 7: The Grime in My Veins

“Why are you sitting there, doing calligraphy instead of going after that Hashira?”

Muzan-sama’s voice carves through his mind like hammer and chisel.

Biting cold creeps up Akaza’s spine. The presence is suffocating—as if Muzan-sama looms right behind him, breathing down his neck in icicles while he peels away every layer wrapped around his thoughts.

Akaza hates it—feeling naked and powerless, like a little baby abandoned in the snow. But he tries not to think it too loudly, tries to empty his head. Keep it empty, empty, empty.

“I did,” he replies tonelessly. “But I lost his trail.”

He doesn’t need to explain further. Muzan-sama already knows about his poor attempt.

“You disappoint me yet again.” His piercing tone of displeasure makes Akaza grind his teeth. “I was lenient with you more than once. I forgave your failure to obliterate those Demon Slayers at the train crash site”—not that it stopped him from punishing Akaza and sending his cells into a rampage—“overlooked that you stole flowers from my greenhouses”—made him bleed for that too, though he’d claimed he no longer needed them for his strange experiments.

A jolt rips through Akaza at the thought, and Muzan-sama’s voice sharpens more. “I even entertained your ludicrous proposal to pursue that Hashira you failed to kill, and gave you the chance to prove your worth to me by using him to find Ubuyashiki.”

Another cold snarl slithers through the back of Akaza’s mind.

“But considering your inability to find the Blue Spider Lily, I have little reason to keep my hopes high.”

The wooden floor splinters under Akaza’s nails as he digs them in.

He and Upper One traded missions when he volunteered to infiltrate the enemy and root out their mastermind. But has Upper One made more progress in finding that damned flower than Akaza has in coaxing Kyojuro?

“It’s been half a year,” Muzan-sama bites out, low and dangerous.

He rarely complains about time. It’s not like they’re running out of it soon. But lately, he seems to be at the end of his tether.

“Now, tell me, Akaza,”—his anger bubbles like the curse in Akaza’s veins—“have you made any noteworthy progress at all?”

It’s the first time he inquires. Normally, he gives his upper ranks plenty of leeway, only zapping in once or twice a decade. They’re free to choose their own territory, select their preferred prey, and live the way they see fit—alone or among humans, like wolves in sheep’s clothing. He rarely checks on them unless they’ve been given specific orders.

Akaza does have a task at hand, so reporting back was bound to happen. Still, it’s earlier than he would’ve liked. Without Kyojuro’s trust, he’ll never get anywhere near fulfilling Muzan-sama’s wishes—or his own.

He stops his thoughts from straying too far and banishes all emotion from his voice. “My deepest apologies, Muzan-sama. Humans don’t trust easily, and the Flame Hashira is even more wary of me since I tried to kill him. But I’ve gained access to his house and am using his family as leverage. It’s only a matter of time before he cracks and reveals the information you seek. So please”—he hangs his head low—“grant me more time.”

Dead silence fills the void in his head, heavy with malice. It sends another chill down his back.

Then, Muzan-sama clicks his tongue, and his tone shifts back into cold indifference. “Granted. Keep pushing until you’ve drawn every last bit of information from that human. Then dispose of him as you were meant to.” He pauses, his words a touch harsher again. “And Akaza ...”

His heart leaps treacherously. “Yes, Muzan-sama?”

“Eat something.”

Eat?

Muzan-sama always makes it sound so civilized.

But at the realization that he hasn’t fed in almost a month, hunger punches into Akaza’s gut like a reawakened beast, scratching upwards—up, up, up—and settling right behind the roof of his mouth.

He gulps, his throat aching as if he’s swallowing around shards of ice.

”Yes, Muzan-sama.”

And with that, like a string snapping, the pressure in the back of his head disappears. His mind relaxes as he’s left alone with his thoughts again.

He exhales the tension from his body and rubs a hand over his stomach.

A demon’s hunger doesn’t speak in growls and rumbles. It takes crueler forms, starting with fits of anger and ending in a mad rampage as the pain inside crescendos and consumes all reason.

Many newborn demons go through that—rejecting their new food source, fighting the inevitable until that first taste of blood, meat, bone. Rich and tangy and juicy and—argh!

The gums over Akaza’s fangs throb, just thinking about it.

He has never forgotten to feed before. Staying nourished is important for building muscle and growing stronger. But in these last few weeks, he’s been so invested in befriending Kyojuro and repeating kanji like a maniac to reach mushin whenever he was alone that the thought of leaving the area and risking missing the next lesson hasn’t even crossed his mind.

His gut tells him that he shouldn’t hunt too close to Kyojuro’s village, though. Akaza doesn’t want him to find out and blame him for the needs he can’t help, or for other Demon Slayers to interfere.

But these next free days are the perfect opportunity to fuel his body.

Three nights. In three nights, he’ll check if Kyojuro has returned. Until then ...

Eagerly, Akaza stows his notebook, yatate, and zabuton under the floor panel to leave no trace of his dwelling in the temple. Then, he pushes open the door and steps outside.

Tonight, he’ll travel far, putting as much distance as possible between Kyojuro’s home and his hunting ground. And tomorrow—tomorrow, he’ll find some flesh to bury his teeth into.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

The morning sun warms Kyojuro’s face as he runs his fingers through his hair, working through the wavy strands that spill over his chest, too long for his liking. When he gets home, he’ll ask Senjuro to trim it, like they always do for each other, sitting in the small corner of their ofuro, in front of the house’s only mirrored cabinet.

With a sigh, Kyojuro finally gives up and gathers his locks into a high ponytail.

The night at the Butterfly Mansion had been calm. Unsettlingly calm.

He had tossed and turned in the thin hospital sheets, his mind circling around the demon, no matter how hard he fought it.

What had Upper Three been doing last night? Sneaking through the house, perhaps? Ransacking his family’s things? Or trespassing into his brother’s room to watch him sleep, with his nose nuzzled into the blanket and golden hair spilling around his head like sunbeams?

Kyojuro’s stomach flips with rising nausea.

He pulls his bag closer and fishes out the book he brought to drown his thoughts in a collection of haiku¹ from Edo.

Another distraction arrives soon after, when a euphoric, boyish voice rings through the garden.

“Rengoku-san!”

Kyojuro lifts his gaze from the pages, a wide smile instantly finding its way onto his face. “Ah, young Kamado! It’s been so long!”

Overzealous and beaming from ear to ear, his junior joins him on the engawa, slipping the wooden box with his sister off his shoulders and setting it down beside them.

“It’s so good to see you, Rengoku-san,” he chirps. “How are you?”

The corner of Kyojuro’s mouth twitches, but he keeps the smile from crumbling like brittle ceramic. “I’m doing fine.”

If he were completely honest and less afraid of endangering the Kamado boy or others yet again, he’d confide in the Corps and handle that nightly problem of his like a responsible Hashira. Instead, he eyes the box, from which the soft hum of a demon’s presence emanates—much gentler and more delicate than the one that haunts his nights.

His gaze shifts back to Kamado. A bruise blooms on his cheek, and dried blood is smudged across his chin and jaw. His hakama is ripped at his thigh, and beneath the dark, blood-soaked scraps the sharp lines of a deep claw scratch stand out.

That wound needs immediate attention.

“But, Kamado-kun,” Kyojuro says, warm but firm, “don’t worry about me. Your health comes first. Have those injuries seen to.”

Kamado-kun follows Kyojuro’s gaze down to his thigh. “Oh, that? It’s not bleeding anymore. I remembered your Breathing technique and clamped the wound!”

Kyojuro barks out a laugh. “You’ve become stronger! That’s good!”

The boy’s auburn eyes light up. “It’s all thanks to you! Just like you told me—I set my heart ablaze and fight with everything I’ve got!”

“Hm!”

Kamado-kun would really be the perfect Tsuguko—enthusiastic to learn, dutiful to the last breath, and selfless just like a big brother should be. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t waver in the face of hardship. And yet, Kyojuro can’t offer him the position again.

For now, his health might still be an excuse, but once he starts training and regaining his strength, how could he refuse a boy this talented—one with the potential to become a Hashira?

Kyojuro has never taught Flame Breathing before. His last trainee, sweet Kanroji who may best him in udon-eating contests, couldn’t manifest it, and Senjuro’s Nichirin sword never changed color to begin with. Naturally, his little brother would’ve become his Tsuguko, but he’s too good-natured, too kind for such a cruel fate. And somehow, Kyojuro is glad that Senjuro doesn’t have to go through the same horrors he has.

If their roles were reversed and Kyojuro were the one left behind, watching Senjuro leave on missions and maybe never come home, he would’ve lost his mind long ago. But Senjuro always endures and waits. He’s strong in his own way, even if he doubts himself too often.

“How long will you stay here, Rengoku-san?”

Kamado-kun’s voice snaps him out of his brooding thoughts.

“I’ll leave today,” he replies with a forced smile. “I’m just waiting for my health report from Kocho.”

The young Demon Slayer’s shoulders sink. “I see.”

There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice, but Kyojuro can’t have that. He lifts his chin and throws some vigor back into his tone.

“By the way!”

“Yes!” Kamado-kun straightens at once, matching his volume.

Kyojuro pulls a book from his bag. Its red-leather cover is worn and soft to the touch, having passed through many hands over the last centuries. “As promised, I did some research on the Hinaromi dance you asked me about.”

Kamado-kun tilts his head, his lips curling in amusement. “You mean Hinokami Kagura?”

“Yes!” He beams. “The name isn’t mentioned in my ancestor’s records, but I’ve read something about Sun Breathing!”

“Sun Breathing?”

“Hm! Supposedly, it was the first Breathing technique ever created, and all others are derived from it, with Flame Breathing being the closest. These are the records of the former Flame Hashira.” Kyojuro brushes his hand over the weathered front. “My father used to read them often. I thought they might mention more about it and wanted to lend them to you, but ...”

He opens the book, and the pages, torn to shreds, greet them like a raw, open wound.

Kamado-kun gasps. “Oh no! What happened to it? Was it like this from the start?”

Kyojuro shakes his head. “No. The Flame Hashira Chronicles are always stored with great care. Someone in my family must’ve torn it.” He refuses to name the culprit. Kamado-kun doesn’t need to be dragged into his family’s issues.

How Chichi-ue has changed ... so blindly desecrating their legacy and everything their ancestors had fought for.

Hot shame coils in Kyojuro’s stomach. He closes the book, and the weight of it and his father’s inexcusable decisions sink into his lap. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

But Kamado-kun frantically waves his hands. “No, no, it’s alright. It’s not your fault, Rengoku-san. I know what I must do now.”

His fingers curl into fists, and his gaze flares with new resolve.

“I’m going to train harder. When it comes to Hinokami Kagura, I know how to perform the dance, but I still haven’t mastered it. My body can’t keep up with it. Though my stamina has improved, it’s still not enough. All I can do is struggle—push forward, no matter what, and give everything I have. And someday ... someday, I’ll become a powerful Hashira like you, Rengoku-san,” he says with genuine admiration in his tone. “Someone who can stand his ground against the strongest of demons.”

Kyojuro doesn’t feel like he’s holding up against such a demon right now.

“And save hundreds of lives.”

In this poor state, he can’t even protect the people dearest to him.

But as powerless as he might be at the moment, he won’t let others bear the weight of his mistakes. He’ll forge his life back into shape and annihilate evil as his family always has. There’s no time to mope around—least of all in front of a junior!

“That sounds like a great goal, Kamado-kun, but don’t put me on such a high pedestal! I just fulfilled my duty! And now, I’m not that powerful anymore!”

Kamado-kun frowns slightly. “That’s because—“

“But I’m going to train hard, too!” For all the weak and innocent, for Haha-ue, and for Kamado-kun, whose words have rekindled the embers inside him that had nearly gone cold. “Let’s both do our best!”

Instantly, the boy’s eyes sparkle again. “Yes!”

They share a moment of burning-bright resolve until a chorus of bell-like voices rings through the air.

“Tanjiro-san!”

A set of triplets in white nurse garb, each wearing a different-colored obi, rush toward them in synchronized steps.

“Tanjiro-san,” the girl with the blue obi wails, “Aoi-san is really mad! Please come inside and have your wounds treated!”

“I’ll be right there!” He shoulders his box and jumps off the engawa. But he turns back once more with a warm smile that resembles Senjuro’s, making Kyojuro’s heart weak. “Thank you for your time, Rengoku-san!”

Kyojuro waves his hand gently. “It was my pleasure. And Kamado-kun—”

The young man, already on the move, pauses again and glances back with raised eyebrows.

“I’ll restore the Flame Hashira Chronicles with my brother’s help! I’ll also read more books and ask my father about that Sun Breathing technique!”

“Please don’t take this too seriously, Rengoku-san!” Kamado-kun protests. “It’s not that impor—“

“If I find anything, I’ll send word through my crow!”

He wants to support a promising junior like him by all means possible. Besides, reading books is something he does anyway while he’s stuck at home.

As if realizing that further arguing would be futile, Kamado-kun sighs softly through his nose. “I really appreciate your help. Thank you so much, Rengoku-san!”

And his smile is all the confirmation Kyojuro needs.

Crossing the arms over his chest, he gives a firm nod. “Hm!”

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

Kocho looks down at the clipboard in her hands. Her fingers trace the edges of the pages as she skims through the results she must already know by heart.

Kyojuro sits on pins and needles, gripping the crutch between his thighs. Tension winds through his muscles, keeping him locked stiff in the chair.

At last, Kocho speaks.

“I have good news for you, Rengoku-san.” She lifts her gaze, and a practiced smile he knows all too well settles on her face. “The concentration of demon cells in your blood has decreased tremendously, and there are no traces left in your scar tissue.”

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slips free.

“Does that mean I don’t have to cover them anymore?”

Kocho sets the clipboard down on the table. “That’s right. We can take off your bandages. But to be on the safe side, let’s start with the eyepatch. I’d like you to expose your eye to the sunlight. If it doesn’t burn away like demon flesh, we’ll know the risk of your stomach wound reopening is low. Are you okay with that?”

“I am,” he says, nodding. “But before we do that, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Please tell me—how do you know so much about this? About human blood infested by demon cells and how to examine it?”

Kyojuro isn’t a science person, but he knows that, just like learning different sword strikes—or brush strokes—developing an effective medical treatment requires countless trials. And Kocho clearly isn’t new to these kinds of tests.

“I’ve been studying demons for years, Rengoku-san,” she replies with an unreadable expression, making him feel a bit stupid for asking. Then she adds, “But to be completely honest, it’s not the first time I’ve checked someone’s blood for residual demon cells. There’s a boy in the Corps who eats demon flesh to turn into one temporarily.”

“What, really?” Kyojuro blinks, taken aback. “Is that even possible?”

This is the first time he’s ever heard of something like that. Why would someone from the Corps, who regularly faces the horror and morbidity of demons, freely choose to slip into one’s skin?

“I was wondering the same,” Kocho says with a contemplative tone. This time, her smile falls and her brows knit together in concern. “Apparently, he gains their demonic traits, including their regeneration powers, just like you did after your last fight. I’ve based my research on what I learned from examining him. But since your blood was contaminated with cells of an Upper Moon, far more concentrated than anything the boy ever consumed, I feared you might turn into a demon or die trying to fight off the poison. It was already a miracle that you survived after we removed the demon arm still lodged in your stomach, keeping you from bleeding out at the scene. The Kakushi made sure not to expose it to sunlight when they retrieved you, so we at least had a chance to save you.”

He has never asked how they rescued him. It didn’t matter. He knows that demon blood resurrected him—and that thought alone makes his stomach twist in violent knots.

But no one died that night. That makes it worth all the sacrifice, makes it worth the torment at night and the phantom pain that will never quite fade.

“And in the end,” Kocho says, “just like that boy, you were able to metabolize the demon cells, though you suffered horribly. The wisteria pills I gave you supported the decomposition. But since wisteria is poisonous to humans as well, I couldn’t concentrate it too highly. It would have interfered with your recovery.”

She tilts her head slightly. “I hope that answered your question?”

Even more than that.

“It did,” Kyojuro says. “Thank you.”

“Perfect,” she sings with a refreshed smile and a voice as sweet as red bean paste. “Then let’s do the sunlight test, shall we?”

Leaning forward in her chair, her fingers brush beneath his left eye. “Excuse my boldness, Rengoku-san.”

His vision swims for a brief moment as the eyepatch is lifted.

Sunlight filters in on Kocho’s side, but Kyojuro remains seated in the shadows, watching the dust particles dance in the bright rays.

Worry climbs in his chest.

“Take your time,” Kocho hums, as if she’s taken notice of the conflict on his face.

The fear demons harbor for the sun—a part of him can understand now. But he’s not a demon. His soul, his flesh, everything about him is human. The sun will not harm him.

With a pounding heart, Kyojuro finally rises on his crutch and steps into the light. He might lose his eye and sight for good, but hiding under bandages forever out of fear is out of the question.

Kocho makes space for him, and he turns to glance out the window.

The sun is warm on his face, caressing him like his mother’s hands once did. Blinking against the brightness, Kyojuro waits. Holds his breath. But there’s no immediate pain, no burning heat blooming in his eye.

He stands there for a while, basking in the sunlight. Yet, nothing happens. The sun is as loving on his skin as ever.

“My hypothesis seems to be correct,” Kocho muses. “Let’s expose a small part of your stomach scar next.”

Carefully, she rolls off the lower layer of the bandages and bares a strip of his marred flesh to the light. And—Kami-sama, Buddha-sama, please—just like before, the sun does not claim his cursed body.

They remove the bandages completely. It feels like shedding shackles of lead. The corruption, the filthy remnants of that fateful night—all gone. He is truly human again. Only these scars will remain as a testimony to the battle. To his survival. He will carry them to his final days with pride now.

“You’re well on your way to a full recovery,” Kocho says, settling back in her chair. “And before long, you’ll be back to your former self.”

“So,” Kyojuro drawls, careful, “is that the green light to start my rehabilitation training?”

Without losing her smile, she frowns. “Why the rush, Rengoku-san?”

“Well, evil never waits!” he bursts out. It’s cliché to say, but he means it more than ever—puts real weight behind the words, though he hopes Kocho will simply dismiss it as his usual bravado.

She regards him with a mix of bemusement and mild concern. “You may begin your training, but take it slow. Start with muscle conditioning to rebuild your strength, then gradually work on your stamina. Once you’ve improved your lung capacity, you can carefully reintroduce your Flame Breathing. But don’t forget—pushing yourself too hard will only set you back.”

Kyojuro nods at every piece of advice, though guilt gnaws at him. He’s already pushed his limits and doesn’t intend to slow down any more than necessary.

“Take enough breaks—it’s pretty hot these days,” she continues, “eat well, get proper rest, and you should feel the results soon.”

Everything sounds doable—except for the getting proper rest part.

“Thank you so much, Kocho! I’m relieved to hear that!” he says with a broad grin. “With your permission, I’d like to return home now.”

She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wish you would consider doing your training here—under my supervision. I hated the idea of letting you go back to your family, not knowing what was going on with your body. I still don’t like it.”

“Thank you for your concern, but my brother takes excellent care of me!” And usually, it’s hard to accept his help at all. To acknowledge that he’s become a burden.

“As there’s no holding you back,” Kocho says, as if in defeat, “I will call and have a Kakushi escort you back.”

“You have my gratitude!”

She nods. “Let’s stay in contact through our crows. Once a month, I’ll have a Kakushi come to your house to check on your progress. I’ll also give you more wisteria pills. Please continue taking them for four more weeks, just to ensure all the demon cells are killed off.”

“Hm!”

And so, he leaves the Butterfly Mansion. Tosses the crutch into the corner of his room the moment he gets home. Wastes no time dropping into push-ups in the yard, moving into sit-ups, squats, and other drills. His muscles burn and his sweat drips while the sunlight fades away and the night creeps in.

Notes:

Thank you for reading!

I’ve been looking forward to writing these monster chapters 6 and 7. But at the same time, it took me forever to make progress because they were packed with information and delicious conflict. Muzan is a piece of shit, but I enjoy writing him, and I couldn’t wait to finally have him and Akaza talk.

And, as most of you anticipated, the training arc is finally about to happen. Hopefully, Akaza and Kyojuro will grow closer from here on out, hehe ;D

See you in the next chapter! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] haiku : Japanese short form poetry [return to text]

Chapter 8: Feeding the Flame

honoo 炎 — flame; blaze.

 

 

The grunts reach Akaza first. Then, he catches the heavy tang of sweat swirling through the humid evening air, unmistakably human. Unmistakably Kyojuro.

If hunger were still clawing at his throat, he would drool. Luckily, he’s brimming with energy, his stomach full and tinglingly warm.

In a clean arc, he swings himself over the protective wall of the Hashira’s estate and lands in the yard without a sound.

And there he is.

Flat on his back in the dirt. Hands folded behind his head. Feet rooted to the ground. Body snapping up in a brutal rhythm. Over and over and over. He’s relentless with himself, even though the night’s just fallen. Like he’s chasing something. Or something is chasing him.

The sword lies beside him, as if awaiting Akaza. But Kyojuro doesn’t reach for it. He stays in the exercise, focus unbroken.

A grin splits Akaza’s face as he steps to his side. He leans in, close enough to count the drops of sweat flinging from the Hashira’s temples.

“Looks like your check-up went well!” he chirps. “Your form’s not too shabby, but you should hold it a little longer. Makes it burn better.”

Kyojuro chuffs, unimpressed. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“Ah, but you should appreciate it at least,” he drawls. “Let me help you with your training.”

Kyojuro isn’t wearing his eyepatch—Akaza realizes this as two fiery eyes glare up at him. The skin around his left one is slightly marred; a salmon-pink scar shaped like Akaza’s knuckles. His blond hair is shorter too, no longer fitting into a full bun. The flame-red ends barely graze his collarbone whenever he sits up.

“I decline,” Kyojuro barks, pressing the words out through his lifting. “Rather than concerning yourself with me, you should sit down in my room and repeat all the kanji I’ve taught you. It’s been three days since you last trained, after all.”

Akaza folds his arms over his chest. “I repeat them every day.”

Okay, maybe not while I was out hunting, but ...

The words almost slip out.

“Unlike other people, I take training very seriously—and I know when it’s smarter to shut up and learn from an expert.”

At that, Kyojuro snaps upright. Sweat beads down his jaw while disbelief and anger somersault over his face.

What’s with the sudden foul mood? Akaza just praised his calligraphy lessons.

“Are you testing my limits, demon?”

He cringes at the word. In all these weeks, Kyojuro hasn’t used his name even once.

“Are you testing mine, human?”

Brutal silence crashes down between them like a boulder shearing off a mountainside.

“Your training isn’t just about getting the stroke order right,” Kyojuro says then, voice clipped. “Constant repetition sharpens your mind. This is what you want, isn’t it? So stop being impatient.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There was a clear wobble when Kyojuro pushed himself up earlier—like he had no power left. And despite Akaza’s advice to hold longer, he kept rushing through the exercise, as if rebuilding his muscles couldn’t happen fast enough. And Akaza gets him. He really does. But it doesn’t help either of them if he shatters into pieces again.

“Look at you,” Akaza says pointedly. “You’re shaking even while sitting. How long have you been at it today?”

Kyojuro curls his lip. Takes an unnerving moment to answer. “Since this morning.”

Akaza’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Kyojuro,” he warns. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Confusion flickers over the Hashira’s face. But before he can recover his annoying defiance and spit fire, Akaza adds, “Your body’s still weak, and I might not be patient enough to wait much longer for you to heal. So here’s what we’ll do—“

“Another deal you strike over my head?” Kyojuro interjects grimly. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough of those lately.”

“This one will benefit us equally,” Akaza promises. “I want to condition my mind, and you want to steel your body, right? We can help each other out. You know your way with the brush, and I’ve spent decades perfecting training routines. You see the opportunity here, Kyojuro?”

He gets only a wary squint from those burning eyes in return.

“I’ll create training sessions that’ll haul you forward in no time,” Akaza rattles on, grin sharp and steady now. He can’t wait to throw himself into action and tailor sets for Kyojuro—merciless, but crisp and refined like a sun-bathed blade.

“I don’t need any help from you.”

Aaah—stubborn, prideful human, putting the dampers on him again.

“I’ve made my own training plans since I joined the Corps.”

Naturally, Kyojuro stands by his long-honed practices, and Akaza has no intention of belittling them. He’s faced the fruits of that hard labor, after all. Tasted every weighted grain of discipline and fire carved into that man’s frame. But for their rematch to ever happen, he needs to push him a little more in the right direction.

“Your training might’ve served you back then—before your injury. But your body’s different now.” Stitched back together like a tattered old rug. “You can’t train like nothing’s changed. Didn’t your doctor say the same? Are you even following their instructions?”

The words seem to hit home. Kyojuro finally frays. His face twists, like he’s reached into an open flame, and Akaza watches that last flicker of rebellion gutter out.

“Why,” Kyojuro rasps, “do you think you know so much better what’s right for a human in order to recover?”

There’s more sizzling on his tongue. An insult, maybe. How a creature made to crush humans like flies—who’s crushed him—dares to dictate his healing. To play doctor like they’ve never battled for life and death.

“I don’t,” Akaza simply says, rising from his squat. “But I know what makes a body strong, no matter if it’s a demon’s or a human’s.”

The principles are all the same. Hard training and good meat. The only real difference is how slowly humans heal, whether from a fight or a workout. They can’t handle pain. They need rest. And that’s the nasty part to consider.

“I’ll have your new training plan ready by tomorrow evening. Don’t overdo it during the day. Save your strength for the night. You’ll need it,” Akaza advises.

Kyojuro raises an eyebrow. “And what about your training? Do you give up on writing?”

“Oh, I’m not slacking off,” he shoots back. “One night, I’ll supervise your session, and the next, you’ll teach me some more kanji—just like before. We simply switch roles as sensei from now on. How’s that sound?”

He offers his open hand.

Sceptical, Kyojuro eyes it, as if it’s a bear maw wrenched open, ready to tear off his whole arm. But then he takes it, his grip solid like steel, and Akaza pulls him to his feet.

This time, a handshake seals the deal. And sparks crackle in Akaza’s stomach.

Kyojuro assigns him to repeat kanji while he goes to wash.

Akaza obeys and bleeds characters onto paper while the memory of Kyojuro’s strained grunts loops in his head.

He’s itching to get started. To map out an efficient plan to make him strong again. To pull him from his ashes and feed his flame.

 

 

~ ☽ ~

 

 

In quick, uneven strokes, Akaza drags the tip of a branch through the dry ground of Kyojuro’s yard.

“First,” he says firmly, carving the character for power into the dirt, “we rebuild your core and leg strength. And work on that sorry excuse for stamina you’ve got.”

He doesn’t know how to write most of the kanji, so he sticks to kana for the rest.

Kyojuro stands tall beside him, making no effort to crouch and meet him at eye level. He’s wearing a white shirt and a black hakama for training, and a judging scowl on his face. A hand rests on the hilt of his sword. But since his arrival, Akaza hasn’t tasted that steel. Even now, Kyojuro holds back, though the heat in his eyes says he’d love nothing more than to bring it down on his neck.

Akaza’s not really in a vulnerable position for Kyojuro to try any stunts, and the Hashira must know that, or he wouldn’t hesitate. Not that Akaza’s against a little sparring, but Kyojuro’s still blunt like an unhoned blade. Too easy to break. Not ready yet.

At least he looks fitter today, his spirit burning with mind-slapping conviction. Even if begrudgingly, he seems to have taken Akaza’s advice to heart. And that’s a win in itself.

“Every morning,” Akaza continues, “your training starts with a walk, whether you train during the day or in the evening. Ditch that crutch and cut a few rounds through the village or yard to warm up. Take your time stretching thoroughly after that. On days you train during the day, start with your first round of exercises. Keep them short and take plenty of breaks between each set, or you’ll burn your energy too fast.”

He writes down the order of exercises he brainstormed during the hours of sun—simple strength and balance drills using only body weight. Everything else would be too hard on Kyojuro anyway.

The Hashira glances at his writing, face blank like a sheet of paper.

“And when do you plan for me to eat?” he asks then.

Here he goes bitching again.

Although ... it’s a fair point.

“Right. You humans need to eat every day.”

He hadn’t taken that into account.

Huffing, Kyojuro holds out his hand. Akaza stares at it like something’s inscribed on his palm. Does he want him to grab it and stand up? He doesn’t need his help for that.

The Hashira sighs. “Give me that branch, would you?”

Ah. Oh.

He passes the stick to Kyojuro.

“I need at least three big meals a day,” the Hashira says as he draws a rough timeline and marking it with crosses. “Usually, I have a snack and some tea in the afternoon too.”

“That’s a lot,” Akaza remarks flatly. “Imagine I needed a snack in the middle of every night.”

It’s meant as a joke to lighten the mood, but Kyojuro shoots him a scolding glare—like a demon isn’t supposed to quip about food.

Akaza clears his throat, feeling awkward all of a sudden. “Well, your meals are your breaks then.”

“But I can’t train right after eating,” Kyojuro says matter-of-factly. “I hope you factored that into your plan?”

The words sting like wisteria poison in a wound.

Akaza clicks his tongue. “And how much time do you need?”

“At least two hours.”

That’s too loooong!

What does that make? Eight hours of lazing around? No, wait—dinner doesn’t count. Probably. Ah, he sucks at arithmetic. But there’s snack time too ... So what’s that? Five, maybe six hours just for breaks? The day’ll be over before Kyojuro even starts training! This is madness!

Akaza doesn’t get the point of breaks. He can lift boulders, throw tree trunks, sprint through rough mountain terrain all night—and still keep going with the bodyweight exercises after sunrise. His body never tires, never fails him. No need to sleep, rest, or eat three fucking meals a day.

If Kyojuro would just give in and become a demon already, they’d be done with this whole rehab in a week. Akaza could drill him day and night without wasting time on something as infuriating as human limitations.

But Kyojuro’s harder to crack than bedrock.

“Fine,” he barks, snappier than intended, “we’ll time your breaks around those meals and give you enough time to digest that stupid amount of food.”

He hates changing plans. Hates it even more when he has to make compromises.

Gritting his teeth against the humiliation, he lets Kyojuro erase some sets. Lets him suggest adjustments in that calm, annoyingly reasonable tone.

It cuts deep into his pride.

Decades of experience boiled down to this is too much, this is insane, and this is going to kill me all over again.

But in the end, a new plan sprawls out between them in the dirt—intense and effective, but humane. It’s not his training program anymore. It’s theirs now.

When Kyojuro trains during the hours of sun, he teaches Akaza kanji at night. The next day, they switch—Kyojuro rests until sunset, then trains under Akaza’s instruction. But to make it more memorable, everything needs a powerful name. Surprisingly, Kyojuro agrees, so they coin the shifting halves of their new routine Solar Drills and Lunar Drills.

“We’ll start with the Lunar Drills tomorrow,” Kyojuro says. “I’m too tired to do anything else today.”

And that’s Akaza’s cue to back off.

Yet, despite overturning his initial training plan, a feeling of accomplishment swells in his chest as he whips through the forest back to his little temple.

Tonight, they’re one step closer to restoring Kyojuro to his former supreme self. Although training a human will undoubtedly rob Akaza of the sanity he’s maintained through iron discipline over the years, it’ll be worth the effort. He knows every moment of his eternity will pay off if it means sharing it soon with a man blazing like the sun.

 

~ ☼ ~

 

The soft, sunset-red silk brushes over Kyojuro’s bare forearms as he accepts his newly forged sword.

With the care of someone parting with their child, Akamatsu Goro places it into his hands. And for the old swordsmith, it may as well have been. He poured so much sweat and blood into this blade that Kyojuro can see the strain etched into his shoulders, in the soot-streaked mask, in the straw hat sitting lopsided on his head with silver strands falling free around his long neck.

Bound by fire and metal, the Akamatsu and Rengoku families have long-standing ties. For generations, they have armed the Flame Hashira and carried the burden of the same legacy.

With a leaping heart, Kyojuro pushes the silk cloth aside to reveal the white-lacquered saya¹ bearing the familiar flame-shaped crest that had adorned his last sword. The colors, the weight, the feel—all reborn in polish and gleam.

“Please, have a look at it, Flame Hashira,” Akamatsu-san says.

Kyojuro beams. “Of course I will!”

He draws the blade slowly, listening to the soft hum of singing metal. The kanji for Slayer of Evil Demons, carved below the habaki,² is the first thing to catch his eye before he unsheathes the sword fully and lifts it into the sun. The light glints along its edge—and in his grip, it begins to glow with that bright red he knows so well.

The balance is perfect, and the handle fits snugly in his hands—unlike his father’s. Though the weight still pulls at his weakened arms, soon enough, he’ll wield the blade effortlessly again. His muscles will remember the motions. With this, he’s one step closer to severing that demon’s head.

“Is it to your liking, Flame Hashira?”

“Absolutely! You’ve outdone yourself, Akamatsu-san!” Kyojuro replies with genuine admiration. “I can’t thank you enough!”

The furin on his straw hat chimes as the old swordsmith bows his head. “It is my honor. May this sword protect you and hundreds of lives.”

“I will wield it with honor and fortitude!”

Akamatsu-san probably hasn’t had a proper break since he began forging this sword. Kyojuro would’ve liked to offer him tea and a chance to rest after his long journey from the Swordsmith Village. But Chichi-ue forbade them from having any visitors ...

Akamatsu-san lets out a quiet breath. “Thank you, Flame Hashira. I will take my leave now. But before I go, allow me a question—how is your father doing?”

Kyojuro’s lips twitch, fighting to hold the smile.

Of course the blacksmith would ask. He and Chichi-ue are old friends. And yet, his father hasn’t seen a single soul in months—doesn’t even allow worried neighbors to stop by. Perhaps he’s ashamed. Or simply refuses to be pitied.

“Chichi-ue is still in disarray and opposed to my return to duty,” Kyojuro answers carefully. “However, my brother and I ensure he eats and sleeps enough.” He tries to keep it as vague as possible, so as not to jeopardize his father’s honor.

“I see,” Akamatsu-san says. “I’m glad you take care of your father, even though it must be hard on you after everything you’ve endured.”

The old man pauses for a moment, his voice full of understanding. “You carry such a great burden on your young shoulders, Flame Hashira. But no matter how deep your love for your father—don’t forget to look after yourself as well.”

Regret and a twinge of hopelessness choke Kyojuro, though he refuses to look away from the grimace of the Hyottoko³ mask. The old man’s eyes must bore right through him; he can feel the warmth of his gaze billowing up in his chest.

“Thank you for your concern, Akamatsu-san.” He dips his head low, then sheathes the sword and clutches it at his side. “As I cannot invite you into the house, shall I at least leave a message for Chichi-ue?”

A heartbeat passes.

“Please tell him to stop the drinking,” Akamatsu-san says. “For his children’s sake.”

There’s something more than just condolence in his voice. Guilt? Remorse?

Without another word, the swordsmith turns, and the soft chime of his furin rings with a quiet sadness as he leaves for home.

Kyojuro’s smile falls.

In slow, crutchless steps, he crosses the genkan and returns inside. As he shuffles past his father’s quarters on the way to his own room, the fusuma suddenly flies open with a rattle. A waft of sake sweeps through the corridor.

Startled, Kyojuro spins around. “Chichi-ue?”

The crooked form of his father appears in the doorway, morning misery etched into his expression. His bloodshot eyes flick to the sword in Kyojuro’s hand, then back to his face.

“So,” he mutters bitterly, “Akamatsu brought you a new one?”

“He did.”

“Tch. What a waste. It’ll break, just like the last one. And this time, you’ll find yourself dead.”

He might be right. Everything has an end. Human lives. Swords. Even strength.

“But until then, I’ll keep fighting with all I’ve got,” Kyojuro replies firmly. It’s really too early to deal with Chichi-ue’s rants.

“When will you stop with that starry-eyed nonsense, Kyojuro!” he barks, reeking of alcohol and disdain. “Instead of training all day and wasting your youth, you should marry a nice woman and settle down like weak, normal people are supposed to!”

The words land like a whiplash. It’s not the first time his father has urged him to lay down his sword and trade it for a quiet, sheltered life. But there would be no peace—not in his mind. Not while evil still roams free. Besides, he’d make a terrible husband. He could never make a woman happy. Never give her what she truly deserved. Not with forbidden desires locked away deep down inside him.

To his selfish relief, Chichi-ue is in no condition—and certainly in no mood—to arrange a marriage anytime soon.

Rather than getting stuck on it, Kyojuro sidesteps the topic. “Akamatsu-san asked me to pass along a message for you. ‘Please stop the drinking, for your children’s sake,’” he conveys, stoic. “I can only agree with him.”

With that, he walks away.

“That senile fool should stay out of our family affairs!” Chichi-ue shouts after him before the fusuma slams shut.

Kyojuro heaves a breath. Again, the timing is wrong. There’s no point in trying when his father is already this agitated.

The Hashira Chronicles and their restoration have been circling in his thoughts ever since he met Kamado-kun a few days ago. Yet, he still hasn’t found the right moment to bring them up without risking his father’s rage breaking loose. He doesn’t want to accuse him outright, but Chichi-ue might take it that way—and shut down the conversation before it even has a chance to unfold. As he always does when he feels slighted.

As Kyojuro continues down the hallway, he slows again. The fusuma to the living room stands wide open. Senjuro sits there in seiza, eyes fixed on the tatami while twirling one of the freshly cut flowers for Haha-ue’s altar between his fingers. White chrysanthemums. The rest lie spread out on a pale furoshiki⁴ in front of him.

For a moment, the only sound is the steady chorus of cicadas filtering in from outside. The silence between them stretches, and Kyojuro’s chest tightens with worry that his brother might be caught in that helpless fear their father always seems to stir.

But then, Senjuro raises his head. “I’m sorry, Ani-ue. I didn’t mean to overhear.”

“I’m not angry.” Kyojuro offers a soft, reassuring smile. “Chichi-ue shouts loud enough for the neighbors to hear anyway. But he’ll calm down. He always does.”

Everything with their father goes in vicious circles.

He takes a small breath and adds more brightly, “Akamatsu-san finally brought my sword. Do you want to see it?”

Senjuro’s troubled expression lights up. “Yes!”

Kyojuro takes a few steps into the room and stops before him. With deliberate care, and maybe a touch of theatrics, he draws the blade from its sheath. The steel catches the warm sunlight, and Senjuro gapes in awe at its shimmering red.

There’s a short, sharp twist in Kyojuro’s stomach—and it’s not coming from the scar.

Even long after Chichi-ue stopped teaching them, Senjuro’s sword hasn’t changed color yet, no matter how hard he keeps pushing himself, desperately trying to meet the standard imposed by their legacy. But Kyojuro just can’t picture him fighting demons one day. His kind little brother, who used to crawl under his futon, afraid of the dark; who cries for the both of them at Haha-ue’s grave; who never says no to any request from the elderly and prepares pickled vegetables and miso for all their neighbors, even knows all their allergies by heart, while Kyojuro struggles to remember faces. Or names.

Senjuro is calm and patient in a way he never was. And Kyojuro can’t bear to watch him blame himself for not suiting the blade when there are so many other things in which his little brother outshines him.

With a soft click, Kyojuro sheathes the sword again and lets it hang at his side. But with the red glint gone, Senjuro’s smile sinks too.

Kyojuro watches his brother’s face for a moment longer before softening his voice. “I need your help with something, Senjuro.”

He blinks up, curious. “What is it, Ani-ue?”

There’s something Kyojuro can’t do alone. Because strength isn’t what’s needed here.

He asks Senjuro to come to his room once he’s finished tending to their ancestors’ altar and shows him the damaged book of the Flame Hashira Chronicles.

After the initial shock, Senjuro overflows with enthusiasm and ideas about how to begin restoring their family’s records.

It’s Saturday, so there’s no class, and they have the whole afternoon ahead of them. Senjuro seems especially happy that Kyojuro has chosen to rest for once—though he’s unaware of the Lunar Drills his big brother has gotten himself into.

On the days he’s set to train after dark, he might as well spend the daylight hours doing something worthwhile. And honestly, it’s far more enjoyable with Senjuro by his side. He helps him forget, if only for a moment, about the demon who will return tonight to oversee his training.

Buzzing with energy and ambition, they gather old scrolls, notes, and letters from the family archive, then settle around the chabudai with iced tea and rice crackers. On fresh paper, Kyojuro copies the first few intact pages of the Chronicles, while Senjuro flops onto his stomach and skims through the journals of the previous Flame Hashira.

It will undoubtedly take time to connect the dots and fill in the gaps. Some pieces may not be recoverable without asking Chichi-ue, but Kyojuro pushes that thought aside for now.

They move through the hours with a sense of purpose, and when the sun sinks, they store away their progress. Senjuro prepares hiyashi chuka⁵ for dinner and Kyojuro tears through it—not out of hunger, but with a hunch that he’ll need every shred of strength.

Once the doors slide shut and everybody retreats for the night, Kyojuro moves quietly through the hall and returns Chichi-ue’s sword to the treasure chamber. He beds it to rest again in its blood-red cloth and closes the lid of the chest with care.

From his room, he steps onto the engawa and into the yard. The cicadas still sing, and he takes a deep breath.

In one fluid motion, he draws his new sword, the red metal glowing in the dark.

Then, on the exhale, he moves.

The steel sings in a high, clean note as it slices through the air, carving a burning arc into the night.

His lungs sting and his muscles protest, but his heart drums, eager and intoxicated. He watches the faint red trail his sword leaves behind—there and gone in a blink.

He can’t wait to test its edge on the neck of a certain demon.

And just as that thought ends, the cicadas fall silent.

Notes:

Thank you for reading, as always! ♥

I hope you enjoyed their little reunion ;)

 

—Glossary—
[1] saya : sheath of a katana [return to text]
[2] habaki : blade collar at the base of a katana [return to text]
[3] Hyottoko : comical Japanese character depicted by a mask [return to text]
[4] furoshiki : square cloth for wrapping [return to text]
[5] hiyashi chuka : cold ramen salad [return to text]

Chapter 9: A Little Tale About Tempura and Lost Memories

zoku 族 — clan; tribe; family line.

 

 

His fist slams into perfect steel. It’s smoother. Hotter. Licks at his knuckles as if it wants to take a bite out of him.

“That’s a new sword!” Akaza bursts out, a grin splitting his face.

What an honor—that Kyojuro didn’t even hesitate to try his reforged blade on him.

The Hashira radiates with a battle spirit rivaling that of their first memorable clash. Yet, this time, no scowl tarnishes his face. Instead, a lopsided smirk tugs at his lips, daring with challenge.

Oh, Akaza loves this!

He hasn’t come for a fight tonight, but that diamond-rare expression sends him reeling.

He throws another punch, holding back just enough not to hurt Kyojuro, only to feel the edge of the blade carve into his knuckles.

Kyojuro moves like he’s become one with his weapon again. It fits him so well. Shame, though, his body’s still too weak to match it. He’s slow. And so predictable.

Akaza sees the following strike coming even without using his Compass Needle—and welcomes it. The sword slices through his elbow, and his arm sails off into the yard.

He cackles. Adrenaline courses through him like wildfire. In a blink, his flesh grows back, and he braces for the next attack—but Kyojuro pulls back. His smile drops, as though some kind of awareness crept in, and the ugly frown returns.

No! This can’t be it!

Akaza wants to fight more! Wants to push harder! He craves the pain—the heat!

A roar rips out of him, thick with need. “Come on, Kyojuro! Attack me again!”

“No.” The cold finality in the Flame Hashira’s voice lands like a blow itself. “This is not part of our training agreement.”

He talks like they’ve signed some sort of contract, sounding all sophisticated and snooty. As if Akaza needs reminding why he’s here.

“Besides, you’re being too loud,” Kyojuro chides. “Do you want to wake my family?”

The rejection has already doused Akaza with ice water. But the scolding makes it sting worse.

“You struck first,” he glowers, instantly regretting his childish tone. Justifying his excitement, like he’s some overeager brat who doesn’t know when to stop, is downright pathetic.

But he’s better than that. Has more control over the situation than that.

It’s just—this sword is new. Untouched. Practically begging for someone to pop its cherry. He’s only followed instinct. Nothing wrong with being the first to have a taste, right?

Huffing, Kyojuro sheathes the sword, yet his hand remains on the hilt. “Maybe we should go somewhere we’re less likely to wake the whole village.”

Huh. Why should they relocate their training ground for the sake of other weak humans? As if this whole ordeal wasn’t dragging enough already. It’s been two nights and they still haven’t started.

“How about the rice fields?” Akaza suggests nonetheless. Better to get the discussion over with quickly.

“Too muddy,” Kyojuro replies. “But there’s a flat strip of uncultivated land by the soybean field. That should do.”

Akaza snarls. “I hope you’re not afraid of bugs.”

He’s not changing locations for Kyojuro’s comfort again, that’s for sure.

When he offers him a piggyback ride, the Flame Hashira shoots him a look like he just insulted his dead mother. It would be so much faster to hoist him up and fly out of the village, but Kyojuro is stubborn to the core. So Akaza bolts ahead, kicking up the dirt in sprays.

He reaches the soybean field in seconds and starts doing squats to kill time.

He’s at two hundred and twenty-three when Kyojuro limps into view, sword in hand and crutch tucked under his arm like he still needs it for support. Maybe it’s an anxious human thought, believing he won’t make it back home after their session without it. But Akaza, though grudgingly, would go so far as to carry him to bed personally if it meant getting him stronger faster.

“So sloooow,” he complains anyway. “Let’s meet right here next time for the Lunar Drills. Can’t stand to wait for you like this.”

Kyojuro nods with a stern face.

Their whole training arrangement is still in the fledgling stage. No clear routine yet, unlike their kanji lessons. It’s all so new and messy and—and kinda exciting, too. When was the last time Akaza felt this jittery about anything? Neither his own workouts nor missions from Muzan-sama give him the kind of thrill these nightly hours with Kyojuro do.

He overflows with energy as they finally get started.

Right off, he orders Kyojuro into lunges and squats, then lets him hold the sumo stance until the sweat trickles down into the neckline of his thin shirt.

Ah, the sweet, tangy scent of exertion.

They switch to slow push-up and plank variations next. Akaza mirrors the exercises beside him, only pausing now and again to correct the Hashira’s posture. He shoves Kyojuro’s feet further apart. Presses a hand to the small of his back to straighten his spine. Savors the jump of his pulse when he murmurs, “Lower,” into his ear.

The Kyojuro’s skin is searing hot, yet he flinches away from Akaza’s touch as if it burns him. It always takes a second or two before he eases into the contact and resumes form.

His laborious grunts echo through the night, and soon, dirt clings to his face, his hair, his clothes. Honey-colored strands slip from his ponytail, sticking to his cheeks and the back of his neck.

Akaza counts out loud while balancing effortlessly on one forearm and the edge of his foot. In front of him, directly facing him, Kyojuro trembles so hard he might collapse to the ground any moment.

Sweat drips from the tip of his nose and forms a little puddle beneath him. He grits his teeth against the strain, avoiding Akaza’s piercing stare. Yet, no word of complaint leaves his lips. Though he doesn’t have the muscles to keep up this posture for long, he pulls through. Holds, holds, holds it, until his side bends like old tree bark, about to snap like one of his flimsy calligraphy brushes. Only then does Akaza allow him a break.

While Kyojuro coughs pitifully, gasping for air, Akaza drops to the ground and knocks out a hundred push-ups. The time he needs for that is all the rest he gives the Hashira. And that’s merciful, really. He’s keeping the sets extra short and the breaks longer than his patience would normally allow.

They run through three different full-body circuits as the scent of Kyojuro grows heavier and heavier in the humid air. The last time it was this thick was during their first encounter. But Akaza’s battle fever always drowns out any sense of hunger.

Kyojuro’s blood isn’t rare. It’s no harder to resist than any other human’s. However, now, in this idle state of just giving instructions, the urge to lick the sweat from his throat—the need to taste the salt and the heat of that tender skin—rolls over Akaza like a wave.

He snaps out of it the moment the Hashira rises to his feet, seizing his sword in one swift, skeptical motion, as if he’d caught the spark of dark hunger flash in Akaza’s eyes.

“Let’s call it a night,” Kyojuro says, careful. “I need a bath and have to go to bed.”

Akaza clears his throat. “A bath sounds good. Can I clean up at your place?”

He braces for the rejection.

“No.”

And gets it handed like a stab to the chest.

“You’re so cruel, Kyojuro!” Akaza whines, maybe a bit too dramatic.

The Hashira throws him a disbelieving look. “Excuse me?”

“I’m all sticky and have dirt in places I’d rather not!”

In an instant, fire rises to Kyojuro’s face. “T-That’s not my problem!” he sputters. “I’m leaving now! Go find a lake or something!”

Is he angry?

Akaza was just joking. Well, sort of. Dirt really is tickling his balls, but ...

“You sure? Can you make it back on your own, though?” he asks, more serious again, as he glances at Kyojuro’s wobbly legs and the long stretch of dry path winding through the soybean fields ahead.

The Hashira stays silent at first, heat continuing to radiate from his body.

“Yes,” he says then, sounding a little out of breath.

“Okay.” Akaza gives a curt nod. No point pushing him too much after a full-blown workout. “I’ll see you tomorrow for kanji writing, then.”

And without waiting for an answer, he takes off to his mountain. Restless. Still somehow Dissatisfied. With ants under his skin.

He needs to uproot and pile some tree trunks. Smash rock faces into new shapes. To smother that unnerving tickle of unspent energy.

 

 

~ ☼ ~

 

 

The sun beats down on Kyojuro’s neck as he pushes himself up from the yard. His arms tremble, muscles burning from the previous days and nights of relentless training.

The demon’s imposed schedule drains him to the bone. Leg and core work, over and over and over. Sit-ups, push-ups, planks, squats, deep stances—all drills he knows by heart, yet his body can’t keep up.

His form slips. His legs buckle. His stomach clenches with frustration as his muscles lock up.

So, he takes long breaks, much to Senjuro’s relief. It’s not Kyojuro’s style, but he tells himself that Kocho would’ve asked him to do the same if she were supervising his training. He’s just following her instructions—not a demon’s.

Not a demon’s ...

Nevertheless, despite its brutal methods, Kyojuro feels the strength returning to his body. Slow but steady.

Tucked away in his closet for good, he no longer takes his crutch on his walks—not even as a precaution. The neighbors don’t throw him pitying looks anymore when he strides past their houses. Instead, they light up, and it gives him a powerful boost.

Each night, before heading out to the soybean fields or teaching kanji in his room, Senjuro kneads his winded calves with diligent care. It’s doing wonders. Kyojuro feels more grounded on his legs now. When his sword clashes with the Upper Moon’s fist, he doesn’t yield—not immediately, at least. He still folds, but only because his arms give out. His stance itself holds a little longer each time, and that’s what counts. It floods him with adrenaline. Fulfillment. Purpose.

Grunting, Kyojuro dips down once more. A bead of sweat rolls from his forehead and joins the puddle drenching the dirt beneath him.

Close by, a ceramic cup clinks softly.

As he hovers in plank, he cranes his neck to look up.

Senjuro sits on the engawa, beside the open shoji of their father’s room.

Chichi-ue has been watching his training wordlessly, that usual grim scowl in place while swinging his sake bottle to the rhythm of Kyojuro’s labored breaths. The observant silence and the absence of snide remarks is rare, but welcome.

“You should take a break, Ani-ue,” Senjuro suggests gently.

Their father scoffs. “No use telling that bullhead. He’s training like a maniac these days.”

Senjuro’s eyebrows curve down in a short frown, but he keeps his composure and ignores Chichi-ue.

“I bought fresh watermelon. You should hurry if you want some,” he then says with amusement in his voice, clearly teasing Kyojuro.

Watermelon?

They’re so good this time of year! Perfect for rehydration, too!

Kyojuro heaves himself to his feet and joins his family on the engawa as fast as he can. He’s actually starving now, his appetite roaring to life with full force.

He wipes his face and neck with the cold, wet towel Senjuro offers, barely wasting a second before stuffing himself with cool slices of sweet, juicy watermelon.

“So good!”

“Don’t shout, boy,” Chichi-ue grunts as he snags a slice for himself.

Senjuro fills three cups with iced tea and smiles delightfully as their father accepts one—though his face twists as if he thinks his son is trying to poison him. Still, it’s better than more alcohol. The sake bottle lies just out of reach, probably empty by now.

Peaceful silence hangs between them as they finish the last pieces of watermelon.

Chichi-ue seems more relaxed today. Tired and worn as always, but definitely less tense.

Kyojuro circles the cool cup in his hands, listening to the soft chime of the furin above them.

The last few days haven’t felt right to ask Chichi-ue about Sun Breathing or the Chronicles. They’ve kept busy with the restoration during the day, trying their best without his knowledge, but there are more gaps to fill than they can manage alone. And Kyojuro prefers the short path over the long, winding one. He’s hesitated enough.

“Chichi-ue, I wanted to ask you something,” he begins.

“Hm?”

“What is Sun Breathing?”

Blunt, unfiltered, and straight to the point, as Kaname would say.

There’s no immediate answer, only the sharp sound of Senjuro gasping.

Chichi-ue sets the cup down. His expression darkens and his voice grows rough with anger. “Why would you ask that?”

“Senjuro and I looked through the Flame Hashira Chronicles,” Kyojuro says without flinching. “I thought they might help me improve my training. Maybe even show me a way to strengthen my Flame Breathing.”

He keeps his tone soft and measured. Inviting the truth, not challenging it. “There’s a whole section about Sun Breathing, but the pages are torn.”

He doesn’t accuse Chichi-ue. Just states simple facts.

“Do you know more about it?”

But the moment of peace shatters—like the tea cup that whistles past Kyojuro’s ear and hits the ground in the yard.

“There’s nothing worth telling!” their father explodes. “We can’t use it! We’re bottom-feeders! Impostors!” He rises abruptly, towering over Kyojuro. Raw rage burns in his eyes now. “Do me the favor of never mentioning that cursed technique again!”

He grabs the empty sake bottle and storms out of the room. Doors slam in his wake as he leaves the house to get more sake.

Senjuro still ducks his head as if dodging cannon fire. Finally, he straightens his back and shoots Kyojuro an exasperated look.

Kyojuro smiles despite the harsh dismissal of their father. “Well, it was a first try.”

“Ani-ue, I was thinking ... maybe we should ask Oba-ue¹ for help instead?”

“Oh! Great idea, Senjuro!”

Their aunt Chiyo might know more about their ancestors’ history. She inherited Flame Breathing, and as the firstborn, was trained in the old traditions of becoming the next Flame Hashira—though their grandfather, Rengoku Hirojuro, had always hoped for a son to succeed him.

“Let’s write her a letter!” Kyojuro exclaims.

But first, he needs to convince Upper Three that he’s only reaching out to family, not the Corps.

Oba-ue may still know how to wield a katana, but she’s cut all ties with the Demon Slayers to start a family, free from the Rengokus’ strict rules and customs. Restrictions never suited her, Haha-ue used to say. And eventually, Chichi-ue—the much-wanted son born ten years after aunt Chiyo—took over the family legacy.

Oba-ue poses no threat to the demon, or their secret for that matter.

“Ani-ue.” Senjuro’s voice pulls him back to reality. He sounds worried, as if fearing Kyojuro hit his head. “Oba-ue and her family are arriving from Shizuoka this evening.”

The words whip him like a sudden gust.

“This evening?” His stomach drops. “Why would they come visit us?”

“It’s Obon,” his brother reminds him, now clearly concerned. “Did you forget?”

Kyojuro forces an awkward laugh. “Looks like I did!”

But inside, an icy wave of dread crashes over him.

This is bad. Seriously bad. And there’s no way to contact the Upper Moon before nightfall. It’ll burst in here, with his whole family gathered under one roof. Vulnerable and at its mercy.

How could he have forgotten? Obon is the most important festival for his family, honoring Haha-ue and all their ancestors. Yet, he’s been so consumed by training, driven to grow stronger as fast as humanly possible to end that monster and its hold over him.

By the time the sun sets, Kyojuro’s covered in cold sweat.

Aunt Chiyo, her husband Masuda Kentaro, and their children, Yoshio and Aiko, bustle into the house, carrying gifts of green tea, mikan,² and other specialties from their prefecture.

“Sen-kun, you’ve grown so tall!” Oba-ue sings, breezing through the entryway with a warmth that instantly fills the room. The curls of her hair—the same family blond, dipped red at the tips—cascade over her shoulder in a long ponytail.

Senjuro blushes, dismissing the compliment with a bashful wave of his hand.

Their aunt turns to Kyojuro next and gives him a firm pat on the back. Laugh lines crinkle around her auburn eyes as she beams. “And you’re handsome as ever, Kyo-kun! How are you doing? Walking fine again, I see! I’m glad!”

Kyojuro tries his hardest to match her blinding smile. “Thank you for your kind words, Oba-ue! I hope you’ve had a safe trip!”

“It was uneventful!”

Chichi-ue looms in the back, trying to merge with the shadows. But Oba-ue whirls around then and pins him with a challenging glare.

“Shin!” she calls. “You look miserable!”

Maybe Kyojuro got his bluntness from her. But actually—she’s worse than him.

“And you look old!” Chichi-ue barks back.

After exchanging some more lukewarm words of reunion and familial affection, they gather in the living room to snack on rice crackers and wasabi treats from Shizuoka. Dinner runs late. Aiko assists Senjuro in the kitchen while Chichi-ue and Oji-ue³ open the first bottle of sake—another souvenir.

Kyojuro feels like a cat on a hot tin roof. He can’t follow any conversation; the words slip through his mind like water, as if they were spoken in a different language. Not even the sharp burn of wasabi can ease the lurch in his stomach.

At this hour, he would already be in his room, preparing the ink. Waiting for Upper Three.

He’s pulled back into the moment as Yoshio plops down beside him, eyes sparkling with boyish excitement. He begs Kyojuro to show him some cool sword tricks—or his Flame Breathing—or the scar he earned through his courage, fighting this ugly, evil oni.

Upper Three isn’t particularly ugly, though. Its facial features are almost soft, if not for the fangs and blue markings. It looks more human than most of the demons Kyojuro has encountered. No horns, no tail, no wings—just two powerful arms and legs and an insanely well-toned body.

Oh, he hates where his thoughts wander. How disturbing that he can’t help but notice the way its muscles ripple under its skin when it demonstrates an exercise or performs it alongside him. But it’s totally fine to acknowledge fitness, right? He can even envy it a little. There’s nothing wrong with that. Yes. That’s all it is. He’ll be back in shape in no time as well.

Before Kyojuro can collect himself, Oba-ue gently yet firmly reins her oldest son in.

“Don’t be so demanding of Kyo-kun, Yoshio. He still needs to take it easy.”

So she, too, treats him like he’s made of glass.

It would bother him more if his mind weren’t in the grip of a simmering panic.

While waiting for dinner, Oba-ue invites him to join her on the engawa. His heart is choking him as he follows her outside. Of course she wants to chat, but he can’t find his composure. His thoughts spiral around a single question.

How will the demon react when it finds people in the house Kyojuro hasn’t informed it about?

 

 

~ ☽ ~

 

 

Akaza hurls himself to an abrupt stop as foreign scents assault his nose. Two, three—four different smells, lurking in Kyojuro’s home, mingling together. Human. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Demon Slayers?

No. No, that can’t be. Why would Kyojuro call them after weeks of spending time together? They were getting along so well. Training together. Learning from each other. Weaving the ties of friendship.

Kyojuro wouldn’t do something as cowardly as that. He wouldn’t betray him, would he? He needs him. Yes. Kyojuro needs him to get strong again.

Akaza inhales deeply, forcing his nerves to calm.

First things first—assess the situation.

Activating his Compass Needle, he probes the intruders’ fighting spirits. One stands out, fairly strong; the other three are weak and unremarkable.

Akaza reduces his presence to nothing before kicking into action and approaching the estate, swift and silent, and—most importantly—undetectable.

The house is full of lights, piercing through the night. Wisteria incense smolders at the gate and in the corners of the yard. He skirts around the vessels while circling the residence grounds, darting from one shadow to the next.

With most of the shoji closed, it’s hard to see inside, yet he pinpoints all their locations with ease. Three humans in the living room, two in the kitchen, two outside with him.

The sounds of children’s laughter and clinking glasses reach his ears. Male voices—one of them belonging to Kyojuro’s father—discuss the quality of sake and the ryokan⁴ business in Shizuoka.

The kitchen door stands slightly ajar, allowing a glimpse inside. Kyojuro’s little brother scurries around the hearth. At the counter, a black-haired girl about the same age slices soft tofu into cubes.

And there, around the corner on the engawa, Kyojuro sits beside a woman whose hair is made of the same golden flames. The scent of fire clings to her skin, and her spirit glows.

She’s definitely family.

Akaza lies low in the shade of the pines, crouched like a cat before a jump, and watches.

“I’m doing much better,” Kyojuro says to her, wearing a sunlight-warm smile Akaza never gets to see. What a pity. It suits him so well.

“Yeah, I can see that,” she replies, looking him up and down—admiring the soft swell of his arms and chest through the yukata. The first traces of meat packing back onto bones. The fruits of Akaza’s drills.

“You started training again?”

Kyojuro nods. “Yes!”

She barks out a laugh. “Dedicated as ever! That’s the Rengoku spirit! Your father could learn a thing or two from you!”

Akaza exhales through his nose. Human sweet talk bores him to death.

Time to cut it short.

For a brief moment, he lets the tiniest flicker of his presence slip, faint enough that only Kyojuro, with his experienced sensitivity as Hashira, would catch it.

Instantly, his eyes snap to him, and their gazes lock over the few meters separating them. Akaza’s pulse flutters with excitement. Kyojuro knows his aura as well as Akaza knows his fighting spirit.

The Flame Hashira’s expression stays calm and collected, not losing face in front of that woman. But his tone shifts slightly. Frays at the edges.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” he says, standing up. “I need to step away for a bit.”

“Sure.”

Kyojuro moves, socked feet patting over wood.

Akaza sidles after him, following him around the house and back to his room.

The Hashira casts a quick look around as he stops before the shoji, making sure no one else is around, then slides it open.

In the blink of an eye, Akaza brushes off his feet and slips inside. No sword meets him today, only Kyojuro’s fiery eyes as he pulls the door shut behind himself.

“They’re your family,” Akaza breaks the ice with a statement, not a question.

“It’s Obon,” Kyojuro replies, his shoulders tense.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?” His voice comes out less fierce than he intended. After all, Kyojuro is this close to breaking their deal. Akaza has every right to be angry.

The human averts his gaze, as if struck by sudden guilt. “I forgot about them.”

At that, Akaza raises an eyebrow, a small smile forming on his lips. “I see. I should praise you then. You’re focusing on the important things.”

He likes that—a Kyojuro so caught up in their new training routine it has become the sole focus of his attention. That’s the mindset of a warrior. Of someone who aims for the top.

But instead of accepting the compliment, the Hashira silently glares at him. He doesn’t object, though, and Akaza takes that as a win.

Still, he drops his pleased smile, returning to the topic at hand. “Is that woman a Slayer?”

Kyojuro hesitates for a second before reluctantly admitting, “Oba-ue—she’s not affiliated with the Corps anymore.”

“Does she know Flame Breathing?”

“She laid down her sword long ago to settle down.”

“So she knows,” Akaza concludes, and a silent panic flickers in Kyojuro’s eyes.

“I figured as much. Her spirit burns, though it’s unpolished,” he continues. “And”—stepping closer, he takes a strand of golden hair brushing Kyojuro’s cheek and pinches it, like he’s squishing a bug—“she’s got hair like you.”

It’s the first time he touches it. Smooth and cool despite its looks, it glides perfectly through his fingers.

Kyojuro’s heart skips a beat, and panic shifts into confusion. But then, he slaps Akaza’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice is hoarse. Weak, as if that single touch to his hair shakes him more than all the other times Akaza has corrected his stance during training. “And leave my aunt be. She’s no threat to you.”

Akaza huffs. “I will not harm her.”

“And you want me to believe that because?”

He hesitates, searching for the right words to convince Kyojuro he means no harm this time.

Finally, he goes with, “I don’t fight women.”

But Kyojuro’s expression only darkens. “Do you think she’s weak because of her gender?”

“No,” Akaza growls, exasperated. “It’s just—“

He stops himself, realizing how foolish it would be to confess a weakness like this, one that could be used against him, especially by a Hashira.

“What?” Kyojuro urges.

But he wants to be friends with that Hashira. And friends share secrets, right?

So Akaza caves in. “I ... I don’t know! I just don’t like hurting them!” He turns his face away, not wanting to look at Kyojuro as his voice drops, “It feels wrong ...”

“Wrong?” Kyojuro scoffs. “Since when does a demon who’s taken countless human lives consider hurting them as wrong?”

Akaza faces him again, his expression firm. “I’ve never—not even once—attacked a woman or a girl in this life. Or in the one I led before. I don’t know why. I don’t remember my past. But this is the only thing I’m absolutely certain of.”

The moment he awoke from the void—probably right after Muzan-sama had turned him—his mind was still a blur. His name, his origin, everything—gone. Only pain in his stomach remained, so agonizing that the first whiff of human sent him spiraling.

In a frenzy, he chased the scent, bursting into a house near the river, only to find a mother clutching her little daughter to her chest and screaming in terror.

Despite that cruel hunger, Akaza froze on the spot.

Their sight hit him like a splash of ice-cold water, yanking him back up from the abyss of utter madness.

He couldn’t—just couldn’t bring himself to lash out and end them, no matter how badly he craved their flesh.

Wheezing, he tumbled backwards instead and ran. Ran as far as he could before Muzan-sama caught up to him.

He punished him for showing weakness the very first and last time. And Akaza accepted it without resistance. Because killing that woman and her daughter would’ve felt worse. It would’ve taken something from him worth protecting, apparently. Something he could never regain once destroyed.

“Never?” Kyojuro echoes, his voice softer now, though still laced with disbelief.

“Never,” Akaza says without hesitating.

Women are delicate flowers. They shouldn’t be trampled.

Wait ... what? Where did that thought come from?

An awkward silence hangs in the room, then.

Akaza needs to smother it. Needs to find his way out of this uncomfortably vulnerable quiet that makes his skin crawl.

“By the way, Kyojuro, why is your hair blond?” he blurts out. “It’s odd.”

“Huh?” The Hashira replies intelligently, clearly taken aback for a second before latching onto the change of topic.

“My family’s had this hair color for generations,” he says after a short pause. “My ancestors probably ate too much shrimp tempura.”

Now it’s Akaza’s turn to blink in confusion.

“What?”

“I’m not kidding! I have a friend, she ate a ton of sakura mochi and her hair turned pinkish-green from it!”

Akaza snorts. “What the hell.”

“I know, right?”

A smile almost dances across Kyojuro’s face, but he catches himself before it can fully take shape, clearing his throat.

Akaza clicks his tongue, disappointed. “Well, back to the actual topic. I guess tonight’s kanji lesson is canceled?”

He tries not to sound too grumpy, but having to break routine always pisses him off, whether it’s because of sudden orders from Muzan-sama or unforeseen disruptions like this.

“I don’t want you in the house while my family’s staying over,” Kyojuro says, brutally honest as ever. “It’s too risky.”

True. With another Slayer—resigned or not—under the same roof, and his drunkard of a father sober enough to feel the hair at his nape bristle, Akaza has to be extra careful. One slip, and their whole arrangement could go up in flames. Though it kinda gives him a thrill, he doesn’t want to ruin months of work to win Kyojuro over, either.

“What about tomorrow’s Lunar Drills?” he asks.

They’re out in the soybean fields, so it should be fine, right?

But Kyojuro shakes his head. “I’ll spend the nights with my family. I can’t leave the house. It would make me look suspicious.” And with a heavy sigh, he adds, “It’d probably be best if we take a break while Oba-ue and her family stay here.”

Akaza folds his arms and glares at him. “And for how long is that?”

“Five days.”

“Five days?!”

His voice booms through the room like a taiko⁵ drumbeat. Reflexively, Kyojuro’s hand shoots forward to clasp his mouth. Akaza’s shoulders rise up to his ears as warm skin touches his lips.

For a moment, they stare into each other’s eyes, wide as saucers, their bodies so close he can feel Kyojuro’s warmth engulfing him.

The Hashira shakes out of his stupor first and swiftly steps back to put some distance between them again. He wipes his hand on his yukata, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Of course, I won’t neglect my training,” he says, though it sounds like an excuse. “I’ll continue with the Solar Drills on my own.” Then his tone shifts, and the stern sensei in him takes over. “And you should do the same. Review the kanji I taught you and write a few sentences with them. I can give you some paper and—”

“No need,” Akaza cuts in with a low, annoyed growl. “I have a notebook and a pen.”

He doesn’t like that. Not in the least. Routines exist for a reason. Five days without seeing Kyojuro and supervising his progress? Five days of writing kanji without the patience he forces on him to get closer to mushin?

Akaza won’t have that.

Family’s no excuse to slack off or break their schedule. Kyojuro might claim he’ll train on his own, but those black-haired kids, that old hag with her beaming smile—they’ll all distract him when Akaza isn’t around to keep him on track.

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you all for reading this monster of a chapter, and also for leaving so much love on this whole story so far! Your comments and kudos are nourishment for my motivation (and my soul, to be honest)! ♥

Btw, I think you know this already, but I made up some more Rengoku family members. I liked the idea of Shinjuro having a bigmouthed sis and wanted to add a woman to Kyojuro’s family who can use Flame Breathing to tickle out Akaza’s weakness.

Speaking of the devil, what do you think our little demon will cook up next, haha? ;D

 

Some research insights:
The Rengoku family has a custom called Kankagari, which means “watching fire.” According to the fanbooks, Kyojuro doesn’t seem to know about it. During pregnancy, the wives of the Flame Hashira watch a bonfire for two hours every seven days. As a result, boys inherit golden hair. But, you know, I don’t support gender discrimination. The pregnant ladies can’t know if they’re expecting a boy or girl, and would watch the flames regardless, right? That’s why I decided to give Kyojuro’s aunty some fiery hair too. My headcanon is that all children get this kind of hair when their mothers stare into flames. And now you can guess for yourselves why Oba-san’s children have black hair ;)

Obon is a festival that honors deceased ancestors, and it’s believed that their spirits return from August 13th to 16th to visit their relatives. The specific dates are tied to the lunar calendar, and families scattered across Japan travel to reunite and tend to the graves of their loved ones.

 

See you next chapter! ♥

 

—Glossary—
[1] oba-ue : old and very polite way to say “Aunt”; used in samurai families [return to text]
[2] mikan : Japanese tangerine [return to text]
[3] oji-ue : old and very polite way to say “Uncle”; used in samurai families [return to text]
[4] ryokan : traditional Japanese guest house [return to text]
[5] taiko : Japanese drum [return to text]