The Rengoku estate.
Though the room was spacious, it lay in complete disarray.
The air was thick with the heavy stench of alcohol.
On the floor lay a disheveled man with thick, dark brows and long yellow hair edged with red, sleeping soundly, his breathing loud and uneven. Beside him, a sake jug had long since tipped over, its contents dripping steadily onto the floor, deepening the already suffocating smell of liquor.
On the wall hung a Nichirin Sword that looked as though it had not been touched in a long time, along with a brown Demon Slayer uniform and a flame-patterned haori.
Suddenly, as if sensing something, the man stirred.
His eyes snapped open.
For the first time in a long while, a sharp glint flickered within those otherwise weary, lifeless eyes.
Tap… tap…
Footsteps echoed from the courtyard outside. The faint clinking of prayer beads at an ankle rang clearly through the stillness of the night.
A man stepped into the courtyard.
His hair was a vivid shade of peach-pink, his exposed skin pale as death. Under the cold moonlight, the intricate markings across his body stood out vividly against the darkness. Dressed in a short crimson-purple garment, he stood there quietly, yet the very air around him seemed to grow heavy and still.
He looked around with casual interest.
A breeze rose, stirring the cherry blossoms in the courtyard. Petals drifted through the air, a few settling gently before him. He reached out, catching one in his palm, and gazed at it in silence—his eyes, marked with the words Upper Rank Three, reflecting the fragile bloom.
This man was one of the Twelve Kizuki—Upper Rank Three, Akaza.
Boom!
With a single step, Akaza struck the ground. The air exploded outward, a violent gust surging forward and slamming into the tightly shut doors, blowing them wide open in an instant.
And inside—
The man who had been sprawled on the floor moments ago was now sitting upright.
His tired, hollow eyes fixed on the demon standing in the courtyard. But the moment he saw those eyes—
His pupils shrank sharply.
"Upper Rank Three…?"
"A Hashira?"
Akaza crushed the cherry blossom in his hand, his gaze settling on the man. "At your age, you should still be in your physical prime. And yet… your strength feels like it's declining far too quickly."
"That's… rather strange."
The man gave no reply.
Instead, he rose slowly to his feet and walked toward the wall. He took down the Demon Slayer uniform, quietly changing into it, then draped the flame-patterned haori over his shoulders—the unmistakable symbol of the Flame Hashira.
Akaza made no move to stop him. He even allowed him to take the Nichirin Sword from the wall.
"You seem far weaker than the Hashira I've killed before," Akaza remarked, studying him with faint disappointment. "Are you truly a Hashira?"
The man drew his blade at last, his voice calm and steady despite everything.
"Flame Hashira… Rengoku Shinjuro."
"Oh? So you are a Hashira," Akaza said, though his tone carried little interest. He shook his head. "But you're nothing like the ones I've fought before. I've never seen a Hashira so… worn down."
"I can tell you were once strong. Your fighting spirit must have burned fiercely in the past. But now… it feels like that of an old man nearing the end of his life—so fragile it could be blown away by a passing breeze."
Rengoku Shinjuro said nothing.
He simply tightened his grip on the hilt of his Nichirin Sword.
Ever since his wife, Rengoku Ruka, had passed away, he had rarely taken part in demon hunting. Instead, he had drowned his days in alcohol, drifting aimlessly through life.
Somewhere along the way, he had lost faith in ever being able to rid this world of demons.
When had that change begun?
There had been a time, in his youth, when he was filled with passion and determination. He had taken pride in his duty to slay demons and protect humanity, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the role.
He had also poured that same fire into teaching his two sons, passing on both his techniques and his unwavering belief in the mission to eradicate demons.
Was it when his wife died?
No.
That alone hadn't been enough to break him.
Her death had shaken him deeply, yes—but he still had his sons.
It wasn't enough… to extinguish his spirit completely.
Rengoku Shinjuro tightened his grip around the hilt of his Nichirin Sword.
When had it all begun to fall apart?
It must have been… that day.
The day he found that book within the family archives—The Records of the Flame Hashira Through the Generations.
Within its pages, the confrontation between Yoriichi Tsugikuni and the Demon King, Kibutsuji Muzan, had been recorded in the form of letters. Even his ancestors, upon reading it, had nearly lost all hope. From that point on, the book had been sealed away, hidden from sight.
And yet, by chance, he had found it.
He had read it.
Even now, just recalling what was written inside was enough to make his body tremble instinctively.
His fingers tightened further.
That book had described, in vivid detail, the overwhelming strength of the first swordsman who used Breathing Styles—the originator. It spoke of the Demon Slayer Mark, the Bright Red Blades, the Transparent World…
Concepts that even he, a Hashira, could barely begin to comprehend.
It was only then that he realized the truth: the Breathing Styles they had all been practicing… were nothing more than inferior derivatives of Sun Breathing.
And yet—even if one were to master everything…
Sun Breathing. The Mark. The Bright Red Blades. The Transparent World.
Even with all those peak abilities fully realized, Yoriichi Tsugikuni himself had still failed to completely kill Muzan.
If even Yoriichi—the man who stood at the pinnacle—could not accomplish it…
Then what hope did they have?
They, who were nothing more than crude imitators of Sun Breathing…
Could they truly hope to eradicate Kibutsuji Muzan?
There was no answer.
No matter how hard he looked—
He couldn't see even the slightest trace of hope.
And every time he looked at his son, Kyojuro…
Every time he saw that same blazing passion—the same fire that he himself once carried—it only filled him with pain.
He could not bring himself to tell his son the cruel truth.
Instead, he had simply torn The Records of the Flame Hashira to pieces.
But even after destroying the book, the damage had already been done.
His faith… was gone.
Because deep down, he no longer believed that this was something that could ever be accomplished.
And so, he abandoned his duty as the Flame Hashira.
When he saw his son still striving to eradicate demons—still trying to surpass him—
All he felt… was a hollow sense of absurdity.
Even when Kyojuro slew a Lower Rank demon and rightfully inherited the title of Flame Hashira, Shinjuro could only see it as something pitiful.
Everything they were doing…
Was utterly meaningless.
Because in the end—
Both he and Kyojuro were striving toward something that could never be achieved.
How laughable.
How utterly ridiculous.
…
Akaza, of course, knew nothing of the turmoil raging within Shinjuro's heart—and had no interest in knowing. His only concern was completing his task as quickly as possible so he could return and continue his training.
Originally, he had intended to track down that certain boy and the girl—but he had failed to locate them.
Tracking people wasn't his strong suit.
So instead, he decided to fulfill Muzan's reprimand—after all, it had been years since he last killed a Hashira.
That was what brought him here.
To the Rengoku estate.
He had heard that every Flame Hashira in history had come from the Rengoku family. If there was any place to find one, it was here. Kill a Flame Hashira, and his master's order would be fulfilled.
At first, the mere thought of facing a Hashira had excited him.
He loved fighting strong opponents—craved it. Only by battling the strong could he grow even stronger.
The man before him did possess a powerful fighting spirit… but it felt hollow, like a fading flame. Like an old man nearing the end of his life, no longer bearing the brilliance he once had.
"Your fighting spirit feels far too weak," Akaza said, studying him. "You're nothing like someone at their peak."
He tilted his head slightly.
"How about becoming a demon? If you do, these problems will disappear. You could even make a fine sparring partner for me."
He had always enjoyed inviting strong humans to become demons. Those who accepted often became formidable opponents—perfect for honing his strength.
But over the years, every human he had turned had eventually stopped growing stronger… and in the end, they were all cut down by Demon Slayer swordsmen.
Rengoku Shinjuro said nothing.
His head lowered slightly as his gaunt fingers tightened, one by one, around the hilt of his Nichirin Sword. The sword, long left to gather dust, trembled faintly in his grasp—
Not out of fear, but because it had been far too long.
The ray skin wrapping around the handle had worn pale with age, yet the moment he gripped it, his joints gave a faint cracking sound, like rusted mechanisms being forced back into motion.
He listened to his own heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Slow. Heavy.
Like a drum that had not been struck in years, now sounding its first dull echoes once more.
Then—
He raised his head.
His eyes had changed.
The murkiness was gone, replaced by a searing light that seemed almost to burn. It was the same gaze he had carried in his days as the Flame Hashira—the fire that had ignited countless times in the midst of battle against demons. The lines on his face remained, the stubble along his jaw unchanged, yet the air of decay that had clung to him moments ago was torn away in an instant, stripped from him as if by an unseen force.
Akaza's golden pupils shrank sharply, then curved into a look of exhilaration.
"Yes… yes… that's it!"
His body trembled—not with fear, but with excitement.
He licked his lips, nearly biting his tongue till it bled.
"The more intense the fighting spirit, the better! Only when fighting the strong do I feel my blood truly boil!"
His voice warped with intensity, like a beast that had been caged for far too long and had finally found its release.
"Flame Hashira...Rengoku Shinjuro… allow me to learn from you." Shinjuro's voice was low and hoarse, yet every word landed like iron striking the ground.
"Upper Rank Three—Akaza… likewise." Akaza bent forward, lowering his head.
And in the very instant his gaze dipped—
Shinjuro moved.
No warning. No buildup. Not even the slightest excess of intent leaked beforehand. With a single step, the ground beneath him cracked apart, stone shattering and scattering outward—and in that same instant, his figure vanished from where he stood.
That body, neglected for years, seemed to forget the passage of time. The tearing pain in his muscles was crushed down by sheer will, and what flowed through his veins in that moment was not blood—
—but fire.
"Flame Breathing, First Form: Unknowing Fire!"
His blade erupted.
It did not simply slash; it burst forth.
A blazing arc of sword light surged like molten lava erupting from the depths of the earth, carrying with it searing heat as it cleaved downward. The blade shrieked as it tore through the air, igniting the very atmosphere and leaving behind a twisted trail of flame.
The moment Akaza lowered his head, he sensed the killing intent.
A grin spread across his face—wild, almost manic.
Just as the blade was about to reach the back of his neck, he shifted half an inch to the side.
Only half an inch.
The blade skimmed past his skin, the heat singeing several strands of his hair. The air crackled under the intense temperature. Then the blade crashed into the ground where he had stood.
With a deafening boom, the earth split apart, a trench over a foot deep carved violently into the ground. Stone exploded outward, and waves of heat rose from the fissure.
"Ha..."
Akaza exhaled, his golden eyes reflecting Shinjuro's figure.
"You haven't held a sword in a long time, have you? Your blade… lacks refinement."
Before his words had even finished—
His fist had already arrived.
No flourish. No wasted motion.
Just pure, overwhelming force—
Boom!
The instant his punch shot forward, the air exploded with a thunderous crack, as if space itself had been punched through.
Shinjuro's pupils contracted as he raised his blade to block.
CLANG—!!!
That was no ordinary impact—it sounded like a hammer crashing against an anvil, a deafening, metallic roar that shook the very air.
The impact numbed Shinjuro's grip, and the force of the blow sent his entire body sliding backward, carving two deep furrows into the ground beneath his feet. He hadn't even regained his footing before the second punch was already upon him.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Blow after blow crashed down, each one heavier than the last. Akaza's fists came like a torrential storm, like rolling thunder, slamming relentlessly against the Nichirin Sword. Every impact made Shinjuro's bones creak under the strain. The muscles in his arms trembled violently, his palms already split open as blood began to seep out, staining the hilt. Even the blade itself dented under the repeated strikes.
"Come on! Come on! Stronger! Show me more!"
Akaza's eyes shone brighter and brighter, his golden pupils blazing as if they might ignite. His punches grew faster with each passing moment, until his fists became nothing more than blurs, impossible to track—only the deafening cracks of the air remained.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Sonic booms.
Every single strike carried the force of one.
Shinjuro gritted his teeth, not uttering a single word. His feet were planted firmly into the ground as if rooted there, his blade shifting and turning—deflecting one strike, parrying another, then bracing to take the next head-on. His grip had already split, blood flowing along the blade, yet his hold only tightened further.
The cherry tree in the courtyard was caught in the wake of their battle. It snapped with a thunderous crack, and before it could even finish falling, a slash of sword light cleaved the trunk cleanly in two. Cracks spread across the walls of the house like a spiderweb, until the structure could no longer bear the strain. With a deafening crash, part of it collapsed, sending dust billowing into the air.
Then came another blow.
A single punch, yet it landed with the force of an avalanche.
When it struck his blade, Shinjuro's entire arm shook so violently it felt as though his muscles might tear apart. He staggered back one step, his foot sinking deep into the ground and leaving behind a crater before he managed to halt his retreat.
And yet, his eyes only grew brighter.
Like fire.
Like the flame that had once burned so fiercely within him all those years ago.
Akaza stopped.
He stared at the man before him—at those blazing eyes, at the fighting spirit swelling within him, growing denser and more intense with every passing second. A grin spread across Akaza's face so wide it looked as though it might split his cheeks.
"Yes... yes... that's it. That's exactly it!"
His voice trembled, his entire body shaking with exhilaration.
"Stronger… a little stronger… make me feel it—make me more excited!"
Shinjuro remained silent.
He simply tightened his grip on his sword.
That Nichirin Sword, now riddled with cracks, began to blaze once more in his hands.
And yet… it felt like the final embers of a dying flame.
...
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