Chapter Text
The sound of people moving away from the wreckage and his own labored breathing were muffled by the ringing in Kyojuro’s ears. His body trembled, and blood ran hot down the side of his abdomen.
When the train derailed, Kyojuro had held his ground, using multiple flame breathing forms to keep the passengers safe. He was still standing—barely—but he hadn’t expected to face an Upper Moon right afterward.
Before him, shrouded in a cloud of dust, Akaza stared at him with that damn superior smile, radiating power and thirst for battle.
Kyojuro clenched his fists, bracing for the final blow, but the moment he lunged forward, something invisible yanked him back.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t death. But his vision darkened, and time folded in on itself.
When his eyes opened again, everything had changed. The scent of blood and charred metal had vanished, replaced by dust, dried flowers, and the distant aroma of miso soup. The sun blazed overhead, scorching the hard-packed earth of a narrow street lined with modest wooden houses.
Kyojuro gasped, spinning on his heels, sword still in hand. Everything felt... real. Too real!
“What...? Where am I?” he murmured, for just a second ago it was night, and behind him had been the twisted metal of the derailed train.
He turned with a jolt at the sound of rhythmic footsteps on the road and saw a young man approaching, dressed in simple cotton clothes. His hair was black and short, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His pink-tinged lashes and light blue eyes seemed to glow under the sun, and three dark, symmetrical tattoos circled his wrists. He carried a basket of fresh vegetables at his hip and walked with ease, but there was something about the way his shoulders moved, his athletic build, the posture of a fighter, the alert and steady gaze that made Kyojuro’s breath catch.
“Akaza?” he murmured in disbelief.
The young man looked at him curiously, then suspiciously, but ignored him and kept walking.
“Akaza!” Kyojuro shouted, raising his sword. “You won’t fool me! You can change your demon appearance, but I’d recognize you even in hell!”
People nearby stopped in their tracks, startled by the sudden outburst. The young man stopped too, though he didn’t drop the basket. He merely shifted slightly into a defensive stance and narrowed his gaze.
“Who are you?” his voice was steady but not aggressive. “Why are you calling me that?”
Kyojuro took a step back, thrown off, doubt suddenly gnawing at him. In front of him was the same body, the same combat instinct, the same face he knew... and yet, he seemed almost human—a man who appeared sincerely confused.
Before the confusion deepened, a gentle voice cut in:
“Hakuji… it’s alright, son. Let me handle this.”
Kyojuro turned toward the new presence, seeing a man with a calm demeanor — his dark hair tied back in a low bun, eyes calm and authoritative — as he approached and placed a hand on the pink-lashed youth’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry if he frightened you,” he said to Kyojuro, smiling as if there were no threat at all. “You’re a friend of Hakuji’s, aren’t you? It’s been a long time since someone called him that so loudly. It’s curious…”
Kyojuro saw the young man start to protest, but stop himself.
“Hakuji?” Kyojuro repeated, frowning.
The name wasn’t Akaza, but something was still wrong.
Keizo tilted his head, studying the blond stranger with eyes like glowing embers.
“You look confused, and frankly, exhausted. Hakuji, I’ll help with the vegetables. Come, our guest seems in need of tea.”
“I’m not your guest,” Kyojuro growled immediately, but lowered his sword nonetheless.
He didn’t know where he was, and though his heart burned with rage, his instincts screamed that something was different here. Yet his eyes stayed fixed on the other — on Hakuji, the man he swore he was fighting minutes ago — who now looked back at him with a mix of wariness and curiosity.
Kyojuro took a deep breath and followed the two in silence, still wary. Whatever was happening, he needed to understand.
The walk to the house was quiet.
Kyojuro walked just behind Hakuji and his father, his hand hovering near the nichirin blade at his white belt, his golden eyes locked on the young man’s broad back. The resemblance to Akaza still gnawed at his thoughts, though the details didn’t quite match — short dark hair, pink lashes, light blue eyes, and the three wrist tattoos so unlike the scattered markings on the demon’s body — something deep inside him screamed they were the same.
From the front gate, he saw it was a dojo attached to a modest, well-kept wooden house, with a wide veranda overlooking a garden.
The older man led them to a room with open sliding doors.
“Please, come in,” he said with the same gentle smile. “It’s a humble home, but a warm one,” he added, gesturing for Kyojuro to sit at the low table.
Kyojuro hesitated for a moment before accepting.
His feet, clad only in brown tabi socks, touched the wooden floor, and for a moment he felt completely out of place — a stranger, armed and stained with dried blood and dust, amidst the calm of a home that felt like it belonged to another world.
Hakuji, beside him, didn’t bother to hide his suspicion. He sat across the room with his arms crossed, gaze narrowed.
“You still haven’t said your name,” Hakuji said coldly.
“Kyojuro,” the blond replied, watching his every move like a hawk. “Rengoku Kyojuro.”
The older man smiled.
“A strong name. Rengoku… Purgatory?”
Kyojuro didn’t respond. He was still trying to make sense of what the hell was happening.
“Excuse me, Keizo,” Hakuji said with a sigh after a pause, clearly ignoring Kyojuro. “I’ll check on Koyuki and bring her some tea.”
Kyojuro rose abruptly, his hand instinctively going to his sword’s hilt.
“No!” he said in a sharp almost desperate tone that made both men stare at him. “You’re not going anywhere. I can’t let you out of my sight,” he explained, his gaze blazing.
Hakuji furrowed his brows in clear irritation, but it was Keizo who spoke, still calm.
“Rengoku… I know you’re on edge, but this house is safe. Hakuji won’t disappear, and you’ll have plenty of time to watch him,” he said gently, patting the floor beside him. “Why not sit? Trust us, just a little.”
Kyojuro hesitated under Keizo’s understanding tone — it reminded him of Oyakata-sama’s. Cautious, he finally sat back down, and only then did Hakuji leave the room.
Only then did Kyojuro notice the newspaper on the table — an old copy of the Yomiuri Shimbun — its characters scanned automatically by his eyes until they landed on the date.
Year 1769.
Kyojuro’s breath hitched, and his body turned cold.
He read it again, trembling.
1769. The Edo period.
“This can’t… this can’t be right…” Kyojuro’s voice wavered, overtaken by panic. His eyes widened, his breath faltered, and he stood so quickly the world seemed to spin around him.
Keizo frowned, surprised by the reaction.
“Rengoku?”
“I... I don’t… this is a mistake! A trick!” he backed away, staring at everything around him like the place might collapse at any second. “This can’t be real!”
“What happened?!” Hakuji returned, alarmed by the commotion. “What’s he doing?!”
But Keizo raised a hand asking for calm once more, and his gaze was now genuinely concerned as he looked at Kyojuro, panting, eyes glued to the newspaper like it was cursed.
Kyojuro was in the past — nothing more, nothing less than Akaza’s human past! — and the most disturbing part was, he had no idea how he got there or how to escape it.
“Please, sit down,” Keizo said more firmly now, though still gently. “Breathe, Rengoku. I know something has shaken you, but you won’t find answers in panic.”
Kyojuro still trembled, the words drifting around him like distant static, and the newspaper stayed on the table like an anchor, pinning him to a reality he didn’t understand and didn’t want to belong to.
“This isn’t a dream…” he murmured, voice faltering. “I was on the train... Akaza attacked me… and now…”
His hands, so used to wielding a blade, trembled as Keizo approached slowly, like someone trying to calm a frightened animal.
“Sometimes fate pulls us away from where we are to bring us to where we need to be,” he said, offering a cup of tea Hakuji had brought earlier before leaving them alone. “You seem like someone strong and resolute, but no one here wants to hurt you.”
Kyojuro stared at him, unsure of how to respond. His heart was still racing, but Keizo’s calm voice seemed to have the strange power to pull him back from the edge.
Slowly, he sat down again, still staring at the newspaper as he accepted the cup from Keizo’s hands.
“Hakuji...” he murmured, not realizing he had spoken aloud. “So that was your name…”
Keizo paused, observing him closely.
“Did you know him by another name?”
Kyojuro looked up instantly, unsure how to reply—any truth he told would sound like madness.
“Something like that.”
Keizo smiled faintly but didn’t press further.
“He’s a good boy. More guarded these days, but he has a loyal heart. He stood by me through the darkest times of my life and cares for Koyuki as if she were the most precious thing in the world.”
The mention of her name caught Kyojuro’s attention.
“She’s... your daughter?”
“Yes,” Keizo nodded with a warm glint in his eyes. “Her health is fragile and Hakuji is the one who prepares her medicine, makes her tea, helps with her baths, warms the futon in the winter... Even with all that, I’ve never heard him complain. He’s more devoted to her than any father, brother or husband I’ve ever known.” He smiled.
Kyojuro listened in silence, his jaw tight.
The image of the Akaza he knew — a bloodthirsty demon and destroyer of lives — clashed violently with the description of this human Hakuji. It was simply impossible for them to be the same, and at the same time, impossible for them not to be.
A sound in the hallway caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see Hakuji returning with a tray in his hands.
“Koyuki’s asleep,” he said in a low voice. “I gave her the tea like the doctor said, and her pulse is stronger today.”
"That's good to hear," Keizo replied with relief. "Leave the tray there, Kyojuro is calmer now."
Hakuji looked at Kyojuro with evident distrust, his light blue eyes locked onto Kyojuro’s as if studying every detail in search of an imminent threat.
Kyojuro returned the gaze, but something in those human eyes confused him.
"Do you want to see her?" Hakuji asked out of nowhere.
Kyojuro blinked, surprised.
"See... Koyuki?"
"She’s sleeping, but maybe that way you’ll stop thinking I’m a demon in disguise."
The jab hit Kyojuro hard and he lowered his gaze, embarrassed, but then stood and allowed himself to be guided by Hakuji to the room where the scent of herbs and sweet flowers filled the air.
Beneath a thin blanket lay a young girl, fragile in appearance but peaceful. Her breathing was soft, almost imperceptible, her face gentle like a petal, and beside her rested a carefully sewn rag doll.
Hakuji knelt by the futon and, without saying a word, there was tenderness in every gesture as he adjusted her pillow and touched her forehead with the back of his fingers.
Kyojuro watched, feeling the conflict inside him intensify. After all, how could someone so devoted and human become the monster who took lives with a smile?
A few minutes later, after leaving the room and the property, walking back onto the dirt road, Kyojuro asked:
"So... where’s the cheapest inn around here?"
Hakuji, walking with his hands in the pockets of his loose pants, turned his face silently. The sky was already orange and a cold breeze began to blow between the wooden buildings.
"There’s one near the temple," he replied curtly. "It’s not great, but it won’t kill you."
Kyojuro nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. The strangeness of that place — the weather, Akaza’s appearance, Keizo’s calm — was still suffocating, and maybe once alone, he’d be able to organize his thoughts.
They reached the inn quickly — a narrow building with peeling paint on the windows and a sign hanging by a twisted wire — and a middle-aged man appeared at the counter as soon as they entered.
"One night. How much is it?" Kyojuro asked already pulling his wallet from the pocket of his uniform pants.
The man looked him up and down, then at the bills he pulled out.
"What the hell is this? You trying to scam me, clown?"
"No, this is money, I—"
"This isn’t money," the owner snapped, throwing the wallet against Kyojuro’s chest. "Get out before I call the police!"
"Wait!" Kyojuro tried to explain, but was shoved out the door while Hakuji simply watched with his arms crossed, not looking surprised at all.
Outside, the sun had already vanished when Hakuji sighed and turned, beginning to walk.
"You can stay with us. For as many days as you need," he said without looking at Kyojuro. "I’m sure Keizo wouldn’t object, and he’d scold me if I left you on the street."
Kyojuro stood still, still processing the humiliation, and when he looked up, he saw Hakuji watching him sideways, jaw tight.
"But of course, it’s not for free," he continued. "If you’ve got nowhere to stay and can’t pay, you’ll have to work. Nobody here lives without putting in the effort.”
Kyojuro nodded once, gripping the wallet in his fingers.
"I understand. That’s fair. I’ll repay it through work.”
Hakuji didn’t reply, just resumed walking.
The house felt colder that night. Maybe it was the contrast with the rejection at the inn, or maybe the discomfort of sharing space with someone who, to Kyojuro, was still a potential threat.
Dinner was served in worn ceramic bowls. There was only plain rice, watery miso soup, some sautéed vegetables and warm tea. No meat. Nothing excessive.
Keizo gave quiet thanks before eating and Hakuji ate in silence while Kyojuro glanced around discreetly. There was little furniture: a few cushions they sat on, a shelf with three books, a vase with nearly dried flowers. The table they ate at was worn, with knife marks and paint stains along the edges.
"You... live on just this?" he asked more to himself.
Hakuji stared at him, chewing a piece of daikon.
"It’s more than many people have," he said harshly and Kyojuro looked away, ashamed.
Later, he helped wash the dishes despite Hakuji saying it wasn’t necessary.
In the room where he would spend the night, Kyojuro lay on a thin futon against the wall. It was early, but exhaustion and information overload weighed on him.
Through the boards of the thin wall, he could hear Hakuji’s movements and Keizo’s hoarse murmuring, maybe saying goodnight. Then he heard the kettle being emptied before the footsteps faded.
Despite the silence, sleep wouldn’t come.
Kyojuro lay still, eyes locked on the dark wooden ceiling. His sword, which had until now always been within reach, now rested against the wall just a few steps away — but it felt worlds apart. Because it wasn’t just a weapon that protected him — it was certainty. Certainty of right and wrong. And with Hakuji so close, even that seemed to fade.
Amid this doubt, a silent restlessness began to grow inside him, the same that always arose when his eyes lingered too long on Hakuji’s hands or those pale blue eyes.
That night, even if he didn’t mean to, Kyojuro dreamed of Akaza.
He didn’t dream of the demon — but of human hands, of eyes wounded by pride and of a name that still burned in his mind: Hakuji.