Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 1: 

Black Swan by BTS

The Kagaya estate was bound to be very packed very soon. Shinobu could tell. After all, this was the day they were going to introduce two new Hashira’s apparently. What a turn of events, as this would be the first time in around a decade that the Hashira positions would be completely filled. All nine spots, filled.

It was a rare occurrence, but one that brought hope to the demon slayer corps. Having new talented individuals coming in to witness everything, it would be phenomenal to see the work of future demon slayers.

But of course, as this occurred, there was always one thing to keep in mind: the dynamics of each of the Hashira.

One of the few things that made humans stand out from demons was their communication and willingness to work in teams. Humans were relatively eusocial creatures, and with this comes teamwork and group coordination, and communication skills.

This was something demons couldn’t really do, and even those demons that form rather tense cooperation are easily destroyed, a pact easily gone before it could be fleshed out and developed.

Therefore, it has always been important for those within the Demon Slayer Corps to work together towards a common goal. One that everyone thankfully has, considering they would be the ones struck with such tragedies.

And as the light footsteps of Shinobu Kochou stepped across the stone path leading up to the Ubuyashiki Estate, her own haori began to flutter in the breeze, almost like a butterfly skimming the surface of a pond. The summer cicadas hummed louder the closer she approached the garden steps.

She smiled, a smile seemingly easily planted, one so natural, one so conditioned, one would think she had everything set in her life.

Regardless, she was walking towards the estate. The feeling of the morning sun, whose rays radiated gently on her shoulders, gave her the warmth and indirect safety. After all, there was no demon out when the sun was out.

Therefore, the sight of the sun for many demon slayers was a godsend, as they knew they could rest for a time, knowing they could live their lives as they wished they could before they discovered such abominations.

Shinobu was the fourth Hashira to arrive. There were three more left to arrive, giving the Hashira seats up to seven.

However, with the introduction of two new Hashira, that number went up to nine, bolstering the Hashira with a full set of Pillars. All nine would be at Ubuyashiki’s Estate soon.

Gyomei Himejima was already kneeling beneath the canopy, prayer beads wrapped tightly in his calloused hands. His eyes remained closed behind the veil of silence he often carried with him, head bowed in prayer, tears quietly streaking down his cheeks like always. It was strange how someone so monstrous in frame could seem so... frail when he wept.

It was unique, but he was an example of someone who openly showed weakness but portrayed terrifying strength. Considering Shinobu grew up with Gyomei for a period of time, she knew him like the back of her hand. Considering Gyomei was also the first Hashira that she knew of, he was also the oldest. He was 19 when he became Hashira.

Tengen Uzui was likely the next person she knew to be given the role of the Hashira. He was around 17 and is the second-longest-running Hashira, only being beaten by Gyomei in that title. He was currently lounging nearby, resting against the railing with both arms stretched along the wood, adorned with that glimmering smell of gems, jewels, and an unmistakable arrogance he shows. “Oi Himejima, crying again? The gods have already heard you, probably a hundred times already!”

Shinobu placed a hand to her mouth, seeing the typical conversation between the two occur as expected.

Gyomei, for his part, didn’t answer, while Tengen smirked and leaned back, deciding to bask in the silence.

Among the individuals already there, the third one was Kyojurou Rengoku. Having seemingly been relaxing next to Tengen, Shinobu knew the two were close. Kyojurou also became a Hashira pretty young, when he was 15, which was impressive. Of that Shinobu knew, he was the fifth.

The third belonged to her older sister, Kanae, when she was 16… but she passed away… Shinobu gritted her fists slightly as she thought about her older sister.

Then came the dog of the group, Sanemi Shinazugawa. He stormed in like the wind he is, his breathing erratic as if that alone could summon up a windstorm. If his breathing didn’t, his personality would definitely act as a good failsafe. His haori was half-scorched, caked with dried demon blood, and one of his fingers was still bleeding. “Tch. Didn’t know we were having a damn tea party,” he muttered, plopping down with no care for protocol.

“How brutish,” Shinobu mused softly, hands folded neatly in her lap. “To think you’d disrespect the master’s request for a Hashira meeting.”

Sanemi shot her a sideways glare. “Keep talking, bug. I’ll squash you next. And for the record, I wasn’t aware if it had to do with a serious Hashira meeting, we’ve been having them way too much recently…”

“Oh, my. You’re bleeding,” she said with a calm smile. “Would you like me to infect it with poison or stitch it up like a good little medic?”

“Tch..."

She ignored him.

The next Hashira to come, after Shinobu, was Iguro Obanai. He was quiet and cautious, with his snake around his neck, Kaburamaru curled lazily around his shoulders. He saw cross-legged between Tengen and Kyojurou, not seemingly impacted by their loud banter.

Iguro was probably, before today, the newest Hashira, the Serpent Hashira. He mostly remained on his own, but he did often speak around Kyojurou and Sanemi, so he did cooperate when he needed to.

Otherwise, he firmly just watched as people spoke.

But then, in Shinobu’s own experience and what she was feeling, the air began to change.

The air shifted. Shinobu didn’t need to look to know who arrived. They were the last ones to arrive besides the new Hashira, and she turned to face those she knew had arrived.

Giyu Tomioka.

At this point, Giyu didn’t even step or walk. He drifted. He fluidly moved.

Giyu had walked slowly towards the Ubuyashiki Estate, staring forward towards his destination. Almost like a robot, he stood, he moved, and he sat.

Shinobu watched as his entire figure just confused her.

Body-wise, he was relatively normal in height, similar to Sanemi and Kyojurou; however, he definitely was the lightest of the three. But it was what he wore that just made him stand out, eerily almost, if Shinobu had to admit.

He wore two haori, but they were each cut in half so that they could make one complete haori over his demon slayer uniform.

The left side of the haori contained a weird checkered pattern of yellow and green squares, which alone was a weird mixture of colours and patterns. Coupled with the right side being a simple red, almost mahogany coloured. That’s it.

It was weird, and coupled with Giyu’s usually stoic face, he looked odd, in a fashion sense.

But that all paled in comparison to the other odd accessory Giyu wore.

That fox mask.

Masks weren’t usually a weird phenomenon within the Hashira.

In fact, Iguro himself wore a bandaged mask that covered his mouth and chin, and nobody really questioned him for that.

But one, Giyu’s fox mask covered the entire left side of his face, including his left eye. That meant Giyu was outright fighting with a disadvantage, without one eye, as that half mask covered everything.

But what struck them as odd was the mask itself.

The mask seemed to be that of what remained of a warding mask. Either that or Giyu intentionally just used the left side of this mask.

The mask had two blue flowers, with a yellow center on what remained of the warding fox mask’s half side, covering the left side of Giyu’s face, including his left eyebrow, forehead, eye, cheek, jaw, and even parts of his mouth.

And so, Giyu was an oddity. Apparently, he also became a Hashira at around the age of 16, around the same time as Kanae. However, not only is he still alive, but he also apparently could’ve been a Hashira before Kanae, but apparently was resistant to the role.

That confused everyone within the Hashira who knew, but again, it was a rumour spouted by Tengen. But apparently, he’s just a walking memorial.

He didn’t look at anyone.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t bow.

Didn’t exist, almost.

Uzui clicked his tongue. “He’s so flashy he disappears.”

Shinobu watched Giyu sit at the very end of the row, at a deliberate distance from the rest. Even now, months into his role, he was the ghost among the living, the phantom Pillar.

“He’s rude,” Sanemi muttered under his breath. “Can’t even take off his mask in front of us.”

“He’s shy,” Shinobu lied with a smile.

But the truth was… Giyu was terrifyingly unreadable. Even to her. And she had tried.

"HO! What a beautiful morning! My blood is alive with purpose!" He smiled at everyone, even Giyu, who didn't react.

And sure enough, that was when Kyojurou saw what he was looking for.

Mitsuri Kanroji, the soon-to-be Love Hashira, ran towards the Ubuyashiki Estate. Her cheeks were glowing with joy. “Rengoku! I made onigiri with heart-shaped pickled plums today!”

“Wonderful work, Kanroji! Such spirit!”

The final arrival was Muichiro Tokito, calm, seemingly, and spaced out, blinking at the grass like it held answers he couldn’t find. He wandered until a crow had to squawk him toward his seat.

And now, the nine were gathered. The full lineup.

Shinobu’s eyes drifted once more to Giyu. He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. His hand occasionally lifted to his mask, like he was checking if it still remained—guarding whatever memories or madness clung to the skin beneath it.

Just before silence could fully settle, Sanemi grunted.

“Hey, Tomioka. Don’t you have anything to say now that the Hashira seats are full? Or do you just sit there like a damn grave marker for fun?”

Giyu didn’t lift his head. His voice, low and slow, cracked out like ice beneath weight.

“…I didn’t come to talk.”

The group fell into a brief, awkward silence.

“…Yare yare,” Tengen exhaled, “he’s as fun as a wet futon.”

Shinobu tilted her head, voice deceptively sweet.
“Perhaps he speaks less because his left jaw was damaged. Wouldn’t you say, Giyu?”

A pause. He didn’t answer.

Of course not. She smiled.

Behind them, the sliding doors opened.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki stepped out, his smile radiant despite the pale sickness that clung to his frame. “Ah, my children. The wind gathers. The sun rises. The ninth flame flickers once more.”

He looked over each of them carefully and even paused longer than usual at Giyu.

And in that moment, Shinobu wondered something she never said aloud: Just who is Giyu Tomioka? Who is the person behind this half-warded fox mask?

The garden’s quiet was broken only by the sound of Kagaya’s slow, graceful footsteps as he settled onto the raised wooden platform before them. Even as his illness took its toll, his skin nearly translucent, lips pale, he radiated a warmth that held even the most unruly Hashira in silent deference.

“My beloved children,” he began, his voice like silk brushing wind chimes, “Thank you for coming. I see many familiar faces... and two young ones who carry the hopes of this generation. Tokito. Kanroji. You are now officially among the nine pillars that hold up our home.”

Mitsuri beamed, bowing deeply, cheeks flushed.

Muichiro blinked slowly, nodding once, though it was unclear if he fully registered what was said.

Kagaya’s smile lingered on them, then moved down the line. “This meeting is not one of crisis. We simply realign. There are new reports, new patterns in demon movement. We must adjust our placements accordingly.”

He turned slightly, hand raised, and Amane, his wife, stepped forward with a scroll, kneeling beside him to assist.

“Let us begin with the western mountains near Shinano. Himejima. The temple children there have seen movement, but lack witnesses. Will you take that post for the season?”

Gyomei bowed low, his prayer beads clinking. “Yes. I will protect them.”

“Thank you,” Kagaya said softly.

“Flashy work,” Uzui muttered, stretching. “Himejima’ll finish it before we get wind of the demon’s name.”

Kagaya chuckled lightly before continuing, his hand guiding the scroll forward. “Next, the southern shores of Osaka, reports speak of disappearances on moonless nights. Uzui, this area still falls within your former mission path. Will you return?”

“Of course,” Uzui grinned. “One last flashy sweep before I retire to a bath with my wives. You can count on me, Oyakata-sama.”

Shinobu’s eyes trailed across the faces. Some were eager. Some bored. Some angry.

And one remained completely still.

Giyu hadn’t moved at all. His one visible eye remained half-lowered, dull as cold glass. His left hand, covered in a glove and the jagged ends of a sleeve, rested on his knee, motionless, save for the occasional twitch of a finger.

Kagaya continued. “Shinobu. There is word of a demon targeting travelling medics in the forests south of Kyoto. They appear to mimic human voices in distress.”

She smiled faintly. “How ironic. A demon pretending to be in pain. I’ll take care of it.”

“Sanemi,” Kagaya said, voice never harsh. “I will ask that you transfer to the northern mountains of Aomori. Survivors there claim to have seen wind blades carve through trees long after the demon disappeared. A mystery befitting the Wind Pillar, perhaps?”

Sanemi scoffed. “Wind or no wind, it dies all the same.”

“And Rengoku,” Kagaya turned next. “There’s a town outside Kumamoto under threat. I believe it will benefit from your presence and your light.”

Kyojurou sat tall, his voice full of unshakable zeal. “Understood, Oyakata-sama! My flame will illuminate their hope!”

“Obanai. Your patrol near the border of Fukuoka will remain. The villagers feel safest under your eye.”

Iguro merely nodded once, silently. Kaburamaru flicked its tongue lazily.

“And now…”

The air grew still.

“Giyu.”

At last, Kagaya’s eyes turned to the Water Hashira, and even Amane, silent this whole time, briefly glanced up from her scroll.

The others followed his gaze, curious. Some impatient. Shinobu could already feel Sanemi tense beside her.

“I would ask you to take the valley forests between Yamanashi and Fuji,” Kagaya said gently. “The rainfall is expected to surge this season, and travelers may be isolated. I believe your style and… nature are best suited for such terrain.”

Giyu didn’t respond immediately.

Then:

“…Understood.”

Just one word. No resistance. No elaboration. No gratitude.

“Wow,” Uzui muttered. “What a lively performance.”

Sanemi growled, turning toward him. “Tch. Why even talk if he’s just gonna breathe that depressing air on us?”

“You could always stop breathing near him,” Shinobu added cheerfully. “Save us from hearing you both.”

Kagaya let their exchanges pass without a scolding. He understood better than anyone that silence wasn’t absence. And cruelty wasn’t always malice. The Hashira were weapons, yes, but fragile ones forged in pain.

“My children,” he said again. “You are not just warriors. You are hearts, beating against the darkness. These assignments will carry you far apart, but your burdens are shared. And your strength… is each other.”

Shinobu blinked. Giyu's eye, the one not hidden by the mask, flicked once, subtly to Kagaya. A pause too short for the others to catch.

“…Then the meeting is adjourned,” the master finished. “Be safe. Be swift. And be kind.”

The cicadas returned their song. Slowly, the Hashira began to rise.

Some in clusters, Rengoku talking to Mitsuri, and Uzui laughing to himself.

Sanemi stalked off alone. Shinobu lingered, watching the lone figure still seated under the canopy’s edge.

Giyu Tomioka had not moved.

She considered stepping toward him. A joke. A jab. Something to pierce the fog around his form.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she offered a glance, and for a moment, maybe, he noticed. Or maybe he didn’t.

And then he stood, turned his back to them all, and disappeared down the stone path alone.

Shinobu lingered by the camellia bush long after the others had gone. The petals had begun to fall, spring shedding its innocence as summer crept closer, and for a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of stillness. Not still like Giyu’s kind, the eerie immovable kind, but still like a breath being held in one’s lungs. Tense. Curious. Ready.

The garden behind her was empty now, save for the rustling of leaves and the echo of absent voices. Mitsuri’s laughter, Rengoku’s booming encouragement, Sanemi’s snarls… gone. Left only with the whispering wind and that feeling she couldn’t shake, the way Giyu’s eye had flicked to the Master. Not disobedience. Not fear. Just… hesitation. Or was it mourning? Then again, Giyu always did that. So what made it noteworthy for Shinobu to note?

She folded her hands beneath her sleeves and turned away. There was no time for riddles. She had her orders. Her quarry awaited.

Still… as she passed the place where Giyu had been sitting, her gaze dipped once more to the empty wooden platform. A single camellia petal had fallen into the indentation left behind by his knee. Strange, she thought. Water leaves no trace, so why did he?

Elsewhere, deeper in the woods near Yamanashi, the sun hung low. The mist had already begun to gather, long tendrils of vapor coiling between the trees like ghostly serpents. It would rain soon. And when it rained in the valleys near Mt. Fuji, it came down in sheets, swallowing noise and sight alike.

Giyu stood beneath a cedar tree, listening.

He didn’t move. Not even when the crows overhead cawed in warning. Not when a man’s scream echoed somewhere to the east, thin and reedy like the wail of a dying reed flute. He knew that sound. It was bait.

A demon’s trap. The mimicry of pain.

How many times had he heard it?

Still, he waited.

Because water doesn’t act on impulse. It observes. Pools. Then floods.

Only when the scream came again, closer this time, did Giyu finally stir. He shifted his sword slightly, eyes narrowing beneath the half-mask that clung to his skin like memory.

The fox’s grin, the one carved into the porcelain, never changed. But his expression behind it… did.

“…Sabito,” he murmured under his breath, voice almost inaudible over the stirring wind. “You’d say I’m too slow again.”

The fox mask remained silent. The flowers,  blue with youth, were cracked at the edges now. Weathered.

And Giyu walked toward the scream.

…

Back at the Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu sat beside an open window, letting the breeze cool her tea. The cicadas had begun to die down, replaced now with the soft hum of frogs near the pond. Kanae used to love that sound.

She looked out at the moon rising between the trees.

Her thoughts drifted again, not to her upcoming mission, not to the demon that awaited her in Kyoto, but to the girl who had arrived laughing that morning and the boy who hadn’t spoken a word since.

Mitsuri Kanroji.

She was a bright sunburst, a bouquet of contradictions: strong but gentle, fierce but lovesick. Shinobu had only known her for a few hours, but already she recognized the pain beneath the pastel ribbons. The desperate desire to be loved, accepted, and useful.

Muichirou Tokito.

Even stranger than Giyu in some ways. The boy’s eyes seemed lost in time, as if he walked through echoes rather than reality. He barely acknowledged anyone, and yet, Kagaya-sama had looked at him with the same gentle reverence he gave them all.

Children forged into swords. That’s what they were.

Shinobu sipped her tea and stared at the reflection of the moon in the cup.

How long, she wondered, before they shattered?

…

In the forest, the mimic screamed a third time.

Giyu stepped into the clearing slowly, his sword already half-drawn.

The demon was crouched over a corpse, its face still contorting with the shape of the victim’s voice.

When it turned to face him, its grin widened. “Ooooh… Water Hashiraaa… come to drown me in silence again?”

Giyu said nothing. He didn’t raise his blade.

He simply stared, and the demon paused.

“…You’re no fun,” it hissed. “Where’s your fire? Your hate? Aren’t you angry about the boy I chewed up last week? Look…” it gestured to the shredded remains beside it. “Still warm.”

A pause.

Then: “Second Form: Water Wheel.”

The demon barely saw it move.

By the time it processed what happened, its arm was gone. Then it's jaw. Then its chest, cleaved clean.

Giyu stood over the twitching remains, water flowing in quiet arcs around his blade, the blood washing clean in rivulets down the grass.

“You talk too much,” he said simply.

The demon tried to crawl backward. “W-Wait! You’re not supposed to…!”

“Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust.”

The demon never finished its plea.

That night, as the rain finally came and painted the land in silver, Shinobu dreamed of her sister. Of laughter in gardens long buried. Of the day Kanae first became a Hashira.

And in another part of the country, beneath a cedar tree soaked in rain, Giyu stood still beneath the storm, the left half of his face obscured behind the grin of a fox no longer living.

He closed his eyes.

The forest wept around him.

And yet, still… he could not.

The rain deepened in rhythm, steady as breath. A hush blanketed the forest, dense and solemn, like incense burning in a shrine too long untended.

Giyu wiped his blade in a slow, practiced motion. His movements were efficient. Mechanical. But something in the gesture lingered, something reluctant. He did not sheath it immediately.

The body behind him, no longer a demon, no longer anything, had already begun to dissolve. The shredded corpse beside it, the one the mimic had toyed with, did not.

Giyu stood beside the young man’s remains for a long while. Blood had soaked into the soil, a dark bloom beneath the corpse’s outstretched hand. His face, what was left of it, was youthful. Maybe sixteen. Maybe seventeen.

He knelt beside the body, gently placing a weathered warding charm over the boy’s heart. It had come loose in the struggle. A small prayer bead bracelet hung from the boy’s wrist, broken.

“…You wanted to be strong,” Giyu murmured, voice so quiet it might’ve been mistaken for the wind.

Another silence stretched, broken only by the raindrops tapping the fox mask.

“I hope someone told you that wasn’t your only worth.”

The rain had not let up by morning.

It clung to the valley like mourning incense, settling low over the trees, over the moss, over the broken body that had not yet been claimed. Giyu remained kneeling beside the boy, his sword finally sheathed but his hand still resting over the charm he’d placed. The silence between them was not hollow. It was heavy.

The kind of silence that filled the lungs with grief before one even knew they were drowning.

Giyu didn’t know the boy’s name. Didn’t need to. The story was already there: someone young, too young, who had trained long enough to believe strength made them safe, and had walked into death wearing hope like armor. And like most, the armor had failed.

Rain slicked across the Water Hashira’s shoulders. His half-haori clung to his form, soaked. His hair dripped like weeping strands. He stayed unmoving until the crows came, two of them, one for him, one for the dead.

The first crow cawed gently. “Message. The mimic demon has been confirmed eliminated. Region deemed secure. Awaiting next placement.”

The second hovered above the boy’s body, its cry quieter. Mourning.

“…There’s no name tag,” Giyu murmured.

He glanced to the side, spotting a shredded scabbard stuck into the roots of a nearby tree. Just beneath it, a small folded paper charm, mostly intact.

He took it, carefully opening it. It bore a single name written with trembling brushstrokes.

Yuki.

“…Yuki,” he repeated. “Snow.”

Another long silence. Giyu bowed his head and murmured a quiet prayer. One that Makomo had once whispered beside a funeral pyre. One that he had never forgotten.

When he rose again, the world was still raining and foggy.

But his mask… remained in his hand.

Back in the forest, Giyu finally rose. The mask hung loosely from his fingers now, water running down its surface like tears. He quickly put it back on.

He looked at it one last time.

There was a crack now, on the mask of the demon. It was cracking back towards being a human. But Giyu didn't care.

But then there was Giyu's own mask.

Giyu sighed... It was not Giyu's mask... It was Makomo's... The one he picked up... Nothing he wore wasn't even his... And frankly, it suited the person and position within the Water Hashira. He's just a fake. Nothing about him was Giyu. He was doing his best to represent the real Water Hashira's.

He knelt again, dug into the earth with the end of his sheath, and laid the mask gently down beside Yuki’s remains.

It would stay here in the place where someone had tried to be brave.

No, been brave.

He didn’t need the mask anymore. But he will still wear it.

He didn’t need the fox’s grin to hide the way his jaw clenched when he failed to save someone. He didn’t need the carved calmness when his heart was anything but.

He rose and turned toward the trees.

No parting words. No glance back.

But if someone were to come upon that clearing in the days to come, if a villager stumbled upon the buried charm and the porcelain fragment nestled in the moss, they might say a shrine had been made.

A shrine for the forgotten.

A shrine from the forgotten.

The forest seemed to hush in his absence. Even the rain grew quieter, softened, like it knew to tread gently over sacred ground.

By the time Giyu reached the edge of the clearing, the fog had thickened, blurring tree from sky. He moved like mist through it, direction certain, footfalls silent. There was no one to see the weight in his shoulders, no one to name the sorrow in the lines beneath his eyes. Just the storm, and the memory of a boy named Yuki.

And still, the demon’s voice echoed faintly behind his ribs, like a bruise pressed too long:
"Where’s your fire? Your hate?"

He had neither. Not anymore.

What Giyu carried wasn’t rage. It was the residue of too many battles ended in silence. Too many names he never learned until it was too late. He didn’t burn; he drowned. Quiet, steady, relentless. The kind of sorrow that crept into the bones and made a home there.

As he descended from the mountain, the wind shifted. A new scent on the air, blood. Fresh. Metallic.

Not far.

He paused, breath clouding. His hand hovered briefly near the hilt of his sword, then fell away. He didn’t rush toward it. Not yet. His steps were measured. He’d learned long ago the difference between saving and avenging.

The trees parted again, another clearing, another scene. But this time, someone was still alive.

A girl, no older than twelve, clutching a splintered blade in both hands, her knees trembling in mud. Before her, a dying demon thrashed in its last spasms, smoke already curling from its wounds. The girl’s eyes were wild. Not with fear. With something worse. With the same look he had seen in the mirror when Sabito and Makomo died.

The girl raised the sword again, long after the demon had stopped moving.

“No,” Giyu said, gently.

She froze. Looked up at him with eyes too tired for her age.

“But it, he-he killed my brother,” she whispered. “I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t fast enough…”

“You were fast enough to survive,” Giyu said. “That’s more than most.”

She stared at him, blade still raised. Blood was on her arms, her face, her tongue where she’d bitten through it.

“Do you know his name?” Giyu asked.

She blinked. “Who?”

“Your brother.”

Her hands tightened on the hilt. “Yuki.”

Giyu nodded once. “Then that’s what we remember.”

He stepped forward, slowly, and reached out. The girl flinched, but didn’t retreat as he gently lowered the blade from her hands. It fell with a dull thud into the mud.

“You don’t have to carry this weight alone,” he said. “But if you do… know why.”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at him, her lips trembling.

Giyu took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

“We’ll bury him,” he said. “We’ll say his name. That’s the first form.”

“…Of what?”

He paused, then met her eyes. “Of healing.”

In the shadowed treeline beyond, his crow stirred once, then took flight into the downpour. A new message awaited. A new demon. A new sorrow.

But for now, Giyu stayed. Long enough to help a child bury her grief. Long enough to remember what he still fought for.

Even if the rain never stopped.
Even if the silence always followed.

He was the Water Hashira.

And water, after all, remembers every name it carries.

They buried Yuki beneath the tallest pine tree, where the canopy split just enough for the sky to look down.

The girl, Aiko, she said her name was, placed a stone beside the grave, small and smooth, her hands still shaking. Giyu carved a mark into its surface with the tip of his sword: not a name, not a title, just a single symbol from the old prayers. One that meant return.

Not of the body. But of memory. Of meaning.

When the grave was done, Aiko knelt beside it and whispered something Giyu didn’t catch. He didn’t ask her to repeat it. Some words were meant for the dead alone.

The rain had slowed to a mist by then. It clung to everything in silence: the grave, the pine needles, the breath between their chests.

“…You were there in time,” Giyu said quietly, after a while.

Aiko glanced up.

“He died knowing he wasn’t alone.”

Her mouth trembled, but she nodded.

Giyu stood and looked out toward the trees. The crow was waiting just beyond the path. It would guide them back. To safety. To the world.

He looked down at the girl, at her small hands now wrapped in his cloak, her knees muddy, her eyes dark and unblinking.

“You’re not ready to carry a sword,” he said, and then, gentler: “But you’re not weak.”

She didn’t answer. But this time, she didn’t look away.

He turned then, toward the path, toward the place where the world still needed him. Aiko followed, her footsteps unsure but growing steadier.

They left the forest behind them, and the grave beneath the pine, and the broken mask now lost to moss and time.

And somewhere in the hush of the wind, Giyu could almost hear them…

Makomo’s quiet humming, Sabito’s laugh, the rain carving names into stone.

The silence he carried would never leave him.

But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be empty.

Not when someone else was still walking behind him.

Not when the water still remembered.

A.N / Alright, in the end I decided to scrap Past Paranoia’s, mainly because I wanted to create a story dedicated to Giyu. This is an AU version of him, and perhaps some headcannons will become true in this story. But I do want to let you know, yes I know some things with Giyu is not accurate, but this is my story and I have a nice fledged out plan for this, and so I do hope you read the story and just enjoy it. A lot of stuff will be confusing likely and make a bit of confusion, but it will make sense as time goes on. Have a good day!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 2:

Electric Love by BØRNS

Shinobu Kocho had to admit: the Love Estate smelled... lovely.

Even from beyond the outer gate, she could catch the scent: grilled eel, soft citrus blossom, fresh rice steaming over coals, and something faintly sweet drifting from a clay oven. There were flower petals scattered on the garden path like they had fallen there naturally (though Shinobu knew Mitsuri had probably arranged them by color gradient), and wind chimes shaped like hearts chimed softly from the eaves.

Compared to the other estates, the medicine, smelling of chill, of hers, the austere sprawl of the Flame Estate, the mist-veiled quiet of Gyomei’s shrine, this one felt almost like a home. Messy in the way living things were. Warm. Intentionally soft.

She stepped through the gate with practiced grace, her sandals brushing against blush-pink petals, and before she could call out...

“Shinobuuu~!! You came!!”

A blur of green and pink collided with her, arms thrown around her in the kind of hug that made breathing difficult.

Shinobu barely had time to brace. “Mitsuri, careful, bones are fragile.”

Mitsuri pulled back, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry! I was just excited! You brought the sakura vinegar, right?”

Shinobu raised a porcelain bottle between them. “As promised. And a little ume for garnish.”

Mitsuri squealed. “Perfect!! That’ll go with Kyojurou’s broth! Come in, come in, Iguro-san’s already plated the sashimi! He even carved the carrots into little snakes, look!!”

Shinobu followed her through the sliding doors into a softly lit dining room. The sun filtered through paper screens, casting sakura silhouettes on the tatami. The table was low and broad, set with hand-folded origami placeholders and chopsticks tied with pink ribbon. Every plate, every bowl, every garnish glowed with effort.

Obanai Iguro stood in the corner, arms crossed, Kaburamaru coiled loosely around his shoulders. He eyed Shinobu’s arrival, nodding slightly.

“Good evening, Iguro-san,” Shinobu said as she removed her sandals.

“You’re late,” he muttered.

“I was early,” she replied with a gentle smile, “just on my schedule.”

From the kitchen, a familiar voice boomed: “Mitsuri! Shinobu! The soup has achieved MAXIMUM FLAVOR!!”

And then, like a whirlwind of fire and confidence, Kyojurou Rengoku entered, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied over his uniform.

“Kocho! Excellent timing! Iguro has prepared the cold plates, Mitsuri the onigiri, and now...” he gestured grandly to the steaming pot... “the final component is ready!”

Shinobu gave a low chuckle. “A three-Hashira feast. I feel very spoiled.”

“Four,” Mitsuri corrected gently, dragging her to the table. “You’re here now!”

The four of them sat, and for a moment, no one spoke.

Steam curled upward. Rain tapped lightly on the windows outside. Kaburamaru flicked his tongue once and settled in.

Kyojurou clapped his hands together. “Let us eat! With gratitude!”

Bowls shifted hands, fish was passed around, Mitsuri eagerly described the seasoning ratios while Iguro quietly adjusted her chopsticks. Shinobu took it all in, her gaze glancing across the table...

Mitsuri, radiant and pink-cheeked, was chatting about the best training foods for leg muscle retention.

Kyojurou, pouring everyone tea like a one-man festival.

Iguro grumbled whenever someone complimented his presentation, but always made sure Mitsuri had the best pieces on her plate.

And herself, watching, smiling faintly. Feeling full, even before her first bite.

It was unusual. Beautiful.
Almost dangerous in its gentleness.

A warmth that could make one forget the reason they had come together in the first place.

“It’s nice,” Mitsuri said suddenly, her voice softer now. “Eating like this.”

Shinobu looked up. “It is.”

“I mean… really nice.” Mitsuri’s eyes lingered on the candles. “It’s always missions or meetings or slaying demons. But this is the first time it’s just… us. I like us.”

Kyojurou set down his cup with a satisfied hum. “A Hashira’s strength is more than the blade! We are a family in flame and form!”

Iguro muttered, “Some families are quieter.”

Shinobu tilted her head. “Not everyone gets to choose their family.”

Mitsuri’s voice trembled slightly. “I used to think I was too much. Too loud. Too pink. But you’re all here. You came. I didn’t think you would.”

Shinobu reached out and took her hand gently. “You didn’t ask us to fight. You asked us to eat. That’s rare enough to be sacred.”

Mitsuri wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m not crying. Just… spicy broth.”

“It’s sweet broth,” Iguro said.

“I-it’s emotionally spicy.”

Kyojurou burst into laughter. “Beautifully said!”

The room filled with their voices, soft and sharp, overlapping and alive.

The light dimmed into amber hues as the sun began to slip behind the horizon, casting golden ribbons across the sliding paper doors. The scent of plum broth and grilled rice still lingered, mingling with the soft evening breeze that passed through the open corridor of the Love Estate.

Kyojurou, now seated comfortably on a floor cushion with a heaping second bowl in hand, dabbed his mouth with a napkin and leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

“You know,” he began, voice booming even in casual reflection, “when Mitsuri first trained under me, I thought, ‘Here is a girl who will burn out in a week!’”

“Wha...! Rengoku-san!” Mitsuri gasped, mid-chew, a scandalized hand flying to her heart.

Shinobu stifled a laugh behind her sleeve.

“It’s true!” Kyojurou grinned. “She cried after running five laps! Cried harder when I made her run ten more! But then she got up the next morning and did it again. And again. And again. Until I had to start training harder just to stay ahead!”

He laughed, loud and proud, clapping a hand against his thigh.

“I remember,” Shinobu said thoughtfully, “that Kagaya-sama said she had record-breaking muscle density. You must have noticed right away.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Kyojurou nodded solemnly. “She broke my favorite practice sword.”

Mitsuri covered her face with both hands, squealing. “I said I was sorry!!”

“And I forgave you! Instantly! Because you also baked me an apology mochi with hearts in them!”

“...They were cinnamon,” Mitsuri whispered from behind her hands. “For courage.”

At that, even Iguro’s shoulders twitched with a faint laugh, though his arms remained crossed.

Shinobu tilted her head, regarding him. “And how did you two meet, by the way? You didn’t join us until after Mitsuri had already become a Hashira.”

Mitsuri turned toward Obanai, eyes shining. “Can I tell it?”

He sighed, as if this story had been dragged out of him before. “You will anyway.”

Mitsuri scooted her cushion a little closer to the group and beamed.

“Well! It was after I’d moved to the estates, but I kept getting lost between them; everything looked the same! So one day I ended up in the Serpent Estate without realizing it, and...”

“She walked right through the garden,” Obanai muttered, eyes narrowed at the memory. “Didn’t even use the path.”

“... And I saw these beautiful night lilies growing by the fence and thought, ‘Oh! Someone here likes flowers too!’ and then I knocked on the door to ask for directions. But no one answered. So I… kinda just… walked in…”

Obanai rubbed his forehead. “She tripped on one of the boundary talismans and scared my crow off its perch. I thought a demon had broken in.”

“I said I was sorry!!” Mitsuri pouted, but her voice held more laughter than shame.

Obanai looked to the side. “And then she cried.”

“I was lost and hungry! And then you brought me rice and sat me down and let me calm down!”

“You wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Well, you didn’t stop listening,” she shot back, cheeks pink.

Shinobu raised an eyebrow. “That's unusually generous of you, Iguro-san.”

He shifted, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “…She looked like she needed someone.”

For a moment, a hush settled over them, not awkward, not heavy. Just a pause long enough to say: I remember. I’m still here.

Mitsuri gently reached across and placed her hand next to Obanai’s, fingers brushing the edge of his bandages. He didn’t pull away.

Kyojurou broke the silence with a warm chuckle. “Isn’t it fascinating how fate draws us together? Swordsmanship and survival are one thing, but how do we meet? That’s a story the battlefield can’t write.”

“Fate,” Shinobu repeated softly. “Or maybe something more fragile. Like kindness. Or loneliness.”

Obanai glanced at her, but said nothing.

The light from the lanterns flickered now, their glow painting the room in shades of apricot and rose. Outside, fireflies began to gather near the koi pond.

Shinobu looked around the table again, at the plates emptied, the teacups refilled, the bodies settled not in readiness for battle, but in something akin to peace.

A Hashira’s life was not built for stillness.

And yet, here it was. A night shared not in duty, but in choice.

Perhaps tomorrow, the swords would be drawn again. Perhaps blood. Perhaps screams. Perhaps silence.

But tonight?

Tonight was warm rice, plum broth, and laughter.

And love, not just the domain of one Hashira, but something, Shinobu realized, they were all beginning to relearn.

One meal at a time.

The teacups had been refilled twice over by now, the dishes left to rest, half-cleared but intentionally untouched, as if removing them would break the delicate spell cast over the evening.

Outside, the wind had calmed, and inside, the laughter faded into a mellow stillness.

Mitsuri had pulled her sleeves up to her elbows and now leaned back against her cushion, legs tucked underneath her as she cradled her cup with both hands. Her eyes shimmered with that familiar light: soft, wistful, always glowing.

“I think…” she began, hesitantly, “I didn’t really know what I was looking for when I became a Demon Slayer. I thought if I trained hard enough, if I smiled enough, people would stop thinking I was strange.”

Obanai didn’t look at her, but his fingers tensed slightly where they rested on the table.

“I never thought I’d be strong. I just didn’t want to feel alone anymore,” she admitted, voice lower now. “My family tried to hide me after the omiai proposals failed. My strength scared people. But then Rengoku-san, he didn’t even flinch. He just said, ‘What a fine flame you have!’ like it was good to burn this brightly.”

Kyojurou smiled, a deep, unshaken pride shining in his face. “Because it is.”

Mitsuri glanced at him, then at Obanai, then back down at her tea. “So… I guess… I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since. That I could belong somewhere without having to shrink myself.”

The words hung like candle smoke, soft and winding.

Shinobu’s gaze moved from Mitsuri to Obanai.

And finally, he spoke.

“I didn’t think anyone could understand how wrong it feels to be seen,” Obanai said, voice rough, almost brittle. “Not misunderstood. Just… seen.”

Shinobu blinked.

Obanai still didn’t raise his eyes. Kaburamaru shifted along his shoulder, resting gently against his neck.

“Most people looked at me and only saw the scars. Or worse, the bloodline. A name I didn’t choose. A cage I was born into.” Iguro spoke, in a somewhat indirect metaphor, clearly trying to brighten up Mitsuri when she first spotted him.

Mitsuri said nothing, only letting her hand rest near his on the table. Close. Not quite touching.

“But she didn’t ask about that,” Obanai continued quietly. “She just said, ‘Oh, your eyes are different colors, that’s so pretty!’ Like she was pointing out a flower.”

Kyojurou chuckled softly, folding his arms across his chest. “That sounds like her.”

“It’s not,” Obanai said, more to himself than to anyone else. “It shouldn’t be. No one should be that kind.”

Shinobu finally spoke, her voice light, but clear. “It’s easy to see kindness as a weakness when you’ve been punished by it. Or… when it’s been used against you.”

Obanai looked at her then, just briefly. And there was something in her expression that made him realize she wasn’t speaking in metaphor.

Mitsuri turned, her eyes wide with emotion. “I always thought kindness was the only thing I had to offer.”

Shinobu gave her a small smile. “No. You also have strength. Tremendous strength. But the rare thing about you, Mitsuri, is that you’ve never once used it to make someone feel small.”

There was a silence, but this one didn’t sting.

It rested gently around them. Like a shared cloak.

Kyojurou broke it with a quiet murmur, unusual for him. “Strength that builds rather than breaks… that’s what our corps is starving for.”

“Then maybe that’s what we fight for too,” Shinobu said, stirring her tea. “Not just vengeance. Or duty. Or survival. But the possibility of a world where kindness isn’t rare.”

Obanai exhaled slowly, his shoulders lowering just slightly.

Mitsuri's voice was small when she whispered, “I’d like that world.”

And for a while, no one spoke.

The cicadas outside had begun their summer chorus. The lanterns flickered low.

Four swords at the table. Four hearts with scars in different shapes.

Shinobu sat back, watching them, not as warriors, not as titles, but as people. Raw and real and still here.

The hours crept onward unnoticed, as time often does in rare moments of peace.

The dishes had long since cooled, though no one rushed to clear them. The hearth embers glowed low in the corner of the room, casting a soft orange hue over the tatami mats and painted scrolls on the walls. Outside, the night had deepened, cicadas quieter now, replaced by the hush of breeze brushing through leaves and the occasional flutter of moth wings near the paper lanterns.

Kyojurou let out a long exhale, stretching his arms behind his back until his shoulders popped. “That,” he declared with a satisfied grin, “was a meal worthy of warriors and poets alike!”

“You say that after every meal,” Obanai muttered, rising to gather empty bowls, though not without care.

“And I mean it every time,” Kyojurou beamed.

Shinobu tucked her sleeves neatly back down and rose to her feet, brushing off imaginary dust. “I can help with the cleaning,” she offered, though her movements remained unhurried.

“I’ve got it!” Mitsuri chirped, already halfway through stacking plates. “You’re our guest tonight. Let us take care of it.”

Shinobu raised a brow. “I’m still a Hashira, you know. I can handle dishes.”

Mitsuri giggled. “Yes, but I am the Love Hashira, and this is my estate. House rules!”

That earned a soft chuckle from both Shinobu and Kyojurou, and a grudging nod from Obanai, who accepted the new authority without argument, perhaps because he knew it would make no difference to try.

They moved through the motions like a well-trained unit. Quiet efficiency without need for instruction.

Kyojurou carried the heavy pot to the water pump just outside, steam curling into the cooler night air. Mitsuri hummed while drying lacquered bowls. Obanai swept the corners of the room with quick, practiced motions, Kaburamaru peeking curiously at each collected speck of dust.

Shinobu lingered by the doorway, her hands folded lightly in front of her. She wasn’t smiling anymore, but neither was she sad. Her expression was calm, reflective. Present.

There was something deeply grounding about watching people perform simple tasks without burden or expectation. The kind of ordinary quiet is rarely afforded to them.

When the final tray had been wiped and stored, Mitsuri plopped onto the veranda steps with a satisfied sigh. “Tomorrow’s going to feel like a dream after this.”

Kyojurou joined her, arms resting on his knees as he stared out at the moonlit garden. “Then let us carry that dream into tomorrow! A strong heart needs rest to beat with conviction.”

Obanai stood in the doorway, his posture slightly rigid, though his gaze had softened.

“Tea before bed?” Mitsuri offered without looking, her voice warm but casual.

“No, thank you,” he murmured. “The quiet’s enough.”

Shinobu stepped out to join them, the night air cooler now against her sleeves. The garden smelled of crushed lavender and wet earth. Somewhere, a nightingale called from a distant tree.

No one said much after that.

There were no speeches, no laughter left to spill, no deep confessions. Just four swordsmen breathing in the peace they’d helped each other reach.

It wasn’t about forgetting the bloodshed. It wasn’t pretending the pain wasn’t real.

It was just… rest.

Earned. Needed. Shared.

And tomorrow, like always, they’d return to the path. But tonight, they simply let themselves be.

Together.

Quiet. Whole. Human.

Stellar by .diedlonely, énouement

The sunlight bled softly through the paper doors of the Water Estate, casting long, thin lines across the tatami floor. The light wasn’t warm, not really. It just… was.

And Giyu Tomioka lay in it, eyes barely open, still as stone.

No dreams. No nightmares.
Just silence.

It was already midday.

But Hashira slept when they could. Demons stalked the night, not the sun. Their rest came like rain, intermittent, cold, necessary.

Eventually, the weight of the existing pressed enough against his chest to force him upright.

No groaning. No stretching. No sigh.

He rose the same way he always did. Mechanical. Empty.

The Water Estate was a shrine of minimalism.

No flowers. No hanging scrolls. No painted lacquered trays or ceremonial displays.

Just bare wood. Cold tatami. Plain walls that swallowed sound and reflected stillness. The place was spotless, but it always felt unfinished. Or perhaps… abandoned.

He moved through it like a spirit trapped in his own home.

In the small kitchen, he gathered simple ingredients with practiced repetition. Cooked rice. Miso soup with scallions. Pickled daikon from a jar sealed weeks ago. He didn’t taste it anymore. Not really. Just something to do between waking and training.

He sat. Ate. Swallowed.

But somewhere in the silence of the room, his thoughts stirred, unwanted and dissonant. A memory? A sound? A ghost?
He couldn’t tell. But his heart beat faster than it should have.

He stared into the half-full bowl in front of him. The steam rose in soft coils, gentle, like breath. But his own was uneven, tightening under his ribs.

He put the bowl down. Slowly. Carefully. Hands trembling, just slightly.

Then he inhaled.

And tried again.

Inhale…

Hold.

Exhale…

His shoulders dropped, but the pressure in his chest didn’t.

It never fully left.

So he stood, slipping on his uniform, tying his haori loosely around his shoulders. Mahogany, yellow, and green, twin memories stitched into silence. And as always, the half mask went on, resting over the left side of his face, its jagged edge resting above the cheekbone, hiding the dull glint of a covered eye.

His sword slid into place without a sound. Then, he stepped out into the world.

The air outside was cooler than expected. The cicadas chirped, the breeze rustled through the trees, and the sun flickered through shifting leaves like water through a broken cup.

And only then, only outside, did Giyu feel something close to breathing.

His estate was too quiet. Too monocoloured. Too hollow. Too still.

Like a place built to trap noise.

Or a place meant to watch people, not house them.

He didn’t like being inside for long.

He wandered away from it, toward the low trails behind the estate that curved into woods, rivers, and shallow pools, untouched by any hand but nature’s. The sound of flowing water gradually replaced the thoughts he couldn’t voice.

He moved through trees and wet stone with ease, silent, unseen, like the mist itself bowed before him.

It was here, with his feet in a stream, that Giyu stopped.

Let the silence settle.

Let the wind tug gently at his hair.

Let the distant hum of a bird call rise and fall like waves on a lake.

Here, he wasn’t the Water Hashira. He wasn’t anything.

Just a man sitting alone, beside the one thing that never asked anything of him.

The water flowed. The sky shifted. The scars beneath his mask stayed hidden.

And that was enough.

For now.

The water lapped softly against the stone, trickling over his boots and soaking into the edges of his uniform. He didn’t move. Let it soak. Let the cold settle in. Let his body remember what it meant to feel, even if it wasn’t comfort.

Across the stream, a fallen branch cracked as it gave way under its own weight. A heron took flight, disturbed, long wings slicing the air in a single, elegant sweep. Giyu followed it with his eyes, but not his body. The sky it disappeared into looked gray now, the kind of gray that wasn’t quite storm, but not quite peace either. Suspended.

He envied it.

Far off, too far to hear but not too far to imagine, were voices. Laughter. Maybe Mitsuri’s bright and warm. Perhaps Kyojurou’s loud and steady, echoing even in the distance. Iguro’s dry remarks that somehow softened when aimed at her. Shinobu’s quiet wit was layered beneath a smile that always knew more than it said.

They were somewhere together.

He could see it in his mind without trying. The soft glow of lanterns, the clink of teacups, shared glances that needed no words. A pause in the conversation to listen to the crickets outside. Comfort in proximity. Trust in silence.

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t there.

It was that he wouldn’t know how to be. He didn’t deserve to be there.

Giyu exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned back against the trunk behind him. The bark dug into his shoulders. His fingers flexed against the sheathed hilt at his side.

“…Tomioka.”

The name, barely above a whisper, came not from around him, but within. He didn’t flinch.

It had been happening more lately. Moments where ghosts of voices drifted through him. Not malicious. Not angry. Just… present.

Maybe someone he had always had on his mind? Maybe someone else? Maybe it’s one of the many voices in his head? He never thought about it.

“You’ll always be alone if you keep living like this,” the voice continued, not cruel, but not kind either.

His jaw tightened.

“I know,” he muttered, barely audible.

The water answered him with a gentle ripple.

Still, he didn’t leave.

There were no orders calling him. No new threat. Just an unfilled space in the day that some would spend in laughter, in reflection, in connection.

But he remained here, between the trees and the stream and the sky. Unmoving. Unspoken. Unneeded.

The silence didn’t mind.

But it never loved him back, either.

And when he finally stood, letting the cold water drip from his soles and the shadows pull longer with the sinking sun, he didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to. Nothing ever waited for him there.

Only the quiet.

Only the river.

Only the mask, now slightly damp, clinging to his face as if to remind him:

This is who you chose to be. And for those you’ve lost, this is who you must remain.

The trees swayed above him, tall and disinterested. They’d been here long before him. They would remain long after. Giyu stepped forward, letting the last shreds of light filter through the canopy and cast uneven gold across his path. His boots squelched slightly with each step. The sensation should’ve grounded him. It didn’t.

“You always walk away,” came another voice.

Different this time. Not the one from earlier. Softer. Female.

His eyes flicked to the shadows between the trees, but no one was there. Of course not.

“You leave before people can even reach you. Is that really a strength?” That voice was rougher, more masculine.

He didn’t answer.

The air felt thicker now. Or maybe it was just harder to breathe.

“You think you’re doing them a kindness. That your distance protects them.” A pause. “But who asked you to protect them like that?”

The ground dipped beneath him as he stepped down onto a stone path carved partially by human hands, partially by the weather. It led toward the edge of the forest—his forest. His retreat. His isolation, well-practiced.

He stopped.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered.

It wasn’t clear if he meant the voice. Or the life. Or himself.

A branch snapped somewhere behind him, far off.

Then another voice, clearer, younger.

“You still think it should’ve been you, don’t you?”

His breath caught.

“I was stronger,” he said quickly, too quickly.

But even he didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

Sabito had been stronger. Smarter. Braver. Louder.

Makomo had been more empathetic. Softer. Social. Caring.

Alive.

“And yet you’re the one standing here,” the voice said, almost tired. “What does that mean, Giyu?”

He turned his head sharply toward the empty woods. Nothing. Not even birds now. As if they too were watching him from afar.

“What does that mean?” the voice repeated.

He didn’t have an answer.

Another step. The wind whistled past his ear like a sigh. Or maybe it was a laugh.

“I’m proud of you, Giyu,” came a voice from even deeper in the recesses of his mind. That one was older. A voice carved from memory and incense and blood. “You’re trying to do what’s right.”

Urokodaki. Giyu wished that were the truth, but he knew the real and harsh truth. It was the opposite of what he was hearing right now.

And even then, that wish of being worth it felt far away now. Like a dream, he no longer fit inside.

He kept walking. Slowly. Deliberately.

One breath at a time.

A man held together by obligation. By survival. By the thin thread of water flowing just ahead of his steps.

The trail brought him near the back edge of his estate, where the trees grew fewer and the world grew wider. There, he paused again, staring out into the hazy distance. The sun was almost gone now. Only the faintest orange blush remained along the sky’s belly.

He stood in that dim silence, listening.

“Come back.”

A child’s voice. Makomo? No. It was older. Maybe even his sister’s, before her voice was swallowed by that final night.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted.

Silence.

No reply.

Just the wind again. The hush of a world that had moved on without him.

And then, faint, barely distinguishable from the wind, one last whisper:

“Then learn.”

Giyu lowered his head. Closed his eyes.

The cold on his skin had settled in fully now, bone-deep. Familiar.

He took one final look toward the horizon.

Then turned back toward the estate.

The lights inside were still off.

Of course they were.

He didn’t light them.

He never stayed long enough to need them.

But tonight, he didn’t go inside.

Instead, he drifted past the empty threshold and veered off the path, following the faint thread of the stream that curled like a silver thread behind the estate. It ran quietly now, a hushed murmur beneath the hush of the wind, but it was there. Consistent. Steady. Older than grief.

The voices followed. They always did.

“You shut them out,” one muttered, bitter and sharp. “All of them. Even the ones who cared.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words.

Instead, he knelt by the water’s edge, his hand hovering just above its surface. The moonlight had begun to rise now, casting silver across the ripples, bending light like memory. He could see his reflection faintly, blurred by the current, fractured by movement.

He looked tired.

You always look tired.

And that warding fox mask covering the left side of his face.

You look so ugly. Urokodaki would be more ashamed of you than he already is!

“Is that really what I am?” he murmured to no one. “A ghost pretending to breathe?”

“Not pretending,” a gentler voice said, unexpected in its kindness. “You are breathing. You’re just not living.”

A crow called from a tree above, and he flinched. Not because it startled him, but because it reminded him of someone. Of a mission. Of blood.

But the bird didn’t speak. It simply sat there, black feathers rustling softly as it preened itself, then hopped higher into the branches. Alive. Unconcerned.

The sound of the water grew louder, not in volume, but in presence. He let his fingers dip into it, cold wrapping around them like a reminder. Or an embrace.

“You listen to dead voices,” the stream seemed to say. Not in words, but in rhythm. In its unending current.

“You carry them,” the wind added, threading through his hair, lifting the ends of his haori like breath.

“You do not have to be them,” whispered the leaves, as they shook loose from a branch and fell into the water, spinning away without resistance.

He watched them go.

The voices didn’t stop, but they softened. Their edges dulled, their tones blurred by the rustling of trees and the distant cry of owls beginning their nightly hunt.

Even the crueler ones, the accusing, biting, needling voices that sounded too much like Sabito on his angriest days, or Tsutako at her most disappointed, seemed to lose their footing against the hush of nature’s pulse.

“You let us stay too long,” one said.

Giyu's hand curled into a fist in the water, sending small waves outward, distorting the moonlight. “I didn’t ask you to stay.”

A pause.

“No,” the voice replied, quieter now. “But you didn’t ask us to leave either.”

He breathed through his nose. Slow. Deliberate.

And the trees around him moved not in judgment, but rhythm. Swaying like breath. Echoing something older than regret.

He closed his eyes again, listening, not for words this time, but for the things that had no name.

The chirp of crickets. The occasional rustle of some nocturnal creature in the underbrush. The wind is shifting directions. The gurgle of water meeting stone.

Alive, all of it.

Here. Now.

Not memory. Not guilt.

Present.

The sounds filled in the cracks of his silence, not to erase it, but to hold it gently. To remind him, he could rest inside it, not just hide in it.

“…Maybe you don’t have to carry us forever,” came one last voice, so faint it could’ve been wind. Or leaf. Or dream.

He didn’t reply. Not with voice. Not with movement.

But he stayed.

He remained by the water long after the sky had gone fully dark and the chill had settled over everything. His hands numbed. His shoulders ached. His mind didn’t quiet, but it didn’t claw either.

And when the stars appeared, scattered like forgotten names across the sky, Giyu tilted his head up and looked.

Not for answers.

But simply because they were there.

Because he still could.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for tonight.

A.N / Okay! Second Chapter out. The focus for this chapter was to showcase the stark contrast between the other Hashira, some of the more outgoing ones, and the internal and conflicted mind of Giyu. I will emphasize, Giyu is like his cannon self, but has extra stuff added onto him for the premise of my enjoyment in making this story enjoyable for you all as well. The biggest difference showing here are the voices in his head. This isn’t too out of pocket, as we see Tanjirou theoretically have that alongside visual imagery of his family. So for Giyu, he just has the auditory imagery, but it’s all blurry for him. This will make sense as we read this more, and I am excited to see if anyone will make assumptions and guesses as the story goes on. I will see you all in the next chapter!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 3:

Myrddin by Fox Sailor

The sun had barely crested the rooftops of the Butterfly Estate when Tengen Uzui arrived, a swirl of color and confidence disturbing the otherwise calm morning like fireworks in a library.

A flutter of sparrows scattered from the trees as he strode down the path, arms crossed, earrings jingling with each step. One of his wives had braided his hair that morning with tight precision. Another had made sure his haori was freshly pressed. The third had given him the look, the one that told him not to overdo it.

He planned to ignore that last part.

He swept open the shoji door to the mess hall without ceremony. A handful of Kakushi snapped to attention. A few Tsuguko looked up mid-bite. A crow squawked indignantly from the rafters.

“Where’s Mitsuri?” he asked, all volume and no room for answers.

“She’s back at the Love Estate,” someone said, cautiously.

“Perfect,” he grinned, then frowned. “Why was there a dinner last night, and why, in the name of all that’s flamboyant, was I not invited?”

No one answered.

Typical.

It wasn’t long before he found confirmation, through whispers, rumors, and one very awkward run-in with a flushed Shinobu, about the informal dinner at the Love Estate the night before.

Mitsuri. Rengoku. Shinobu. Iguro.

And not him.

An unthinkable oversight.

He was one of the Hashira, dammit. One of the flashiest. One of the most unforgettable. If there was a gathering of powerhouses, he belonged in the spotlight, or at least near it, cracking jokes while Iguro pretended not to laugh and Rengoku lit the centerpiece on fire by accident.

He perched on the veranda railing, one leg crossed over the other, letting the morning breeze stir the edge of his haori. Behind him, the courtyard buzzed with distant training noise. But Tengen didn’t hear it. Not really.

What he heard was not being there. Not being included. Not being wanted.

And that, that wasn’t just unfabulous.

It was unacceptable.

“I’ll just have to outdo them,” he declared aloud, pointing to the sky as if the clouds themselves were now his audience. “We’ll host a dinner. All the Hashira. Properly. Gloriously. Loudly. No brooding in corners. No excuses. Everyone eats, everyone talks, everyone bonds.”

He could already picture it.

Lush tapestries. Custom-cut lanterns. Entertainment from the most eccentric of traveling performers. His wives are in the kitchen, crafting a menu to dazzle even the most stoic palate. A feast, not just of food, but of atmosphere. Of belonging.

A dinner so spectacular even Giyu Tomioka wouldn’t be able to sulk his way out of it.

He stood in one sweeping motion, haori flaring behind him like a cape.

“Get me a crow,” he called. “No, nine! I’ll write them letters myself if I have to.”

He paused.

“Actually, never mind. Suma’s handwriting is better. Make it ten crows.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, already composing the message in his head:

To my fellow esteemed Hashira,

You are formally, flamboyantly, and unavoidably invited to a dinner at the Love Estate, hosted by none other than the Sound Hashira and his stunning wives. Attendance is not optional. You owe me.

We dine tomorrow evening. There will be food, conversation, laughter, and none of you is allowed to die before then.

Bring your appetites and your baggage. We’re unpacking it all.

He smirked to himself, walking off toward his wives’ quarters.

He had a family already, three of them, in fact. But he knew not everyone else did.

Still. If they were going to call themselves the Nine Pillars…

It was time they stood a little closer together.

Even if he had to drag them by their collars to make it happen.

The sun had not yet reached its peak when the letters began to arrive.

Each Hashira received theirs in a different way, Muichiro found his balanced atop a sparring post, held gently in the claws of a particularly tired-looking crow. Gyomei’s was placed respectfully at the edge of his meditation mat, a faint scent of jasmine still lingering on the parchment. Sanemi arrived mid-training, smacking him in the face with all the subtlety of Tengen’s personality. He tore it open with a sneer, then didn’t toss it aside. Just stared at it.

Shinobu received hers with a raised brow and a knowing smirk. Mitsuri had already gotten the message directly from Tengen, who arrived that morning with dramatic flair and arms full of ingredients, rattling off a plan so grand it left even her speechless. Even Iguro, who heard the news from Mitsuri’s lips rather than paper, found himself unsure whether to be annoyed or quietly curious.

One by one, they agreed.

It was too loud to ignore. Too bold to dismiss.

By the time dusk fell over the Love Estate the following day, the place had transformed.

Lanterns swayed in the wind, tinted pink and gold and plum. Streamers fluttered like wind-borne petals. The air smelled of grilled meat, simmered herbs, and citrus-glazed rice. Suma and Makio darted around with platters in hand. Hinatsuru gave directions with the poise of a military strategist. Music, soft, not overwhelming, echoed from behind the walls.

The first to arrive was Shinobu, dressed in her usual haori but with her hair braided down one side, a quiet concession to the event’s celebratory tone. She nodded at the preparations, eyes catching on the delicate floral arrangements placed at each seat.

Next came Mitsuri, skipping slightly, cheeks rosy and smile wide. “I brought handmade mochi!” she declared to no one in particular, lifting a box as if it were a treasure. Iguro arrived minutes later, slipping in silently behind her, gaze sweeping the perimeter before finding her and relaxing just slightly.

Muichiro wandered in after that, hair tousled, a faint streak of flour somehow across his cheek. He didn’t remember how it got there. “I think I helped cook,” he mumbled to a passing Kakushi, who didn’t question it.

Gyomei was guided in with gentle reverence, his presence grounding the space like a stone in a riverbed. His quiet “thank you” to the servers went unnoticed by most, but it settled something soft in the room.

Then Sanemi.

He came late. Not fashionably so. Just late enough to seem reluctant. His uniform smelled faintly of blood and oil, his posture stiff, like he might still bolt. But he stayed. Nodded once to Tengen. Took a seat in the corner.

Tengen, of course, had been there from the start, directing, decorating, declaring this “his magnum opus of camaraderie.” He beamed as the seats filled, tossing comments and compliments in equal measure, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back in a glimmering ribbon Hinatsuru had woven just that morning.

Kyojurou was next, loud and bright and unmistakable. “What a fine evening for connection!” he boomed as he entered, arms wide. “Ah! Look at this spread! Truly, you’ve outdone yourself, Uzui!”

“I always do,” Tengen replied, grinning. “But thanks for noticing.”

They gathered slowly, like raindrops into a stream, each so different, each bringing something unseen.

And still, one seat remained empty.

The ninth.

No one mentioned it right away.

They ate. Talked. Joked. Laughed more than they meant to. Shinobu passed dishes to Gyomei with quiet grace. Muichiro let Mitsuri braid a ribbon into his hair. Even Sanemi grunted once in amusement when Kyojurou nearly choked on a rice cracker.

But eventually, as dusk deepened and lanterns cast gold over the woodgrain, someone said it.

“Tomioka’s not coming, is he?” Iguro murmured, not unkindly.

No one answered right away.

Rengoku, still smiling, said softly, “Perhaps he will arrive when we least expect it.”

Sanemi scoffed, but less bitterly than usual. Shinobu sipped her tea without comment. Mitsuri looked toward the door, hopeful. Muichiro stared into his bowl.

Tengen said nothing.

Not yet.

Because in truth, he didn’t know.

But the seat remained.

Unfilled.

Unforgotten.

And as the garden lights danced and shadows lengthened across the grass, the door creaked softly.

And all eyes turned.

But all it was was the wind.

The sun had fallen low, bathing the Love Estate in an orange haze. Cicadas eased their cries into the evening chorus, while the breeze grew softer, brushing lantern light across the garden’s walls.

Laughter carried from the dining room.

“…And then Rengoku-san yells, ‘YOUR KATANA IS ON FIRE,’ even though he lit it himself!” Mitsuri cackled, nearly spilling her tea.

Shinobu covered her smile behind a hand. “He really is his own arson risk.”

Rengoku grinned, utterly unbothered. “Flame demands flair!”

Suddenly, the door slid open with a sharp swish.

Sanemi Shinazugawa stepped in first, his hair tousled and wild, still carrying the smell of metal and smoke. Behind him came Iguro Obanai, silent and shadowed by Kaburamaru’s lazy coil. Tengen Uzui followed after, a dramatic sigh escaping him as if the walk here had been a quest in itself. Lastly, Muichiro Tokito wandered in, blinking slowly, his gaze lost on the colored lights dangling from the ceiling.

“You’re late,” Mitsuri chirped, but without malice. “We almost started dessert without you!”

“Good,” Sanemi grunted, dropping into a seat. “Means I don’t have to pretend to like the sweets.”

“Rude,” Mitsuri pouted.

Uzui let out a short laugh. “Can’t let the wind blow out all the fun, Shinazugawa.”

Muichiro, meanwhile, stared at the table before sitting cross-legged beside Gyomei’s empty spot. He murmured, “…Did someone draw faces on the rice balls?”

“Yes!” Mitsuri clapped. “Aren’t they cute?”

Iguro’s sharp eyes scanned the group and the room. “Still one seat left, huh…”

Rengoku, ever the optimist, simply nodded. “Tomioka is not present.”

Shinobu didn’t say anything. She merely sipped her tea again.

“Of course he isn’t,” Sanemi scoffed. “Can’t expect the great Giyu Tomioka to socialize like the rest of us.”

Tengen snorted. “He probably figured his gloomy attitude would kill the vibe. And honestly? He’s not wrong.”

“That’s not very nice,” Mitsuri frowned, adjusting her chopsticks. “Maybe he just doesn’t like crowds.”

“He doesn’t like anyone,” Sanemi snapped. “Always acting like we’re beneath him. Staring into space like he’s the only one who’s ever bled.”

“That mask doesn’t help,” Iguro added. “Walking around with that broken fox mask on his face like he’s better off half-covered.”

Shinobu’s brow rose just slightly.

“Interesting critique,” she murmured. “Considering the source.”

Iguro’s gaze snapped toward her, but Mitsuri was already looking at him with a raised brow and a soft, almost pleading expression.

He hesitated.

“…Tch. Fine. That was out of line.” He looked away. “Still. You can’t deny he’s impossible to deal with.”

Sanemi crossed his arms, tone bitter. “Guy’s either mute or moody. Never says thank you. Doesn’t offer to help. Always off doing his own thing.”

Mitsuri fidgeted with her chopsticks. “But… maybe he’s just scared.”

That made Sanemi roll his eyes. “Of us?”

“Maybe,” Mitsuri said softly. “Or maybe scared we’ll find something out he doesn’t want us to know. Everyone’s hiding something.”

The table grew quiet.

Even Tengen’s smile faltered, if only for a second. Muichiro stared at his rice ball, as if hoping it might have answers.

“Still,” Tengen finally said, voice lighter again, “can’t blame him for skipping. This is a celebration. The last thing we need is a walking raincloud.”

Rengoku’s voice boomed gently. “Perhaps that is why he avoids us. If one feels they cast a shadow on joy, they may choose solitude to preserve others’ light.”

Sanemi scoffed but didn’t argue.

“…I just thought,” Mitsuri said, trying not to sound too disappointed, “that having nine Hashira might mean we’d finally feel like… a family.”

Silence again.

Even Iguro didn’t respond this time.

Shinobu looked down into her teacup, the reflection warped and trembling.

Then she said quietly, “Some people have never had one to begin with, Mitsuri. They don’t know how to recognize it, let alone join one.”

The silence after Shinobu’s quiet observation lingered, stretching longer than anyone expected.

Even the clinking of plates stopped.

Mitsuri looked down, then bit her lip. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, twisting the edge of her sleeve before she took in a breath and spoke.

“…Sorry,” she said softly. “I guess I forgot. Not everyone had a family.”

Her voice cracked at the edges. “I… I did. A good one. Mom, Dad, and five little siblings. They loved me. They still do. But…”

Everyone looked at her. Even Sanemi’s arms had uncrossed. Muichiro blinked slowly, listening.

“…They never said anything,” she continued. “But I knew I was a burden. Because I ate so much. Ever since I was little, my body was just… weird. I didn’t even realize it until the doctor said my muscle density was eight times that of a normal girl’s.”

Tengen whistled low. “No wonder you’re so strong.”

Mitsuri didn’t smile at that.

“It wasn’t something to be proud of,” she said. “It meant I needed to eat a mountain just to stay healthy. And we weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich, either. Every meal, my siblings gave up something so I could get enough. I hated that. I hated eating in front of them. I hated knowing I had to.”

Her fingers curled on the tablecloth.

“And I kept thinking… if I found someone, anyone, who could handle that part of me, I’d feel less awful. Like… I wouldn’t be a problem anymore. So I started trying to find someone who could love me. I dated a few guys. And they always said the same thing at first. ‘You’re so cute. You’re sweet. I like you.’”

She paused, her next words shaky.

“…Then they’d look at how much I ate. Or how strong I was. Or how I beat a sumo wrestler once. And they’d call me weird. Unfeminine. Too much. Some even kept dating me just to ease into another relationship they had already started.”

Her hands trembled.

“I wanted to be small. To be dainty. To not scare people off. I joined the Corps hoping… maybe someone would see me as someone worth staying for.”

A long breath escaped her.

“And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t feel like I had to earn my place at the table.”

No one interrupted her. Not even Iguro.

It was Shinobu who spoke next, her voice soft and tinged with amusement.

“Well,” she said, resting her cheek in her palm, “isn’t that funny?”

Mitsuri blinked, startled. “W-What?”

“I always wished I were bigger,” Shinobu said with a light laugh. “Stronger. I envied people like you. And Kyojurou. And even Giyu, honestly.”

“You… you did?” Mitsuri’s eyes widened.

Shinobu nodded. “I was always too small to match demons head-on. So I had to cheat. Use poisons. Trickery. Speed. Smile while hiding a knife.”

She looked down at her cup, swishing the tea gently.

“But even when I won, I felt like I hadn’t earned it. That I wasn’t a real swordswoman, just a clever substitute.”

A quiet hum followed. Tengen leaned back, arms behind his head, face turned up to the lanterns.

“I think we all came here to fill something we were missing,” he said. “Flaws. Scars. Needs.”

“Some came for redemption,” Sanemi muttered, glancing aside.

“Some for a reason to stay alive,” Iguro added quietly.

Muichiro, staring out the window at the moon, murmured almost dreamily:
“…I think I came because I forgot what else I was supposed to do.”

Mitsuri exhaled shakily, but her smile, though trembling, had returned.

“…Maybe that’s what makes us a family anyway,” she whispered. “We’re all broken in our own way. But we still sit at the table.”

Shinobu reached over and gently squeezed her hand.

“Exactly.”

Mitsuri took another bite of her food, slower this time, and smiled through the warmth now filling her, not just from the soup, but from the company. Her eyes landed on the man beside her, bright as ever, flame-patterned haori folding like a banner of warmth across his shoulders.

“…Kyojurou,” she said softly, “thank you.”

He blinked once. “Hm? For what, Kanroji?”

“For being here,” she replied. “And for making a place like this, where people like me can talk, and feel… normal. Seen.”

Kyojurou’s wide smile softened. For a moment, the flame dimmed just enough to show the gentleness behind it.

“My family has always believed in helping our fellow slayers,” he said, voice firm but not booming. “Even my father, before he became… who he is now.”

That earned a few side glances from the table, but he carried on calmly.

“I still remember when he brought home a boy. No older than twelve. Malnourished. Injured. Dirty as anything, but alive. He said he’d found him running from something. Wouldn’t say what.”

Iguro stiffened slightly at his name, shoulders straightening just a bit. His chopsticks paused.

“He never talked much back then,” Kyojurou continued, looking over to him with a nod of respect. “Still doesn’t. But he trained harder than anyone. Ate what we gave him. Slept in the corner of our old dojo. And day by day… became someone who could stand with the best.”

The silence that followed was a different kind now, hushed not by awkwardness, but reverence.

“…Your mother helped, didn’t she?” Mitsuri asked gently.

Kyojurou smiled at the memory. “She had passed by then. But I think she would have. She always said the strong have a duty to protect and uplift those who carry heavy burdens.”

All eyes turned, slowly, toward Iguro.

He didn’t meet their gazes. But after a moment, he gave the barest nod.

“…I was running,” he admitted. His voice was low, gravelly. “From people. From blood. I had nothing. No name. No future. Just… the will to not go back.”

Mitsuri’s eyes softened.

“Rengoku’s family gave me food. A name. And the first night I didn’t have to sleep with one eye open.”
A pause. “I owe them more than I can ever say.”

Kyojurou gave him a nod, not filled with pride, but with a quiet solidarity.

Tengen, watching the exchange with a raised brow, chuckled deeply and leaned back on his elbows.

“Well,” he smirked, “at least I know I’m not the only one Mitsuri told her life story to.”

Mitsuri blinked, caught off guard. “Eh? Wait, I…!”

“You told all of us,” Tengen grinned. “One by one. First week you joined. Every word. You even brought food the second day.”

“She brought cake,” Sanemi muttered, pretending to be annoyed. “Said she wanted to ‘sweeten’ the day.”

“I like baking!” Mitsuri huffed, cheeks puffing slightly. “It helps people feel at ease!”

Shinobu giggled. “Well, it worked.”

Tengen folded his arms behind his head again. “Honestly, your chaos made that week bearable.”

Even Iguro allowed himself a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, an expression so fleeting it could’ve been a trick of the lanternlight.

Muichiro, now lying with his arms behind his head and eyes half-lidded, murmured quietly:
“I like cake.”

That drew an audible laugh from everyone at the table, warm and low, blending with the glow of flickering lights and the chirp of crickets just beyond the estate walls.

The laughter settled, gentle as the evening breeze that whispered through the open screens of the Love Estate. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting soft halos across each face, some worn, some young, some marked with years of war and silence. But tonight, they were lit by something else. Not the flicker of battle, nor the heat of training. Just warmth. Just presence.

Mitsuri leaned back slightly, fingers still curled around her empty bowl. The edges of her smile had softened, but hadn’t faded. This… this was what she had wanted. A table full of voices that didn’t have to raise themselves to be heard. A space where silence didn’t mean distance.

Sanemi poured the last of the tea into his cup, grumbling under his breath, “Next time, we'd better have meat. This was all grass and water.”

“You didn’t have to eat three bowls of it,” Shinobu chimed in, brows raised.

“It was edible. I was hungry. Don’t look too deep into it.”

“And yet,” she said with a wry smile, “you stayed for dessert.”

Sanemi looked away. “I’m not above cake.”

Tengen laughed again, full and genuine this time, no dramatic flourish, just the rough edge of someone who’d dropped his usual performance. “You know what this means, right?” he said, glancing around the table. “We’re going to have to do this again.”

“That’s a big assumption,” Muichiro murmured, his eyes now fully closed. “You think we’ll survive long enough to plan another dinner.”

The table went quiet, not with discomfort, but a quiet acknowledgment. A shared truth.

Then Kyojurou nodded once, decisive and bright. “That’s why we should plan it anyway.”

Iguro sipped slowly from his cup, gaze lost in the steam. “Even if we don’t… someone else will remember this.”

“Exactly,” Mitsuri added, her voice firmer now, steady. “This kind of night, it’s not about pretending nothing hurts. It’s about letting some of it go. Together.”

There was a pause.

Then Sanemi muttered, “You’re all too sentimental.”

“Yet here you are,” Shinobu said, amusement dancing in her eyes.

He scowled but didn’t argue.

Beyond the walls, the crickets chirped louder. A breeze swept through, lifting strands of hair, teasing the ends of haori sleeves. And within the house, time stretched, not hurried, not held too tight. Just… there. Alive.

Somewhere near the back of the estate, a crow landed lightly on a railing, cocked its head, and cawed once before flying off again.

“Training starts early tomorrow,” Tengen said, rising and stretching like a cat in the sun. “And I fully expect all of you to show up late and full of excuses.”

“No promises,” Mitsuri beamed, starting to gather bowls.

Shinobu stood to help, nodding toward the others. “I’ll brew something light for sleep. Don’t stay up too long.”

“You sound like an old woman,” Sanemi grumbled, but his voice lacked heat.

“And you sound like a child who needs supervision.”

“I was supervised. Once. It didn’t end well.”

Laughter stirred again, lighter this time, like smoke. And one by one, they stood, stretched, yawned, and began to drift, some toward their guest rooms, some toward the garden for a final breath of quiet, others into the slow, humming dark of the estate’s corridors.

No one said it aloud, but they all felt it.

The house was full.

Not just with bodies.

With trust. With memory. With echoes of something they hadn’t known they were missing.

Not every war was fought on the battlefield.

Sometimes, the bravest thing a warrior could do… was stay for dessert.

And tonight, they had.

By the time the sun began to set behind the trees, casting soft amber light across the Love Estate’s inner courtyard, the last of the laughter had softened into quiet conversation, the kind that always signaled the end of a gathering.

The table was mostly cleared, empty dishes stacked, napkins folded, and plates scraped clean, save for one small covered plate at the end. The smell of grilled rice and sweet bean paste still clung to the air, blending with the summer wind.

Gyomei had already excused himself, taking the dozing Muichiro back to the Mist Estate on his shoulder like a sack of sleepy fog.

Sanemi was stretching out his shoulder with a small grunt, clearly eager to be done with the whole event.

“Well,” he muttered, cracking his neck, “I say we wrap this up before someone gets sentimental again.”

Obanai stood as well, hands tucked into his sleeves, Kaburamaru loosely curled around his shoulders. He gave the remaining table a long, unreadable glance before muttering, “It was tolerable. Barely.”

Tengen leaned back, arms behind his head again, a smirk playing on his lips. “That’s the highest compliment you’ll get from him. Mark it on the calendar.”

Sanemi’s eyes flicked to the wrapped plate Shinobu was holding. His brow furrowed. “You’re not seriously bringing that to Tomioka, are you?”

Shinobu didn’t flinch. She simply blinked at him, cool as always, her smile unreadable.

“I am.”

“He didn’t even bother showing up,” Obanai added coldly. “Didn’t offer a word. Didn’t lift a finger. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“He didn’t say why he wasn’t coming,” Shinobu replied calmly, adjusting the plate in her hands. “But generosity isn’t about what someone deserves. It’s about what we choose to give.”

That shut them both up just long enough for her to continue, her tone polite but unmistakably pointed.

“And besides,” she added with a mischievous curl of her lips, “leftovers are meant to be shared. That’s why they’re called leftovers, not hoarded-keepsakes-for-the-petty.”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes, but huffed and turned away.

“Do what you want,” he grumbled. “I’m not wasting cake on someone who acts like he’s allergic to people.”

“Maybe he is,” Tengen mused aloud, “social allergies are real.”

Mitsuri chuckled softly at the banter, hands folded over her now-full stomach. She leaned toward Shinobu, eyes wide with admiration. “You’re really kind, Shinobu! I’m glad you saved him some.”

Shinobu tilted her head playfully. “Oh no, I’m terribly petty. But I know how to dress it up in courtesy.”

That drew another laugh, and even Obanai made a soft, dismissive scoff that might’ve been amusement.

As the rest began to disperse, Shinobu gently pulled Mitsuri and Muichiro aside near the front steps of the estate. The lanternlight glinted in her eyes as she adjusted her posture back into her usual calm professionalism.

“Before you two disappear into your new homes,” she said sweetly, “I’ll need you both to stop by the Butterfly Estate tomorrow.”

Mitsuri tilted her head, curious. “Ooh, why?”

“Medical evaluations,” Shinobu replied, tapping her chin with a finger. “Every new Hashira has to have one. We need to start a proper record of your physical and mental condition, just in case any injuries occur in the future.”

Muichiro blinked slowly. “You’re a doctor?”

“I run the Butterfly Estate,” she said, smiling. “Healing is as much a part of fighting demons as swords are. You two are my responsibility now.”

Mitsuri lit up, practically bouncing. “That sounds wonderful! Will there be sweets after the checkup?”

“Only if you survive the needlework,” Shinobu replied with a teasing wink.

Muichiro blinked again. “I don’t mind needles.”

“Well then,” Shinobu laughed lightly, “you’re already my favorite patient.”

She turned toward the path leading out of the Love Estate, holding the covered plate with practiced balance. Her pace was light, but there was purpose in her steps.

Off to the forest path she went, toward the cold and quiet edge of the mountain.

To deliver a piece of cake.

And, perhaps, a small piece of warmth that someone like Giyu Tomioka might never ask for, but still needed.

Sanemi lingered just long enough to watch Shinobu disappear into the trees, the hem of her haori catching the last gold flecks of sunlight as if even dusk wanted to follow her. He clicked his tongue and shoved his hands into his sleeves, turning on his heel.

“Tch. She acts like this is going to be a thing,” he muttered.

Mitsuri tilted her head, her braid swaying slightly as she looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Sanemi didn’t meet her eyes. “These dinners. This whole… sitting around and talking like we’re normal people.” He gestured loosely at the emptied table, now half in shadow. “You really think this is gonna happen every week? Like clockwork?”

Tengen cracked his neck with a flamboyant shrug. “If I have anything to say about it, it will.”

“You would make it a production,” Obanai muttered. “Color-coded seating charts next time?”

“Don’t tempt me, bandage boy.”

Sanemi exhaled sharply through his nose, half-laugh, half-growl. “I’m just saying, it’s easy to play nice for a night. But people like us? We’re not built for this. We’re not meant to be close.”

Mitsuri frowned, lips pressing into a thin line. “Is that what you really believe?”

He glanced at her, something like guilt flickering behind his usual scowl. But then he looked away again.

“I believe in reality. And reality is, we fight. We bleed. And some of us… We don’t come back.”

Obanai was silent, staring down at the last flicker of lanternlight on his teacup.

“...And if Tomioka keeps skipping out,” Sanemi added, voice lower now, “then what’s the point?”

The words hung there. Not accusing. Just tired.

Mitsuri’s voice was quieter than usual when she answered. “Maybe it’s not about everyone showing up.”

They turned to her.

“Maybe it’s about leaving the door open. Just in case someone ever does.”

Even Obanai looked up at that, his mismatched eyes shadowed but still watching her.

Tengen stood, stretching again with a loud sigh. “She’s right. Giyu’s not here now. But maybe next time. Or the time after that.”

“Or never,” Sanemi said flatly.

“Then we save a seat anyway,” Mitsuri said, soft but steady. “Even if it stays empty.”

Sanemi didn’t respond.

The wind rustled the paper lanterns, making them sway and flicker like the last stubborn stars.

Tengen turned toward the path back to the Sound Estate. “This wasn’t about making everyone talk. It was about giving us a night to stop pretending we’re not human.”

He clapped a hand on Sanemi’s shoulder, firm, not playful.

“We’re not weapons, Shinazugawa. We’re people. Tired, cracked, messed up, but still people.”

Sanemi didn’t shrug him off, but his jaw stayed clenched.

“...Once a week, huh?” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Think of it as training,” Tengen said with a grin. “Emotional endurance.”

Obanai gave a quiet, humorless huff. “I’d rather spar with an Upper Moon.”

“Me too!” Mitsuri chirped, then blinked. “Wait… no, I don’t!”

Their laughter drifted softly through the courtyard again, quieter now, but no less sincere. Not wild joy. Just a shared breath.

Sanemi finally turned toward the path, muttering as he walked, “If I show up next week, someone better bring meat.”

Mitsuri beamed. “I’ll make beef stew!”

Behind them, the house stood mostly empty, the plates cleaned, the candles low.

And at the end of the table, still untouched, sat the extra seat.

Waiting.

A.N / Alright, a happier approach, which of course does not really have much of Giyu, besides him being mentioned and the likes. The main thing I wanted to really show was how much more open the other Hashira are compared to Giyu himself. I would probably say in this one, he is even more closed off. I remember it saying he had an openness score of like 30%, well, in my own story here, he’s more like 25% open. Not entirely less, but still enough to be significantly lower than Muichioro, rather than slightly now. The next chapter will likely focus on the first time Giyu is actually brought to a Hashira Dinner, or it will be related to the mission from the previous Hashira Meeting they had with Kagaya. Anyways, see you soon!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 4:

Homesick by Antent

The mountain path narrowed as Shinobu climbed higher, the soles of her sandals whispering over damp stone and fallen pine needles. The light had dimmed considerably since she left the Love Estate, amber dusk now faded into the indigo hush of early night, with only the moon’s soft glow threading through the cedar boughs above.

A hush had settled over the forest. Even the cicadas seemed to quiet as she neared the crest of the hill, where Giyu Tomioka’s estate sat tucked between thick trees and veils of drifting fog.

There were no paper lanterns hanging by the eaves. No chime on the door to stir with the breeze. Not even a candle in the window.

The house stood there, still and perfectly silent, like it was part of the landscape itself, forgotten and untouched.

Shinobu paused at the edge of the overgrown walkway, the small cloth-covered plate steady in her hands. Her eyes flicked toward the entrance.

“…He’s not home?” she asked aloud, though she’d known it the moment she stepped into the clearing.

It wasn’t surprising. Tomioka was elusive at the best of times, more myth than man even among the Hashira. He was the kind of person who disappeared between breaths, there one moment, gone the next. Perhaps he’d left for a patrol without notice. Or maybe he’d wandered off again, into the trees or the river, swallowed by solitude like always.

She lingered on the threshold, considering. She could leave the plate on the wooden stoop, tucked in the corner away from the dew and wild creatures. But then she remembered…

The key.

A small, unassuming thing, kept in the hidden seam of her inner sleeve, wrapped in lavender silk. Given to her by Kagaya-sama himself, years ago, when Giyu had stopped answering his door to anyone, and Shinobu had made it her mission to check on him all the same.

With a delicate sigh, she slid the key into the lock. The door opened with the softest click, followed by a long, slow creak as she pushed it inward.

Immediately, a strange hush enveloped her.

Not silence, exactly, but a kind of stillness that pressed against the skin. Like the house was holding its breath.

She stepped inside.

“…Oh.”

The first thing that struck her wasn’t the lack of sound, but the absence of presence. The house was not abandoned, not neglected, no, it was meticulously kept. Too meticulously. The genkan was spotless. A pair of sandals aligned with surgical precision. Not a single leaf or scuff mark marred the floor.

The air smelled faintly of cedar and damp straw. Clean. Neutral. Empty.

She moved deeper into the home, her steps careful, unwilling to break the uncanny quiet. The rooms were all in perfect order, so much so that it felt staged, like a display home in a village no one lived in anymore.

The kitchen, when she found it, was small but tidy. One narrow countertop. A single rice cooker, unplugged. A few neatly arranged dishes in a rack, bone-dry. A cup, washed and upside-down. The simplicity was oppressive.

Shinobu set the plate down gently on the table, removing the cloth covering with the delicacy of someone offering an offering at a shrine.

For a long moment, she stood there. Her hands were folded loosely before her.

The silence deepened. And then curiosity stirred.

She opened a few drawers. A pantry shelf. Nothing but essentials. A sealed bag of rice. Miso paste. A bottle of soy sauce. Dried seaweed. No tea leaves. No fruit. No sweets. No indulgences. Not even pepper.

She moved to the adjoining rooms, each one as sterile as the last.

The sleeping room contained a futon, rolled and stacked with perfect symmetry. A single pillow. No blanket in sight.

His uniform, folded on a lacquered chest. Not a crease out of place. “Does he seriously have more versions of those strange patterned haori?” She asked herself in her mind, rhetorically.

The sword that stood beside it was clean, utilitarian. No charms, no inscriptions. Not even a name tag. Just the blade.

Shinobu let out a long, quiet breath and leaned against the doorway.

“It’s like a ghost lives here,” she murmured. “Everything’s clean… but no one’s really living in it.”

She glanced back toward the main room. No books. No trinkets. No photos. Not even the faint smell of incense or oils.

It was as though the entire estate had been carefully scrubbed of emotion. Of personality. Of memory.

She had seen mourning homes before, ones preserved like shrines to people long gone. But this wasn’t that. It was worse.

This was a home untouched by the very idea of connection.

And somehow, that was sadder.

With a quiet sigh, Shinobu walked back to the table. She unwrapped a single pair of wooden chopsticks from the cloth bundle she'd brought with the cake and placed them beside the plate. Then, almost as an afterthought, she pulled a slip of paper from her sleeve and wrote a few words in elegant calligraphy:

"We saved you a piece. I hope you like sweet things. – Shinobu"

She left it tucked neatly under the edge of the plate.

Then she turned, stepping silently back toward the door.

Outside, the fog had thickened. The trees loomed like sentinels in the moonlight, their branches whispering in a language older than words.

Shinobu paused at the threshold and glanced back once more into the house, her eyes soft with something unreadable.

She said nothing.

She just closed the door behind her.

And the mountain estate returned to silence.

The descent down the mountain was slower.

Shinobu’s pace had lost its rhythm, her steps dragging slightly as she weaved through the mist-drenched trees. The forest was quiet, too quiet. And for once, she didn’t enjoy it. The silence clung to her shoulders like damp linen.

She had been inside many homes over the years. Some are bursting with life and laughter. Others mourn in stillness. But none had ever felt quite like the Water Estate.

It wasn’t empty in the way that meant someone had left.

It was empty in the way that meant no one had ever truly been there.

That realization had settled uneasily in her chest the moment she’d stepped over the threshold. The meticulous tidiness. The pristine arrangements. The overwhelming quiet.

It wasn’t order born of care, it was distance. A way to exist without ever truly being seen.

Shinobu furrowed her brows slightly, gaze cast toward the uneven stones of the mountain trail.

How could anyone live like that?

Even she, someone who wore her smiles like armor, someone who kept her own heart behind latticed doors, had color in her walls, warmth in her halls. A vase of lilies in the corner. Tea in the cupboard. She’d allowed the world in, at least a little.

But Giyu…

That house was a reflection of someone who had long stopped believing he deserved to take up space. Someone who lived with discipline, but not desire. Who sustained himself, but didn’t nourish. Who breathed, but barely let the air touch his ribs.

She hadn’t even seen a kettle.

What kind of person doesn’t keep a kettle?

The thought struck her as oddly intimate. Sad.

There was something in that quiet home that unsettled her more than any demon ever could. Because it wasn’t fear that filled the rooms, it was absence. A life so tightly controlled it had no room for mess. For joy. For mourning. For companionship.

She slowed to a stop beneath the gnarled arms of a twisted pine tree.

“Do you even like anything, Giyu?” she whispered aloud, as if he might answer from the mist.

Her voice vanished into the forest.

She wasn’t angry. Not really. But she wasn’t untouched either.

Shinobu had tried, in her own quiet ways, to reach him. With barbed words sometimes. With presence, other times. But seeing the way he lived now… it wasn’t coldness. It was self-erasure. The kind of isolation that wasn’t accidental, but ritualized. A discipline. A punishment.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her haori, nails catching slightly on a thread in the fabric.

She wondered, not for the first time, if the silence he surrounded himself with was the only thing that ever made sense to him.

The moonlight flickered above as the clouds shifted. Somewhere far off, a nightingale sang.

And still, the quiet pressed on.

Shinobu turned her face toward the trail again. She still had a long way to walk.

But her thoughts stayed behind. Drifting like mist around the house that didn’t hum with life. That didn’t smell of tea or incense or anything at all.

A house with no shadow but its owner’s silence.

And a cake was waiting at the table for someone who might never come home hungry.

The air grew softer as Shinobu descended the last ridge, the dense fog beginning to lift as the trees thinned. The scent of wisteria drifted faintly on the breeze, sweet, familiar, grounding. Somewhere ahead, the lanterns of the Love Estate flickered like distant stars between the treetops.

She hadn’t realized how much tension she carried until she reached the outer gate.

Warm light spilled from the windows. Laughter echoed faintly, followed by the unmistakable sound of a broom clattering against stone.

Ah… she’s still awake.

Shinobu slipped through the side entrance with practiced quiet, her footsteps soundless as dew. The gardens were already swept, the paths cleared of flower petals and fallen needles. As she neared the main courtyard, a voice rose up, bubbly and earnest, unmistakably Mitsuri.

“Oh! Shinobu!”

Mitsuri stood at the edge of the veranda, cheeks flushed, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She had a washcloth draped over one arm and a basket of folded linens at her feet.

“You made it back safely! I was wondering if you’d stopped somewhere along the way.”

“I did,” Shinobu replied softly, her voice carrying just enough. “I dropped off the cake. At the Water Estate.”

Mitsuri’s expression brightened, then softened.

“You went all the way up there by yourself?” she asked, walking forward to meet her. “That’s so thoughtful of you. Was he home?”

Shinobu shook her head faintly. “No. But I let myself in. Left it with a note.”

Mitsuri nodded, brushing a curl of hair behind her ear. “He’ll appreciate that, I think. Even if he doesn’t say it.”

Shinobu’s smile was faint, almost unseen. “One can hope.”

She glanced toward the house, where the paper doors were still half-open and the scent of warm towels and wisteria still hung in the air. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, the night’s cold beginning to bite through her sleeves now that she’d stopped walking.

“I thought I’d warm up here for a while… before returning to the Butterfly Estate.”

“Of course! Come in, come in, it’s clean now, I promise!”

Mitsuri turned with a sheepish grin, ushering her inside. Shinobu stepped over the threshold and paused when she caught sight of the figure kneeling in the far corner, carefully organizing a stack of wooden trays.

“…Iguro-san?”

Obanai looked up from where he knelt, the coils of Kaburamaru barely visible beneath the edge of his haori. His expression was impassive as always, but his eyes flicked toward Mitsuri briefly, as if to say, "You told her, didn’t you?"

Shinobu blinked, taken aback. “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”

“He stayed behind to help me clean,” Mitsuri said quickly, almost too quickly. “Everyone else left after dinner, but Iguro-kun said he didn’t mind staying a little longer.”

Shinobu looked between the two of them, her gaze sharp but not unkind. Obanai didn’t flinch under it; he simply returned to stacking the trays, deliberate and unbothered.

“…I see.”

There was a beat of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just still. Grounded.

“I suppose you’re the only one who volunteered to scrub out the stove, then?” Shinobu asked, her voice dry with a touch of mischief.

“No,” Obanai replied, not missing a beat. “She insisted on doing that part herself.”

“I did!” Mitsuri chimed in, puffing her cheeks. “He tried to help, but I made him stay away. That oven has it out for anyone who isn’t me.”

Shinobu chuckled under her breath and moved toward the inner sitting room, where cushions were laid out and a small pot of tea still steamed faintly on a lacquered tray. She sat down with a sigh and leaned back on one hand.

The three of them settled into a kind of quiet that wasn’t tense or empty, but earned. Comfortable. The kind that could only grow from shared meals and scrubbed floors, from small kindnesses and long silences that didn’t need to be filled.

The warmth of the Love Estate gathered gently around them, like steam rising from tea.

And for a little while longer, no one rushed to leave.

The stars had already taken their places by the time Shinobu rose from her seat.

The teapot was empty now, its warmth long faded, but the calm it had fostered lingered in the room like a soft aftertaste. Mitsuri had dozed off for a moment against a folded blanket, her head resting near a basket of freshly laundered hand towels. Iguro remained near the entrance, back straight, gaze lowered, not out of discomfort, but quiet watchfulness. Kaburamaru coiled lazily around his shoulders, seemingly asleep as well.

Shinobu stretched gently, her limbs slow to obey after the day’s weight. Her sword still sat propped near the door, untouched but not forgotten.

“I should be going,” she murmured.

Iguro nodded once in acknowledgment.

Mitsuri stirred at the sound, blinking up at her with drowsy warmth. “Oh… heading back now?”

Shinobu offered a small smile. “Yes. I have to prepare in the morning. Patrol tonight, mission tomorrow.”

“Be careful,” Mitsuri said quickly, sitting up straighter. “If you get tired, rest, okay? Even for a bit. Just find somewhere with trees and maybe a river nearby. That always helps me.”

Shinobu gave a soft laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She moved to collect her things, tightening the strap across her shoulder and giving her haori a brisk shake. The weight settled across her back like a second skin, familiar and fitted to purpose.

Outside, the night had cooled further. Crickets chirped in patient rhythm. The path ahead shimmered faintly in moonlight, a trail of silver guiding her through the thinning fog.

Before stepping out, she turned to glance over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the warmth. And the tea.”

Obanai inclined his head just slightly, and Mitsuri gave a sleepy little wave, her smile bright even through the haze of fatigue.

Shinobu stepped into the night.

The path from the Love Estate to the Butterfly Estate was less steep, winding gently through groves of cedar and the occasional field of nightflowers. The road felt different now, still solitary, yes, but not hollow.

The echo of shared company lingered in her steps. It didn’t fight the silence. It softened it.

By the time the Butterfly Estate came into view, her mind had already shifted, calm and ready. Her blade would be cleaned, her uniform adjusted. Salves checked, vials restocked, sandals placed by the door in quiet ritual.

This was her rhythm.

But as she entered the estate’s gates and passed beneath the familiar wisteria trellises, she paused for a moment, tilting her face to the sky.

The stars were the same ones above the Water Estate. The same ones above them all.

But somehow, they felt a little less distant tonight.

Alleph by Gasaffelstein

The afternoon sun filtered through the paper screens of the Butterfly Estate, casting pale, dappled patterns across the room as Shinobu adjusted the folds of her uniform sleeves. A small clipboard rested in her lap, medical ink already staining the tip of her brush.

“Breathe in,” she said gently.

Mitsuri complied, her cheeks puffed adorably as Shinobu pressed the stethoscope to her back, listening intently. The faint thud of a healthy heart, the rush of lungs expanding, everything within normal ranges, as expected. Mitsuri’s physical resilience was impressive, even for a Hashira.

“Perfect,” Shinobu murmured, scribbling a few notes. “You’ve maintained excellent lung capacity. No sign of arrhythmia or nerve inflammation. Keep up your diet and breathing drills.”

Mitsuri beamed, swinging her feet idly from the exam bench. “I’ve been eating lots of protein! And stretching more, too, just like you said.”

Shinobu offered a small smile and turned toward the next file, eyes scanning down the checklist as Muichiro stepped into the room. He moved like mist, light and quiet, almost detached.

It was always a bit like examining a ghost.

Still, Muichiro sat obediently, letting her check his reflexes and vision, even responding to her questions with quiet nods. Despite his clouded demeanor, his vitals were clear, well-maintained. Shinobu documented everything precisely: healing rate, stamina, slight malnourishment, and sensitivity to cold exposure.

Once Muichiro left with a nod of thanks, she gathered the two new files into her arms.

Two more down. Building the archive. Slowly but surely, she was constructing something she believed had been missing from the Corps for too long: preventative care. Monitoring. A history for each of them.

She reached to slide the folders into their new place on the growing shelf beside the others, Gyomei, Sanemi, Tengen, Rengoku, Tokito, Kanroji, Iguro, Shinobu herself…

Her fingers paused. Was she missing someone?

Yes, she was…

Wait... Perhaps she glossed over it…

Where was…

Her brow creased, and she stepped back toward the central drawer. She opened it, thumbing through the indexed tabs.

Tomioka. T… T… No folder.

She frowned.

That was impossible. She knew she’d patched him up before. She’d personally treated lacerations on his arm during a skirmish Giyu had with demons last winter. Administered anti-inflammatory injections after a demon attack in the Northern Pass. There had to be something.

She opened another drawer. Checked the older archives.

Nothing.

Her mind moved fast now, sharp and surgical.

Even the Kakushi were required to submit updates when a Hashira returned from a mission. Basic logs, vital signs, and psychological flags. It was protocol. And Shinobu was meticulous; nothing slipped past her without reason.

And yet…

She flipped open the file list again. Gyomei was there… extensive despite his reticence.

Sanemi’s? Brutally honest in its documentation.

Even Tengen’s pages were flamboyantly annotated.

Even Iguro had some stuff…

But Giyu?

It was like he had never bled. Never tired. Never lived.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

He always arrived late to check-ins. Always with clean sleeves and unsmudged haori. The only signs of battle were in the stiffness of his shoulders, the faraway look in his eyes, the silence that settled over him like a second skin.

She sat back on her heels.

“…He’s never submitted a single self-report,” she murmured aloud.

Even Kagaya-sama’s own physicians hadn’t filed anything on him, beyond a single entry years ago that only stated: “present.”

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the ridges.

It wasn’t just an oversight.

It was careful. Intentional. Sustained.

As if someone, or perhaps Giyu himself, had made sure that whatever scars he carried, they remained unseen.

And in this job, unseen wounds were the most dangerous.

“…Just what are you hiding, Tomioka-san?” she whispered again, more to herself than to the room.

The clipboard rested on her knees, half-filled, but suddenly unbearably light.

And for the first time in years, Shinobu felt a curiosity she couldn’t explain away with logic.

Not as a doctor. Not as a comrade. But as someone who had stared into grief, and now wondered what it looked like when left to rot in silence.

The sun had shifted overhead by now, its light dimmer, casting longer shadows across the Butterfly Mansion’s quiet halls. Shinobu sat still among open scrolls and reports, the scent of ink and aged paper wafting around her like old secrets.

Each file was placed before her in a careful grid. Like patients on an examination table, she dissected their words, hunting for patterns.

She began reading aloud, not to anyone, but to ground her swirling thoughts.

Gyomei Himejima:
"Scar across the forehead. Blind in both eyes due to a childhood fever. Physically robust, likely the strongest among the Hashira. Mental notes: extreme guilt, emotionally sensitive when asked about communal upbringing. Avoids conflict unless necessary. Prone to prolonged prayer and isolation."

She closed it gently. “Makes sense for his behavior…”

Tengen Uzui:
"Several scars across the arms and upper torso. No major internal injuries. Hearing is hyper-attuned, can perceive vibration through materials. Former shinobi lineage. Mentally shows high alertness and sensory overload patterns. Background notes: familial trauma regarding his brothers."

She hummed softly. “More expressive than he lets on.”

Kyojurou Rengoku:
“Robust health. Slight auditory processing issues, possibly congenital, not enough to impair combat. Extremely stable emotionally, but mental report notes acute empathy. Sensitive to abusive dynamics; background hints at history with paternal neglect.”

Her fingers paused here. She looked at the margins where a note read: “Frequently requests to help younger Corps members. Protective instinct high.”

“Of course…”

Muichiro Tokito:
"Underdeveloped for age, typical for 13. Memory instability. Mild disassociation episodes. Physically healthy, though experiences occasional disorientation. Emotionally blank at times but shows flashes of intensity."

“Still forming, like mist trying to become rain.”

Obanai Iguro:
"Heterochromia. Left eye partially blind trauma from an unknown source. Malnourished. A restrictive diet, possibly an eating disorder. Refuses facial examination; permitted due to mental distress. Psychological note: extreme unease around women; possible gynophobia. Displays acute focus and strict discipline as coping mechanisms."

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. “So many walls. Even thicker than mine.”

Mitsuri Kanroji:
"Unnaturally high muscle density, eight times standard human. Physically healthy, tall, agile. Emotionally expressive. Background: grew up with a loving family, but carries internalized guilt over being ‘too much.’ Seeks acceptance and emotional connection."

“At least she speaks her truth.”

Sanemi Shinazugawa:
“Multiple scarring across chest, arms, and face. Some wounds never fully close. Heart rate is elevated even during rest. Easily triggered into confrontation, low impulse control. Mental note: anger often used as a shield; unresolved emotional tension.”

Shinobu tapped her finger.

“At least I can predict him.”

Shinobu Kocho:
She glanced at her own file, mildly amused.

"Height: short. Strength: insufficient to decapitate demons, relies on poisons. Body healthy, reflexes quick. Emotional disposition: controlled, but prone to deep internalized anger. Grieving process incomplete."

She smirked slightly. “Hmm. Fair enough.”

She finally reached the last scroll in her spread.

Giyu Tomioka
But as she unrolled it, her hands went still.

Blank.

No ink. No age, no injuries, no blood type. Not even a name header, just the outer wrap labeled “Tomioka, G.” in standard Kakushi script. Inside? Pure nothing.

No handwriting. No stamps. No evaluation. Not even an ink smudge.

Shinobu stared at it, as if waiting for words to appear.

“…Nothing.”

Her hand rested lightly over the scroll, then clenched.

“Not forgotten,” she whispered. “Erased.”

She stared at the blank scroll for a long moment, as if willing ink to rise up from the parchment on its own.

Shinobu Kocho did not believe in mysteries without effort. There were always causes. Even ghosts left traces if you knew where to look.

Her fingers moved before her thoughts did, sorting, collecting, and retrieving the other Kakushi assignment ledgers from a side drawer. If Giyu’s record was missing, someone had to have been responsible for it.

The Kakushi were meticulous. They had to be. Assigned to each Hashira was a rotation of aides, scouts, field medics, and scribes. She had compiled those rotation logs herself more than once when Kanae was still alive.

Page after page, she sifted through the lists, tracing names and columns with the edge of her nail.

Gyomei: consistent handlers, many repeats.

Sanemi: frequent turnover, but each is still noted.

Tengen: rare check-ins, but documentation intact.

Even Muichiro, young as he was, had a trail.

Her eyes narrowed as she reached Giyu’s line.

Two early entries. Both scratched out.

Then a single name that repeated, quietly, consistently, over a span of nearly four years.

Tadashi.

There it was.

“Tadashi,” she whispered aloud, tasting the familiarity of it.

Not flashy. Not social. But she remembered him now, short, serious, never speaking unless spoken to. Always trailing just behind Giyu at missions, eyes down, brush in hand. He was the kind of Kakushi who never drew attention, because he never made mistakes.

And yet… nothing of his work remained.

Her chest tightened with something between unease and fury.

If she was going to get answers, it would begin with him.

She rose, scroll still in hand.

Tomorrow, she would begin asking questions.

And this time, she would not be ignored.

It began with a name.

Shinobu wasted no time after reviewing the blank record. Still in her Butterfly Estate’s administrative wing, she dismissed the Kakushi at her side, her tone a little too curt.

“There’s supposed to be a Kakushi who managed Giyu Tomioka’s records. Do any of you know who it was?”

Three Kakushi exchanged glances. One stepped forward, hesitating. “I believe… his handler was someone named Tadashi.”

“Tadashi?” she echoed, already scribbling it down. “Where is he now?”

The Kakushi swallowed nervously. “Dead. A month ago.”

Shinobu froze. The scratch of her brush halted.

“How?”

The air grew uncomfortably still. The Kakushi shifted. “…He died during a demon attack. It was a scouting mission with some lower-rank slayers. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the frontlines.”

“And yet?”

“One of the slayers panicked. They… used Tadashi as a shield. He took the hit and bled out before help arrived.”

Shinobu’s pen fell softly into the inkwell.

Tadashi. She remembered him as vaguely timid but diligent. He used to shadow Giyu often, especially in the early years. Quiet, never disruptive, always taking notes with precise strokes. Forgettable, but only because he did his job so well.

That meant there had been records.

“What happened to his work?” she asked quietly. “His scrolls, files, transcriptions?”

Another pause. “We assumed it was all handed in after the death report was submitted. But no one ever saw anything specific from Tadashi’s kit. Some said it was destroyed during the fight. Others claimed it was lost when his belongings were retrieved too late. The truth is… no one checked.”

No one checked.

That struck Shinobu in a way nothing else had.

“Thank you,” she said coolly, though her voice had gone a degree sharper. She turned back toward the open files on her desk. The names, the profiles, the ink. All so meticulously tracked. So carefully accounted for.

Except one.

Later, back in her private study, Shinobu cross-referenced Hashira appointment dates.

Giyu had joined barely two months after Kanae, her beloved sister. Meaning he had been a Pillar longer than Sanemi, longer than herself, Kyojurou, Mitsuri, Muichiro, and Iguro.

Only Gyomei and Tengen had a longer tenure.

“That should mean there’s a decade of scrolls. Minimum. From patrols, battles, medication, and internal evaluations. Even a scratch is logged when it comes from a demon.”

She sat back, clutching her arms.

And yet, nothing. Not one record. Not one log.

If it were laziness, it wouldn’t persist this long.

If it were incompetence, someone would’ve caught it.

But this, this smelled of erasure.

Intentional silence.

And it wasn’t just that Giyu’s files were blank; it was that no one even noticed they were missing.

Her eyes narrowed as she remembered how even Kagaya-sama spoke of Giyu: politely, distantly, and always with careful language. As if… even he wasn’t sure what to say. Or what Giyu was.

Even in conversations between the Hashira, Sanemi mocked him. Iguro insulted him. Tengen laughed him off. Mitsuri pitied him. Kyojurou always dodged the subject. And Gyomei… rarely mentioned him at all.

“Like they all knew there was something wrong. Just not what.”

And Shinobu, for the first time, felt that quiet unease settle along her shoulders.

Giyu Tomioka had lived and bled among them for years.

But somehow… he had no past.

She stood suddenly, the papers rustling behind her like startled wings. One of the Kakushi looked in, surprised by the motion.

“Kocho-sama?”

“I’m going out,” she said quickly. “Send word to the Ubuyashiki Estate if anything urgent arises.”

She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Her haori whispered against the walls as she swept down the hall, sandals tapping out a rhythm faster than her thoughts could fully keep up.

Outside, dusk had begun to stain the sky purple. Cicadas screamed in the trees, loud and directionless.

But Shinobu’s thoughts were darker still.

No records, no traces, no files…

She had stitched Giyu’s wounds before. Cleaned his bruises. Tended to a dislocated shoulder once when he’d stumbled back after a mission, eyes dull and lips bloodied. She remembered the shape of the scar near his ribs, the one he got after the fight in the Eastern province. She remembered pressing gauze against it while he stared out the window and said nothing.

There was a history. She had seen it with her own eyes. So why didn’t the Corps remember?

What kind of man can bleed, scar, and cry, and yet leave no record?

She knew only one answer.

A man who was never supposed to exist.

The path she took wasn’t toward any patient room or herb garden. It led instead to the Kakushi archives, a shadowed annex near the Corps training grounds. Most didn’t even know it had a basement.

Shinobu did.

She moved past the storage shelves of old uniforms and demon-tracking logs, brushing aside a moth-eaten curtain to reveal the trapdoor beneath.

With a grunt, she lifted it.

The air below was stale. Dust drifted in lazy spirals as she descended the creaking wooden steps, lantern in hand. Rows upon rows of filing drawers and scroll racks greeted her. The dead weight of thousands of names.

She lit the room’s lone paper lamp and set to work.

An hour passed. Then another.

She searched by date, by region, by demon type, by squad. Anything to triangulate Tadashi’s logs? Anything that might contain the missing pieces.

There were reports by his contemporaries. Names she half-remembered. Suzume. Hayate. Moro. They had logged records for other Hashira with diligence.

But Tadashi?

A ghost. Only three documents bore his name. One was a supplies checklist. Another incident report for a broken wheel during a transport run. The third was a disciplinary citation, for skipping a weekly debrief in Giyu’s third year as a Hashira.

That was it.

No combat records. No medical files. Not even receipts for ink or scroll paper.

It was impossible. It had to be.

Shinobu clenched her fist against the filing drawer.

“Even the ink he used is gone…”

She stood back, chest tight. Tadashi hadn’t just died, he’d been erased. And with him, the only firsthand record of Giyu Tomioka’s past decade.

A silence spread in her chest like frost.

She stared up at the shelves, once her faith, her tools, her way of knowing the world, and found them suddenly fragile. Empty in ways she hadn’t thought possible.

“Who are you, Tomioka-san?”

By the time she returned to the Butterfly Mansion, the moon was high.

She paused at the front gate, eyes drifting across the stillness of the compound. A Kakushi sweeping the path bowed and quickly stepped aside.

She nodded back, then moved quietly past the sleeping dorms, up to her study, and locked the door behind her.

There, under the lamp’s tired glow, she unrolled a fresh scroll. Her handwriting was sharp, deliberate.

Unofficial Inquiry – Tomioka, G.

1. No medical records.
2. Kakushi handler (Tadashi) deceased.
3. Records allegedly lost.
4. Tadashi’s records have gone from the archive.
5. Giyu’s wounds existed. Proof via personal memory.
6. No known residence. Does not socialize. Avoids medical check-ins.
7. No birth records. No family name listed beyond “Tomioka.”
8. No records of the context of visible injuries from personal memory. No timeline of Demon Slayer's career, besides becoming a Hashira at age 16.
9. Close ties to Ubuyashiki-sama, though he never speaks of it.
10. No known emotional connections. Doesn’t even drink tea.

She underlined the last point twice.

Then, after a pause, she added one more line.

11. No one notices he’s missing… until he speaks.

That was the most disturbing thing of all.

If Giyu were to disappear tomorrow, Shinobu realized, not much would change. Missions would still go on. The Hashira would still meet. The crows would still deliver orders.

No one would even realize it, not for days. Maybe weeks.

Not because they didn’t care, but because Giyu had made himself a ghost long before anything else could.

A body that moved. A blade that cut. A name on paper, but no soul anyone could touch.

Not even her.

She looked up, distant thunder rumbling in the far hills.

This wasn’t just about records anymore.

Something had been done to him.

And Shinobu Kocho was going to find out what.

A.N / And here we go! A major turning point, with Shinobu obviously being the first one to notice something strange, which is the lack of medical records and files relating to Giyu. This is the result of a part of Giyu’s character that will eventually be revealed with time. For now, it will be a place of difficulty for many of the Hashira as they come to try and learn more about Giyu. I am trying to keep Giyu as canon as possible, while also adding more onto him, which again, will be explained as you read more of the story. Just bear with me. It’s something I’m experimenting with, especially the actual pacing and tempo of this story, but I want to get it right. Anyways, we’ll have another dinner meeting with the Hashira’s, and soon maybe have Giyu be “persuaded” to come! It always takes time!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 5:

Young and Beautiful by Lena Del Ray

Shinobu exhaled as the thwick of Kanao’s blade met her own. The girl had gotten sharper, more precise, more fluid. There was a slight correction needed in her stance, and Shinobu gently nudged Kanao’s elbow with her finger.

“Your center of gravity shifts when you overcommit. Stay relaxed, let your blade guide you.”

Kanao nodded, her eyes never leaving Shinobu’s.

It was peaceful, training like this. And for a time, Shinobu let herself forget about Giyu, about Tadashi’s missing scrolls, about the hollow quiet she’d felt wandering that empty estate. But it always returned, like a splinter at the edge of her thoughts.

Later that evening, as she prepared to retire, a letter arrived, delivered by crow, sealed flamboyantly in gold ink and glittering ribbon.

“To the dazzling Doctor of Death,” it read.

Shinobu rolled her eyes fondly. Tengen.

Evening, The Sound Estate

It was louder than the last gathering, naturally. Tengen’s estate practically sang with music, the scent of grilled meat and spiced vegetables wafting through the garden. His wives were fluttering about, happily managing dishes and seating. Lanterns danced on windblown strings overhead.

Mitsuri was already there, chatting excitedly with Muichiro, who seemed surprisingly invested in a sweet potato she handed him.

Sanemi leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed. Iguro sat quietly next to him, petting Kaburamaru, while Gyomei knelt in the corner of the garden, offering a silent prayer.

Tengen greeted Shinobu with his usual flair. “Shinobu-ko! You grace us with your radiant presence!”

“Tengen,” she greeted with a graceful smile. “This is… surprisingly tasteful.”

He gave her a wink. “Credit my wives.”

She took her seat, slipping effortlessly into the warm, noisy rhythm of the evening.

But not long after, she looked around.

“…Where’s Giyu?”

The noise dulled for a beat.

Tengen scratched his head. “Didn’t invite him.”

“You didn’t…?”

“He’s never shown before, so why waste parchment?” he shrugged, unbothered. “Besides, this was mostly Mitsuri’s idea.”

Mitsuri perked up, mouth full of steamed dumpling. “Mmh, I just said! If we’re gonna be comrades, we should know each other better! No one knows who might die next… so at least make memories while we can!”

Sanemi scoffed. “That’s awfully sentimental.”

“I agree,” Iguro muttered.

Shinobu stirred her tea slowly. “Even so… she’s right.”

Tengen leaned back. “Exactly. Weekly dinner. Rotate estates. Come if you want, don’t if you don’t.”

Shinobu glanced down at her cup, then to the empty seat at the far end of the table, one they hadn’t bothered to set for Giyu.

She smiled faintly to herself.

“Next time, I’ll drag him here myself.”

The night moved on in bursts of laughter and clattering plates. Shinobu let herself drift between conversations, listening to Mitsuri enthuse over her latest recipe, to Sanemi’s begrudging grunts when asked about his sword polish, to Kyojurou’s booming agreement about “the necessity of proper tableware for morale.”

But in the back of her mind, she kept circling back to that empty seat.

She had tried not to glance at it more than once, but her eyes betrayed her, drawn like a moth to a lantern that wasn’t lit.

Next time, I’ll drag him here myself… she had said. It sounded light, almost teasing when she spoke it. But now, she wasn’t sure why she’d felt the need to say it at all.

Her gaze flicked toward Tengen’s wives as they refilled drinks with effortless grace. The rhythm of their movements kept the air warm and moving, like a tide. This was the kind of night a person should remember, the kind you wanted people to remember you being part of.

If Giyu had been here, would he have sat in silence the whole evening? Or… would someone have drawn something out of him?

Shinobu almost smiled at the thought, then stopped herself. That was unlikely.

A hand tapped the table near her, drawing her attention. Tengen was leaning forward, eyes glinting with the sort of energy that meant he was about to stir the pot.

And just like that, the warmth in the air took on a different weight.

The laughter from earlier began to simmer down. As bowls emptied and plates were scraped clean, the rhythm of the gathering shifted, softer, quieter, more thoughtful. The night air had a chill to it now, the kind that made you reflect.

Tengen leaned back, swirling a cup of warm sake in his hand. His golden eyes flickered with an unusual sincerity.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s make this interesting.”

The others turned their attention to him.

“Tell me, what was the hardest thing you faced... becoming a Hashira?”

There was a pause.

Then Sanemi scoffed. “Living off scraps and mud.”

They looked toward him.

“I didn’t know what the hell a Demon Slayer even was,” he muttered. “Just a sword, my body, and a lot of rage. I had no trainer. No breathing forms. Just hunted anything that moved wrong until I found someone who knew what I was doing… and didn’t put a knife in my back.”

Shinobu glanced down, expression unreadable. Mitsuri looked stricken.

Kyojurou was next. He smiled, but it was thinner than usual. “Lower Moon Two,” he said. “Thunderclap demon. Screamed with every movement. It could paralyze you just by shrieking. I couldn’t even get close.”

“What did you do?” Muichiro asked.

Kyojurou’s smile turned wry. “I shattered my eardrums with a pressure clap to dull the noise. Took weeks before I could hear properly again.”

Sanemi blinked. “…You're insane.”

Tengen grinned. “Flamboyant, actually.”

Gyomei’s hands folded quietly, prayer beads coiling between his fingers. “Mine was a demon made of glass,” he said slowly. “It bent light. Couldn’t see it. Couldn’t hear it. I had to listen to the wind through broken windows to know where it stood. I lost… many in the orphanage that night.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

Iguro broke it, voice tight. “Mine was a demon with mouths inside mouths. It whispered truths. Things you didn’t want to hear. I thought it was just noise until it began finishing my sentences. I nearly…” he stopped, fingers tightening over Kaburamaru. “It got too close.”

Shinobu nodded, her expression still. “Mine was one that shed skin like a cicada. Every time I thought I’d killed it, it emerged again bigger. Smarter. It tricked me into killing its last host, a young girl. I didn’t realize until I saw her family weeping over her corpse.”

Mitsuri’s eyes welled up. “That’s horrible…”

Muichiro looked between them all, chewing his sweet potato slowly. “I don’t remember,” he said plainly.

“That’s fine,” Kyojurou said, smiling gently. “You’re still here.”

“And what about you, Tengen?” Shinobu asked, narrowing her eyes. “Since this was your question.”

Tengen chuckled. “A demon that copied sound. My breathing forms, my heartbeat, even my voice. Had to fight a version of myself without holding back. Kind of beautiful, really. But terrifying.”

Then, once again, everyone looked to the space that remained empty, where Giyu might have sat.

Tengen raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess we can’t ask Mr. Gloomy.”

Shinobu didn’t comment. Her eyes lingered on the space for a moment longer. As if she were wondering just how difficult his moment had been. Or how many he’d never told anyone about.

The tone began to shift again, tension melting into warmth. Perhaps it was the second round of sake, or maybe it was the knowledge that, for one night, they were just people around a table. People who happened to wield swords and wear titles.

Tengen clapped his hands. “All right, that was heavy. Let’s switch gears. Tell me something funny that’s happened to you. Doesn’t have to be as flashy as me, of course.”

Mitsuri giggled. “I once ate forty-five mochi in one sitting, and the cook cried. He thought I was possessed!”

Sanemi smirked. “Some new recruit once tried to fight me because I looked at him wrong. He didn’t realize I was a Hashira. When he found out, he fainted standing up.”

Kyojurou boomed with laughter. “A noble’s daughter once proposed to me because she thought I was an actual phoenix. Said my hair looked like fire, and she’d dreamed of marrying a god!”

“I once stitched a Kakushi’s sleeve to my own robe by accident,” Shinobu said lightly. “We walked together for ten minutes before we noticed.”

They chuckled.

“Speaking of Kakushi,” she continued with a tilt of her head, “has anyone ever had one… do a rather bad job?”

The table quieted for a moment, the question hanging in the air like steam over the hot dishes.

Tengen raised a brow. “Plenty of times. Once had a Kakushi who kept tripping over my wives' instruments. Broke three shamisen in one day.”

“I had one fall asleep standing up while changing my bandages,” Iguro muttered, exasperated. “He snored directly into my wound.”

“I had one run the wrong direction with my swords,” Sanemi added. “Ended up in a demon’s nest with nothing but my fists.”

Gyomei’s expression remained gentle. “One mistook river stones for healing herbs. I found him boiling them like dumplings. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.”

Even Muichiro piped up: “A Kakushi once forgot my name and called me ‘Little Guy’ for a week.”

The table erupted into soft laughter again.

But Shinobu remained slightly stiff, fingers lightly tapping the rim of her teacup.

She smiled faintly. “Strange though… even with all these slip-ups, things are usually recorded properly. At least, for those of us still here.”

Her words were light, but layered. It wasn’t lost on a few of them. Kyojurou glanced at her sideways. Mitsuri looked puzzled. Tengen just hummed and poured her another cup.

“You thinking about someone?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No one in particular.”

But even as the laughter carried on, a cold file with a blank space still burned in her mind.

The space labeled: Tomioka, Giyu.

Still empty.

The evening wind was crisp as Shinobu stepped off the estate porch, a quiet sigh slipping from her lips. The Hashira had laughed, shared stories, and left with lighter hearts than they’d arrived. But for her, the air still hung heavy with questions.

Her footsteps tapped along the garden path back toward the Butterfly Mansion, eyes not watching the road so much as drifting inward. Giyu, what are you hiding? Or what’s been hidden from me?

Bout It by JMSN

Giyu’s footsteps were soft on the pine-needle trail, the scent of damp earth clinging to his clothes. He didn’t look back. He rarely ever did.

The mountains loomed to his left, dark shoulders hunched under a scattering of stars. His own estate lay a good walk from here, secluded, tucked away from the main path like an afterthought someone had once tried to hide. A small gate, an unadorned walkway, and walls that bore no decorative trim. Even the paper lantern hanging outside the sliding door was unlit.

When he stepped inside, the air had the kind of stillness that made sound feel out of place. It was cold, but not from the season, cold in the way places became when no one truly lived in them, only occupied them.

And there it was, sitting neatly on the low table in the center of the room.

A cake.

The paper wrapping was folded with precision, tied with twine. It had the faintest scent of sweet bean paste and chestnut cream, delicate and deliberate, like someone had tried to balance richness with subtlety.

Shinobu’s doing.

He hadn’t needed to see her handwriting on the small note to know it. After the meeting, it read. But there was no teasing message, no elaborate flourish. Just her name. Simple.

He stood there longer than necessary before finally lowering himself to the table. He didn’t remove the mask, the half fox mask clinging to the left side of his face like an unfinished thought. Two blue flowers with yellow centers adorned it, one petal slightly chipped from a long-forgotten skirmish.

His gloves came off slowly, the left hand moving stiffly thanks to the dog bite. With methodical care, he untied the twine, unwrapped the paper, and cut a small piece of the cake.

It was good. He knew that much. Sweet without being overwhelming. But the act of eating it felt oddly foreign, as though the flavors didn’t quite belong in the room’s monochrome stillness.

He finished half, wrapped the rest again with the same precision she’d used, and placed it back in the center of the table.

The silence pressed in. His eyes scanned the pale walls, unadorned. The shelves, practically empty. The floor, clean, but without warmth. The air, cold, unmoving.

He never stayed inside for long.

With a quiet exhale, he slid the door open and stepped out into the night. The mountain air carried a sharper chill here, brushing over his face and tugging at his haori. He kept his hands in his sleeves, his steps unhurried, and let his feet decide where to go.

The moonlight scattered across the forest edge, painting the treetops in faint silver. Crickets whispered in the undergrowth. Somewhere far off, water moved, perhaps a stream fed by the melting snowcaps higher up.

His mind didn’t wander so much as it drifted between thoughts he never followed to their ends.

He passed the small training yard behind his estate without looking at it. Passed the solitary plum tree, its branches bare and skeletal against the sky. Passed the narrow wooden bridge over the trickling stream.

No destination, just movement. Always movement.

“Wait, what is that sound? Is that a dog?” Giyu asked himself a bit curiously as he went to investigate.

Meanwhile, nearby, down an overgrown trail near the base of the mountains…

Muichiro’s feet crunched softly over dry leaves. He’d wandered off, his thoughts like drifting ash, half-formed, dissolving before they could settle. He was supposed to return straight home, but the clouds looked interesting tonight.

That’s when he heard it.

A short yelp, followed by a low grunt.

Rounding a bend in the path, he blinked.

A man stood there, slightly hunched, letting a small dog chew on his hand. Calmly. As if this were a completely reasonable way to spend the evening.

“...That hurts,” Giyu muttered, voice flat enough to be mistaken for the wind.

The dog’s tail wagged, just barely. Its teeth dug in harder, not playfully, but with the stubborn insistence of something testing its ground. Its fur was tangled and dull, ribs faintly visible beneath its skin.

Muichiro tilted his head. “...Why are you letting it bite you?”

Giyu turned, as though only now aware someone else had arrived. “It’s fine. He’s just hungry.”

“He doesn’t like you.”

Giyu looked down at the dog still attached to his hand. “...Maybe.”

The dog growled softly, jaw tightening.

Muichiro stepped closer, crouched, and, without hesitation, scooped the animal up by its middle. The dog released its grip reluctantly, barking once before being tucked neatly under Muichiro’s arm like a satchel.

“You should get that bite looked at,” Muichiro said.

Giyu glanced at the faint blood welling against his skin. “It’s not deep. The dog didn’t have rabies, no foam at the mouth, eyes were clear, no tremors.”

“You analyzed all that while being bitten?” Muichiro blinked.

“I’ve been bitten before.” Giyu’s answer was matter-of-fact, almost detached. He looked away as he spoke, never meeting Muichiro’s eyes.

Muichiro squinted slightly. “...Okay.”

Giyu began to walk, producing a bandage from his sleeve and wrapping it one-handed with practiced ease.

“You’re still bleeding,” Muichiro noted.

“I’m used to it.”

The dog whimpered faintly against Muichiro’s side. “I’m taking him to someone who can feed him. He didn’t want you. You’re... weird.”

Giyu paused for a beat, then gave a single nod. “That’s fair.”

Muichiro watched him disappear down the treeline path, silent, but somehow heavy, like the air shifted around him.

“...You’re weird too,” Muichiro muttered to himself. “But not the same kind.”

Giyu didn’t go to the Butterfly Mansion.

He never even considered it.

By the time the lights of the Corps’ main estate were a faint glow behind the trees, his hand was already bound in a clean strip of white cloth from his sleeve. The bleeding had slowed, and that was enough.

He’d been through worse: knife edges, shattered bones, demon claws that tore through him faster than he could register the pain. A dog bite barely qualified.

And besides, he knew what Shinobu would say if he walked in with something this minor. That lilting voice, amused but sharp: “You’re impossible, Tomioka-san. Sit down, I’ll take care of it.”

No. He respected her as a Hashira, yes. As a doctor? No. Not then. Not now.

The trail to his estate was silent except for the wind brushing through the pine needles. The smell of resin hung faint in the air, grounding him in the present. He preferred the quiet; it left less room for people to fill it with questions.

He passed through the unlit gate and slid the door open with the same care he always did, like the hinges might shatter if handled roughly. Inside, the room felt colder than before, as if the cake left earlier had been a brief intrusion of warmth now gone.

He sat at the low table, unwrapped his hand, and examined the bite again. The crescent of teeth marks looked angrier under the lantern light, skin swelling faintly at the edges. He cleaned it himself, hot water from the kettle, a fresh strip of cloth, and the kind of precision that comes from practice.

Rabies never crossed his mind as a real concern. Any animal showing signs would’ve been cut down by a slayer before it got near him or anyone else. And even if one hadn’t, there was… that.

He didn’t like thinking about it.

He remembered being nine.

Remembered the dark room more than anything else, how the single paper window barely let in enough light to tell day from night. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air like something that had soaked into the wood.

He didn’t remember why they called him in that night, just that he’d been asleep, or close to it. Then footsteps. Then his uncle’s voice, low and firm, told him to sit up. Two men in white coats followed, their faces half-shadowed by the oil lamp in the corner.

He hadn’t understood at the time. Not until the cold sting of alcohol brushed his arm and the sharp, mechanical click of a needle locking into place filled the room. His uncle’s hands were on his shoulders, pressing him down. One doctor gripped his wrist; the other slid the needle in.

It burned, slow and deep, like liquid fire under the skin. He’d tried to pull back, but the grip tightened. No explanation, no words beyond “Hold still”.

That was the first. There were more over the months, sometimes in the day, sometimes in the middle of the night, when they thought a child was too sleepy to protest. Later, he’d learn they were rabies vaccines, his uncle had access through scientific colleagues. To them, it was foresight. To him, it was something else entirely.

He remembered the way the doctors wouldn’t meet his eyes. How his uncle told him, almost casually, “Don’t know why we’re giving it to you, but maybe you’ll stop acting like those rabid animals.”

He never had.

That memory, alongside many others from those ensuing instances, had left a mark deeper than any scar; something in him turned cold toward anyone holding a needle after that. Shinobu’s hands might have been steadier, her tone softer, but the moment he smelled antiseptic and alcohol in the same breath, that wall slammed back into place.

So, he wrapped the bandage himself. Tight enough to hold, loose enough not to cut circulation. It would heal.

He blew out the lantern, letting the darkness swallow the room again. The paper walls blurred into the night beyond, erasing the line between inside and outside.

Standing up almost rhymethically, he gazed upon what was nearby. The mountain wind slid through the cracks, carrying the distant howl of some unseen animal. His hand throbbed faintly under the cloth.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of the dog lingered, ribs sharp under its skin, eyes tired but still burning.

He thought of Muichiro, too, carrying it away without hesitation.

And then, as always, his mind circled back to the room from years ago, the shadows, the lamp, the pin of his uncle’s grip.

It was a long time before his breathing finally evened out.

The forest outside his estate was the kind that swallowed sound.
Even the crunch of his boots on the frost-stiff path seemed quieter than it should’ve been.
Giyu moved through it without a lantern, relying on the pale wash of moonlight slanting between the cedar trunks. His blade rested easily at his hip, the familiar weight an extension of his own body.

Tonight, patrols had taken him north, along the ridgeline where the wind cut sharply through the pines and the air smelled faintly of snow. His breath ghosted in front of him, curling away into the darkness.

Demons didn’t keep schedules. They came when hunger pushed them into human territory, or when the scent of blood carried far enough on the wind to draw them in. The mountain paths were quiet now, but quiet was never permanent.

His eyes tracked movement in the underbrush, just a hare, darting away. The subtle shift of shadow across stone. Nothing else.

And yet, the longer he walked, the more the cold smell of cedar gave way to something else. Smoke.
Not the acrid burn of a fresh fire, but the older, worn scent of wood smoke that had sunk into timber after years of the same hearth burning.

Urokodaki’s cabin.

The thought came before the memory, slipping into his mind as naturally as breathing. The slope of the mountain, the narrow path of flat stones leading to the door, the mask above the lintel. That winter, he’d first been brought there…

He had woken in the cabin’s small room with his throat dry and his skin far too warm, the futon damp with sweat. He was also bandaged up across his face and shoulder, he remembered. The paper screen door had been pushed open just enough for three faces to peer in, blurry shapes at first, then sharpening into strangers.

One boy with hair like a wildfire that refused to die down. One girl with soft eyes, her hair falling in neat dark folds. And behind them, the deep crimson of Urokodaki’s mask, the mouth set in its permanent, almost-smile.

Giyu had stared without speaking. He hadn’t trusted them. Why would he? Faces were just… faces. They meant nothing until someone proved otherwise.

The girl, Makomo, he would learn, had been the first to speak. “You’re awake.” Her voice was quiet, but not hesitant. As if she already knew he wouldn’t answer, but was going to speak anyway.

Sabito had spoken next, cutting in with a blunt, “Urokodaki said you’d try to get up too soon. Don’t.” There was no softness in his tone, but it wasn’t cruelty either. It was something else, something like a challenge.

He had tried getting up. Tried moving. Once that didn’t work, he tried remaining quiet. He tried not to speak, hoping they would give up on him or something.

He’d ignored them at first, trying to push himself upright, only for the edges of his vision to go white. The room tilted, the floor seemed to shift under him. His hands had trembled in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

The nausea hit in waves, one moment manageable, the next like a fist twisting in his gut. His head felt stuffed with wool, the air too thick to pull in clean. He remembered trying to blink it away, trying to stand on legs that refused.

Makomo had caught him before he could fall. She was small, but her grip was steady. Sabito had muttered something sharp, half annoyance, half concern, before disappearing and returning with water.

Of course, the combination of stress and this unknown condition a young Giyu was going through ended up bringing him closer to death than even the cold ever did.

However, almost like a saviour, the three of them save him. Not necessarily or only because they brought him in the warmth when the cold was becoming way too unbearable, but it was the relief he had gotten from the couple of words they spoke to him.

They’d believed him about demons after only a few words. Giyu eventually yelled out about the demon that ate his sister and her fiancée. But even when he was bleeding from that very attack, he wasn’t believed.

So, when he was told by Sabito, Makomo, and Urokodaki that they believed him, Giyu at first didn’t believe them… Sabito told him, without ceremony, that his parents had been killed by one. Makomo spoke less, but when she did, it was to say her orphanage had been attacked. And Urokodaki spoke, telling him he was someone who slayed those monsters, called demons.

He’d believed them back. That counted for something.

The nights after that blurred together, long stretches where he lay awake listening to the fire crackle in the next room, the smell of broth and pine sap thick in the air. Other nights were shorter, stolen by exhaustion so deep it almost felt like sleep. Almost.

But there had been worse nights, too. Nights when his body turned on him. Dizzy spells that made the walls look as though they were breathing. Moments where he would lose track of where he was, the firelight warping into shapes that weren’t there. Cold sweats followed by heat so intense it felt like the futon might catch flame. The sound of his own heartbeat was too loud in his ears, his stomach knotting until he retched into the basin at his side.

It was during those times that Makomo sat quietly by the door, keeping watch without intruding. Sabito paced, always restless, always glancing back to make sure Giyu was still breathing evenly. And Urokodaki would move in and out, tending the fire, brewing tea, saying nothing more than necessary.

Those were the nights that made trust easier. Not because they said the right words. But because they stayed.

A branch snapped under his boot, pulling him back to the present. The wind had shifted, carrying with it a faint metallic tang. Blood.

He adjusted his grip on the sword hilt, moving toward the source. Somewhere ahead, the forest broke into a clearing where moonlight pooled silver over the snow. And in that stillness, something waited.

The memories thinned, pushed aside by the muscle-deep focus of the hunt.

The metallic tang was faint, almost drowned by the clean bite of frost in the air. Giyu stepped into the clearing, his eyes sweeping the perimeter. Only one figure stood there, not a demon. A swordsman, mid-patrol, blade already sheathed.

The man turned at the sound of boots on snow, his face lighting with the mild surprise of recognition that hadn’t fully settled yet. “…Oi. Evening patrol?”

Giyu said nothing at first. He had been on the verge of moving past entirely when the voice caught in his mind, not its tone, but its familiarity. The other stepped closer, squinting through the cold mist of their breath. “Huh… Wait. Giyu? Tomioka Giyu?”

The pause between them stretched. Giyu didn’t answer, though his head tilted fractionally in acknowledgment.

Murata’s eyes darted over him, slow and uncertain. The haori wasn’t right. half a bright, green-and-yellow checkered pattern, half a deep, dull red. And that mask, white fox, a single blue flower on the side, worn over the left half of his face. “You look… different.”

“…It’s warmer this way,” Giyu replied simply, as if that explained anything.

Murata gave a short laugh. “Warmer? That checkered side. that’s… someone else’s, right?” He didn’t press yet, but the way his brow furrowed suggested he already knew. “And the mask… I’ve seen that style before. Wasn’t there a girl…?”

Giyu’s gaze shifted away, cutting through the trees instead of answering. “You’re far from your post.”

Murata shrugged. “The same could be said for you. But nah, I’m making my rounds near the southern ridge.” His tone lightened, as if they were back to safe ground. “Heard a demon was spotted a few nights ago, kid said it had claws long enough to scrape the roof of his house.”

Giyu nodded slightly. “Tracks are cold now.”

The conversation drifted into familiar patrol chatter, small details of terrain, odd noises in the night, and the way the snow disguised footprints too easily. It was… easy, for a moment.

But Murata’s gaze kept pulling back to the haori. The mask. The way Giyu’s eyes didn’t quite meet his.
“Hey… Giyu.”

A faint hum was all the answer he gave.

“You remember… the Final Selection?”

The air shifted. Not the wind, Giyu’s presence itself seemed to grow stiller, denser, like the moment before deep water swallows sound.

Murata went on, not noticing or ignoring the change. “We were both there, right? You and me. That year was… something… only two of us didn’t make it out. And you had that eye injury. I thought, I mean, you almost didn’t…”

“I have to move on.” Giyu’s voice was quiet but absolute, like a door shutting in slow motion.

Murata blinked. “…What? I just…”

“Patrol’s not over.” Giyu stepped past him, boots crunching through the frost in deliberate rhythm.

Murata turned to watch him go, brow knitted. The haori shifted with each step, red catching the moonlight on one side, green-and-yellow on the other. The mask’s flower tilted briefly into view, then vanished into the dark.

The forest swallowed him in moments. No parting words. No backward glance.
Just that same unshakable presence fading into the cold, until Murata was left with nothing but his own breath clouding in the empty clearing.

All the while, the guilt in Giyu’s head, for once, had been just a background compared to the generosity and kindness Giyu had felt from them; Murata’s reminder was like a cold blizzard demanding attention and control. It reminded Giyu exactly what happened.

It reminded Giyu of why he didn’t deserve his position. It reminded Giyu of why he didn’t belong. It reminded him of his failures that should’ve prevented him from even being noticed, or alive.

But nonetheless, he is here, and thus, he must atone for the damages he has caused. The deaths, the costs, and the uproar.

A.N / Alright, finally got some actual interactions with Giyu. Of course, I felt that having that silly interaction with Giyu and a dog to occur. I felt a bit at home, considering how my first interaction with a dog was not all that pleasant. Let’s just say it took some time and getting a rabies vaccine… But as for Giyu, there are a lot of things to look at, especially when we look at the roles the other people in Giyu’s life played a role in. The Hashira don’t even bother to bring Giyu to their next weekly dinner, but we know that Shinobu will make that happen, one way or another! Not much else to say, so I will end the chapter here. See you next time!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 6:

Duvet by Boa

The afternoon sun cast long, dappled shadows across the courtyard of the Ubuyashiki Estate, where cicadas droned in a steady, humid chorus. Tengen Uzui knelt on the tatami before Oyakata-sama, head bowed low enough that his long silver ponytail brushed the floor.

Ubuyashiki Kagaya sat with his usual calm, his pallid face lit faintly by the paper lanterns swaying in the faint breeze. His wife, Amane, knelt just behind him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You’ve been… persistent,” Kagaya said, his voice soft but threaded with the kind of weight that made silence follow it. “Three crows have reported your inquiries. And twice now, you’ve asked me directly.”

Tengen looked up, only slightly, the beads and gold rings on his headband catching the light. “And I’ll keep asking until we act. Oyakata-sama, I believe this demon is unlike any I’ve encountered. I don’t throw the term ‘Upper Moon’ around for flair.”

Kagaya’s lips curved faintly at the last word. “And yet flair is what you’re known for, Tengen.”

A breath of tension passed. Tengen didn’t bristle, but his usual smirk was absent. “This isn’t about flash. This demon doesn’t leave survivors, not even to send a warning. It takes entire family units in a sequence. The pattern is deliberate. Methodical. It’s planning ahead.”

Kagaya’s expression remained unreadable. “Go on.”

“First, the families. Then the elderly. Now the sick. It doesn’t feed at random; it’s cleaning house. And it’s been doing this for months without a single crow surviving to deliver a real-time signal.”

Amane tilted her head slightly. “You think it can intercept the crows?”

Tengen nodded. “Or destroy them instantly. The settlements near Mt. Usui are spread far apart. By the time the next village realizes it’s in danger, it’s already been erased. No survivors, no witnesses.”

Kagaya’s voice lowered. “And what makes you believe it’s Upper Moon material?”

“The speed. The silence. And… It’s taunting us. I’ve found traces, markings that weren’t there before. Deliberate symbols carved into walls, half-hidden in the shadows. The same mark repeated in different villages.” He paused, meeting Kagaya’s eyes. “It’s sending a message.”

A long pause filled the room. Outside, the cicadas droned on, a constant counterpoint to the quiet inside.

Kagaya finally spoke. “And who do you intend to take with you?”

Tengen drew a breath. “Sanemi.”

A faint flicker of approval passed through Kagaya’s eyes. “The Wind Hashira is a reasonable choice.”

“Shinobu.”

Kagaya’s gaze shifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“And…” Tengen hesitated, which was rare enough to make Amane glance at him more sharply. “Giyu.”

Silence deepened. Even the cicadas seemed momentarily less loud.

Kagaya’s voice was soft. “You’re aware of the standing order regarding Sanemi and Giyu on high-risk missions.”

“I am,” Tengen said firmly. “But I also know this demon’s behavior points to something far more dangerous than standard protocol can account for. Shinobu’s precision, Giyu’s perception, and Sanemi’s force, it’s the combination I need. And with all respect, Oyakata-sama… there is no other team I trust for this.”

Kagaya’s eyes, clouded but keen, lingered on Tengen. “You understand the risk you’re asking them to bear.”

“I do. And I’ll bear it with them.”

A breath later, Kagaya gave the faintest nod. “Very well. I grant permission. But you will not underestimate this foe. And you will not hesitate to call for aid if needed.”

Tengen’s head dipped again, though this time with the faint curve of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Understood.”

Kagaya leaned back slightly, his voice soft but deliberate. “I will inform the others. Gather them this evening. You leave at dawn.”

Tengen rose to his full height, bowing once more before stepping out into the golden afternoon light. The cicadas’ song swelled again, and in the far distance, the mountains loomed in deepening shadow.

His steps were quick. He already knew where to find Sanemi first.

The sun had only just begun to dip behind the mountains when Shinobu arrived at Tengen’s estate. Sanemi was already there, arms crossed, jaw tight. His foot tapped restlessly against the floorboards. The towering Sound Hashira stood near the door, tossing a kunai into the air and catching it without looking.

“Took you long enough, Bug,” Sanemi muttered.

“I had patients,” Shinobu replied simply, ignoring the glare. “Now what’s so urgent you needed two Hashira for?”

“Three,” Tengen added, his voice light but taut. “I called Giyu too.”

Shinobu blinked. “Giyu?”

“Ugh,” Sanemi groaned. “Of course he’d show up to the one mission that actually matters.”

The air shifted then, heavier somehow.

From the far end of the veranda, the sound of footsteps approached, quiet yet steady. The three turned as Giyu appeared, framed by the lantern light. His face was partially shadowed by the broken fox mask, his posture unshaken despite the scrutiny that met him.

Sanemi’s nostrils flared. “You can’t be serious, Tengen. He looks like a damn ghost. Are we sure he even knows how to fight anymore?”

Giyu stood silently, eyes lowered, neither reacting nor flinching.

Tengen raised a hand. “Enough. Both of you.”

He turned toward Shinobu, voice dropping. “I know there’s an old rule. You and Giyu aren’t to be paired on any high-risk mission.”

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. “That order’s been in place for two years. Kanae and…”

“I know,” Tengen interrupted, eyes unusually sharp. “But I spoke to Oyakata-sama. He gave me clearance. This demon... I’ve been tracking them for months. They’re clever. Strong. I think they’re Upper Moon material, even if they haven’t declared themselves.”

Sanemi scoffed. “Upper Moon? And you want us to bring the shy one?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Tengen said, his voice like tempered steel. “It’s what I need. You, because you’re fast and brutal. Shinobu, because you think ten steps ahead. And Giyu, because…”

He paused.

“Because he sees things others don’t. Even when he doesn’t speak it.”

Giyu met Tengen’s eyes for just a breath before looking away again.

“Details?” Shinobu asked, straightening.

Tengen walked over to the map unrolled on the table. “Near Mt. Usui. A remote settlement. Villagers disappear in patterns, families first, then the elderly, then the sick. No one has seen anything. Only blood and bones. This thing’s quiet. Strategic. And worst of all... it knows how to evade crow signals.”

He stabbed the map with the kunai.

“We leave tomorrow.”

Sanemi muttered under his breath, “Great. Babysitting duty starts at dawn.”

Giyu didn’t rise to it. He merely adjusted his haori, silently accepting the mission without question.

Shinobu gave a small, unreadable smile. “So you do come when it’s important.”

No answer.

Tengen watched the three of them for a moment, then exhaled. “This is going to be a mess.”

Night had settled over the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters by the time the meeting ended. The paper walls of the Ubuyashiki Estate glowed faintly with lamplight, shadows of attendants moving like whispers behind them.

Tengen stood outside the main hall, his arms folded, the faint scent of camellia blossoms drifting on the cool air. Kagaya’s voice still lingered in his mind, quiet, deliberate, yet weighted with approval.
I trust you will lead them well, Uzui. This is not just a mission. It is a test.

The Sound Hashira exhaled slowly. “Flashy as always, Oyakata-sama,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no mockery in his tone. “A test, huh…? Guess we’ll see who survives the pop quiz.”

The sliding door behind him opened with a soft shhhk.

Sanemi stepped out first, irritation practically radiating from him. He yanked his haori tighter against the evening chill.

“I still think this is a waste of time,” the Wind Hashira said bluntly. “You call me away from patrol for some half-baked rumor about disappearances? I’ve got real work to do.”

“You’ll live,” Tengen replied.

Sanemi shot him a glare sharp enough to cut bamboo. “If you needed muscle, you could’ve just taken Rengoku. He’s loud enough to drown out your ego.”

Tengen smirked faintly. “No, I needed you. Because you hit first, think second, and somehow the enemy still ends up dead. Not the most elegant approach, but flashy enough when I need a distraction.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

“It wasn’t flattery.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue but didn’t press it.

Shinobu emerged next, her steps soft as falling petals, her expression unreadable. She had listened to the meeting in perfect silence, and now she regarded both men with that same faint, polite smile that made Sanemi’s skin itch.

“An Upper Moon candidate?” she asked lightly, as though she were discussing the weather. “That’s quite the claim, Tengen-san. You must have evidence.”

He gave a single nod. “Months of it. Patterns in the killings, movements between remote settlements, and a total absence of survivor reports worth a damn. Whoever this is, they know how to vanish, in more ways than one.”

Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “And yet you didn’t mention the other pattern in front of Oyakata-sama.”

Sanemi glanced between them. “What other pattern?”

Tengen’s eyes slid to her, and for a moment, the Sound Hashira’s usually flamboyant demeanor dimmed. “The part about every crow I sent never returning.”

That earned a pause. Even Sanemi stopped fidgeting. “You mean…”

“Yeah,” Tengen said flatly. “No feathers. No bodies. Just gone.”

Shinobu’s fan tapped against her palm in a slow rhythm. “A demon capable of targeting Corps communication... That’s an unnerving skill.”

“Which is why,” Tengen said, his tone hardening, “we’re not going in blind this time.”

“You’re late,” Sanemi barked immediately.

“I wasn’t invited,” Giyu replied without heat, his voice level. “I came because Oyakata-sama asked.”

“That’s the same thing,” Tengen interjected, breaking the tension with a dismissive wave. “Glad you could make it, Giyu. You’re part of this now.”

The Water Hashira’s gaze flicked briefly to Shinobu, then away again. She didn’t look surprised, though something faint passed through her eyes, too quick for either man to read.

Sanemi folded his arms again. “And what’s he supposed to add to this team? Moody silence? If this is a real Upper Moon threat, the last thing I need is someone zoning out mid-battle.”

Giyu didn’t respond.

“Sanemi.” Tengen’s voice dropped just enough to cut through the wind that had begun to stir. “This isn’t optional. Oyakata-sama cleared it, I’m leading it, and you’re both following orders. Understand?”

The Wind Hashira muttered something under his breath but fell quiet.

Shinobu, however, tilted her head. “And you’re certain this is a team effort? You could simply take two of us. Or even go alone.”

“I could,” Tengen admitted. “But I’ve been chasing this demon for half a year, Shinobu. Every time I think I’ve got them pinned, they slip away. I need more than blades. I need different perspectives. Yours. Sanemi’s. And Giyu’s.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the inclusion of that last name, but she said nothing.

A long moment passed, broken only by the sound of crickets.

Finally, Tengen spoke again, softer this time. “We move at dawn. Bring what you need, and don’t expect the trip to be short. This demon doesn’t just kill. They… unravel people. You’ll see soon enough.”

Sanemi snorted. “Great. Another cryptic mission. Can’t wait.”

Shinobu turned, her haori fluttering in the night breeze. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Giyu lingered for a moment longer, eyes on the darkness beyond the estate walls, as if already seeing the road ahead. Then he stepped away without a word, the wooden boards creaking under his retreating steps.

Tengen watched them all leave, alone now under the pale glow of the lanterns.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl called, low, mournful, and too far away.

He twirled a kunai between his fingers, the metal catching the light for a heartbeat before vanishing into shadow again.

“Let’s hope,” he murmured to the night, “that this doesn’t turn into a tragedy.”

The air around Mt. Usui was still and thick, not quite foggy, but damp, like the mountain itself was holding its breath. Four crows circled above before vanishing into the clouds. Giyu, Shinobu, Sanemi, and Tengen walked through the outskirts of the village, where silence clung to the thatched rooftops like mildew.

Most doors were closed. Those who dared peek through gaps in shutters had dull eyes and sunken expressions. It wasn’t fear that lingered in the air, it was apathy.

“This is... off,” Shinobu muttered, brushing a hand over a drooping chrysanthemum as they passed. “Look at the flowers. Withered. No attempt to fix the fences. These people aren’t terrified... they’re drained.”

“Drained?” Sanemi scoffed. “They’re lazy. Probably used to running from anything bigger than a raccoon.”

Shinobu didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she crouched beside an elderly man seated by a dry well, staring at nothing. She asked his name gently. No reply. His lips moved, but no sound came.

“...Four weeks,” she murmured, straightening. “This level of mental withdrawal... It’s like an entire village fell into melancholy at once. Something systemic. Like a virus, only emotional.”

“Not your specialty,” Sanemi grunted. “You're not a mind doctor.”

“No, I’m not,” Shinobu admitted. “But even I can recognize something is wrong.”

Tengen stepped forward, crouching beside a younger man who sat by a broken wheelbarrow, hands covered in dirt. “Hey. Oi. Tell me something. Anyone missing?”

The man turned to him, smile too wide. “No one's missing. They all left. They're all free now.”

“Free?” Tengen frowned. “What do you mean…?”

“They were too sad to live,” the man replied, then began to laugh. It was short. Stilted. Almost rehearsed. His nails were cracked. One was bleeding.

Tengen stood slowly. “...Shinobu.”

“I know,” she said. “He’s not well.”

As they pressed deeper into the village, a strange pattern began to form. For every person gripped by lethargy or quiet despair, there was another who moved erratically, pacing with jittery hands, talking to unseen companions. Some screamed at the wind. One woman had carved odd symbols into her own door using a rusted knife.

Muichiro might’ve missed it. Even Kyojurou. But not these four.

“There’s a pattern,” Shinobu murmured. “Three-to-four-week periods of manic shifts. Followed by withdrawal. Some don’t recover. Others simply disappear.”

Sanemi growled, his arms tensing. “So it is a Blood Demon Art. Messing with people’s heads.”

“It’s like it's forcing their minds into unnatural cycles,” Shinobu continued, thinking aloud. “Depression. Mania. Even hallucinations. It’s not just emotional manipulation, it’s clinical. Controlled.”

“Which means this demon isn’t feeding on blood alone,” Tengen added grimly. “They’re savoring the deterioration.”

They stood in silence as a cold breeze passed, lifting dust into the twilight air. Far in the distance, a wolf howled, but something about the sound was… warped. Slurred, like it came from a dream.

Giyu finally spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“We should split. If we don’t find them before nightfall, we won’t get another chance.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue. “Tch. Fine. But I’m not babysitting you.”

Shinobu gave a small glance at Giyu. He hadn’t said a word since they arrived, but the moment they learned of the mind-affecting nature of this Blood Demon Art, she noticed he flinched, barely, but it was there.

Something about this demon unsettled even him.

The four stood at the center of the village square, or what had once been a square, before the stalls closed and the laughter died. Now, it was an empty circle of cobblestones, moss growing between the cracks. The fountain in the middle, shaped like a crane with outstretched wings, was bone dry.

Tengen’s gaze swept the surroundings, the kunai twirling idly in his fingers. He didn’t need to say it; they all knew the air here wasn’t just quiet. It was smothered.

Sanemi shifted impatiently, scanning the shadowed alleys between leaning houses. “We’re wasting daylight. You said yourself, Uzui, if this thing moves at night, we need to cut the search radius now.”

Tengen’s reply was measured, but his eyes were sharp. “And if we miss something because we charge in like rabid dogs? That’s flashy in all the wrong ways.”

Sanemi scoffed, but didn’t argue.

Shinobu stood with her hands folded neatly, though her eyes were constantly moving, reading the droop of shutters, the decay in roof tiles, the way some houses had doorframes lined with half-finished talismans. “The symptoms vary in degree from one end of the village to the other. I think our demon’s area of influence is stronger in certain pockets.”

Giyu said nothing, but he was watching the villagers more closely than any of them. A middle-aged man wandered past, eyes open but unfocused, brushing shoulders with Giyu without so much as a flicker of awareness.

Tengen caught that, and his tone dropped low. “Tomioka. Thoughts?”

Giyu’s voice came like a drop of water in a still pond. “The upper village’s air feels… heavier. Like a slow pull on the mind. The lower sector feels sharper. Like a splinter under the skin.”

Shinobu glanced at him. “You’ve noticed the difference in temperament, then.”

Giyu didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. 

Tengen clapped his hands once, the sound carrying unnaturally far in the stagnant air. “Alright. We split. Two in the lower sector, two in the upper. Cover more ground before nightfall.”

Sanemi’s head turned sharply. “You pairing me with the bug or the mute?”

“Neither,” Tengen said smoothly. “You’re with me. We’ll take the lower sector, more erratic behavior. That’s where someone’s most likely to snap and lead us straight to our target.”

Sanemi grinned, a sharp, wolfish curl of his lips. “Good. I like my prey loud.” He grinned, ready for some demon hunting.

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed faintly, but she kept her tone level. “Which means Giyu and I will take the upper sector. Subtler symptoms. Less chance of confrontation… more chance of missing something if we’re careless.”

“Exactly,” Tengen replied. “You’ll need precision. And someone who doesn’t talk much,” he added with a smirk toward Giyu, “so you can hear what the villagers aren’t saying.”

Giyu adjusted his haori without comment.

Sanemi snorted. “Hope you like long silences, Kocho.”

“Oh, I manage,” she said sweetly, before turning to Tengen. “Boundaries?”

Tengen crouched beside the fountain, pulling a stick of chalk from his belt pouch. He sketched a crude map of the village on the dry stone, marking their current position in the center.

“Lower sector,” he said, drawing a jagged line downward, “is denser, more homes close together, more visible erratic behavior. Upper sector,” he gestured upward, “backs against the treeline. Older houses. Fewer people. That’s where the ones slipping into catatonia seem to end up.”

Shinobu’s eyes lingered on the treeline in the distance. The trees stood still as statues, dark shapes against the pale sky. “And if they’re being drawn toward the forest…”

“They might not come back,” Giyu finished quietly.

No one argued with that.

Tengen stood, dusting off his hands. “We sweep until sundown. If you find traces, anything, send a crow immediately. And don’t engage unless you’re certain you can finish the job. This thing’s playing a long game. That makes it more dangerous than a brawler.”

Sanemi cracked his neck and stretched his shoulders, his tone half-challenge, half-thrill. “If I see it, I’m not letting it run.”

“Then make damn sure it doesn’t run toward the others,” Tengen said flatly, no trace of his usual theatricality.

For a moment, the group was quiet. The setting sun painted the cobblestones in amber, catching in Shinobu’s hair, glinting off Sanemi’s scar, and throwing Giyu’s mask into shadow.

Finally, Tengen jerked his chin toward the southern street. “Let’s move. We’ll meet back here an hour after dark if nothing shows.”

The four nodded, and without another word, split, the sharp sound of their footfalls echoing off the dead square until they vanished down their respective paths.

Somewhere in the stillness above, a crow cawed once, then was silent.

[Tengen and Sanemi’s Route – Village Lower Sector]

Suck It Up by Maretu

Evening shadows stretched long across the stone path as Tengen and Sanemi stepped around an overturned produce cart. Half-smashed apples lay rotting in the dirt, their sweet scent soured by the dampness in the air. The wooden wheels were cracked, the cart’s contents scattered as though abandoned mid-task.

Just up ahead, a man knelt by the side of the road, his hands tangled in his own hair, fingernails dirty from clawing at his scalp. He murmured to himself, voice trembling with some rhythmless chant.

Tengen crouched beside him, the bright fabric of his uniform swaying with the movement. His usual swagger was dimmed, his frown pulling deep.
“You alright, flashy friend?” His tone was lighter than his eyes.

The man didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. He just rocked gently, eyes wide but glassy, fixed on some point beyond the rooftops. His breath came in shallow pulls, lips moving around words too soft to catch.

Sanemi shifted his weight, boots scraping the dirt. He glanced at the house beside them, the shutters hanging crooked as if they’d been slammed too many times.
“We’ve seen three like that already.”

From inside the home came the sound of yelling, hoarse, furious, desperate. Someone screaming accusations at invisible enemies. There was a sharp crash, the sound of a table being shoved over. Then a younger woman appeared in the window, her eyes stretched wide, darting like a hunted animal’s. She whispered to herself in frantic, breathless bursts before she vanished from sight again.

Tengen stood, his gaze sweeping the length of the road. Just beyond, an older woman was sitting in the dust as though she’d lowered herself there and simply never thought to get up again. Her hands rested palm-up on her knees. Flies traced lazy spirals around her fingers.

“Something’s wrong with the whole area,” Tengen muttered, his voice quieter now. He glanced toward a row of dim lanterns that flickered against the rising dusk. “These aren’t random. There’s some sort of progression.”

Sanemi’s arms crossed, muscles tense, his voice edged with thought rather than temper.
“Or regression,” he said slowly. “They’re cracking. Like the demon left something behind. Like footprints.”

Tengen’s jaw tightened as he rubbed it, his rings glinting faintly in the fading light. “You think it’s a trail?”

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed, scanning the street for patterns invisible to most. “Or a pattern.”

They fell silent, the chaos around them settling into an eerie cadence. Bursts of hysteria from one house. Numb silence from another. Laughter, loud, empty, from further down the road, cut short as if swallowed by the dark. It wasn’t random.

“Stages,” Tengen murmured at last.

Sanemi turned to him. “What?”

“Stages,” Tengen repeated, standing straighter now, his eyes glittering with something colder than usual. “Like symptoms. First confusion. Then rage. Then…”

“Nothing,” Sanemi finished for him. “Just… gone.”

A distant door slammed hard enough to rattle the shutters of a nearby home. Somewhere closer, a child whimpered, a quick, sharp sound before being hushed. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, not from cooking fires, but from something burnt and acrid.

“We’re not just tracking a demon,” Sanemi said, his voice low, almost reluctant. “We’re walking through the aftermath of one.”

Tengen’s gaze lingered on the man still kneeling by the road. His murmurs had turned into quiet humming now, tuneless and slow. “Aftermaths can still kill,” he replied, tone almost absent. “Especially if the wound’s still open.”

They moved on, deeper into the sector. Each street they passed told the same story in different verses, faces streaked with tears or blank as stone, homes left half-closed, objects scattered as though in mid-use. And in between, silence. Too much silence.

Sanemi’s steps were sharper now, more deliberate, as if each one was trying to leave a mark on the dust. “We need to find the center of this. Everything’s radiating from somewhere.”

“Or someone,” Tengen said, and the way he said it made the hairs at the back of Sanemi’s neck rise.

As they turned a corner, they caught sight of something strange, chalk markings on the ground, faint and smudged but unmistakably deliberate. Circles within circles, lines connecting them, shapes like stylized eyes or flowers.

Sanemi crouched to touch one, his fingers brushing over the powder. Still dry. Recent.
“Symbols?”

Tengen crouched beside him, his gaze following the lines. “Or instructions.”

A sudden wail cut through the evening, high-pitched and raw, carrying from somewhere further down the path. Without speaking, they moved toward it. The sound was joined by others, a chorus of grief and rage, rising and falling like the tide.

And in that moment, both men knew.

This wasn’t just a trail.

It was a map.

And they were already inside it.

[Shinobu and Giyu’s Route – Village Upper Sector]

Way Down We Go by Kaleo

It was quieter in this part of the village.

The homes were older, tucked against the forest’s edge where the air carried the scent of damp cedar. Faded wood and paper walls leaned under the weight of seasons gone by. Moss crawled up the sides of stone steps, and the light seemed to dim faster here, as if the trees drank it greedily.

Giyu and Shinobu walked slowly, the crunch of their steps against gravel unusually loud in the hush. Somewhere in the canopy above, a crow cawed once, then fell silent, as though startled into remembering the rules of this place.

Shinobu’s gaze swept over the homes. Curtains didn’t sway. Doors didn’t open. Even the wind seemed to think twice before entering. When she looked toward one narrow porch, she caught sight of a young boy peering out through a cracked door. His eyes were wide, dark, and far older than his years.

When she approached, the child vanished behind the frame like a shadow retreating. Moments later, the door creaked, and a woman stepped out, thin and weary-eyed, her hair pulled back in haste.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Shinobu said softly, folding her hands in front of her. “We’re trying to help. Do you know what happened to your husband?”

The woman hesitated. Her gaze flickered between Shinobu and Giyu, as though weighing whether to trust strangers carrying swords. Finally, she swallowed and spoke.

“He changed,” she said, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. “It started small. He always kept to himself, but then… he stopped talking altogether. Not even to me or the children. Said he felt like he was disappearing. Like even he couldn’t remember who he was.”

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed slightly. “When did that start?”

“Around three weeks ago. Same time, others started getting sick. He’s still alive, but… he’s not him anymore.”

The last words came with a tremor, as though the woman herself feared she no longer knew who was living in her house.

Shinobu thanked her and stepped back, her mind already turning. “If this is affecting the mind… then it might not be random,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “There could be a cycle. A rotation of states.”

Giyu’s voice was quiet, but it cut through her thoughts. “That might be true… but cycles follow rules. And demons aren’t always that clean.”

She turned to him, tilting her head. “Do you have a better idea?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scanning the empty lane. Then he gestured subtly toward another house further up. “Ask people who knew the victims. Friends. Family. Not just what they became, but what they were before.”

The thought halted her for half a second. Then she nodded once. She was very curious about how or what made Giyu think of that.

They moved quickly after that, splitting the work in an unspoken rhythm. Giyu spoke little, his questions clipped but precise, while Shinobu’s tone carried warmth that coaxed confessions from guarded lips.

A brother told them about his sister, once quiet and patient, who had sunk into an unmoving, suffocating depression.

A husband described his wife, once lively and talkative, who now swung between sleepless energy and fevered delusion, tearing her nails against the walls.

A friend spoke of his jovial neighbor who became convinced everyone was plotting against him, locking himself inside until his screams stopped.

By the time they stopped to catch their breath, Shinobu’s scroll had filled with notes, her neat handwriting flowing like the lines of a map:

Those once quiet, gentle, sank into deep depression.

Those full of life, talkative, collapsed into a frantic mania.

Those who kept to themselves spiraled into paranoia, hallucinations, and psychosis.

She stared at the list, a chill threading through her ribs. “This demon isn’t just casting a net,” she whispered. “It’s shaping people. Targeting their tendencies. Exaggerating their faults until they become their cages.”

“And that makes it worse,” Giyu said, his eyes sharp even behind his mask. “Because no two people are affected the same way. The demon doesn’t need to learn a technique. It just... pushes.”

Shinobu’s gaze drifted toward the deep woods rising behind the village, where the shadows seemed to breathe. Her fingers tightened around her scroll.

“We’re not fighting just a demon,” she said quietly. “We’re fighting a distortion.”

They lingered there for a moment, the late afternoon light bleeding into dusk. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it felt like the air before a storm.

Shinobu adjusted her haori, breaking the spell. “We’ll need to stay here tonight,” she said. “If the pattern holds, someone else will change before morning.”

Giyu only nodded.

The village head lent them an unused storehouse at the edge of the upper sector. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and dust. Shinobu set her satchel down and began arranging her tools in case treatment or autopsy was needed. Giyu took a position by the door, his hand never straying far from his sword.

Outside, a wind began to rise. The leaves rattled against the roof, but no animal sounds followed. Not even the crickets dared to break the quiet.

Hours later, a muffled shout echoed from deeper in the village. Shinobu froze mid-motion. Giyu was already moving.

They stepped into the night together, shadows from their lanterns bending across the dirt path.

Somewhere ahead, another mind was breaking.

And the demon was still out there, listening.

A.N / A bit more of a different setting. Rather than strictly a meeting or dinner or sorts, we’ll actually have them go on a mission. I decided to do this now to mainly get some more Giyu time directly, rather than him specifically be mentioned all the time. So this chapter and likely the next chapter will focus on this “small” mission before we have Giyu actually join these Dinner Meetings. I keep pushing it back, I know. But as for the other thing I want to mention, I do like when theories are made and when people guess as to what has happened based on some concerns. One thing I would like to mention is that I did have to change the backstories of some other Hashira’s specifically, in order to make this into a nice connected web of stories. You will likely see some small alterations, especially if you are very into a certain character, but that is fine, and it is intentional for my story. I just wanted to warn anyone of this before people point out misconceptions that I intentionally placed in this story. Thank you all, I’ll see you all next chapter.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 7:

Sea of Problems by Glichery

The night pressed in thicker the further they went, as if the forest itself had drawn a slow, deliberate breath it refused to release. The lantern in Shinobu’s hand swayed gently with her steps, the light spilling over gnarled roots and the lip of the abandoned well behind them.

Her scroll was still warm from her grasp, the inked diagrams of their findings half-finished. “If what we’re seeing is accurate…” she murmured, eyes tracing the lines without really reading them, “then we might be able to prepare for how the demon targets us next.”

“Right,” Giyu said quietly.

The response was so prompt that Shinobu’s head tilted in reflex. He rarely replied before the echo of her own words faded. She studied his profile, the way his eyes weren’t on her but fixed somewhere beyond the treeline, where the darkness moved in uneven patches.

And then he spoke again, his voice low, the cadence oddly clinical yet laced with something heavier.

“Tengen is bright. Loud. He thrives on stimulation, connection. That much intensity, if reversed, would break into panic. Sensory overload. He’d crumble under racing thoughts, maybe even mania.”

Shinobu slowed, a fractional shift in her pace.

“Sanemi’s rage is always burning just beneath the skin,” Giyu continued. “He isolates, but not fully. He needs control. If pushed, he’d become volatile, paranoid, aggressive. Psychosis, probably. His anger would turn inward or lash out in confusion.”

The words were uncomfortably precise. Shinobu’s brows knit. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

“And you,” Giyu said more softly, “You’re composed, focused. But I can tell… You hold too much in. You compartmentalize pain with grace. If turned inward, that restraint would become self-loathing. You’d fall into despair before anyone noticed. A hollow kind of sadness.”

Her feet stopped without her willing them to.

“It would eat you quietly,” he added, his tone devoid of judgement, just a statement, like remarking on the weather.

Silence swelled between them, heavy and almost tactile. The air was still except for the distant rustle of unseen creatures.

“…You’ve thought a lot about us,” she finally said, eyes fixed on him.

He gave no response. His hand rested lightly on his blade’s hilt, his fox mask catching a faint sliver of moonlight that slipped between the clouds.

She tried to keep her tone light, almost teasing, though it came out softer than intended. “You didn’t say what it would do to you.”

His gaze flicked toward her. “I didn’t.”

The simplicity of the answer made her pulse shift. No excuse, no pretense, no mock humility, just an omission he acknowledged without defense. That in itself felt more revealing than any explanation could have been.

She walked again, slower now, her mind turning over the exchange like a pebble in her palm. Iguro and Sanemi always seemed convinced that Tomioka’s silence came from arrogance, that he believed himself above them, uninterested in the petty mechanics of camaraderie. Yet what she’d just heard didn’t match that. If anything, it suggested he had been watching them, quietly, carefully, for longer than any of them had realized.

That unsettled her. Not because it was sinister, but because it was intimate.

Her footsteps crunched over gravel as they neared a small crossroads, the path splitting between the riverbank and an overgrown orchard. The air smelled faintly of damp soil and decaying fruit. Somewhere nearby, water trickled, but the sound was irregular, like it was being interrupted, pulsing in broken beats.

Giyu stopped, his head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing toward the orchard. “Something’s there.”

Shinobu glanced at him. He hadn’t drawn his sword. The lack of urgency was deliberate; he wasn’t reacting to an immediate threat. More like… a pattern he recognized.

She let the lantern’s glow wash over the tangled branches ahead. “If you’re right about stages,” she murmured, “we might be walking into the next one.”

They proceeded, each step careful. The orchard smelled sweeter now, but in the wrong way, fermented sweetness that hinted at rot. Beneath one tree, they found a man sitting against the trunk, knees pulled to his chest. His lips moved soundlessly, and when the lantern’s light reached him, his pupils constricted sharply before his gaze darted away, as though light itself was painful.

Giyu crouched in front of him but didn’t speak. Just watched. Shinobu noticed his eyes scanning minute details, the tremor in the man’s hands, the dry skin around his mouth, the twitch in his jaw each time a branch above them swayed.

“You see it,” she said quietly, though it wasn’t a question.

“Same as the others,” Giyu replied. “But… faster.”

They lingered there longer than necessary, the mission taking on an oddly measured pace. No rushing from scene to scene, just deliberate observation, as if Giyu were piecing together something she couldn’t yet see in full.

And all the while, Shinobu found her mind drifting back, not to the orchard, not to the demon, but to the realization that Tomioka had, in some unspoken way, known her well before she had ever considered knowing him.

It made her wonder just how much of the man’s silence was distance… and how much was a kind of closeness they’d all mistaken for absence.

At the other side of the village, the air had changed.

Sharper. Heavier.

The evening wind no longer smelled of woodsmoke or cooking rice; it carried only the metallic tang of blood and something sickly-sweet that clung to the back of the throat.

Tengen’s steps slowed, his hand snapping up to halt Sanemi before they rounded the bend. “Hold,” he murmured.

But they were already too late.

Shouting spilled through the street like boiling water. Crying from one house, shrill and thin. The crash of something breaking. The shiver of glass scattering.

A woman lurched into the road from a doorway, her feet bare, her hair a matted snarl. She clutched her head as though trying to crush whatever was inside it. Her eyes, wide, ringed with red, weren’t looking at either of them. They weren’t looking at anything.

Behind her, a man sat against the wall of his own home, laughing, a high, fractured noise, while blood dripped down his fingers from where he’d scraped them raw against the plaster.

Sanemi’s scowl deepened. “It’s worse here.”

Tengen’s gaze flicked between them, his jaw tightening. “No… It’s new here. That’s why it’s louder. They weren’t like this hours ago.” His eyes swept the rooftops, then the treeline beyond the houses. The shadows there felt thicker than they should. “The demon’s moved closer.”

He crouched, pressing two fingers against a cracked roof tile lying in the dirt. Black residue clung to it, slick like tar, glistening faintly under the dying light. When he lifted his hand, threads of it stretched before snapping, releasing a faint, sweet odor.

“Fresh,” he muttered. “We’re maybe minutes behind.”

Sanemi strode forward and kicked open the sliding door of the nearest home. Inside, a man exploded toward him with a kitchen blade, screaming about “shadows chewing through his eyes.” The Hashira caught his wrist with a sharp crack, twisting until the weapon clattered to the floor.

Sanemi shoved him aside, the man crumpling in a sobbing heap. “The minds here haven’t crumbled yet. The panic’s too raw. They were hit just recently.” He turned back toward the street, knuckles flexing. “That bastard’s near.”

Tengen rose, his twin swords sliding free with a soft metallic whisper. Their edges caught the meager light like streaks of silver fire. “He’s testing us,” he said. “Pushing the limits of whatever his art is. Watching who reacts first… who screams the loudest before they break.”

In the distance, a series of muffled thuds, the slam of shoji doors, and the pounding of running feet cut through the chaos.

Sanemi’s head turned sharply. “That’s them.”

Tengen’s grin was humorless. “Tomioka and Kocho.”

From the other side of the village, Shinobu and Giyu tore through the undergrowth. Shinobu’s breathing was steady, but her eyes burned with focus. Giyu’s pace was even and relentless, each stride perfectly placed, his half-mask hiding all but the line of his jaw.

“The villagers are collapsing faster here,” Shinobu said, the words quick between breaths. “It’s accelerating. Like a wave cresting.”

“Then we outrun it,” Giyu replied, his voice flat, final.

Lantern light swung wildly in Shinobu’s hand, each sway casting long, fractured shadows that darted over the tree trunks like restless ghosts. Giyu surged ahead, silent save for the crunch of twigs beneath his feet.

“If this is an Upper Moon…” Shinobu began.

“It may be,” Giyu said. “And one of us might not leave.”

Neither of them slowed.

Back in the street, Tengen clicked his tongue, adjusting his grip. “All this panic in one pocket of the map? He’s baiting us. Leaving noise where he wants us to look.”

Sanemi’s smile was tight, almost feral. “Then I’m walking straight into his jaws.”

The sky dimmed abruptly. Not with nightfall, but with a rolling curtain of fog spilling from the treeline, swallowing rooftops in a slow, deliberate crawl.

A cold wind followed, twisting through the street like a hand reaching for their throats.

The sounds stopped.

No crying. No laughter. No doors slamming.

Just silence.

And then…

A voice. Low, lilting. Mocking.

“Ah… four of you? Cruel. I only brought one of me.”

The fog shifted, parting around a figure at its heart. It was tall, but wrong,  too long in the limbs, the body bending at unnatural angles as it stepped forward. A tattered cloak trailed behind it, brushing over the ground like the dragging tail of something dead.

Its face didn’t move. But its voice seeped into their skulls, thick and clinging, like oil poured into cloth.

“Which mind should I borrow first?”

The fog didn’t clear; it thickened. It swirled low and heavy over the soil, clinging to ankles like the grasp of cold hands. The smell was faintly sweet, rotting blossoms mixed with something metallic, blood hidden beneath perfume.

From within that suffocating haze, a silhouette began to move. Not walking, gliding. Her shape blurred, as if the air bent around her.

Then, a voice. It rang out like the tune of a flute with a crack down its side, producing notes just slightly wrong, beautiful and unsettling at once.

A woman emerged, her kimono fluttering unnaturally. Each panel of fabric was a different pattern and texture, silk, cotton, frayed wool, stitched together like the mismatched fragments of a memory forcibly sewn into one. The hems trailed in the mud, soaking in dirt.

Her eyes were mismatched. The left pupil dilated until it swallowed most of the iris, twitching erratically; the right remained pinched and sharp, scanning with unnatural precision.

She giggled, high, breathless, as she twirled barefoot in the soil, arms out like a child’s.

“What a welcome! My, my… I should’ve prepared a speech. You’re all such pretty little things! I could kiss your throats open!”

Her bow was a grotesque mimicry of elegance, too deep, too long, like a marionette moving without strings. When she straightened, her smile stretched far past warmth, hovering at the edge of hunger.

But the Hashira focused on what her eyes said… This would determine the power of a demon she was…

Lower Moon One… Not an Upper Moon, but the strongest of all Lower Moons.

Undress Rehearsal by Timeflies

“Allow me to reintroduce myself… Usaki. Let’s dance until your minds rot.”

And then, she lunged.

Sanemi reacted first, instincts honed by years of blood-soaked survival. His Nichirin blade flashed in an arc, intercepting the gleaming claw that had replaced her hand. Sparks burst on contact, his Wind Breathing: Second Form, Claws, Purifying Wind pushing her back with a shredding gust.

Tengen came in from the flank, movements both graceful and thunderous. His twin blades sang in rhythm, the air rippling with Sound Breathing: Fifth Form, String Performance, detonating bursts of pressure that forced Usaki to twist midair like a ribbon in a storm.

Shinobu had already moved to the rear guard. Her steps were light enough not to disturb the fog, her blade coated in a rapid-acting neurotoxin she’d brewed just for Upper- and Lower-Moon resilience. A feint, then a flicker, Insect Breathing: Dance of the Butterfly, Frolic, aimed to pierce a joint before she retreated again.

Behind her, Giyu’s breathing was almost imperceptible, steady as a still pond. His Water Breathing: Fourth Form, Striking Tide flowed forward in a multitude of strikes, striking from bottom to top, the final strike of many consecutive slashes to strike her neck…

But her posture changed mid-motion.

Her twitching stopped. Her shoulders slumped. Her voice dropped into something cold and brittle.

“No, no, no… too loud, too fast, too much, you remind me of the boys who laughed when I screamed…”

Her entire aura shifted. The manic energy drained, leaving her skin paler, her movements sluggish.

And then, she fractured.

The air shimmered, and four new Usakis stepped out from her body like reflections peeling off a mirror. Each radiated a different emotional frequency, a manifestation of a mind broken in multiple ways.

Despair, this version dragged her feet through the dirt, muttering endlessly, eyes overflowing but unfocused. [Effect: slows opponents’ movements by radiating crushing emotional weight.]

Mania, a wild-eyed version who laughed with each slash, her claws blurring into near-invisible arcs. Effect: unpredictable movement pattern, enhanced speed.

Apathy, she stood perfectly still, never blinking. Effect: absorbs and rapidly heals physical damage, making attacks feel meaningless.

Manipulation, this one trembled and wept, voice shifting to mimic loved ones. Effect: induces hesitation by triggering emotional memories.

Tengen clicked his tongue. “Her art, she’s splitting herself. Each one’s a weapon and a shield.”

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. “Not just illusions. They’re autonomous fragments. Destroy them, or we’ll never reach the core.”

Giyu’s voice was low but firm. “Then we don’t waste time.”

Tengen sprinted toward the manic copy, his blades striking in measured detonations, each hit throwing her balance off. Sanemi rushed the apathetic one, slashing deep with Wind Breathing: Sixth Form, Black Wind Mountain Mist, but the wound knit together instantly, forcing him to snarl in frustration.

Shinobu sidestepped the manipulative version’s trembling hands, but froze when it whispered in Kanae’s exact voice:

“Sister… did I make you angry again? I’m sorry…”

Her grip trembled for a heartbeat too long.

Giyu moved like a shadow past her, his Water Breathing: Third Form, Flowing Dance cutting cleanly through the despairing copy. It dissolved into fog, scattering into the air.

For just a flicker, Usaki’s true form appeared between the copies, eyes bloodshot, smile almost serene, before vanishing again.

“She’s not even trying to kill us,” Tengen growled. “She’s peeling us apart from the inside out.”

Shinobu’s realization came cold, “She’s targeting the mind. Breaking us before our bodies fall.”

Sanemi spat to the side. “Then we stop thinking. Just breathe and kill.”

The four Hashira fell into a diamond formation, Shinobu anchoring the rear, Tengen and Sanemi holding the vanguard, Giyu drifting at the flank.

Each fragment demanded a different tempo, a different rhythm of breathing to dismantle. They adjusted in silent unity, hearts steady, steps precise.

They were the Pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps.

And Usaki, no matter how many faces she wore, was about to learn. Even shattered minds could forge themselves into a single unbreakable blade.

Usaki spins, the air around her rippling with her laughter, but not her laughter alone.

Now it echoes with hundreds of voices. Men, women, children, laughing, sobbing, whispering things only they would know.

The fog thickens again, and suddenly, there are people.

Villagers.

Dozens of them. Hundreds. All wearing blank white masks, carved like porcelain, and hiding their expressions.

Some weep. Some dance. Some crawl. Some point at the Hashira and beg: “Don’t kill me! I’m not the demon!”

“These are the villagers she’s infected,” Shinobu realizes, eyes wide. “She’s using them as a mask, psychological projections. That’s how she hides her presence.”

“We can’t cut them,” Giyu says, standing protectively in front of a boy who darts by in a frenzy. “They’re not illusions. They’re real.”

“Then what do we hit?” Sanemi growls. “If we can’t cut the people and can’t see the demon, how do we kill it?!”

From the fog, Usaki’s voice twirls, “You don’t. You drown in doubt. You question everything. And the moment you hesitate, I slice.”

A mask suddenly lunges at Tengen with shocking speed. He parries just in time, not fast enough to strike, not slow enough to be killed. The villager collapses, unconscious, with a glazed look in her eyes. Her limbs tremble like she’s waking from a nightmare.

“She’s possessing them, maybe only briefly,” Shinobu mutters. “We’re in her theater. Her stage.”

Tengen narrows his eyes. “Then let’s change the rhythm.”

Tengen gives orders like musical cues.

“Shinobu, backline, antidote or sedative if you can whip it up. This fog isn’t natural.”

“Sanemi, disruption. Break the mask formation. Herd them.”

“Giyu, find the heartbeat. There’s always one.”

Giyu nods silently and vanishes into the fog like a phantom, blade humming with his breath.

Meanwhile, Sanemi charges forward, using sheer presence and brute strength to scatter the masked villagers, nonlethally, but with force. His wind-style kicks up powerful gusts, his breathing style working to keep up the offense to push a formidable opponent on the defensive.

Shinobu, behind the lines, examines the villagers with her hands steady and focused, spotting a faint black line that crawls up their necks, a sign of Usaki’s toxin spreading like a fungus of madness. She begins compounding a smoke-based counteragent, based on her wisteria.

Giyu walks calmly through the fog, eyes half-lidded. He listens, not to the voices, but to the pauses in them.

The silence between madness.

And there it is.

A heartbeat, wrong, arrhythmic, pulsing like a drum out of sync.

The demon. Hiding. Mimicking.

He turns just as a woman screams, her mask peeling, only to reveal Usaki herself lunging forward with a wicked smile, claws gleaming.

But Giyu is already there. Water Breathing: Third Form, Flowing Dance.

Steel cuts through illusion. Through fog. Through the lie.

He slashes, just enough to nick her shoulder. Not fatal. But real. It would’ve struck her neck if not for her moving last moment.

She shrieks, recoiling as her projected villagers collapse, the fog momentarily lifting.

Tengen shouts: “She’s wounded! PRESS HER!”

Sanemi roars and charges. Shinobu throws a canister filled with anti-toxic smoke that dissolves the illusions in a ten-meter radius. Villagers drop unconscious but safe, the air clearing.

Usaki is exposed, eyes wide, frantic.

“No no no no, YOU DON’T GET TO LOOK AT ME!!” she screams.

Her body fractures, and in an explosion of black mist, eight new personalities manifest, each more unstable than the last.

They cry. They laugh. One barks. One sings a lullaby.

“You wanted to see the real me?” she sneers. “Then see all of me!”

The moment is quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the wind seems to have been strangled out of the air. The dissipating fog curls lazily between the trunks, clinging low to the roots like it’s reluctant to leave.

Sanemi steps forward with a predatory caution, his hand tight around his sword hilt, the green-edged blade angled low and ready. Every muscle in his frame hums with that raw, taut stillness before a storm breaks. His breathing is steady, for now, each inhale measured, sharp, the practiced rhythm of Wind Breathing coiled in his lungs.

Then it hits him.

Not a visible attack. No blade. No claws.

A cloud, unseen yet oppressive, rolls over him in a perfumed wave. Sweet, floral… cloying. It seeps into him like damp into cloth. His first instinct is to hold his breath, but it’s already too late. The scent has sunk deep, winding through his throat, lungs, and blood.

Take a Slice by Glass Animals

His eyes widen. His teeth bared in a reflexive snarl.

“Tch… what the hell is this…!”

A tremor starts in his fingertips. Spreads. His grip tightens too hard on the hilt. The rhythm of his breathing falters, jagged now, like the edges of a torn flag.

And then, it breaks.

“Hey, Wind Pillar…”

The voice slithers in from behind him. Then beside him. Then, inside his own ear, brushing against his thoughts like spider silk.

Sanemi spins, sword carving through the fog in a vicious upward arc, Wind Breathing, Second Form: Claws, Purifying Wind, but the blade only tears through empty air. His target is gone.

Her laugh drifts like smoke.

“You’ve got such a storm inside, Sanemi. All that rage… all that fear. I bet no one taught you how to calm it down, huh?”

The fog stirs, and there she is.

Usaki.

But not quite.

She’s wearing his own grin, twisted sharper. The familiar web of scars runs across her cheek, copied perfectly. Her hair ripples like his in the phantom breeze of the fog. And in her hands, claws that glow faintly green, mimicking the razor arcs of his wind-based strikes.

Her movements echo his exactly, a warped reflection, like he’s watching himself fight through warped glass.

“Must run in the family,” she purrs. “Mommy was a demon, little brother eats flesh, father abused everyone… and you? You’re the worst of the three.”

Sanemi lunges, Wind Breathing, Fifth Form: Cold Mountain Wind, the strike ripping through bark as his sword smashes into a tree, splinters exploding outward. Usaki is already gone.

From the mist above, her voice shifts, deepens, sweetens.

“What’s wrong, Sanemi? Don’t like playing with your reflection?”

Her form appears again, and now the fog is alive, dozens of masks drifting in the air, each carved with distorted faces: crying, laughing, screaming. They circle him like vultures.

This is her First Blood Demon Art: Perfumed Mirage, a scent-based hallucinogen that seeps into the victim’s bloodstream, heightening emotional volatility while allowing her to slip into their perception. Victims can’t tell friend from foe, self from enemy.

Her second comes without warning, the masks stretch, break, and take shape as phantom bodies. Second Blood Demon Art: Masquerade Puppets. They move with the victim’s speed and fighting style, forcing them to see their own attacks mirrored back.

And somewhere inside all of this… she’s real. Watching. Waiting.

Sanemi’s breathing fractures completely. The smooth cadence of Wind Breathing is gone, replaced by erratic gasps and near-snarls. His veins stand out like cords across his arms and neck.

When his next scream rips free, it’s not a battle cry. It’s pure, wordless emotion, years of fury and guilt condensed into a single, shattering sound.

“Sanemi!”

Tengen’s voice slices through the fog like a bell. The Sound Pillar crashes into the scene, twin Nichirin cleavers flashing as they tear down a curtain of masks.

But when Sanemi turns toward him, it’s with the eyes of prey turned predator. His sword rises, murderous.

Tengen has to twist away as a blade of compressed wind tears through the space where his shoulder was a heartbeat ago.

“Damn it…” Tengen mutters, sidestepping another slash. “She’s got his emotions caged. He’s not just hallucinating, she’s rewriting him.”

Somewhere in the chaos, Shinobu’s voice cuts in, level, urgent:

“She’s matching his neurochemistry! If we disrupt her body directly, the loop might break!”

Shinobu’s violet eyes dart toward Giyu, who is already at her side. No words pass between them; they don’t need them.

Shinobu lifts her blade, feet light as air. Insect Breathing, Butterfly Dance: Caprice. Her path through the fog is unpredictable, weaving like silk threads in the wind.

Giyu moves opposite her, Water Breathing, Fourth Form: Striking Tide. The water’s flow in his body is steady, circular, relentless.

From above and below, they tear through the puppet illusions. Masks shatter like porcelain. The air clears in streaks.

Finally, Usaki is there again. No mirage. No copies. Just her. Still wearing Sanemi’s scars, but now her breathing is heavier.

Shinobu’s blade flicks past her cheek, a whisper away from landing poison. Giyu’s strike forces her to block with her claws, but his blade still opens a thin line of red across her skin.

She hisses, licking the blood from her lip.

“Not fair,” she grins. “You two are boring alone, but together? I might almost lose.”

The forest is gone.

He’s in his childhood home. The air stinks of blood.

His mother crawls toward him, eyes pale and dead. Genya is screaming something, something Sanemi can’t hear over the roaring in his ears.

And himself… standing still. Watching. Doing nothing.

“You let them die,” Usaki whispers from behind him. “You only know how to kill things, don’t that right? A monster like your father.”

His knees buckle. His vision tilts. The edges of the scene are closing in like a trap.

And then, a grip. Solid. Real. On his shoulder.

Tengen’s voice is low, unflinching.

“You’re not a monster, Sanemi. You’re a bastard, sure. But you’re our bastard. Come back.”

The battlefield was a graveyard of broken trees and splintered stone, moonlight fractured by drifting ash. Every sound felt muffled, as though the air itself resisted the idea of clarity.

And in the middle of it all… Usaki danced.

She darted across the ruined ground with an elegance that didn’t belong in war, her arms spread wide as if she were conducting an invisible symphony. Each step was deliberate, every motion laced with cruel delight.

“Now then…”
Her voice was sing-song, almost tender.
“Let’s see how long four Hashira can last before they break~”

She slashed her claws through the air, and a faint hiss followed. Crimson droplets flung wide, too light to be mere blood. They shimmered as they dispersed, transforming into a fine scarlet mist.

Blood Demon Art, Miasma of the First Veil: a hallucinogenic vapor that wormed into breath and bloodstream, infecting perception itself.

The haze clung to the wind, to steel, to the moisture of every drawn breath. It seeped into pores, into the tender vessels behind the eyes.

Sanemi’s knuckles whitened on his sword hilt, his jaw tight. Tengen’s teeth ground audibly, a twitch spasming near his temple. Shinobu’s steps faltered, light feet suddenly clumsy.

And Giyu… Giyu froze outright.

Tengen’s pupils dilated sharply, his breathing pattern accelerating against his will. A tremor traveled down his arm into the twin nichirin cleavers in his hands.

“This rhythm… I know this rhythm…”

His tone was feverish, ragged, almost euphoric.

“Ahaha, my god, it’s like fire in my veins! This is art! Pure, chaotic rhythm! I… I… I could do this forever!”

He hurled a pair of kunai with explosive tags, too early, far too early. They detonated harmlessly in the treeline, a percussion out of sync with his usual precision.

“Tengen, pull back!” Shinobu’s voice cracked like a fraying thread, but it was distant, and even she sounded unsure of her own balance.

The crimson mist thickened until the air felt heavy.

It wasn’t just the color… It was the memory it carried.

Kanae’s blood. Pooling on the engawa floor. A smile fading from lips that had once been warm.

Shinobu blinked, and Kanae stood there, whole again. Smiling. Kind.
Dead.

“You let me die, you know,” Kanae murmured.

“No… I… I tried,” Shinobu’s voice was a whisper, her fingers trembling.

“But you smiled, didn’t you? Even then?”

Shinobu’s grip on her blade spasmed. Rage. hot and unfamiliar. rose inside her like a tide. She wanted to scream. Wanted to crush this phantom.

But she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.

Sanemi’s body jolted, every nerve alight with intrusive images. His mother, wild-eyed and blood-soaked, lunging for his throat.

He dragged his nichirin into the earth, the grind of steel on stone a reminder of the now. The mania nipped at his mind, but he clenched his teeth and snarled back at it.

“I know you’re not real.”

The phantom hissed, but he stared it down.

“I buried my mother myself.”

And then his eyes snapped to Usaki. still laughing, still conducting.

Giyu didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

He was hearing too much. His eyes turned, and he saw them.

Sabito’s laugh rang in his ears.

Makomo’s gentle voice scolded him.

Tsutako called his name.

And over it all, Kaito’s scream.

Behind them, other voices, alive, cruel:

“He’s not right in the head.”

“Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t blink.”

“Should he be a Hashira?”

They pressed down on him like water in his lungs. When Giyu looked around, he was watching and seeing their figures.

“It should’ve been you who died.” The sound of a man in a mask spoke, Giyu panting as he wasn’t sure if this was real now or fake.

Giyu’s knees buckled. His sword tip dug into the dirt.

“Stop. Stop…”

But the whispers didn’t stop.
They never did.

She spun at the heart of the carnage, every turn sending arcs of her own blood through the mist, each droplet a seed of new hallucination.

Her claws flared briefly, mimicking the cutting arcs of Wind Breathing, stolen from watching Sanemi’s movements. From her other hand, thin tendrils of crystallized blood lashed like whips, Blood Demon Art: Second Veil, Chord Lash, capable of severing stone as if it were paper.

Around her, fragments of Tengen’s explosives glimmered, catching the moonlight as Shinobu’s poison-laced strikes hissed against the ground, and phantom streams of water, Giyu’s own, rippled in her wake.

“Ahahahaha~! This is everything I wanted! Look at you all! Look at your truths!”

Her gaze fixed on Giyu, motionless and drowning in ghosts.

“You’re all just waiting to fall apart!”

She lunged, claws first, aiming to carve through his silence and his life in one perfect stroke.

Giyu barely shifts his weight, just a whisper of movement, and Usaki’s claws slice through the air where his head had been a heartbeat ago. The sound is sharp and wet, like a blade dragged across taut leather. Bark explodes from a nearby tree, leaving a blackened groove smoking faintly from the sheer force.

He breathes.
Shallow.
Measured.

Water Breathing, First Form: Water Surface Slash, except he doesn’t strike yet. He holds it, letting the inhale and exhale ground him in the shifting chaos around them.

Lost by CRIM3S

But then, his vision fractures.

The forest ripples. Twists inward, like it’s being sucked into a whirlpool no one else can see. The mist no longer drifts naturally; it curls in impossible, geometric angles, folding in on itself like origami.

The ground beneath his feet shivers, shifting under his sandals. One step is cold stone, the next molten heat, the next the sticky pull of blood. In each blink, the world changes.

He sees…

Sabito, peering from behind a tree, laughing through a jaw broken so far open it swings unnaturally. Makomo, kneeling in the dirt, fingers peeling the edges of her fox mask like wet paper, revealing nothing beneath. Tsutako, her eyes sewn shut, whispering riddles from the dark crater of her collapsed chest.

The ghosts are familiar now. He doesn’t flinch. Not anymore.

He exhales through his nose, voice low.

“Schizophrenia… figures.”

There’s a beat of pain in his head, the electric crackle of a thousand signals firing at once, but beneath it, the noise arranges itself.

Patterns.

Like memorizing a song by heart. Like feeling the wind shift before an arrow flies. Like sensing the ripple in a current before the wave breaks.

There, a shimmer in the air, just ahead. A microscopic flicker of blood mist forming before it’s fully exhaled. To anyone else, invisible. To him, it’s a tell, the unintentional prelude to her next attack.

He steps sideways. The movement is unhurried. Usaki’s claws rake through empty space.

Her voice is sharp with disbelief.

“Impossible! Invisible, it’s supposed to be invisible!”

She lands low, talons carving furrows into stone. Her body twitches, eyes darting between angles like a predator losing its sense of smell.

The air vibrates faintly, a humming resonance no normal ear could place.

“You’re not supposed to see it.”

But Giyu isn’t looking at her eyes; he’s watching the air around her. Watching the score, she writes in every twitch of her wrist, every tremor in her claw.

Giyu’s internal voice cuts through the haze.

“So that’s it… She infects us with whatever flaw will break us fastest. And mine… Schizophrenic delusions. Hallucinations. Detachment. All of it.”

His grip on the hilt tightens.

“But those symptoms… They make the invisible visible. I don’t see reality the way others do. I see everything.”

Somewhere beyond the twisting mist, Shinobu’s vision continued, just barely. A voice pierces her haze.

“Giyu?”

Kanae’s face is there, no, it flickers, and instead she sees him. Standing, not fallen. Calm. Watching the demon’s movements like they’re slow enough to be studied.

That image roots her, if only for a breath. Her next inhale is clearer. She steps back from the brink, one foot planted in reality again.

Tengen is spinning, laughter ripping from his throat, too loud, too forced. His blades flash with Sound Breathing, Fourth Form: Constant Resounding Slashes, though his rhythm is fraying.

“This tempo’s killing my beat…” he mutters through clenched teeth.

Then he hears it, Giyu’s blade sliding free again. No hesitation. No panic. Just precision.

Sanemi’s shoulders rise and fall, the storm in his chest narrowing into a blade’s edge. Wind Breathing, Third Form: Clean Storm Wind Tree carves a path between hallucinations, but his eyes are fixed on Giyu’s steady, deliberate movements.

Usaki snarls, fury boiling up like bile.

“You’re not supposed to function like this! You’re supposed to break!”

Giyu lifts his sword. The movement is unhurried. His voice is soft, almost tired.

“You didn’t account for someone who already did.”

Usaki’s grin, the crooked, unhinged thing that usually danced on her face, falters, then twists into a snarl. The blood that hangs in the air around her thickens, shivering like it feels her irritation.

“Fine… Let’s see what that half-mask is really hiding.”

Her voice is lower now, less sing-song, more venom.

She lunges forward, the motion snapping the mist into a spiral. Claws extend, blackened at the tips, gleaming with a wet sheen that is not her own blood. But it’s not reckless, no, she’s aiming. Deliberate. Every swipe arcs toward the left. Always the left. The side veiled by Giyu’s cracked fox mask.

The weaker eye, she thinks. His blind spot.

The air grows colder as she exhales her Blood Demon Art: Piercing Mist Fangs, tendrils of coagulated blood sharpen into spear-like lances, darting through the mist in spiraling pairs. They twist mid-flight, tracking for the masked side of Giyu’s head, moving like snakes that smell prey.

But Giyu…

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even seem to notice the spears until they’re already there. A subtle step to the right, a lean just outside their arc, and the flat of his blade tilts as if brushing away an insect.

No wasted motion. No hesitation. Not even a blink.

The spears cut nothing but air.

Usaki skids across the ground, claws scraping sparks from the cobblestones, disbelief seeping into her voice.

“What are you?!”

Giyu doesn’t answer. The mask hides his expression, but the silence is heavier than any insult. He exhales, slow, measured, and the rippling breath seems to move the mist itself. It rolls outward, as if the battlefield had been still water and he’d dropped a stone into its center.

Sanemi catches it in the corner of his eye, that quiet precision, that iron calm buried under layers of madness. His own thoughts still scratch at the walls of his skull, itching for violence, but seeing Giyu move…

It steadies him. Not all the way. But enough.

“You smug bastard…” Sanemi mutters, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
“Always so damn quiet… and now you’re the anchor?”

His feet dig into the ground. He exhales, short and sharp, Wind Breathing, Fourth Form: Rising Dust Storm, kicking up gravel and grit as he launches forward. The frenzy in his mind doesn’t vanish, but his sword’s path is clean, cutting a channel through the creeping blood haze.

Tengen’s pulse slows, not much, but enough to feel the beat again. The erratic staccato of battle shifts into something steadier.

He sees it in Giyu’s posture. A tempo. A song he can play to.

“Alright, Water Boy…” Tengen says with a smirk. “I’ll match your rhythm.”

He spins into motion, Sound Breathing, Fifth Form: String Performance, twin blades humming as they shred apart threads of blood in the air. This time, he moves with timing, each swing landing like a perfectly placed drumbeat.

Shinobu’s eyes trace Giyu’s steps. No hesitation. No fear. He moves as though he’s already seen the attack before it comes.

Her grip tightens on her sword. The cold, sinking weight of Kanae’s absence presses against her ribs, but it fades slightly. Not gone, but quieter. Just enough to breathe.

She exhales, her voice almost fond.

“You’re always surprising, Tomioka.”

With that, she darts forward, Insect Breathing, Dance of the Bee Sting: True Flutter, her poison-coated blade whispering through the mist, a glint of violet under the moonlight.

Usaki’s eyes flick between them, between Wind, Sound, and Insect, each one moving with more clarity than moments before. Her teeth grit, and her laugh sharpens into a jagged thing.

The stillness of one has pulled the rest into focus. The madness bends, but doesn’t break them.

“Fine,” she hisses. “Let’s see how long that little miracle lasts.”

Her claws carve arcs into the ground as she spins, summoning another wave, Blood Demon Art: Thousand Veins Bloom, the mist erupts into a forest of vein-like tendrils, each pulsing, each twitching toward the heartbeat of anyone nearby.

Then, without pause, she layers it, Blood Demon Art: Scarlet Phantoms, images of herself, blurry but solid enough to parry a blow, flicker in and out of the haze.

The air is a maze now. The ground feels unsteady. Her illusions and tendrils weave together into a living trap.

But this time…

She’s not the predator she thinks she is. She’s being hunted.

The blades are coming.

Tengen’s twin Nichirin, whirling in a deadly duet, Sound Breathing, Fifth Form: String Performance, arcs of crimson slicing through the red-tinged haze. Every rotation sings, every strike timed to a rhythm only he can hear.

Sanemi’s storm follows close behind, Wind Breathing, Third Form: Clean Storm Wind Tree, his blade roaring through the mist in a spiraling gale, shredding the air and cutting pathways toward her.

Shinobu is next, Insect Breathing, Dance of the Bee Sting: True Flutter, a single step, a whisper of movement, and her blade glints with the venom meant to paralyze even the fiercest demon. The poison rides the tip like a promise.

And then there’s Giyu.

No stance. No movement. Just stillness.

The water Hashira does not rush in. He simply stands, the cracked fox mask shadowing his left side, his Nichirin sword lowered but ready.

Yet his silence is suffocating, heavier than any blade.

Usaki feels it before she understands it. Her mist, normally thick and disorienting, wavers like steam in a breeze. The air feels lighter. Clearer. And the weight in her chest isn’t from fatigue, it’s from him.

“I see now…” she breathes, voice ragged, “…I gave you the one thing no one else could survive.”

Her Blood Demon Art, Crimson Psychomist. A dense, rust-red vapor laced with microscopic shards of hardened blood. Inhalation triggers hallucinations. Sometimes paranoia. Sometimes rage. Sometimes crushing despair.

And she can shape it. Spear Bloom: the mist condenses into needle-like lances that pierce from unexpected angles.

Labyrinth Veil: the fog folds into layered illusions, bending perception and shifting the ground beneath a target’s mind.

Echo Murmurs: voices of the dead whisper from every direction, breaking concentration until her prey is defenseless.

No one ever stayed whole inside it. Not for long.

Except him.

She tried to fracture him with visions and phantom voices… But Giyu did not shatter. He took the madness, let it in… and turned it against her.

His quiet isn’t emptiness. It’s containment. A madness so tightly leashed it could cut stone.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” she whispers, awe seeping into her tone. “You shouldn’t even be sane.”

But he isn’t sane, is he?

Giyu finally moves, Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm. The mist halts mid-air, every particle suspended as if the world itself has stopped breathing.

Sanemi’s blade whistles through the stillness. Tengen’s spin carves a final red arc. Shinobu’s needle finds its mark.

The slice is clean. No scream follows.

Nurse’s Office by Melanie Martinez

The three Hashira close in. Tengen’s rhythm drives Sanemi’s blade, which in turn opens gaps for Shinobu’s precise stabs.

But Usaki only sees Giyu.

The others are deadly, yes, but he is the one who’s already ended her. Because the moment she understood that his mind is a blade sharper than his sword… She knew her art would never work again.

“You…” she murmurs, her voice breaking into a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re the most insane person I’ve ever met.”

It isn’t an insult. It’s a diagnosis. A confession.

The scent of antiseptic always clung to her, sharp, clean, suffocating. It masked the decay of the mind she saw every day.

Her clinic was small, cramped, and dimly lit, tucked into the back alleys of a city that preferred not to acknowledge people like her patients. Shelves sagged under the weight of medical journals, imported at great expense, their spines cracked from obsessive rereading. Loose sketches were pinned haphazardly to the walls, intricate diagrams of the human brain, cross-sections of the spinal cord, rough portraits of eyes clouded by trauma. In the corner, a brass kettle whistled endlessly, steaming the air and softening the constant odor of ink and dust.

She was a physician of the mind before “psychiatrist” was a word the world valued. Her peers saw her as an eccentric at best, a fool at worst.

“Why waste your talent on the invisible?” they scoffed, leaning over wine glasses in academic salons.
“The mind is an abstraction, cut a man open and you’ll see the truth in his organs, not his dreams.”

She ignored them.

Her patients were men who returned from war with eyes that never stopped scanning the corners of rooms, hands that twitched toward weapons that weren’t there. Women who sat in silence so deep it felt like drowning, clutching lockets of children buried too soon. Children who screamed themselves hoarse at shadows that no one else could see, until the neighbors begged her to do something, anything, to make them quiet.

She listened when no one else did. And she wrote. Pages upon pages of notes, some ordered and clear, others frantic scrawls she could barely read later. She believed she was on the edge of discovering something, patterns in the madness, threads that could be untangled if she only followed them far enough.

Then, one evening, he came.

The man in the dark coat moved like someone who already knew the room. His eyes were black pits, and yet his smile was warm, too warm, like a fire in a locked room. He sat in her office as if it belonged to him.

“You wish to understand madness?” he asked, his voice low, as if they were sharing a secret the walls might repeat.

She hesitated. The answer was yes, but something in him made the word feel dangerous.

“Then,” he said, tilting his head just slightly, “become it.”

The vial he set on her desk was small, stoppered with wax. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, dark and viscous. She told herself she took it for science. She told herself she could stop whenever she wanted.

The first taste was agony, like molten glass threading through her veins. She collapsed to the floor, clutching her head as a thousand voices screamed at once.

When she woke, her patients were waiting. Only… they weren’t screaming anymore. They weren’t trembling. They looked at her with glassy-eyed calm. The terror she had once worked to soothe was gone, burned out, hollowed.

She realized then: she hadn’t cured them. She had stolen their fear, their pain, their will to resist.

And it was intoxicating.

Over time, her art evolved. She learned to weave their terror into tangible shapes, a pale, curling mist that crept under doors and through cracks, carrying hallucinations that clawed at the mind until reality seemed paper-thin.

She could make the mist whisper a loved one’s voice, or echo a battlefield’s chaos, or fill a room with the phantom scent of smoke and blood. Her favorite, though, was the hollowing fog, a slow erosion of thought, until all that remained was obedience.

The city came to fear her clinic, but by then it was too late. Muzan had given her more than blood; he had given her purpose.

And now, standing before Giyu Tomioka decades later, her mist unraveling in the cold night air, she understood something horrifying.

He had taken her gift, her weapon, and turned it back on her.

Her head falls, rolling until it rests face-up. Eyes wide. Smile faintly.

For the first time in decades, she looks… at peace.

The mist dissolves into the night. And for a brief, fragile moment, the sky above them is perfectly clear.

A.N / A long chapter, I know, but I didn’t want to have too many chapters on a mission, instead focusing more on the general connection between the Hashira’s, rather than pushing more missions regarding the other Hashira’s. Although this does bring the notion that I could have some Hashira’s communicating through missions. Even then, I want this to showcase more of a friendship, rather than camaraderie, which shows here. Therefore, while originally I may have some missions, that is secondary, as these friendships are based on camaraderie, which thus evolves into friendships. I’ll try to get the next chapter out within a day or two. Talk to you all later!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 8:

Meduse by Nuvfr

The forest is quiet again.

No blood mist. No illusions.

Just the sound of four Hashira walking through damp earth and broken trees, the weight of their silence pressing in with every step.

Tengen limps slightly, his movements stiff, one arm wrapped across his back, fingers curled around a bloodied cleaver. He moves as if the world is too much to bear all at once, his usual flamboyance buried beneath the exhaustion of their recent battle.

Shinobu walks slower than usual, her gaze fixed forward, but it’s not the path she’s watching. It’s her own thoughts, and the heaviness lodged somewhere behind her eyes. There’s a tension in her brow, one that comes not from fatigue, but from the uncomfortable realization that she has questions she might never be able to ask outright.

Sanemi scowls, jaw locked tight enough to crack. His sword remains drawn, as if daring some lingering ghost of the demon to step out of the trees. Rage has always been his shield, and now it hums in the air around him like static.

And Giyu, at the back of the group, is silent.

The half-mask glints faintly in the dying sunlight, the left side of his face hidden from view. That mask is more than cloth and metal. It’s a barricade, something built to keep others out, to protect… or to conceal.

They walk like this for a long time. The forest seems to press inward, the branches leaning as if trying to listen.

Shinobu should be thinking about the fight they’d just survived. About the demon, about the injuries, about the fact that they’re lucky to be walking at all. Instead, she keeps replaying the moment when Usaki’s blood demon art had swallowed them all in madness.

She remembers the cloying thickness of the mist, how it crawled into her ears and behind her eyes, dredging up half-forgotten pains and weaving them into impossible hallucinations. She’d felt her own composure strain, her vision twist. Even Tengen, who usually thrives in chaos, had faltered. And Sanemi, well, the way his fury had sharpened almost to self-destruction was telling enough.

But Giyu? No panic. No disorientation. No slip. He had walked through it as though the mist barely touched him.

It wasn’t resistance. Shinobu has seen resistance before, people forcing their way through pain by sheer willpower. This had been different. He’d moved with the kind of quiet assurance you can’t fake. The kind of familiarity that only comes from already knowing the territory.

That realization bothers her more than she wants to admit.

She glances back at him now. His eyes are forward, unreadable. But she knows better than to take unreadable at face value. Sometimes the things hardest to see are the ones closest to the surface.

Her mind drifts to a possibility she doesn’t like: Maybe the mist hadn’t worked on him because there was nothing in it he hadn’t already seen before.

Maybe it was like throwing someone into a storm they’d already learned to live in.

She thinks about the way Usaki had looked at him, mid-fight, her smile too sharp, her voice low and almost delighted. “You’re the most insane person I’ve ever met.”

The words were meant to break him. They didn’t. Not outwardly.

But that’s what unsettles Shinobu. The deeper you bury a wound, the more it shapes you without anyone noticing. She knows this better than most.

Giyu keeps walking, each step measured, deliberate. His thoughts aren’t here. They’re back in the mist, hearing that word again.

Insane.

It’s not new to him. The villagers had whispered it in different words when he was a boy. His uncle’s gaze had been a quieter version of the same thing, watching him as though expecting some fracture to reveal itself. And the doctors, he remembers their eyes most of all. How they searched him for symptoms they couldn’t name, for some shadow of danger they were certain lay in wait.

No one said it outright. But he’d always known.

So when Usaki said it, it wasn’t a revelation; it was confirmation. The difference was that she’d said it like she could see exactly where it lived inside him.

The others had fought madness like a force pressing from the outside.

For him, it was something that had always been inside, still and patient, coiled like a tide that never fully receded. He’d learned to live alongside it. To build walls so they never touch anyone else.

And Shinobu, has she noticed?

The thought unsettles him, though he hides it well.

Shinobu’s gaze flicks to him again, as if testing the water. Her voice is quiet enough that the others don’t quite catch it. “Maybe it’s because he’s always lived with it.”

The words slip into the air like a scalpel into flesh, precise, intentional. She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t have to.

Giyu says nothing. But he feels the memory stir, the weight of eyes on him since childhood, the subtle recoil of people who couldn’t understand his silences. The way it had followed him even into the Corps. Always a little apart. Always the one they couldn’t quite read.

And Shinobu… she’s watching not with pity, but with something more dangerous. Understanding.

The group presses on. The forest exhales around them, the ground soft beneath their feet. No one speaks. It isn’t camaraderie that binds them now, but a shared exhaustion that words can’t cut through.

Tengen finally mutters, voice low and edged with a bitter laugh. “This is why I hate quiet people.”

Giyu doesn’t react. He doesn’t need to. Let them think quiet means empty. That distance means nothingness. The truth is far heavier, far sharper. The quiet isn’t absence, it’s containment.

Shinobu, still walking just ahead of him, is almost certain of it now. The mist hadn’t spared him. It simply couldn’t frighten someone who’s already learned how to live with the thing it tried to show.

And that knowledge… She isn’t sure yet if it makes him stronger. Or if it makes him infinitely more dangerous.

The sun dips lower, casting its shadows long and thin against the earth. The path narrows, forcing them closer together. Still, Giyu remains at the back, the half-mask catching what little light remains.

Above them, the wind shifts through the branches, carrying away the last trace of the demon’s voice.

“You’re the most insane person I’ve ever met.”

For Giyu, the words are neither new nor surprising. But they remain. They always will.

And so, he keeps walking. Step after step. Enduring. Never breaking.

The trees loom darker now, their shadows stretching like claws across the trail. The air is damp, heavy, and carries the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to their clothes. The four Hashira walk in a loose line, but not close enough to be comfortable. The weight of what just happened clings to them as stubbornly as the mist had earlier.

Shinobu, quiet, to herself, though her eyes linger on Giyu, “You handled that too well.”

Her steps are measured, soft against the earth. She doesn’t mean the fight, not entirely. Her gaze flicks toward the back of the group where Giyu walks, his posture rigid, his fox mask catching faint streaks of moonlight. The left side of his face remains hidden, as always.

“When Usaki’s illusions hit us, we each felt it, the pull into madness, into our worst selves. Even Tengen, for all his bravado, faltered. Sanemi… well, I’m not sure he even knows how far he fell.

And I… I recognized mine. I felt the strain claw at me.” Shinobu thought critically, as she was in a deep state of thought.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

But Giyu… Giyu didn’t break. Not once. Not even a crack.

She remembers back to before the fight, his voice, low, almost reluctant, as if the words were pulled out of him.

Shinobu’s fingers curl briefly at her side, hidden by the folds of her haori.

“Tengen is bright. Loud. He thrives on stimulation, connection. That much intensity, if reversed, would break into panic. Sensory overload. He’d crumble under racing thoughts, maybe even mania.”

“Sanemi’s rage is always burning just beneath the skin. He isolates, but not fully. He needs control. If pushed, he’d become volatile, paranoid, and aggressive. Psychosis, probably. His anger would turn inward or lash out in confusion.”

“And you, you’re composed, focused. But I can tell… You hold too much in. You compartmentalize pain with grace. If turned inward, that restraint would become self-loathing. You’d fall into despair before anyone noticed. A hollow kind of sadness.”

Shinobu’s thoughts were going haywire.

“How could he have known? He said it like he’d already seen it happen. No hesitation. No uncertainty.”

She glances at Sanemi ahead of her, his back rigid, his sword still out, the edge catching the light. The silence doesn’t last long.

Sanemi snapped suddenly, without looking back, “Alright, I’ve had enough of this.”

The words cut through the air like a blade. Tengen slows his pace just enough to listen.

Sanemi turned to Giyu, clearly wanting answers, “Back there, you froze. Didn’t say a damn word, didn’t move until that thing started losing it. And then what? The demon starts screaming that you 'saw' its art? What the hell was that, Tomioka?”

Giyu doesn’t answer. His footsteps stay steady, slow, like he’s counting them in his head.

Tengen, without turning, voice low but pointed, “I’ll tell you one thing, after that first hit, your heart rate spiked like the rest of ours. But then… it dropped. Fast. Like you got used to it.”

He finally turns his head slightly, looking at Giyu from the corner of his eye.

Tengen then continued, speaking his own mind, “The rest of us stayed wired. Couldn’t shake it. But you? You just… leveled out.”

The forest seems quieter now, as if listening. Shinobu’s gaze doesn’t leave Giyu.

Shinobu hummed as her own mind continued to be in thought, her own inner voice speaking, “Leveled out… No, that’s not right. It wasn’t calm. It was… something else.”

She watches him, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes don’t meet anyone’s. That stillness isn’t peace. It’s control. Painfully precise control.

Shinobu’s mind then added, as if having a bunch of note points about Giyu. “And pride, yes. Not the arrogant kind Sanemi accuses him of, not even the cold distance Iguro swears he wears on purpose. This is armor. That half-mask of his hides more than his face.”

Her steps slow as she pieces it together, the demon’s last words before it fell echoing in her mind. “You’re the most insane person I’ve ever met.”

“If she’s right… he didn’t just resist it. He understood it. Saw past it. And for her,  for something like her, that was worse than losing.”

Sanemi scoffs loudly, glancing over his shoulder. “What, too proud to talk to us now? Too much trouble to explain yourself?”

Giyu doesn’t take the bait. His silence is almost louder than Sanemi’s bite.

Tengen then muttered, “This is exactly why I hate quiet people. Never know if they’re thinking ten steps ahead or not thinking at all.”

Shinobu lets their voices fade into the background. She’s watching the smallest shifts in Giyu’s body language, the ones no one else notices. “The demon didn’t break him… but maybe she did something else. Opened a door he’s been keeping shut for years.”

Her lips press together in something almost like pity, though she doubts he’d want it. “That face you wear, Tomioka… It’s not who you are. It’s the mask you can’t take off.”

The group continues forward, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the rustle of leaves in the night wind. No one speaks for a long while.

The trees thin out slightly as the trail forks ahead, one path leading toward the Butterfly Estate, the other disappearing deeper into the dark mountains. The moon is higher now, a silver coin behind a gauze of drifting cloud.

The four slow as they approach the split, the air tense with unspoken things. The faint smell of burnt flesh from the demon fight lingers in the wind.

Tengen, breaking the silence first, voice lower than usual, “Tch… guess I owe you all an apology.”

Sanemi grunts but doesn’t interrupt. Tengen scratches at the back of his neck, his usual cocky edge softened by fatigue.

Tengen then continued, “When I heard the reports, I was sure this was an Upper Moon. Everything fit. Thought we’d be walking into a fight worth the blood and sweat. Instead, we got… her.”

He exhales through his nose, frustration curling at the edges of his words.

And then, Tengen muttered, “Didn’t think we’d be tangled up in some twisted parlor trick instead.”

Shinobu’s eyes don’t leave Giyu. He’s stopped at the fork without saying anything, his gaze fixed on the mountain path as though the shadows themselves are calling him. The half-mask on the left side of his face catches a cold gleam of moonlight.

Shinobu responded to Tengen, “I’ll report to Oyakata-sama about this. He needs to know exactly what she was capable of, and how she targeted our minds.”

She says it evenly, but there’s a faint edge of emphasis when she says “our.” Her gaze lingers on Giyu for a second longer before she looks away, as if to give him space.

Sanemi then turned to Giyu, turning his head towards Giyu, “And you? You gonna stand there all night, or…”

Giyu interrupts, his voice quiet but certain, “I’m taking the ridge path.”

Sanemi blinks, caught off guard by the suddenness. Tengen raises a brow.

Tengen raised a brow at Giyu’s response, while Sanemi remained silent, “That’s the hunting trail. You planning to run yourself into the ground tonight?”

Giyu simply responded, “There are more out there. If she were here, others would be moving.”

No one answers right away. The implication sits heavy in the air: Giyu is going back into the hunt without rest.

Shinobu eyed Giyu critically once more, “Of course you are. You’d rather keep walking until your legs give out than stay long enough for someone to ask you what you saw.”

Sanemi shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Suit yourself, Tomioka. Don’t get yourself killed before I get the chance to yell at you again.”

Tengen smirks faintly, but it’s tired. “Don’t make us clean up your mess if you bite off more than you can chew.”

Giyu doesn’t respond, just gives the briefest nod, the kind that could almost be mistaken for a shadow shifting in the moonlight. He adjusts his haori, turns, and starts up the mountain path without looking back.

The sound of his footsteps fades quickly, swallowed by the trees.

“Still wearing it. That mask. Maybe it’s the only way you know how to breathe anymore.” Shinobu’s mind pondered, as if finding something different with Giyu now.

She turns toward the estate path, Sanemi and Tengen falling in beside her. The night closes in behind them, the fork in the trail already lost in shadow.

Fainted by Narvent

Kagaya Ubuyashiki’s estate lay in its usual stillness, the kind of serene quiet that seemed untouched by the chaos beyond its walls. A soft wind moved through the surrounding gardens, carrying the delicate scent of blooming plum blossoms. The faint rustle of bamboo leaves whispered like distant rain. Here, time seemed to stretch and slow, the air imbued with an almost sacred calm.

The paper doors slid open with a muted sigh, the sound gentle yet deliberate. A shaft of filtered light fell across the polished wooden floor, where two figures stepped inside. Shinobu Kocho and Sanemi Shinazugawa came forward in unison, their movements disciplined despite the unspoken tension lingering between them. In the center of the room, seated in quiet dignity, was Kagaya Ubuyashiki, the head of the Demon Slayer Corps, his presence as still and unshakable as a reflection on calm water.

They knelt before him. The warm glow filtering through the paper walls bathed the scene in gold, yet the weight of the moment pressed down like an unseen hand. Shinobu’s posture was precise, her hands folded neatly in her lap; Sanemi’s was more rigid, his shoulders drawn taut, the faint twitch of his jaw betraying his impatience.

Kagaya’s gaze moved between them, patient and unwavering. His expression bore no trace of judgment or urgency, only the openness of a man willing to bear the full gravity of the truth.

When Shinobu began to speak, her voice was measured, each word chosen with surgical precision.
“Her name was Usaki,” she began. “And from what I can tell, she had some work as a doctor, as her attire and blood demon art resembled that of causing health problems.

A pause followed, long enough to let the words settle before she continued. “Her Blood Demon Art targeted the mind. She used a type of mist, inhaled or absorbed through the skin, that preyed upon the vulnerabilities within a person’s psyche. It did not merely cloud judgment. It reached deeper, hallucinations, distorted perceptions, emotional assaults… even full psychotic breaks. The more one resisted, the deeper the mist seemed to seep.”

Her eyes lowered briefly before she spoke again. “The villagers she affected have now recovered. With her death, the symptoms appear to have dissipated entirely.”

Sanemi’s voice cut into the room like a blade. “Good riddance.”

The words carried no hesitation, only a sharp, unfiltered disgust. His lip curled slightly, his tone dismissive of any nuance. “A demon like that had no business existing in the first place. I don’t care what she was before, doctor, saint, whatever. She’s dead, and that’s exactly as it should be.”

He rose without asking leave, pacing the wooden floor in measured strides. His frustration, too restless to be contained in stillness, carried in each step.

“But working with him…” His voice dropped into a growl. “Tomioka. He didn’t break, sure. But he was halfway gone from the start. Could’ve snapped. Could’ve taken the rest of us down with him. Whatever kept him steady, it wasn’t trust. It was something else. Something I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Still. I’ll tolerate him. If he stays quiet, I can ignore him.”

Kagaya, serene as ever, listened without interruption. His slow nod acknowledged Sanemi’s words, though he gave no indication of agreement or reproach.

“I thank you both,” he said at last, his voice soft yet resonant. “It is no small gift that you have returned alive.”

His eyes rested on Shinobu a fraction longer than on Sanemi, a silent exchange that neither interrupted nor explained. She inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment before rising alongside her fellow Hashira.

“Tengen has requested to take the night off,” she informed him. “He said the fight pushed him too far, not physically, but here.” She touched two fingers lightly to her temple. A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips. “He told me he intends to be selfish for once and spend time with his wives.”

Kagaya’s expression warmed at the words.

“We are all human,” he said. “Even those who bear the title of Hashira. The weight you carry is not only muscle or blade, but mind and spirit. That burden must be acknowledged… or it will consume you.”

The meeting concluded without ceremony. Outside the estate, the evening air met them with the cool breath of approaching night. The faint glow of lanterns cast their shadows long across the gravel path.

Shinobu walked beside Sanemi in silence at first, her gaze fixed ahead, but her mind still turning over the events. Eventually, her voice emerged in a quiet, reflective tone.

“She knew exactly where to strike,” she said. “Not with claws or fangs, but with precision, she found what each of us hides, what we bury deep enough to believe it gone… and she brought it to the surface.”

Sanemi made a sound that might have been agreement or irritation. It was hard to tell.

“It made me wonder,” Shinobu continued, “how many of us are truly holding ourselves together. You. Iguro. Muichiro…” She hesitated, her voice softening. “…and Giyu. Just, everyone…”

Sanemi gave a sharp scoff. “Iguro stares through walls like he’s seeing something none of us can. The brat barely talks. And Tomioka?” He slowed just enough to cast her a sidelong glance. “That man likely is hiding his whole, ‘I’m better than you guys,’ as a façade. I don’t care, it still annoys me and just makes him unbearable.”

With that, he strode ahead, boots crunching against the gravel, leaving Shinobu momentarily behind.

She tilted her head upward. Above, the clouds shifted slowly in the darkening sky, their edges kissed by the pale light of the moon. There was a deceptive calm to them, the kind that came just before a storm’s first drop of rain.

We need to see the cracks, she thought, her hands folding neatly behind her back. Before they become breaks.

Her gaze lingered on the drifting sky, the faint scent of plum blossoms still hanging in the cool air.
Because one day, she realized, it would not be a demon who makes us fall.

The moonlight lay upon the Butterfly Estate like a silken veil, spilling in gentle ribbons through latticed windows and casting pale silver over the wooden floors. In the stillness of night, the air seemed to hum with a subdued quiet, as though the walls themselves held their breath. The gardens outside, normally alive with the whisper of wind through flowers, were reduced to a faint rustle, a muted lullaby meant only for the night insects.

Shinobu Kocho moved along the corridor with deliberate slowness, her steps producing the soft, steady tap of sandals against the polished wood. In one hand, she carried a small candleholder, its single flame swaying slightly with each movement, projecting her shadow along the walls in wavering patterns. The light haloed her figure in gold but could not mask the faint droop in her shoulders nor the weariness in her gaze.

The night after a mission was always a strange liminal space, too soon for peace, too late for battle. Her body had returned to safety, but her mind lingered in the fog of recollection.

She reached her office at the far end of the hall and, with a quiet slide of the door, stepped inside. The scent met her immediately: dried herbs, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of medicinal tools recently cleaned. The room, though small, had an ordered stillness, a sense of control in a world that rarely afforded such luxury.

Closing the door behind her, Shinobu set the candle upon her desk and let out a slow breath she had not realized she was holding. The gentle flicker of the flame caught the edges of scrolls stacked neatly to one side, the brushed calligraphy upon them casting delicate shadows across the lacquered surface. She rolled her shoulders to loosen the knot that had taken up residence there since returning from the mission, then reached for the leather-bound journal resting in the center of the desk.

She opened it. The page was blank.

The quiet in the room deepened, as if the very air leaned closer to hear what she might write.

Her eyes dropped to the heading on the file before her:

Tomioka, Giyu.

Rank: Hashira. Breathing Style: Water.

She stared at the record, and the absence of information felt heavier than any words could have been.

Still no medical history.

Still no psychological assessment.

Still no voluntary responses to the routine wellness inquiries that all Hashira received.

The corners of her lips tightened slightly.

He doesn’t even flinch when you stab him, she thought, recalling a sparring match in which her blade had grazed his shoulder without eliciting so much as a blink. That’s not resilience. That’s not strength in the way most would call it. That’s something else entirely.

Her eyes remained fixed on the page, as though sheer will might cause it to reveal its secrets.

Sanemi’s voice intruded upon her thoughts, rough and unfiltered, spoken only hours earlier: “That man likely is hiding his whole, ‘I’m better than you guys,’ as a façade.”

And then, overlapping it, Tengen’s irreverent yet oddly perceptive remark: “I hate quiet people. You never know if they’re thoughtful… or dangerously broken.”

Shinobu pressed two fingers to her temple and drew in a slow breath. “It is not about sentiment,” she murmured aloud into the quiet. “This is clinical. Nothing more.”

She reached for her pen and, with deliberate strokes, wrote a single line at the top of the page:

Hypothesis: Tomioka Giyu is not well.

Her hand hovered above the paper, the ink glistening faintly in the candlelight. Writing it down crystallized the thought into something tangible, something undeniable. And with that tangibility came a subtle discomfort, as though she had stepped too close to an edge.

Most Demon Slayers aren’t well, she reasoned with herself.
We are, all of us, a corps of trauma-burdened souls who’ve learned to keep moving with swords in our hands.

But still, Tomioka’s case felt… different.

His calmness was not the trained discipline of a soldier, nor the icy reserve of a stoic. It was something emptier, quieter. Calm the way a field is calm after fire has already passed through, leaving nothing left to burn.

She turned back a few pages, scanning through the medical histories of her fellow Hashira. Sanemi’s was filled with injury reports and notes on volatile temperament, meticulously documented. Tengen’s bore careful observations on his need for constant sensory engagement, a defense against the encroaching shadow of boredom that could unravel his focus. Muichiro’s sparse record still held enough to hint at the contours of older wounds hidden beneath his amnesia.

But Giyu’s page was a void.

She closed the file slowly, the motion deliberate, as though sealing something that should not be disturbed. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, where faint lines of moonlight traced the wooden beams above.

“You cannot mend what refuses to show its cracks,” she whispered into the stillness. “And you cannot save someone who denies the wound exists at all.”

Her hands, small and deft from years of delicate work, rested upon her lap. For the first time in many nights, she found herself unsettled, not by the memory of a demon’s claws or the knowledge of another battle looming ahead, but by the persistent enigma of one man within her own ranks.

The flame on her desk wavered as if stirred by an unseen breath, and in the quiet space between heartbeats, Shinobu Kocho understood that the mysteries most dangerous to the Demon Slayer Corps were not always found in the darkness beyond their walls.

Sometimes, they wore the uniform.

Sometimes, they sat beside you in silence.

And sometimes, they carried the stillness of a man who had already survived the worst the world could offer, and had nothing left to lose.

The night at the Butterfly Estate carried with it a strange, suspended stillness, one that did not yet feel like peace, only the absence of current battle. Somewhere in the distance, the cry of a crow split the quiet, its voice sharp and deliberate. Shinobu Kocho was still seated at her desk when she heard the faint tap at her window.

The bird was there, a familiar, black-feathered sentinel of the Corps, its talons clicking lightly against the wooden frame. A scroll was bound neatly to its leg.

She rose from her chair, sliding open the pane, and the crow hopped onto her wrist with practiced ease.

From the Kakushi, the note began, penned in crisp, formal script. Under Gyomei Himejima’s authority, an invitation had been sent to every active Hashira: he would be hosting the next dinner gathering at his residence within the week. Attendance was requested, though, Shinobu thought with a faint curve of her lips, Gyomei’s “requests” were rarely ignored.

The paper smelled faintly of incense, the kind often used in Gyomei’s quarters. She could almost imagine him dictating the message in his low, resonant voice, his presence filling a space even without sight.

Her eyes lingered on the invitation a moment longer.

A dinner meeting amongst the Hashira. It had been some time since all of them had gathered without the shadow of a mission hanging over their heads. It was the kind of gathering that revealed more than battle ever could. Alliances were forged there. Conflicts sharpened. Masks, sometimes, slipped.

And there was one mask she wanted to see slip.

Shinobu set the scroll down, fingertips brushing over the paper as though committing the words to memory. Her thoughts were already narrowing to a single point.

Tomioka Giyu.

The man had an uncanny ability to evade such gatherings. Always on a mission, always in the field, always finding some pretext to keep to the periphery of Corps life. He had even missed the last two dinner meetings. Gyomei had been too gracious to press the matter then, but Shinobu suspected the Stone Hashira’s patience had its limits.

If the dinner truly brought every Hashira to the same table…

She decided, in that moment, that Giyu would attend.

Not simply because attendance was a matter of duty, though that was reason enough. But because the isolation he kept wrapping around himself was starting to look less like discipline and more like erosion.

She pictured him at the table, awkward, perhaps silent, but forced to be part of the current rather than standing on the shore. Forced to feel the weight of shared humanity, even if he resisted it.

“Better to confront him directly,” she murmured, almost to herself.

A knock at the door broke her train of thought. A Kakushi entered quietly, bowing low before setting down a tray of tea. “Kocho-sama,” they said softly, “the other Kakushi have confirmed delivery of the invitations to all Hashira.”

“All?”

“Yes, Kocho-sama. Even Tomioka-san’s crow has departed with his.”

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile was polite. “Good. Thank you.”

When the door closed again, she lifted the cup of tea but did not drink. The steam curled upward, dissolving into the cool air, much like her patience might if she left this to chance.

No, she would not wait for Giyu to decide.

She would go to him. Speak to him. Make certain that when Gyomei’s table was set, the Water Hashira’s place at it was not left conspicuously empty once more.

Outside her window, the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant sound of flowing water, an odd thing to hear from this far inland. It was only the river beyond the hills, but it made her think of him nonetheless.

Somewhere out there, Giyu was moving along the shadows, blade in hand, hunting demons in his solitary way. She wondered if he had even read the invitation yet.

If not, she intended to deliver the message herself.

And she would not accept silence as his answer.

A.N / Ooooh, he’s going to go! Well, we don’t know. Shinobu still needs to convince Giyu to go. But we all know Shinobu has her own way of dragging people to stuff, which includes dragging Giyu to a Hashira dinner meeting. So, I can tell you with pure confidence that yes, Giyu will be attending this one. There is no more filler or buffer that will prevent this from happening! He is going! I repeat, he is going! In all seriousness, it’s been a bit of a ride, and considering everything I want to put in, I hope I’m doing a good job, both at setting up the idea that there are a lot of dark things, and that the Hashira are blissfully unaware of the severity of what they must witness if they want to get close to Giyu. This is us, for a bit, heading back to normalcy. I might add something else, I don’t know ye,t with more missions, maybe some connections to the last mission, we will see. For now, hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 9:

Treehouse by Alex G

The late afternoon air carried with it the lingering coolness of the day, touched faintly by the warmth of the sun’s slow descent. Shafts of soft golden light fell in angled bands through the canopy of tall cedar trees, each beam weaving among the trunks like silken threads. The path that wound toward the Water Hashira’s estate was narrow, hemmed in by moss-covered stones and the quiet rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.

Shinobu Kocho moved along it alone, her figure poised and unhurried. In one hand, she held a folded parasol, the lacquered handle resting lightly in her grip; in the other, a woven basket brimming with freshly gathered herbs whose subtle fragrances mingled with the forest air. The rhythmic crunch of her sandals against the gravel was the only sound to accompany her passage, each step deliberate, almost ceremonious, as she neared the modest dwelling that stood partially hidden behind a screen of low pines.

The house was as she remembered it, simple, almost austere, its weathered wood bearing the faint silvering of years exposed to wind and rain. No decorative ornament adorned its façade; the dwelling’s plainness reflected its owner with disarming clarity.

Shinobu ascended the short stone step and, with the measured patience of someone who already knew the ritual, lifted her knuckles to the wooden door and knocked. The sound, muffled yet firm, seemed to linger in the air before being absorbed into the stillness. She waited.

The door did not open immediately.

It never did.

A full minute passed before the hinges finally uttered their protest in a long, subdued creak. The opening was no wider than a crack at first, revealing only the dim interior and the faint outline of a figure. Another moment, and the aperture widened, admitting a sliver more of his presence.

At last, Giyu Tomioka stood before her.

The same half-and-half haori, worn with quiet constancy. The same vacant expression that resisted easy reading. A half fox mask, its pale surface obscuring the left side of his face, lent him the air of someone perpetually half-withdrawn, as though his existence were lived on the threshold between presence and absence.

“…Kocho,” he said, his voice low, as if unused for hours.

Shinobu tilted her head slightly, her lips curving in a faint smile. “You remembered my name,” she observed, her tone carrying the delicate lilt of a jest. “I am flattered.”

He offered no reply.

She let the silence breathe for a moment before continuing, her words as light as if she were remarking on the weather. “It is time for another Hashira dinner. You missed the last one. And, as memory serves, the one before that as well.”

“I do not go to those,” came his quiet response, almost mechanical, as though the line had been rehearsed through repetition. Already, he began to draw the door back toward its frame.

With practiced grace, Shinobu placed the tip of her sandal between the wood and its frame, halting the motion without force. Her smile did not falter.

“This gathering will be at Gyomei’s residence,” she said, her voice calm yet deliberate. “He was quite insistent on extending the invitation to you personally. Went to more trouble than you might imagine. Kyojurou assisted him in making sure the message reached you. It would be… discourteous to ignore such effort.”

Giyu exhaled softly, the sound scarcely audible.

“I am not… needed,” he said at last.

“You are one of us,” she countered, her voice neither sharp nor pleading, but quietly unyielding.

He did not answer. Instead, he turned inward, retreating into the dim interior of his dwelling. Shinobu followed without hesitation, crossing the threshold uninvited yet without any true resistance from him, the ease of her movement suggesting she had done so before.

The room within was sparsely furnished, its plainness bordering on severity. A dish sat upon the stove, the surface of the metal dulled by dust. This once again made Shinobu confused.

"Again, who without personality doesn't have a kettle in their kitchen?" Shinobu's mind went back to that.

“You are going,” she said, her tone wrapped in feigned sweetness. “It is called group cohesion. Team building. A basic psychological necessity.”

“I am not interested in that,” he replied, his voice low but resolute.

Shinobu set her basket upon the low table with a soft thud and folded her arms. “If you choose not to attend,” she said lightly, “I could always resort to medical coercion. You do fall under my jurisdiction as the head of medical affairs.”

There was a pause, the kind that seemed to draw the air taut between them.

“…I hate doctors,” he murmured, so quietly she almost questioned whether she had truly heard it.

Her posture stilled. Though her smile remained, there was a faint narrowing of her eyes, as if measuring the weight behind the words.

“Hate is a strong word,” she replied evenly.

He gave no elaboration. Only a small, almost imperceptible movement, tugging the sleeve of his haori lower over his wrist, as though the gesture itself were an unconscious defense.

She drew in a breath, the edges of her voice softening. “Very well. You need not smile. You need not speak if you prefer not to.” She paused, letting the next words settle with deliberate gentleness. “But you will come.”

For a moment, he did not move. Then his shoulders rose and fell with a long, quiet breath, and, reluctantly, he inclined his head in a single, brief nod.

By the time they set out along the path toward Gyomei’s estate, the forest had deepened into the richer tones of early evening. Neither spoke. Shinobu hummed faintly under her breath, a melody too soft to fully form in the air. Giyu walked at her side, half his face still hidden, his silence unbroken.

Yet his presence there, walking beside her, was itself a rare concession.

And for now, that was enough.

The path widened as the dense cedar canopy thinned, revealing the broad, stone-lined courtyard of Gyomei Himejima’s estate. The sun was lowering, its warm light spilling over the high wooden gates and glinting faintly off the polished roof tiles. The air smelled faintly of pine resin and freshly cut grass.

Even before Shinobu and Giyu reached the entrance, voices could be heard within: laughter, loud greetings, and the unmistakable sound of Rengoku Kyojurou’s booming cheerfulness.

When they stepped into view, the main doors of the estate stood open, and the interior glowed with the orange warmth of lanterns. The broad, central hall had been cleared and set with long, low tables, covered neatly with platters of food. The Kakushi moved quickly and efficiently between the kitchen and the hall, carrying bowls of steaming rice, grilled fish, and simmering vegetables.

Inside, the Hashira were arriving in small clusters, each greeted with genuine warmth. Rengoku was already there, seated on his knees near the head of the table, speaking animatedly to Mitsuri Kanroji, who laughed brightly at something he had just said. Tengen Uzui lounged in his seat with an effortless air of extravagance, three Kakushi attending to the tea service at his side. Even Sanemi Shinazugawa, though gruff and sharp-tongued as ever, was leaning slightly toward Obanai Iguro, the two locked in low conversation that carried the strange cadence of long familiarity.

Gyomei, towering even in stillness, stood near the far wall, his prayer beads wrapped loosely in his hands. He inclined his head in greeting to each arrival, the serene smile on his face making the entire room feel grounded and at peace.

There was a rare, almost domestic warmth in the air, the kind that came not from the absence of battle, but from the temporary reprieve it allowed. Swords were set neatly to the side, the sharp scent of oiled steel replaced by the aroma of freshly brewed tea and warm sake.

Shinobu felt the shift in the atmosphere immediately upon crossing the threshold. Her eyes moved over her fellow Hashira, their faces, their mannerisms, each one carrying their own scars, yet, for tonight at least, choosing to share the same table.

Behind her, Giyu hesitated at the door. His steps slowed. His gaze flickered briefly over the scene, the voices, the movement, the unguarded ease between people who spent most of their lives facing death.

Shinobu glanced over her shoulder at him. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice, when she spoke, was calm.

“They’ve all noticed you’re not here yet,” she murmured. “If you walk in now, you might even catch them by surprise.”

He gave no response, only standing just beyond the threshold, half in shadow.

Inside, Rengoku’s laughter rang again, Mitsuri’s voice following with gentle warmth. Tengen leaned back, saying something too quiet for the others to hear, but enough to make Sanemi snort and shake his head.

The gathering had begun in earnest.

And still, Giyu lingered.

Giyu’s hand hovered just above the wooden doorframe, his fingertips brushing against the grain as though it might anchor him. The warmth spilling from within, the lantern light, the smell of food, the sound of familiar voices, pressed against him from all directions, yet he felt none of it reach past the thin wall inside his chest.

The others belonged here. He did not.

He could see them clearly from where he stood, Mitsuri’s smile is soft as spring, Rengoku’s laughter like a hearth fire in midwinter, Gyomei’s calm presence like the deep stillness of a mountain lake. Even Sanemi, sharp-edged and unwelcoming as ever, seemed to have earned his seat among them through sheer, undeniable will.

Giyu’s own seat, should he take it, would be a lie.

It was a Hashira dinner, for people who had earned the title through strength, skill, and the blood they had spilled in humanity’s defense. His own title had been handed to him as though by mistake, as though no one had noticed the hollow space where his worth should have been.

That seat belonged to Sabito. To Makomo.

The memory of their faces rose unbidden, Sabito’s fierce, unyielding eyes; Makomo’s calm and patient smile. They had been the ones strong enough to deserve survival at the Final Selection. They had been the ones who should have walked away.

But they hadn’t.

And Giyu’s hands, steady though they were now, had been useless then. He had not slain a single demon in that trial. He had lived only because others had fallen.

The half mask on his left side, the fox ward that Makomo had once worn, seemed to press heavier against his skin, as though reminding him of what it truly was: not a ward, but a weight. A reminder that the face beneath it was not the one who should be here.

His shoulders felt tight beneath his haori. The air in the doorway seemed harder to draw in, each breath tasting faintly of cedar and guilt.

The sound of Rengoku’s voice carried again, warm, booming, entirely without restraint, and for a moment, Giyu imagined himself inside, sitting among them, the low table before him, the warmth of the room closing in around his isolation.

But the image collapsed almost instantly. He could feel it even in thought, the subtle shift in conversation when he entered, the pause, the awkwardness, the unspoken question in their eyes: Why is he here?

He was not the kind of man who could fill a space with ease. He was not someone whose presence strengthened a room. He was only a shadow, a misplaced name on a roster that should have been written differently.

A movement at the edge of his vision drew his gaze. He could have sworn he saw someone, or at least two figures, watching him from the side, in his peripheral vision from his right eye.

“You can stand out here all night, if you like. But the dinner will go on without you.”

He did not answer, his gaze returning to the warm scene inside.

For all the years he had carried the title of Hashira, he had never been able to convince himself it was anything but a mistake. And now, standing in the doorway of Gyomei’s home, he felt that mistake more sharply than ever, not as an accusation from the others, but as an undeniable truth echoing in the hollow space between his own thoughts.

Still, his feet did not move.

Not forward. Not yet.

Giyu let out a soft sigh as his mind spoke, “Whatever they think of me… I guess it’s better than being seen as insane or crazy… Because at least with being seen as weak is something I can agree with… Not that I can handle even being called the Water Hashira…”

The sun had long since slipped behind the veil of the western treeline by the time Shinobu and Giyu reached the estate of Himejima Gyomei. The temple complex, hewn into the living mountainside, lay cradled beneath the sheer rise of the cliffs. It exhaled the calm of centuries. The approach wound upward through a grove of cedar and maple, their leaves whispering together under the cooling touch of evening. Stone lanterns lit the way, their amber glow softened by the mist that clung to the earth. From somewhere unseen, the voice of the mountain wind passed through rows of bronze wind chimes, their tones delicate and meditative, marking the visitors’ arrival with a sound that seemed both greeting and benediction.

The outer hall doors were already open, spilling a warm lattice of lamplight onto the veranda. Within, the gathered Hashira sat in a half-circle around the low table, the tatami mats neat and unblemished, the air fragrant with the mingling scents of steaming rice, miso, and grilled fish. The meal had been prepared in careful harmony, each tray an arrangement of balanced portions, the colors and textures chosen with the same reverence given to an offering before an altar.

At the head of the assembly sat Gyomei himself, his vast frame composed in stillness, the beads of his mala slipping one by one beneath his fingers. Though sightless, his attention was supernatural, his head inclined almost imperceptibly as the sound of new footsteps reached his awareness. He spoke no word, but the serenity in his posture conveyed welcome as clearly as any greeting.

Shinobu stepped forward first, her expression gentle, her hands folded briefly before she lowered her head in a polite bow. Her movements carried the practiced elegance of one accustomed to formal gatherings, yet her gaze, when it flickered toward Giyu, held an unspoken awareness.

He entered behind her without ceremony.

No bow to the group.

No acknowledgement of the eyes that turned toward him.

His stride was measured, deliberate, the rhythm of a man whose presence was neither offered nor withheld, but simply endured.

He crossed the length of the room without breaking pace, without lifting his gaze from the floor. At the serving table, he claimed a tray without hesitation. He turned then toward Gyomei, and for the first time since entering, lowered his head, a single, exact gesture, as if marking the completion of a ritual.

Without seeking an invitation, he made his way to the farthest corner of the room, settling with his back against the wall. His chopsticks rose, and the quiet sound of eating joined the evening’s subdued chorus.

He did not speak.

Not when Rengoku’s voice, warm and resounding, broke through the atmosphere, “Ah! Tomioka! Good to see you, my friend!”

Not when Uzui Tengen, leaning with one elbow braced against the table, let slip a muttered aside pitched for nearby ears, “And there’s the gloom.”

Seated beside Iguro, Shinobu allowed herself a faint, knowing smile, her tone light but edged with teasing grace. “He’s only here to eat. That is the most any of us can expect from him this evening.”

Iguro’s expression did not change; his arms remained folded across his chest, his pale eyes glancing toward Giyu only long enough to reaffirm his disapproval. “He still manages to make the room feel like a funeral.”

Further down the table, Sanemi’s derisive snort cut through the air. “Don’t know why he bothers showing up at all. Acts like he isn’t one of us, then disappears the second he’s done.”

Shinobu propped her chin upon one hand, idly turning her rice between chopsticks. “He did thank Gyomei,” she observed, her voice languid. “That’s more than nothing.”

At that moment, Giyu’s bowl was empty. He set it down with the same quiet deliberation he had shown in lifting it, then rose to his feet. His steps carried him once more toward Gyomei. He paused only long enough to bow with a depth of respect that was undeniable, even if it went unspoken.

“…Thank you for the meal.”

With that, he turned and crossed the threshold. No farewell. No nod toward the others. No glance behind.

Only the soft sound of his tabi sliding across the tatami, then the gentle thud of his feet finding the wooden veranda. His presence faded as if the shadows themselves had drawn him away.

Kyojuro, still seated upright with that same resolute brightness in his expression, watched the departure with a gaze that held no condemnation, only a quiet contemplation, as though the absence left behind was one he understood.

Tengen, leaning back now with his arms folded across his chest, released a slow breath. “Man’s just heavy,” he muttered. “He walks into a room and you can feel the weight settle.”

Muichiro, who had not once looked up from his plate, continued eating with the disinterest of one who had long accepted the currents of tension that ran beneath these gatherings.

Mitsuri’s brows knit slightly, her voice hesitant. “Maybe… he’s just awkward?”

Sanemi’s reply was low and sharp, half lost to the clink of chopsticks, “He’s a damn ghost.”

Shinobu raised her teacup, letting the steam curl around her face before taking a measured sip. Her smile was slight, but it lingered, “Even ghosts need food.”

Only then did Gyomei’s voice emerge, deep and measured, his hands still pressed together in calm composure, “…Everyone bears different weights. Let us not be so quick to judge how they choose to carry them.”

The words hung in the air like the fading toll of a temple bell.

For a moment, no one spoke. Only the quiet, familiar sounds of eating remained: the soft brush of wind against the paper doors, the slow shift of fabric as someone adjusted their seat, and far beyond the walls, the diminishing echo of footsteps fading into the night.

Under the waning moon, the path from Gyomei’s temple estate wound down into the forest, its lanterns dwindling into pinpricks of gold before vanishing altogether behind the gentle curve of the mountainside. What warmth they offered dissolved into the cool embrace of shadows, where the cedar trees crowded close, their trunks rising like solemn sentinels in the night. Giyu’s stride was measured, his breathing even, his expression unchanging, yet within him, the silence cracked apart into something jagged, unyielding, and merciless.

He repeated it to himself, not as a thought but as a truth carved deep into the marrow of his being: he did not belong there. Not at the same table. Not beneath the same roof. Not in the company of those who had earned their place through blood and steel. The words were not recited so much as lived, ingrained into the rhythm of his very steps.

That seat… that honor… had never been his. It had been Sabito’s. It had been Makomo’s.

The memories came unbidden, striking with the cruel clarity of ice. Sabito’s grin, all sharp confidence, a spark that dared the world to defy him. Makomo’s quiet patience, her voice a soft tether pulling others back from despair. They had both faced the Final Selection with the same resolve, the same unshakable conviction. And yet, their story had ended beneath the claws of that same, damned demon, their blood darkening the forest floor. He, by contrast, had walked away, with a wound that should have ended him, his blade unstained, his tally of demons slain at zero.

That truth sat in him like a cold stone: he had not earned the right to survive. And he certainly had not earned the title of Hashira.

The half-mask that clung to the left side of his face felt heavier than it had in years, pressing downward as if to remind him with every step of the promise he had failed to keep. The carved fox’s eye stared blindly ahead, a silent witness to all he was not.

And still… There had been a moment, a brief, treacherous flicker, when he had wanted to remain inside that warm-lit room. To sit among them, to listen as they spoke of their missions and their struggles, to be tethered, however faintly, to that shared rhythm of comradeship. Even if only in silence.

But the thought had withered as swiftly as it bloomed.

Because his mind would never permit it.

It turned against him as it always had, weaving the voices of the Hashira into something warped and venomous, not their words, but his mind’s cruel mimicry of them.

Sanemi’s voice came first, sharp and scornful, “You’re dead weight, Tomioka. Can’t even act like you’re part of this group. You should’ve left your seat for someone worth a damn.”

Iguro’s cool, calculating tone followed, each syllable a measured cut, “Always silent… always watching. You stand apart because you don’t belong.”

Even Shinobu’s soft, deliberate cadence twisted in his thoughts, the imagined curve of her lips shifting into pity, and pity, to him, was more unbearable than contempt, “Poor Giyu. Always on the outside looking in. You make it so easy to leave you behind.”

Tengen’s flamboyant baritone colored the air next, mocking in its extravagance, “What a drag you are, Tomioka. You carry the air of a funeral wherever you go.”

From somewhere deeper still, a voice like Mitsuri’s reached him, not cruel, but edged with the confusion of one who did not understand, “Maybe… you just don’t want to be with us.”

Even the gentlest among them was given form in his mind. Muichiro’s young, absentminded murmur became, “You fade into the background. Easy to forget you’re even here.”

And finally, Gyomei’s deep, resonant calm, altered now into something distant, unreachable, “You are not yet ready to share our burdens.”

Each voice layered upon the next until the imagined council of judgment filled the hollow space within his chest.

It was in moments like these that he understood his silence not as a habit, but as a defense. Words, if spoken, would be taken as excuses. Doubts, if voiced, would be seen as weakness. The less he gave them, the less there was for them to tear apart.

Silence had become the last refuge that no one could breach. The last time he had ever spoken so much, he was punished for years.

The cedar boughs swayed gently overhead, their needles whispering in the night wind. The dirt path crunched faintly beneath his sandals, each step carrying him further from the lantern glow and deeper into the shadows. The voices in his mind did not cease; they rarely did, but the cool night air, sharp against his skin, pushed him forward. Away from their warmth. Away from the table where he might have stayed. Away from the fragile hope of belonging.

And back toward the one place he had long decided he was meant to remain: alone, beneath the shelter of his own shadow.

The temple veranda creaked faintly beneath the weight of another set of steps, light, deliberate, and unhurried. Giyu didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The faint, sweet trace of wisteria on the cool night air was as distinctive as the voice that followed.

“You’re leaving early, Tomioka-san?”

Shinobu’s tone was almost airy, but something about it carried further than the words themselves, as if the sound were built to thread its way past armor. She came to a halt several paces behind him, just far enough that the night between them could stretch and settle.

“It’s late,” Giyu replied, his voice even. Too even. “I’ve eaten. There’s nothing else.”

Her footsteps resumed, soft on the polished wood until she stood parallel to him, though she left a respectable gap. She rested her forearms lightly on the veranda railing, gazing out toward the lantern-lit path as if she had come to admire the view rather than confront him. Her head tilted slightly, the faint curve of a smile touching her lips.

“You know,” she said, “it’s almost impressive. I’ve seen men fight upper rank demons with more hesitation than you show in leaving a room.”

Giyu deadpanned at that, “What, did your sister show more confidence when fighting Upper Moon Two? Look where that left her.”

He didn’t say it out loud, however. The forest’s chorus filled the silence: the quiet sigh of wind through cedar, the distant rush of water over stone, a nightjar calling far beyond the ridge.

“You could stay,” she offered, as though the words were casual and unbound by expectation. “They’re telling stories. You don’t even have to talk, just… stay.”

Giyu’s eyes traced the darkness between the trees, the way the path bent out of sight. “They don’t need me there.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting you there,” she countered gently. “Or perhaps I should say… not everyone thinks as Sanemi does.”

His gaze shifted to her, but only briefly. “You heard them.”

“I heard Sanemi,” she said. “And Iguro, and Tengen. And I heard Mitsuri, Gyomei, and Rengoku. You… only seem to remember half the voices in a room.”

Her tone was quiet now, stripped of its teasing. She let the pause stretch, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be an outsider, Tomioka-san?” she asked at last. “To have people watch, weigh, and wonder if you belong?” A faint, almost imperceptible laugh escaped her. “I make it a game now. Smile at them until they can’t tell whether I’m amused or furious. It keeps them guessing.”

Giyu didn’t move. The night air pressed cold against his skin, but her words, unwelcome as they were, left a trace of warmth that he tried to ignore.

“You don’t have to speak,” Shinobu continued. “But you could at least let them see you listening. That’s how people learn to trust someone. Not through words, but through the fact that you stay.”

He stared down at the path, at the faint glow of the nearest lantern pooling across the dirt. Stay. The word scraped something raw inside him.

“It’s easier for everyone,” he murmured, “if I don’t.”

“Easier for them?” she asked. “Or for you?”

The question lingered between them like the cold. He didn’t answer.

Shinobu straightened, her smile returning, faint, but genuine this time. “The thing about ghosts, Tomioka-san,” she said, “is that they can choose whether to haunt or to protect. The rest of us might prefer the latter.”

With that, she turned, her steps as measured as when she had arrived, the wisteria-scented air following in her wake. She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.

He remained there, rooted to the edge of the veranda, the distant sounds of the gathering filtering faintly through the walls, laughter, the rise and fall of conversation, the muted clink of cups. They were sounds he had told himself belonged to other people.

And yet… he stood there long after her footsteps faded, caught between the lantern glow and the shadowed path, as though choosing which way to move had suddenly become the hardest thing in the world.

The voices carried faintly through the paper walls, softened by the hiss of the wind in the pines. Giyu stood just beyond the veranda’s shadow, arms loosely at his sides, letting the conversation reach him in uneven waves.

“Sliced her clean in two, and she still didn’t die,” Sanemi’s voice growled from within. “Split into two bodies, both moving at once. One screaming, one laughing.”

“That was not the worst of it,” Shinobu’s voice followed, smooth but laced with a memory she had not dulled. “It was the voice… she didn’t shout. She whispered. Every word inside your own head. You’d be standing there, and suddenly…”

Tengen cut in with an uncharacteristic sharpness, “Suddenly, you’re doubting whether the fight is real. Whether you’re real.” His tone had none of its usual theatrical ease. “You swing a blade, but the ground feels wrong under you. Sometimes there’s no ground at all.”

A pause. The rustle of fabric. Someone is setting down a cup.

“She was clever,” Shinobu continued, “never striking directly until she’d worn down your sense of what was true. The alts, those doubles, mimicked each of us perfectly. Speech, breathing, even the way we hold a sword. I nearly struck Gyomei by mistake.”

Sanemi’s voice sharpened again. “And she had the nerve to call it a game.”

“She did call it a game,” Tengen said bitterly. “One of her alts looked like me, and every time I tried to land a hit, she’d change, different face, different voice, switching between you, Sanemi, and you, Shinobu. I stopped counting how many times she switched to Tomioka.”

The sound of a hand slapping the tatami broke the rhythm. “That trick where she made us see each other instead of her? If I hadn’t heard Tengen, I’d have…” Sanemi cut himself off.

For a moment, the room seemed to be quiet. Then Gyomei’s low, steady voice filled the air, warm despite the weight of his words. “Her cruelty lay not only in her deception, but in how she sought to fracture trust. We are all glad you four had successfully slayed a demon, for one is just a number ticking down on the number of demons out there.”

Someone, Mitsuri, most likely, exhaled softly, almost a sigh. “I’m glad you all came back. It sounds like…” she trailed off.

Shinobu supplied the ending gently, “…like something none of us should have had to see.”

From his place outside, Giyu felt the memory of the battle press against the edges of his mind. Usaki’s eyes, wrongly bright, filled with a kind of childish delight that did not belong to anything human. Her voice inside his head, replaying words he had never spoken, forcing him to watch his own double move as though alive.

He had severed her head twice before she stayed down.

And still… even now, if the night was quiet enough, he could recall her last laugh as though she stood just behind him.

The conversation inside resumed with a lighter thread, Kyojuro, bright as ever, attempting to shift the mood. But even he could not avoid the shadow entirely. He spoke of his last mission, of a demon in the southern province who moved like smoke, but every so often, a silence fell, and one of the others would pick up the thread, drawing them back to the demon’s tricks.

Giyu realized his feet had carried him closer to the sliding door until the thin paper and wood were all that separated him from the circle. The lamplight spilling through the seams painted faint lines across his hand.

He stood there for a long moment.

Then, without warning, he slid the door aside. The shift in air was immediate warmth, the faint aroma of steamed rice and grilled fish, and eight pairs of eyes glancing toward him in varying degrees of surprise.

He said nothing, simply stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

The others shuffled slightly to make space, and it was Mitsuri, smiling softly, who patted the empty place between her and Kyojuro.

He took it without a word.

The talk resumed, slower now, but with an undercurrent that felt less like exclusion and more like shared ground. No one asked him to speak. No one pressed.

And for the first time that evening, Giyu stayed.

A.N / Welp, here it is. Giyu has finally achieved his spot in these dinners. Now, he is finally actually communicating, or at least, the best he could. Once more, there are a plethora of reasons as to why it took Giyu so long, rather than it being one reason. That’s what I feel makes some of these characters a bit more dynamic, is how they can all be based off numerous reasons for how they act and how they perceive others. It’s all understandable and reasonable. As for anything else, I don’t really have much to say. We will see more of this, as I want the pace to be just right. Any concern you all have, let me know!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 10:

Pure Imagination by Fiona Apple

The meal had ended, but no one seemed eager to leave. The soft patter of rain began against the eaves, blending with the faint clink of tea cups and the delicate hum of wind chimes outside. Incense curled upward in slow, graceful tendrils, perfuming the air with sandalwood. The Hashira, gathered loosely around the long, low table, had shifted from the businesslike posture of warriors to something almost domestic.

It began, as these things often did, with a careless suggestion.

Kyojurou, his smile as bright as the lantern light, leaned forward. “Friends! Since we are all together at last, let us share a tale to lighten the evening. Our most embarrassing moments, one each!”

Tengen groaned immediately, rubbing his temples in mock agony. “Spare me, Rengoku. If any of this finds its way to my wives, I’m blaming you.”

“Bah!” Kyojurou’s laugh was thunderous. “All the better if it does!”

There was a ripple of amusement. Even Gyomei, who sat cross-legged at the head of the table, seemed to incline his head in faint approval.

Gyomei spoke first, his voice low, hands folded neatly. “…When I was a boy, there was one who made a habit of striking me and taking what little food I had. I never fought back.”

Mitsuri’s eyes widened. “But you’re…”

“Large?” Gyomei finished softly. “That came later. At the time, I was smaller than most, and… blind.”

A heavy pause settled, but he smiled faintly. “It is not shameful to endure. Only to lose one’s kindness because of it.”

Mitsuri quickly jumped in, cheeks flushed pink.

“Alright, mine is worse, I promise! One of my old suitors once, by accident, spanked me.” She covered her face briefly. “I was bending over to pick something up, and he meant to pat my back, but…!”

Laughter erupted around the table.

Tengen smirked. “Tell me you hit him.”

“Only a little!” she protested, grinning.

Iguro, muffled by his ever-present scarf, muttered, “…Once I was training in a tree. Lost my balance. My leg caught in a vine, and I hung upside-down for an hour.”

Mitsuri gasped. “Why didn’t you call for help?”

“…I did.”

She clasped her hands. “That’s adorable!”

Iguro sank lower behind his scarf.

Shinobu’s turn came with a sly smile. “While researching wisteria vapors, I inhaled too much by accident. Lost consciousness. When I awoke, I… believed myself to be a butterfly.”

There was a stunned silence, then Tengen burst into unrestrained laughter.

“Truly poetic,” Kyojurou declared warmly.

Sanemi leaned forward, scowling. “…First time I picked up a sword, I swung so hard I cut my own shoulder open.”

Shinobu arched a brow. “Self-inflicted injury from overenthusiasm, fitting.”

“Shut it, Kocho,” he grumbled, though there was no real bite.

Tengen sighed dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“One of my wives, Makio, once walked into my tent completely undressed when we were still squadmates. Thought she was in her own quarters. I froze, nearly bit my own tongue.”

Mitsuri fanned herself. “That’s… bold!”

“I was a gentleman,” Tengen said firmly, trying not to blush.

Sanemi snorted. “Bet you weren’t complaining.”

Muichiro, speaking for the first time in a while, said in his usual airy tone, “I once chased what I thought was a glowing moth. It flew into my eye.”

Tengen nearly toppled over laughing. “You’re a woodland spirit in human form.”

Muichiro blinked slowly. “It hurt.”

Kyojurou’s chest swelled as he recounted his own.

“During my first mission, I shouted my battle cry so loud the villagers I was saving covered their ears. One could not hear for an hour afterward!”

Even Gyomei allowed a soft chuckle.

It was then that all eyes turned to Giyu.

He had been sitting silently at the far end, his back to the wall, arms resting loosely over his knees. He had listened without outward reaction, but now the collective gaze seemed to press in on him.

“…I once startled myself,” he said flatly, after a pause, “and cut a gash into my forearm. Near the elbow.”

There was a beat of stunned quiet. Mitsuri blinked. Sanemi tilted his head. Tengen squinted at him as if trying to decide whether it was a joke.

Shinobu, however, studied him with a sharper eye. If he had truly done such a thing, why was there no record of that wound in the Butterfly Estate’s medical files?

The moment passed with an awkward laugh from Kyojurou, and soon the table was filled once more with the hum of conversation.

They spoke of missions, of the demon Usaki, whose shifting illusions had plagued them. Sanemi admitted that during one encounter, he had mistaken Shinobu for a demon and tried to strike her. Shinobu countered by recalling how Tengen had once leapt at an illusory foe, only to land face-first in a pond.

Even Shinobu herself admitted that Usaki’s trickery had once made her wander in circles for a moment as she was deep in thought from the demon art.

As for Giyu, he said nothing. But he listened.

The rain had begun to drip, deepening outside, falling in an unbroken sheet from the low clouds. Each drop landed on the roof tiles with the soft percussion of fingers tapping a drum, and now and then a gust of wind drove the sound into the wooden bones of the estate, making it groan gently like a ship at sea. Lanternlight pooled against the polished floors, flickering with every draft, painting the Hashira in warm gold and long, soft shadows. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted in lazy spirals from a burner set near the far wall, its smoke curling upward to dissolve into the rafters.

They sat in a loose circle now, knees drawn closer to the small, low table. Tea cups steamed quietly, their rims catching the lamplight. The laughter from earlier, loud, rowdy, full of competitive energy, had softened into a more comfortable hum, the kind of calm that only came when warriors felt safe in one another’s company. There was no rush to leave. The outside world, for a few precious hours, could wait.

Kyojurou leaned forward, his eyes bright, the fire in them no less alive for the quiet around him. “If I may,” he began, his tone brimming with the same enthusiasm he brought to every conversation, “let us imagine something different. If there were no demons… no Corps… what would you all be doing instead?”

There was a murmur of curiosity at the question. Mitsuri tilted her head like a curious bird; Shinobu’s brow arched; Sanemi scoffed under his breath but didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. Even Muichiro looked faintly more present than usual, his gaze shifting from the lanternlight to the others.

Sanemi spoke first, as he often did when silence threatened to stretch. “Dunno,” he said with a snort, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Probably some kind of labor work. Landscaping, maybe. A lot of that was where I grew up, hard work, bad pay. But at least no one’s trying to eat you while you’re hauling stones.”

“You’d still pick a job that breaks your back?” Shinobu asked, her tone dry but edged with genuine curiosity.

Sanemi shrugged. “Better that than sitting around doing nothing. I can’t stand being idle.”

Mitsuri giggled softly at that, her pink-and-green hair swaying with the motion. “I’d be a housewife!” she declared with a brightness that made it sound like the most noble calling in the world. “Cooking, cleaning, maybe raising kids. I’ve always liked taking care of people… and I work hard enough at it. I think I’d make a nice home warm for someone.”

“You already make our days brighter,” Tengen drawled with a smirk, earning an appreciative smile from her.

Shinobu’s answer was crisp, almost immediate. “Researcher,” she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Or a doctor. Same work ethic, fewer swords. Still working with poisons and cures, but without the pressure of death breathing down one’s neck.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the rain-streaked shoji screen. “Perhaps even opening a small clinic… something peaceful.”

Gyomei, seated cross-legged with his hands resting gently atop one another, smiled faintly at her words.

I would be a monk,” he said, his deep voice resonating like the low chime of a temple bell. “Or tend to orphans. Some things remain worth doing, regardless of the world’s shape.”

Muichiro tilted his head, the faraway look in his eyes sharpening just a little as if he was genuinely considering the question. “…Maybe a farmer?” he murmured. “I don’t know what else I’d do. Growing things… watching them change over time. That could be nice.” His voice carried no particular emotion, but there was something faintly wistful in it.

Kyojurou’s brows knit briefly, as though he was searching himself for an answer worthy of the company, before his grin returned full force. “My family has always fought for righteousness,” he declared, his tone swelling with pride. “Even if not against demons, I think we would still stand against something. So, perhaps still a warrior, but one for a different cause! Maybe a protector of the people from bandits, or a traveling champion defending villages in need!”

Tengen leaned back on one palm, letting the other hand rest dramatically over his chest. “Martial arts instructor,” he said smoothly. “Or maybe an entertainer. Something… flamboyant. A place where the performance never ends.” His grin flashed white in the warm light. “The world without demons deserves some color.”

From behind his ever-present scarf, Iguro’s voice came muffled and low. “If demons didn’t exist, I’d just… live. Maybe take care of animals. Doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s peaceful.” His heterochromatic gaze shifted to the tea in his hands, as though the conversation might slip away if he didn’t hold it gently.

A moment passed, and then the eyes shifted again.

To him.

Giyu froze where he sat. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his teacup. It was not the weight of their gazes that stilled him, but the sudden, jarring emptiness in his own mind. Every imagined path he reached for ended in mist. Farmer? He’d never been good with tending; plants withered in his hands. Artisan? His hands were steady, yes, but his patience… no. A teacher? He had nothing to teach that wasn’t stained with loss.

No… There was one thing.

The only reason he had survived the Final Selection at all was because of someone else. And if he hadn’t…

If Sabito had lived…

If Makomo had lived…

They’d be here instead. Sitting in this circle. Drinking tea in the warm lamplight, their laughter mingling with the rain. They’d belong.

He imagined their answers in place of his own. Sabito, confident, irreverent, grinning in that way that made you believe him even when you shouldn’t, would have named some honest trade, a craft he’d master with the same dedication he’d mastered his blade. Makomo, quiet, gentle, but sharp-eyed enough to cut through to the truth, might have become a healer, a caretaker, or perhaps even a teacher for children. Both would have found their place easily, as if the world itself had shifted to fit them.

And he… he would have been somewhere else entirely. Somewhere, no one needed to remember his name.

He realized, with a small start, that he hadn’t spoken. The pause was stretching into something noticeable. Mitsuri’s head tilted, her brows knitting slightly, as though she wanted to coax the answer from him with a smile alone. Shinobu’s gaze lingered longer, dark eyes narrowing fractionally, not in judgment, but in the way a physician studies a wound to guess its depth.

“…I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice even, betraying nothing of the storm beneath it. His hands curled slightly where they rested on his knees. “I’ve never… thought about it.”

The surprise in the air was mild, but real. A few exchanged glances. Mitsuri looked as though she wanted to speak but chose not to, perhaps sensing that pressing would only drive him further away. Sanemi’s lip twitched, almost like he was going to scoff, but he didn’t. Shinobu, however, kept her eyes on him for another beat before looking away.

The conversation moved on, the circle knitting itself back together without him. Tengen teased Muichiro about being a “forest sprite,” Mitsuri laughed at some half-remembered story of Kyojurou’s, and Gyomei hummed softly in agreement at something Shinobu said. The warmth wove itself between them like an unbroken thread, and Giyu sat apart from it, close enough to feel its heat but somehow untouched by it.

He lifted his cup, sipping slowly, letting the sandalwood smoke and tea’s earthy bitterness fill his senses. The rain tapped steadily against the shoji. Somewhere in the spaces between each droplet, in the hush beneath the rhythm, he thought he could hear Sabito’s laughter, bright, reckless, and gone.

The rain outside had softened, no longer sharp in its patter but hushed, as though the world itself was leaning in to listen. The air inside the estate felt warmer, denser, not stifling, but layered, the way wool blankets feel when pulled over weary shoulders. Every so often, a drop of water from the roof’s edge would strike the stones of the courtyard, punctuating the conversation like a slow, patient drum.

Sanemi, ever restless, leaned back on his hands and stretched out his legs. “You all make retirement sound so damned peaceful. I’d probably just keep working until my body gave out.” His tone was gruff, but beneath it was something quieter, a truth none of them missed. Sanemi didn’t picture a life of rest because he couldn’t imagine what it felt like.

“You’d get bored,” Tengen said, smirking. “You’d be chasing trouble by the end of the first week.”

“Better than rotting away,” Sanemi shot back.

“Not if you looked flamboyant doing it,” Tengen countered, earning a shake of the head from Gyomei, who let the smallest sigh of amusement pass his lips.

Shinobu rested her chin on one hand. “I think you’d surprise yourself, Shinazugawa-san. I can almost picture you taking up something quiet… like fishing.” Her gaze narrowed slightly in thought. “Though I suppose that’s only peaceful for the fish.”

That earned a few chuckles. Even Muichiro gave a faint, airy huff of amusement before returning to his far-off gaze. Mitsuri was quick to follow, clasping her hands together. “Fishing could be nice! Imagine, Sanemi-san, just you, a quiet lake, and maybe a basket of snacks…”

“Snacks are more important than the fishing,” Tengen interjected, and Mitsuri laughed.

Through it all, Giyu remained still. His tea had long cooled, but he hadn’t noticed. The voices rose and fell like tides, familiar in their energy, and yet he was adrift in them, not part of their current. Each answer the others gave felt anchored to a version of themselves that still existed without the sword, a core identity that remained intact even in another life. He searched for his own anchor and found only a hollow echo.

The fox mask pressed against his skin. He could feel the curve of the half that remained, the smooth edge where the other side had splintered and vanished years ago. He didn’t need to touch it to feel the weight; it had always been heavier than the wood it was carved from.

Sabito’s voice flickered in his memory. A laugh, sharp and confident. Words he’d spoken once, back when the world had felt less cruel: “We’ll both make it. Just stay alive until the end.”

And Makomo, gentle, deliberate, her small hands tightening the mask strings before the Final Selection. “This will keep you safe. Just trust yourself.”

He had done neither. Not truly.

The conversation was shifting again, Kyojurou steering them toward lighter ground. “And you, Gyomei? A monk, you said? Would you have a temple of your own, perhaps?”

Gyomei’s hands, still wrapped around his prayer beads, stilled for a moment. “I would welcome all who needed shelter, whether they could see the light or not.”

“That’s so like you!” Mitsuri beamed.

“Mm.” Gyomei’s blind gaze turned fractionally toward Giyu. “It is the same as our work now. Only the tools change.”

The words brushed against something deep inside Giyu, but he couldn’t hold onto them before the current of conversation moved again. Tengen was teasing Iguro about his “peaceful hermit” answer, and Mitsuri was quick to defend him. Muichiro mentioned flowers again. Sanemi grumbled about “soft” answers, only to be met with Shinobu’s pointed reminder that there was no such thing in a demon-free world.

For a brief, impossible second, Giyu imagined speaking, really speaking. Telling them he might have been nothing. That, without the Corps, he might have been just another body the river carried away. That if Sabito had survived, he would be here in Giyu’s place, and no one would be worse for it.

But when the silence came to him, as it always did, he filled it only with the truth he could bear.

“I don’t know,” he said again, quieter this time, almost lost beneath the rain.

Shinobu’s eyes flicked toward him, sharper than the others noticed. She didn’t speak this time. Mitsuri offered a gentle smile, and Kyojurou, bless his endless, burning spirit, leaned forward.

“Then perhaps, Tomioka, your answer is still waiting for you. And when we all reach that day, free of demons, free to choose, you’ll find it.”

Giyu didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He let the moment pass, let the conversation swell and fold back in on itself, let the warmth of the room rest on him like something he could almost believe was earned.

Outside, the rain’s song went on, unbroken.

Doin’ Time by Lana Del Ray

The moon had drifted higher now, a pale silver lantern suspended in the velvet expanse of the night sky, its light spilling gently over the ridges of the mountains that guarded Gyomei’s temple. The faint perfume of cedar and cool stone drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of dessert that lingered in the wide tatami room. The earlier dinner had left the table comfortably cluttered, lacquered bowls stacked neatly to one side, ceramic cups still warm from tea, the soft sheen of a few untouched sweets waiting patiently in their plates. Lanterns glowed along the shoji walls, casting amber warmth that softened even the sharpest of Sanemi’s expressions.

Conversation had taken on a looser shape now, ebbing and flowing between bursts of laughter and stretches of thoughtful quiet. The kind of quiet that only came when bellies were full and, for once, there were no blades in their hands.

Sanemi, his back crooked lazily against the wall, shot a side glance at Gyomei, his tone carrying just enough suspicion to make the room tilt toward him.

“You weren’t serious… right? About being bullied?”

The gentle clink of ceramic preceded Gyomei’s answer. He took his time, sipping tea with the same deliberate grace that defined his every movement. His blind gaze, fixed somewhere past the table, softened at a memory far older than most in the room.

“Yes. Before the monastery took me in, I was smaller… frail. I cried easily. And others…” He paused, not out of hesitation, but because he weighed his words with care. “…don’t always show kindness to those who cry.”

Sanemi stared at him as if someone had just told him the ocean could dry up. “Huh. Guess even you’ve got bruises, stone man.”

The remark drew a quiet smile from Shinobu, her voice a careful balance between gentle and teasing. “It’s always the gentle ones who carry the most pain.”

From the other side of the table, Tengen leaned back with a scoff, the jeweled rings on his fingers catching the lamplight.

“Pfft, try carrying three wives.”

The room responded with collective eye rolls, though there was an undeniable curl of amusement to them.

Iguro, who had been sipping slowly, turned his serpentine gaze on Tengen.

“You never did say what you did after Makio walked in naked.”

Tengen leaned away theatrically, placing a hand to his chest.

“I said I was a gentleman.”

Mitsuri’s cheeks puffed slightly as she protested.

“That’s not an answer!”

Muichiro, staring vaguely at nothing in particular, tilted his head.

“Did your nose bleed?”

Tengen’s jaw dropped.

“Muichiro!”

Laughter broke around the table, weaving through the warm night air.

Sanemi, mid-bite into a sweet rice cake, jabbed a thumb toward Iguro with a smirk.

“What about you, vines-for-legs? How’d you even get stuck in a tree?”

Iguro’s cheeks colored faintly, and his reply came low, almost grudging.

“…I thought I saw a snake. Climbed up to follow it. Didn’t realize the vine was not stable.”

Mitsuri clasped her hands together, eyes bright.

“Aww… you were chasing a snake! That’s so you.”

Iguro’s voice dipped even quieter.

“It wasn’t even a snake. Just… a stick.”

That drew another ripple of chuckles.

“Even the great Obanai Iguro has a clumsy streak!” Kyojurou beamed, his voice bright enough to light the corners of the room.

Shinobu’s lips curved into a sly smirk as she turned to Mitsuri.

“And you, I’m curious. How did your ex even accidentally spank you?”

Mitsuri’s eyes went wide as she flailed slightly.

“I don’t know!! I was bending over to grab tea, and he reached out to be polite, and it landed wrong! I yelped, he panicked, and spilled the tea tray.”

Tengen leaned in, grinning like a fox.

“…He lived, right?”

Mitsuri folded her arms with mock severity.

“Barely.”

From his spot, Muichiro spoke in the same absent, drifting tone he always seemed to carry.

“I… think the moth might’ve been trying to kill me.”

Sanemi snorted.

“Kid, it’s a moth.”

Muichiro blinked slowly.

“It flew into my eye on purpose. That’s a murder attempt in insect code.”

Tengen pinched the bridge of his nose.

“…Get this boy a nap.”

The laughter softened again, until it naturally wound toward Shinobu.

Kyojurou, leaning forward, asked with an almost boyish curiosity.

“You said you inhaled wisteria? What happened after?”

Shinobu lifted one brow, her tone airy.

“Well, I believed I had wings. I danced around the room for twenty minutes humming before collapsing.”

Tengen nearly choked on his tea.

“That’s adorable and deeply concerning.”

Sanemi pointed at her with an incredulous look.

“That’s the person giving us medicine?!”

Shinobu sipped delicately, entirely unruffled.

“Well, you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

A chorus of muffled chuckles followed.

Gyomei, ever the quiet anchor of the group, set out a final tray, warm tea, and neatly sliced yatsuhashi. The scent of cinnamon and roasted rice drifted upward, blending with the cool air spilling through the paper doors.

Mitsuri’s voice carried a fond softness as she looked around at them all.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this…”

Iguro muttered under his breath, though not with his usual edge.

“…Yeah. It’s… not terrible.”

Tengen raised his teacup in an uncharacteristically simple toast.

“To embarrassing moments and people who won’t let us forget them.”

Kyojurou’s voice rose bright and sure.

“Because strength comes not just from the blade…”

All of them, even Muichiro, even Sanemi, echoed in playful mimicry, “But from the heart!”

Sanemi’s lips twitched in the barest of smirks.

Shinobu’s eyes flickered toward the seat occupied by Giyu. He had been uncharacteristically still for most of the evening, his gaze low, as though the flicker of lamplight in his teacup was infinitely more compelling than the laughter around him. Yet his presence wasn’t the weight it had been earlier; it was… quieter. Almost contemplative.

“…Even the quietest ones probably have their stories too,” she murmured, just loud enough for the table to hear.

No one disagreed.

Beyond the open shoji, the night was alive with cicadas and the faint rustle of wind through the mountain pines. From his seat, Giyu let his head turn slightly toward the outside, where the moonlight silvered the temple gardens. He had been listening, not to the words so much as to the rhythm of the voices, the comfort they drew from one another. And yet, beneath the laughter, he could hear it. The way some syllables are caught. The pauses were just a touch too long. The way the shadows moved behind certain smiles.

He recognized it because he carried it too.

The Usaki demon’s voice still lingered in the back of his mind, that cloying, many-toned chorus that could fold in on itself until you no longer knew what thoughts were yours. He remembered the way the world had bent and twisted under her illusions, how she had peeled back memory like skin, slipping inside with the precision of a scalpel. For Shinobu, it had been visions of her sister, always alive, always just out of reach. For Tengen, it had been the sudden absence of his wives, each one vanishing the moment he turned his head. For Sanemi… Giyu didn’t know the full details, but he had caught a glimpse, blood on white sheets, a voice calling his name in a tone that was not of this world.

For him… it had been Sabito, Makomo, Tsutako, Kaito, his uncle, the villagers, the doctors, and Urokodaki.

Not the Sabito, Makomo, Tsutako, Kaito, and Urokodaki he remembered, not the one who laughed at his mistakes and told him to stop apologizing, but a Sabito who looked at him with cold disappointment. Who told him, over and over, that he had failed everyone. That he would keep failing, because that was all he was capable of.

Even now, the memory of it sat heavy in his chest.

The others spoke more easily about their missions, letting the worst edges file down into strange, sometimes humorous anecdotes. But Usaki’s kind of wound was not the kind that bled. It sat in the corners of your thoughts, waiting for silence.

He didn’t notice at first that the conversation had shifted toward the mission itself, that Sanemi was gruffly recounting his own moment of breaking through the illusion, how he’d relied on pure stubborn rage to shatter it. Tengen was laughing about how his wives had apparently shaken him so hard in the real world that they left bruises on his shoulders. Shinobu’s smile was smaller now, her words quieter as she admitted she still caught herself expecting to see her sister in the corner of her eye.

They didn’t look at him as they spoke. They didn’t have to.

Because maybe they all understood, some things you didn’t need to force into the open. Some stories, you kept until you found the right way to tell them… or the right person to tell them to.

And for tonight, it was enough just to be here.

The conversation slowly waned as the last of the sweets were eaten, the warmth from the mochi and sponge cakes leaving only a faint sweetness lingering in the air. Steam rose lazily from the tea, curling into the amber light of the lanterns, casting long, shifting shadows over the tatami mats. The wind outside had softened, leaving only a steady patter of rain on the temple roof, like a distant drumbeat marking the end of the evening.

Kyojurou, still bright-eyed despite the late hour, stretched his arms wide with an audible sigh.

“Well, I’d say we’ve bared enough humiliation for one night.” His grin shone like a flare in the dim room, but the undertone was one of genuine contentment. “I can’t remember the last time we all laughed together like this.”

Tengen leaned back, his flamboyant posture relaxing.

“Hah. I was sure Muichiro’s moth story would put the entire mood into mourning, but somehow it didn’t. I’ll give you that, kid. A true master of unintended terror.”

Muichiro gave a ghost of a shrug, eyes still distant, a small smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“It wasn’t very terrifying. Just… annoying.”

Sanemi, wiping the last trace of sweet bean paste from his fingers, grunted and shot a glance at Gyomei. “Stone man, you really got me with that bullied story. Didn’t think the gentle giant had bruises under all that muscle.”

Gyomei’s deep voice rumbled, carrying a warmth that belied the gravity of his words.

“Even the strongest must endure… in one form or another. Pain teaches more than triumph ever could.”

Shinobu, finishing the last sip of her tea, inclined her head slightly toward him. There was no teasing here, only acknowledgment.

“Even in laughter, the past never truly leaves us. But it is worth sharing, if only to lighten the burden.”

Mitsuri, settling her hair behind her ears, added softly, almost shyly, “Yeah… it’s… nice to laugh about it. Even if it’s embarrassing.”

A brief silence followed, not uncomfortable, but contemplative. The rain drummed gently in the background, the lanterns flickered, and the room seemed to settle into itself, all nine Hashira sharing a rare, quiet contentment.

Kyojurou clapped his hands once, decisively.

“Then it’s settled! We’ve done enough sharing for tonight. Let’s clean up and get some rest. Big missions tomorrow, after all.”

Tengen groaned theatrically.

“Big missions, he says! As if anyone is ready for that.” He shot a look toward Sanemi, who only rolled his eyes.

Iguro shifted slightly, scarf tightening around his jaw. “…Not that anyone here would admit to being unprepared.”

Mitsuri chuckled, nudging Muichiro lightly with her elbow. “Even you, Muichiro, don’t deny it.”

Muichiro’s blank expression didn’t waver, but a faint nod acknowledged the gentle tease.

“I suppose… not entirely.”

Sanemi, tossing the last napkin into the stack of empty trays, muttered, “At least no one’s dying tonight from embarrassment. I’ll call that a win.”

Giyu, who had remained quieter than most of the evening, finally stirred, lifting his cup of tea with a slight tilt of his head. He met each of their eyes briefly, a ghost of a small smile flickering across his lips.

“…Thank you,” he said simply. “For letting me… stay tonight.”

Shinobu’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, gentle but sharp, as though measuring the weight he carried. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the effort it took him to speak at all.

Gyomei, hands folded across his knees, echoed with calm authority. “Together, we are stronger. Even the quietest among us carries weight worth sharing.”

Tengen exhaled dramatically, waving a hand as though to clear the room of lingering tension. “Well! That’s the last of my flamboyant dramatics for the night. Let’s not scare ourselves before bed.”

Kyojurou leaned back with a satisfied sigh, eyes softening as he glanced at each of his fellow Hashira.

“Tonight… it felt different. Not just comrades, but… something closer. A family, in a way.”

Mitsuri nodded, smiling gently. “Yeah… a family that doesn’t fight every moment.”

Sanemi snorted, though it lacked his usual edge. “Don’t get too sentimental, Pink-Hair. Still got to chop demons tomorrow.”

Muichiro, his voice barely audible, added, “But… It’s a good feeling.”

Giyu, setting his cup down, finally allowed himself a deeper exhale. The air felt lighter somehow, as if the laughter and quiet moments had pushed a small wedge between him and the ghosts of the past.

Gyomei rose, the others following in their own time. Plates were stacked neatly, trays carried away, and the faintest scent of sandalwood lingered as incense burned low. The lanterns glimmered one last time before being extinguished, leaving the estate in gentle darkness, save for the silver moonlight spilling across the wooden floors.

Kyojurou, standing near the door, looked over the group one final time.

“Rest well, everyone. Tomorrow… we stand again.”

Tengen’s voice carried through the corridor, exaggerated and grand.

“And survive another day of glory!”

Laughter, soft but genuine, trailed them as the last of the Hashira filed from the dining space. Giyu lingered for a moment, taking in the quiet room, the subtle echoes of shared joy and softened burdens. He adjusted his half-mask, feeling less like an outsider than when he had first arrived, and followed the others toward the evening shadows that awaited them outside.

The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, the temple still humming with the warmth of their presence. Even in the silence, the bond of shared vulnerability, laughter, and unspoken understanding had settled firmly among them, leaving something quieter, but infinitely more profound, a reminder that even the strongest warriors could find a moment of peace.

And for tonight, that was enough.

A.N / Phew, chapter 10 is done. First time writing this kind of setting, it has been a bit difficult to properly get all the characters to act as appropriately as they are. If there are any semblances of them acting too, headcannon-like, or more OC than how they are represented in your opinion, then let me know, I can try to change them. The only exception for this, obviously, is Giyu, as he is intentionally designed to be in this story to be a bit different, which even then is added more onto what he already is, with a touch of my own headcannon sprinkled in. For the time being, Giyu is now in the Hashira Dinner Meetings, and he will likely be in many more to come. It’s a fun trajectory, especially when I want to cause conflicts and setbacks as the Hashira try to bring Giyu along. Anyway, enjoy Chapter 10, I’ll see you later!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 11:

Pope is a Rockstar by Sales

The path to Kagaya Ubuyashiki’s estate was quiet, almost too quiet.

Cicadas hummed from the branches overhead, their shrill chorus weaving into the breath of the forest. Lanterns glowed faintly along the stone steps, halos of amber bleeding into the thick evening mist. Each light was swallowed quickly by the fog, leaving the impression that the world ended just a few steps ahead.

Through this muted corridor, Giyu Tomioka walked alone.

His footsteps made almost no sound, sandals brushing lightly against the ground, but his presence was heavy, as though the forest bent beneath the gravity he carried. His haori fluttered with the breeze, the mismatched fabric of green and red patterned squares flowing like ripples across water. The half-fox mask that obscured the left side of his face caught the lantern glow, flashing briefly with each step before sinking back into shadow.

The estate loomed in the distance, still and pale against the darkening sky.

Giyu stopped at the base of the long stairway. For a moment, he let the sound of cicadas press against him, the rhythm steady, insistent. Then, wordlessly, he bowed. His form folded deeply, a reverence that came not only from duty but from something quieter, something bordering on grief.

Only after that did he ascend.

The inner corridors of the Ubuyashiki estate carried their own hush. Tatami mats softened his steps, the faint smell of incense clinging to the air. Shadows stretched long across the paper screens, flickering with the dim orange glow of oil lamps. Every sound felt amplified in that silence: the brush of his haori, the faint creak of floorboards beneath his weight, the near-imperceptible whisper of breath.

Amane was waiting when he arrived, serene as always, her presence gentle but firm like the spine of a willow tree. She bowed once in quiet acknowledgment before sliding the door open.

Inside, Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat cross-legged, his frail frame swathed in pale robes. His face bore the familiar patchwork of lesions, his body already failing him despite his youth. Yet his expression remained soft, luminous even in illness. A tray of incense smoldered nearby, tended by Amane, smoke rising in lazy coils like whispers curling heavenward.

Kagaya’s voice reached Giyu like a breeze through the mist, soft and fragile, yet impossible to ignore. “Thank you for coming, Tomioka.”

Giyu bowed deeply, forehead nearly brushing the mat. When he rose again, the mask was still in place, its pale features unreadable. He said nothing at first, words caught between his throat and his silence.

“Please,” Kagaya gestured faintly, a brittle grace in the movement of his hand, “sit.”

Giyu obeyed, lowering himself neatly into seiza across from the master. His back was straight, his shoulders taut, his eyes hidden behind the mask’s half-curve.

The silence stretched.

Then Kagaya spoke again, voice threaded with warmth despite its weakness.

“I have heard… from Shinobu, Sanemi, even Tengen.” He paused, letting the words breathe. “But I wanted to hear it from you. About what happened… with Usaki.”

The demon’s name hung in the air like smoke.

Giyu’s hands pressed faintly against his knees. He nodded once, measured, then finally let his voice spill into the stillness.

“…Her blood demon art exploited vulnerabilities of the mind.” He stopped, the weight of memory tightening his chest. “She mimicked hallucinations. Distorted perception. Used it to manipulate us.”

The words came evenly, but his posture betrayed the strain. His shoulders locked, his hands twitched faintly at the hem of his haori.

Kagaya’s gaze lingered on him, patient. “And for you?”

Another pause. The cicadas outside screamed faintly against the silence.

Giyu’s voice was lower now, edged with something rawer. “…She gave me psychosis. Schizophrenic symptoms.” A shallow breath.

“…I saw things. Heard voices. Ones that weren’t mine.” His fingers curled against the fabric of his haori, tightening with each phrase. “…But I could see her blood art because of it.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Only the tapping of the evening wind against the shoji doors.

Kagaya’s eyelids lowered, as if in mourning. His words were almost a whisper. “She gave you torment. And in return, you found clarity.”

Giyu did not answer. His mask tilted down slightly, eyes fixed on the floor. He could still feel the voices clinging to the edges of his mind, echoes that hadn’t entirely faded. Clarity had come with a cost; one he wasn’t sure he’d stopped paying.

Kagaya, after a long breath, spoke again. “Would you allow Amane to give you a checkup? Just… for observation.”

The question landed heavily.

Giyu’s head shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t look up. His gaze stayed on the woven straw of the tatami. His hand twitched again, brushing the edge of his haori. His voice, when it came, was quiet, almost childlike.

“…I don’t like doctors.”

Kagaya’s reply was soft, understanding, tinged with the sorrow of a man who carried too many burdens for too long. “I know.”

Amane did not move. She stood poised, neither pressing nor urging, her expression calm as moonlight.

Kagaya’s voice continued, gentle as flowing water. “It would not be treatment. Merely a moment of… care. Nothing invasive. I promise.”

Giyu remained still. His silence stretched into the space between them, a tension so fine it threatened to snap. The shadows flickered across the mask, hiding whatever expression lay beneath.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Just once.

Relief softened Kagaya’s features. His faint smile bloomed, fragile but genuine.

“You did well, Tomioka. Even in madness, you protected everyone.”

Giyu’s reply was immediate, bitter in its restraint. “…I didn’t protect anyone. I just survived.”

“Survival is its own strength,” Kagaya said softly. “And it kept others breathing.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any words. It pressed into the room, thick and fragile, like glass threatening to crack.

Giyu’s mask hid his eyes, but his shoulders seemed to sag beneath that silence, weighed down by truths too jagged to voice.

At last, Kagaya bowed his head faintly, reverence and gratitude in the motion. “Thank you for your service.”

For a moment, Giyu didn’t move. Then, slowly, he lowered himself into a bow as well. His voice, when it finally emerged, was frayed at the edges, weary but steady.

“…You’re welcome.”

The meeting ended, but the air it left behind clung to him like mist.

As Giyu stepped back into the corridor, the cicadas still sang their endless chorus. The night smelled of pine and incense, damp with the ghost of rain. His footsteps echoed faintly through the estate, steady but reluctant, as though each one pulled at the weight chained to his chest.

He didn’t know if the nod he had given Amane would actually lead him to sit for a checkup. His distrust of doctors was carved deep, an old scar he couldn’t explain even to himself. But Kagaya’s voice lingered, that soft, unyielding faith that survival was enough.

Enough.

The word felt alien on his tongue. Was survival really strength? Or just proof of his failure to protect others?

The mask caught the lantern light once more as he descended the estate steps, half of his face hidden, half exposed. He let the shadows claim him again, the fog swallowing his figure until he was just another ghost moving through the forest.

And still, the cicadas sang.

The incense curled upward in delicate ribbons, softening the chamber’s air with lavender and cedar. Kagaya’s breathing was shallow but steady, the kind of rhythm that carried patience, the kind that seemed to forgive before forgiveness was even sought. Amane knelt at his side, replenishing the lamp’s oil, her movements careful, soundless, like a shadow tending to a flame.

The quiet stretched, but Kagaya broke it with his usual tenderness.

“I’ve also received letters,” he murmured. His voice, though weakened by illness, filled the room like a lantern glow. “From Urokodaki.”

The name settled heavily in the air.

Amane set aside the lamp, folding her hands together in her lap. Her gaze lingered on Giyu for a moment, compassion, not scrutiny. “He has written more than once,” she said softly. “He worries for you. He asks if you would send word back, even something brief.”

Giyu’s shoulders shifted faintly, like a mountain loosening stones under weight. His hands stayed still upon his knees, but inside, his chest constricted. Urokodaki’s image rose unbidden to his mind: the mountain wind biting at his skin during training, the quiet lectures over the fire, the old man’s steady hands fixing a mask to his face before Final Selection.

And then… Sabito. Makomo.

Their laughter, quick as the crackle of a hearth. Sabito’s sharp grin, bold even in the dusk of the forest. Makomo’s patient eyes, soft as the moss beneath their feet. They had stood beside him at the edge of the trial, fox masks gleaming pale in the moonlight. He remembered the way Sabito adjusted his stance, pressing knuckles into Giyu’s shoulder with brotherly stubbornness.

“You’ve got to hold your sword like you mean it, Giyu,” Sabito had told him, voice brimming with determination. “If you don’t, you’ll die. And I won’t be there to save you.”

But Sabito had died instead.

Makomo too.

The memory burned sharper than any blade. Giyu could still see the blur of teeth, the spray of blood, the wide, stunned silence after it was all over. And Urokodaki’s face, etched with grief and quiet disappointment when he’d returned alone.

The fox mask he still wore on his half-shielded face suddenly seemed heavier, as if Sabito’s and Makomo’s voices pressed into the wood, accusing. Reminding.

He swallowed. His throat was dry, and the words would not form.

Kagaya did not fill the silence. He only watched, his pale eyes softened by something deeper than pity. Understanding.

“Urokodaki does not write out of judgment,” Kagaya said gently. “Only love. He is… not a man who spends words carelessly. And yet he spends them on you.”

The guilt curled tighter in Giyu’s chest, like a serpent coiling until it threatened to choke him. Love? He did not deserve love. Not from Urokodaki. Not when his failures had cost the lives of those who should have borne the title of Hashira instead. Sabito, with his courage. Makomo, with her grace. Not him. Never him.

Amane’s voice broke through, calm and steady. “It does not need to be a letter,” she offered. “Even a single line. A sign that you are alive, that you still carry the strength he gave you. That would ease his heart.”

Alive. Strength. The words twisted like splinters. He had survived, yes. But that was all. He had crawled through the wreckage of that trial, through battles, through years, and now sat here among the Hashira as though he belonged. But in his mind, the seat had always belonged to Sabito. To Makomo. His survival had been nothing but a cruel trick of fate.

His lips parted, then closed again. The nod he gave was shallow, mechanical. A movement of habit, not will.

Kagaya tilted his head, studying the subtle tightening of his haori sleeve beneath his hand, the rigid line of his shoulders. He did not press further. His wisdom was not in dragging words from others but in knowing when silence was itself an answer.

“Perhaps,” Kagaya said softly, “when you are ready.”

The words landed like a blessing, though Giyu felt them more as a weight. Ready? He would never be ready. The thought of pen touching paper, of writing Urokodaki’s name at the top of a letter, it threatened to shatter the fragile shell he had built around his grief. Shame clamped its jaws deeper.

He bowed his head slightly, allowing his hair to curtain his face. The faintest twitch at his jaw betrayed the battle within, but he did not speak.

Outside, cicadas droned louder in the trees, filling the space between heartbeats. The faint clatter of a night bird echoed across the estate walls.

Amane reached forward then, not toward him, but to adjust the incense once more. Her movements were quiet, deliberate. She did not meet his eyes, but her presence, soft as silk, was a reminder that there was no threat here. Only patience. Only waiting.

Kagaya folded his hands neatly, his smile serene, as though the conversation had already ended exactly as it should. “Thank you for listening, Tomioka,” he said, his tone never losing that deep gentleness. “Whatever choice you make… Urokodaki will wait. He has always been patient with those he loves.”

Giyu’s chest tightened again. Patient? Yes. But patience could sour into disappointment. And disappointment, he had seen it before, in Urokodaki’s weary eyes when only one fox mask returned from Final Selection.

He bowed once more, silent, the faintest tremor in the movement.

Kagaya did not look away, nor did Amane. They asked for nothing more.

And so he remained still, locked within himself, the mask on his face heavier than steel.

He knew he would not write.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Perhaps never.

Because to write would be to admit he had survived while Sabito and Makomo had not. To write would be to tear open wounds that had only been numbed, never healed.

And though he nodded, though he gave Kagaya and Amane the quiet compliance they sought, inside, the guilt pressed him into silence once again.

The candles burned low, the incense a thin thread against the night.

And Giyu, even among kindness, remained alone.

The moon had risen higher, silvering the roofs of the estates, when Giyu stepped outside. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of pine. Each footstep across the gravel path seemed louder than it should have, echoing in a world hushed by night.

Kagaya’s words lingered in his mind like a candle flame that would not go out. Urokodaki will wait. He has always been patient with those he loves.

The phrase felt foreign. Love. Patience. They clashed with the image that haunted him, Urokodaki’s lined face on that day, the disappointment hidden in his quiet sigh when only one student returned from Final Selection. Giyu could never forget it. It was etched deeper than scars, deeper than any wound a demon had ever carved.

He touched the edge of his half-mask, fingers brushing the rough wood. Heavy. Always heavy. Sabito’s laughter still rang in it. Makomo’s soft encouragement still clung to its paint. Both had walked into the forest with him. Both had not walked out.

And he? He had lived. For what reason, he never understood. Sabito had been stronger. Makomo had been swifter. Their deaths made no sense, and yet here he was, carrying a title he had not earned. Hashira. A word that tasted like ash in his mouth.

The gravel gave way to the worn boards of a bridge, spanning the stream that threaded through the estate grounds. He paused halfway, leaning against the railing. The water below whispered, a current forever moving forward, unbothered by the weight of memory. He envied it.

Urokodaki’s letters. How many had gone unanswered now? Did the old man still write with hope? Or had he already accepted silence as the only reply he would ever receive? The thought carved into Giyu like a blade. Kagaya and Amane had spoken with kindness, but kindness could not erase the truth; writing back would mean acknowledging what he had done, who he had failed.

His hand tightened against the railing until the wood creaked faintly.

He wanted to answer. The longing was there, buried under years of stone. He wanted to tell Urokodaki that he still breathed, that the training had not gone to waste, that he still held a sword in both hands. But each time the words formed in his mind, Sabito’s blood-soaked grin returned, his head completely crushed. Makomo’s small body falling, limbs torn one by one. And the paper in his imagination stayed blank, forever blank.

The night pressed close. Cicadas sang their endless chorus, indifferent to his turmoil. Above, the moon was clouded, light smudged by drifting shadows.

At last, Giyu pushed away from the railing and resumed walking. His estate lay at the far edge of the grounds, quiet and lonely, much like himself. As the silhouette of its roof came into view, he felt the weight of his solitude deepen.

Kagaya and Amane had asked nothing more than a sign of life. But Giyu carried death on his shoulders, and that was all he knew how to give.

He stepped through the gate, into silence, and closed the night behind him.

Parasite Eve by Bring Me the Horizon

The Hashira dinner wound down with the kind of ease that only came after battle. For a few hours, their laughter and voices had filled the compound, breaking through the grim silence that usually draped over their duties. Food, sake, teasing. A momentary reprieve.

But even reprieves had to end.

Kyojurou’s booming voice carried through the courtyard as he declared his farewells, still laughing as though the night were young. Mitsuri waved both hands high, cheeks flushed, her joy carrying her steps away. Sanemi grumbled something about patrol and stormed off, scowl etched deep. Iguro vanished without a word, his snake’s pale body gliding across his shoulders as he disappeared into the shadows.

Gyomei remained within, prayer beads clicking softly.

And Shinobu lingered at the threshold, tilting her chin toward the night sky. Stars glimmered faintly, distant points of light, framed by the clean sharpness of the autumn air. She stood there in silence, her lips curved faintly, though her eyes held a heaviness she did not voice.

She wondered, without saying it aloud, if Tomioka was already out there.

If he had even sat at the table in spirit, or if his mind had always been somewhere else.

Elsewhere, far from the compound, Giyu walked.

The forest paths curled around him like veins through the earth, mist drifting low along the ground. His stride was measured, his steps soundless save for the soft scrape of sandals on dirt. His half-mask clung stubbornly to the left side of his face, its lacquered surface catching the faint lantern-light from the barracks he passed. He hadn’t taken it off since the last battle. Not once.

To others, he seemed more specter than man, a silent figure who bled shadows with every step.

The lower-ranked slayers stationed near the barracks stiffened as he drew near. Some bowed in stiff, jerking motions. Others lowered their eyes and stood still until he had passed, not daring to look longer than a heartbeat.

And the Kakushi, the black-clad caretakers, ever diligent, reacted as though his presence was a storm rolling through.

Their hands, mid-task, would freeze. The paths would part. Even the sound of their chatter would die to nothing as he walked by, until only the cicadas and the rustling leaves carried sound.

They did not approach him.

Not anymore.

Once, they had tried. After missions, after battles. They had followed their duties, reaching out with steady hands to tend his wounds. But he had struck out more than once, not from malice, never from anger, but from reflex born of blood and exhaustion. A Kakushi too close had earned a shattered wrist. Another, a bruised jaw. One more had barely ducked before his blade flashed an inch from their throat.

Word had spread quickly.

Never touch the Water Hashira unless you are certain he knows you are there.

Now, they hovered at the edges of his presence like moths around a lantern.

The whispers followed him wherever he went:

“Don’t look at him too long.”

“They say he’s colder than the demons he slays.”

“He doesn’t speak. Not unless he has to.”

“Some say even demons avoid him…”

Giyu heard them. He always heard them. He simply chose not to answer.

It was easier this way.

The night deepened as he made his way down the trail. His senses sharpened at once, the air shifted, heavy with the iron tang of blood.

Up ahead, a young slayer stumbled into the path, barely more than a boy. His uniform was torn, blade trembling in his hands. His breathing rasped sharp and shallow, eyes wide with panic.

Behind him lay another slayer, his partner, crumpled on the ground, blood soaking his sleeve. A demon lurked just beyond, saliva stringing from jagged teeth as it prepared to lunge.

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

He didn’t need to.

Giyu’s blade was already drawn.

Water flowed. Steel cut.

The demon’s head hit the ground before it even knew it had been struck.

The boy stood frozen, eyes wide, watching as the Water Hashira slid his blade back into its sheath in a single clean motion.

For a moment, silence.

And then, as Giyu passed by, a whisper, low enough to be mistaken for wind through the trees.

“Patch up your partner’s injuries as quickly as you can. Don’t let him fall asleep.”

The boy swallowed, nodding rapidly even though Giyu was already gone. All he caught was the flicker of a haori disappearing into the mist.

Farther along, the forest reclaimed its quiet. The smell of blood faded, replaced by damp earth and fallen leaves. Giyu walked on, sword still faintly wet in its scabbard, though he paid it no mind.

The whispers of the Kakushi trailed after him even here. Not their voices, those had long since faded into the barracks behind him, but the memory of them. The way they looked at him as he passed. Eyes averted, steps retreating. A fear born not of demons, but of the man meant to protect them.

It was true. He had struck them. Too many times. Not because he hated them, but because he hated himself in those moments. Their hands, reaching for his wounds, had felt like threats when he was barely conscious, when blood pounded too loud in his ears and every shadow looked like a claw. He had lashed out before thought could catch him.

He remembered their faces. Shocked. Hurt. Afraid.

They had stopped trying to touch him after that.

And he had let them.

Distance was easier. Safer. For them. For him.

His mask shifted as the wind passed, wood pressing against his cheekbone. He had kept it on after the last battle not because of the scar beneath, but because it was something to hide behind. Something that gave him the excuse not to meet their eyes.

He thought of Urokodaki, his old master, who had taught him that water could be both gentle and unyielding. He thought of Sabito, sharp-tongued and smiling, who had believed in strength more than anyone else. He thought of Makomo, quiet as snowfall, who had told him once that survival meant something, even when victory did not.

And he thought of the way all three of them had looked at him.

Not like the Kakushi did. Not with fear.

But with expectation. With belief.

The expectation had failed. Belief he had betrayed.

The forest swallowed him again, its branches overhead blotting out the stars. His footsteps pressed into the dirt, steady, unbroken. Each one felt heavier than the last.

There would be another demon ahead. Another life to save, or another to lose. His path was nothing but an endless river, forward, always forward. Never pausing, never resting, never reaching the shore.

If the Kakushi feared him, if the Corps whispered about him, it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps it was fitting.

He had no place among laughter, nor at dinners, nor in the gentle touch of care.

His place was here. Alone.

Sword in hand.

Moving ever deeper into the night.

Formula by Labrinth

The quiet of Gyomei Himejima’s estate was a different kind of quiet than the rest of the Demon Slayer Corps grounds.

It was not the silence of tension, nor the cold, hollow hush that followed bloodshed. Here, after the laughter of the Hashira dinner had finally ebbed away, it was a silence like a temple after prayer. Still, Reverent. The faint perfume of incense lingered through the great room, clinging to the wooden beams above.

Gyomei knelt where he had been seated most of the night, his great frame bent slightly forward, thick prayer beads still threaded through his fingers. His blind eyes, half-closed, faced the tatami before him. The meeting was done, the voices gone. What lingered now were only the echoes.

Plates, cups, and trays remained scattered across the low tables. A few drops of spilled broth stained the mats. Scraps of rice clung to the edges of lacquered bowls. The Hashira were not disorderly, but in their eagerness to laugh, to eat, to talk amongst themselves after long, harsh weeks apart, they had left behind a banquet’s worth of small messes.

Gyomei exhaled slowly, a rumble like a mountain settling into the earth. He reached out, fingertips brushing against a bowl.

“Himejima.”

The voice was light, almost airy. A boy’s voice, but precise, detached, as if noting the time of day rather than addressing the Stone Hashira himself. Muichirō Tokitō had returned, apparently unwilling to drift off to sleep just yet.

Gyomei inclined his head faintly. He did not need to ask why.

“You stayed behind.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” The boy’s footsteps padded across the floor as he stooped to collect a pair of cups. His expression, unreadable at the best of times, was calm, though his eyes flicked briefly to Gyomei’s still hands. “You were just sitting here.”

“I was giving thanks,” Gyomei answered. His voice was steady, solemn. “That they could gather. That no seat was left empty tonight.”

Muichirō blinked, a slow, thoughtful gesture. For him, words like that felt far away, but he didn’t question them. Instead, he crouched and began stacking plates in his arms with quiet efficiency.

The sound of heavy sandals clacking against the wooden hallway broke the stillness a moment later.

“Ah…! I figured I’d find you both here.”

The flamboyant tone was unmistakable. Tengen Uzui slid into the room with his usual ease, though his jewels and rings tinkled only faintly tonight. Even he seemed subdued after the long evening.

“You two didn’t think I’d just run off and leave all this lying around, did you? That would hardly be flamboyant hospitality for our grand monk here.”

Muichirō glanced at him, then back down at the plates. “It’s just cleaning.”

“Which is exactly why it needs flair,” Tengen countered, scooping up a stack of trays in each hand with practiced grace. “Besides, it’s rare we have the chance to help out Himejima. Always the one carrying us, and all.”

Gyomei bowed his head slightly at the sound of his name. “You honor me. But this is unnecessary. I would not impose…”

“You didn’t,” Tengen interrupted, flashing him a sharp grin Gyomei couldn’t see but could hear in his voice. “I volunteered. That’s the difference.”

The Stone Hashira chuckled low in his throat, a sound like rocks rolling through a riverbed. He did not argue further.

For a while, the three worked in tandem, though each in their own rhythm.

Tengen moved quickly, stacking and carrying with theatrical spins and flourishes, as if a silent audience might applaud his efficiency. He hummed under his breath, some tune only he seemed to know.

Muichirō, by contrast, was methodical. He handled each cup and dish with quiet precision, his movements neither hurried nor sluggish. The kind of rhythm that came naturally to someone who rarely thought about his hands, who simply did.

And Gyomei, though his pace was slowest, was steady. He moved only when sure, his touch deliberate as he gathered bowls into baskets, wiping down the mats with a cloth he wrung gently over a basin. His hands, massive and scarred, carried no hesitation, only care.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It carried a strange harmony, as if the room itself had been waiting for such stillness after the earlier boisterousness.

At length, Tengen broke it, his voice softer than usual.

“You know… dinners like that aren’t going to last forever.”

Muichirō tilted his head faintly. “Because of the war?”

“Because of the war,” Tengen agreed, his grin fading into a thin line. “Some of us won’t come back one of these nights. It’s not dramatic to say it, it’s just the reality. That’s why it matters. To sit together like that. To laugh, eat, and even argue a little. It reminds us that we’re still human.”

Gyomei nodded, prayer beads brushing against his knuckles. “That is precisely why I host them.” His voice rumbled deep, reverent. “Not for feasting. Not for ceremony. But so that when the night comes that one of us does not return, we may carry their laughter in our hearts.”

The weight of those words lingered in the air. Even Muichirō, who often drifted through conversations as though they were dreams, remained very still.

After a moment, he set down the stack of cleaned cups and murmured, almost inaudibly, “…I think I understand.”

Gyomei turned his blind eyes toward the boy, though he made no reply. Sometimes, acknowledgment itself was enough.

Tengen exhaled through his nose and adjusted the trays in his hands. “Well. Let’s make sure it isn’t tonight, hm? All this talk about death while cleaning dishes, hardly a flamboyant dinner conversation.”

But the attempt at levity, though appreciated, did not fully mask the truth. Each of them carried the unspoken thought: tonight’s peace was fragile. Tomorrow could shatter it.

When the last of the bowls were cleaned and the mats wiped, the room settled into its natural order again. The tables stood bare, and the incense smoke had thinned. Only the faint hum of night insects drifted through the open screens.

Muichirō yawned softly, covering his mouth with one sleeve. “I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Rest well,” Gyomei said.

The boy gave a faint nod and padded out, quiet as a ghost.

Tengen lingered a moment longer. He crossed his arms, leaning against one of the beams, his eyes narrowed as he regarded the Stone Hashira.

“You take this on yourself every time, don’t you?” he asked. His tone was not mocking now, but serious. “Not just the dinners. The weight of it all. The rest of us, we laugh, we fight, we burn ourselves out. And you… You carry the silence after.”

Gyomei folded his hands over the beads, bowing his head. “That is my duty.”

“Maybe,” Tengen said, voice low, “but it doesn’t have to be only yours.”

For once, Gyomei did not answer right away. His breath came slow, deliberate. When he did finally speak, his words were soft, almost tender.

“Thank you.”

The quiet stretched. Tengen’s smile returned, but it was subdued, genuine. He gave a sharp nod, then turned to leave.

“Don’t stay up too late, monk. Even mountains need sleep.”

His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Gyomei alone once more.

The Stone Hashira knelt in the cleared room, hands resting over his beads. He could still hear the echoes of their voices, laughter, grumbles, and even silence, woven into the wood of the estate.

And he prayed, silently, for them all.

For Giyu, who had remained quiet.

For Shinobu, whose heart bore quiet burdens.

For Kyojuro’s flame, Mitsuri’s warmth, Sanemi’s fury, Tengen’s resilience, Muichirō’s fleeting calm, and Iguro’s watchful vigilance.

For all of them.

The night stretched deep beyond the shoji doors, stars scattered faintly overhead. And Gyomei, steadfast as stone, remained kneeling in that stillness, holding them in prayer as though his will alone might shield them until dawn.

A.N. / Alright, Chapter 11! We’re almost done with a dozen chapters. We will be moving more onto some other stuff regarding Giyu soon. But now, we have the first main mention of Urokodaki! I’ll have you all think about what happened between Giyu and Urokodaki. Speaking of, I noticed many people have some suspicions and questions about Kaito. I will save the reveal for whenever people find it out, but in the meantime, I really do like how people are already trying to paint a picture of what happened, and how differently I’ve made Giyu here. It’s very exciting, honestly. I will see you later in Chapter 12.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 12:

Genie in a Bottle by Christina Aguilera

Among the Demon Slayer Corps, the Hashira are revered. Idolized. Respected.

But respected doesn’t always mean liked.

To most of the Corps, the Hashira are something like storms, powerful, awe-inspiring, but often better watched from a distance than approached too closely.

When a Hashira walks through the barracks, the air changes. Conversations die down. Kakushi bows instinctively, eyes averted, as though catching their gaze might invite disaster. For some, the awe feels like inspiration. For others, it feels like the slow press of fear against the ribs.

And within that storm, each Hashira carries their own weight.

For the Wind Hashira, Sanemi Shinazugawa, “The Wind cuts both demons and allies.”

Sanemi is the most feared among the Hashira by the rank-and-file. His scars are enough to warn most away before he even opens his mouth. But when he does, it’s like being struck with the full brunt of a storm.

He doesn’t just exude hostility; he weaponizes it. Every glare feels like a death sentence; every barked command rattles the bones. Kakushi flinches when they hear his boots strike the ground.

Some of the junior slayers whisper the best way to work with Sanemi is not to.

“If you’re lucky, he’ll ignore you. If not… he might call you dead weight before a demon does.”

One Kakushi swears Sanemi once threw a sword across a room because someone handed it to him the wrong way. Another says he saw him laugh in the face of a demon’s claws, and then scold the slayers who hesitated, calling them cowards for blinking.

The fear he inspires is more than physical. It lingers.

For the Serpent Hashira, Obanai Iguro, “His expectation sharp as a blade.”

Where Sanemi crushes people with rage, Obanai does it with silence.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t threaten. He just watches. Always judging, always calculating. His mismatched eyes cut deeper than any insult could.

He rarely speaks to lower-ranked slayers. When he does, it’s to correct them, his words sharp and cold.

“He once made a guy redo his stance for an entire hour. While a demon was still nearby.”

No one knows if the story’s true, but the way Iguro scrutinizes even Hashira makes it believable. His standards are impossibly high. His own breathing technique is flawless, his movements so controlled it feels like he was born with a blade in hand.

For the Corps, he is both teacher and executioner, the embodiment of what happens if you’re not good enough.

For the Water Hashira, Giyu Tomioka, “You’ll get silence or a sword stroke, nothing in between.”

An enigma among enigmas.

Giyu doesn’t bark like Sanemi or judge like Iguro. He simply… doesn’t.

He moves like mist, appears where he’s needed, disappears without warning. When he does fight alongside others, he’s precise and unerring, but to the Corps, he’s unsettling in a way no words can touch.

The Kakushi whispers that he’s untouchable. Not because he’s arrogant, but because he doesn’t let anyone close.

Some of them know better than others.

A Kakushi once reached for him when he staggered back from a mission, bleeding from a slash across his ribs. The boy’s hand barely brushed his sleeve before Giyu reacted, lightning fast, blade drawn. The Kakushi’s wrist snapped beneath his grip before anyone could stop him. Giyu hadn’t even looked angry. His eyes were blank, distant, as though he didn’t see the boy at all.

Since then, the Kakushi only touch him if he’s already unconscious from blood loss. If he’s awake, even barely, they keep their distance, bandaging only what they can reach without pressing too close.

“He’s not evil,” one whispers. “Just… somewhere else. Not here. Not with us.”

The half-mask that sometimes clings to his face only adds to the mystery. They say he wears it not as armor, but as penance. For what, no one knows.

For the Stone Hashira, Gyomei Himejima, “He’s a mountain that weeps.”

The strongest Hashira. His presence is a contradiction that the Corps still struggles to reconcile.

A man towering in stature, his muscles enough to rival three soldiers combined, and yet he prays openly, beads always clutched in one hand, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. His gentleness unnerves many. His power terrifies them.

His fighting style is incomprehensible to most. Built on hearing and touch rather than sight, it’s a rhythm no untrained slayer could match. Fighting beside him feels less likea  battle and more like being dragged into a divine procession, one you can’t keep pace with.

“He’s kind,” a Kakushi says quietly. “But working with him? Like trying to match pace with a landslide.”

To some, he is comfort. To others, he is proof of how far away the Hashira truly are.

For the Mist Hashira, Muichiro Tokito, “He’s the prodigy who doesn’t care.”

Youngest of them all. Cold. Forgetful. His memory slips like water through fingers.

Most don’t take it personally, at least, they try not to. But when you risk your life beside a boy barely into his teens, and he doesn’t remember your name by the end of the fight, it stings.

“He once left mid-fight to chase a cloud,” someone mutters. “Came back five minutes later like nothing happened.”

Still, the respect is there. His blade speaks louder than his mouth ever will. His genius is undeniable.

For the Corps, Muichiro is the reminder that brilliance doesn’t need warmth.

For the Love Hashira, Mitsuri Kanroji, “She is the warmth in the storm.”

If most Hashira are storms, Mitsuri is the sunlight after.

Energetic, affectionate, emotional, she’s adored by nearly everyone. Even her intensity feels like safety, her kindness like a balm.

She offers praise without hesitation, remembers names with ease, and throws her heart into every word.

“She once hugged a Kakushi who was crying,” a slayer recounts. “Dude hasn’t stopped smiling since.”

For the Corps, she is proof that strength doesn’t erase gentleness. That love can exist even in war.

For the Insect Hashira, Shinobu Kocho, “She has a smile that sees right through you.”

Gentle, teasing, sharp. Shinobu dissects with words the way she does with demons, precise and cutting.

Some find her presence suffocating. The constant scent of wisteria that clings to her robes feels inescapable, too sweet, too knowing. Others find it comforting, the smell of safety, of toxins held at bay.

“She knows if you’re lying,” someone whispers. “Just by how your pulse twitches.”

If she teases you, consider it a blessing. If she smiles too sweetly, pray it’s not at your expense.

For the Sound Hashira, “He’s flamboyance, fury, and finesse.”

Loud, larger than life, a man who commands attention the way a festival commands a crowd.

At first, many are intimidated. His demands, his booming voice, his glittering presence, it’s overwhelming. But for those who endure, he transforms. From fearsome Hashira to older brother, one who challenges and protects in equal measure.

“He once made us practice sword swings to the beat of a drum,” a slayer laughs. “Was weirdly effective.”

With him, the Corps learn that survival can have rhythm. That even war has a beat.

For the Flame Hashira, Kyojurou Rengoku, “He’s the flame that burns very hot.”

If Mitsuri is warmth, Rengoku is fire. Unwavering, passionate, loud with sincerity.

His encouragement is relentless. His enthusiasm is infectious. He doesn’t simply command respect, he lifts it out of you, makes you want to become more than you are.

“He cheered for me while I was throwing up from overtraining,” one boy recalls. “Said it was the sign of true growth.”

Even when he scolds, it feels like being praised. Even when he roars, it sounds like joy.

For the Corps, he is the unreachable ideal: a warrior who never bends, never falters, never lets the night swallow his light.

In the end, among the Hashira, few are easy to approach. Even fewer are easy to understand.

But all of them, from the most distant to the most flamboyant, have walked through darkness no one else survived. They’ve bled more, lost more, endured more.

That is why, even through fear, even through distance, every slayer looks at them… and dreams.

Dreams of reaching them.

Dreams of joining them.

Dreams of becoming one.

Because if those above them could endure such storms, maybe, just maybe, they can too.

The Ubuyashiki estate was quieter than usual that afternoon.

Not the stillness of peace, but the kind of quiet that stretched too long, like a taut string threatening to snap. From the gardens, the faint sound of cicadas pulsed in rhythmic waves, but inside the corridors, the Hashira walked with a purpose that muted even their most flamboyant habits.

The crow messengers had flown in just before dawn, each bearing reports wrapped in oil-stained parchment, the ink hurried and uneven. By midday, the scraps had been delivered to Kagaya Ubuyashiki himself. And by dusk, every Hashira had been summoned to the estate.

It was rare to call all of them together outside of a council. That alone set unease stirring in their veins.

Sanemi Shinazugawa arrived first. His boots scuffed against the polished wooden floor as he stalked through the main hall, the smell of blood still clinging faintly to him. He had only returned from a mission the night prior, his blades still nicked, his knuckles still raw. He didn’t wait to be escorted in. Sanemi never waited, but the Kakushi blocked his path regardless, bowing low.

“The Master will be ready shortly.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue and turned away, leaning against a column. His eyes drifted to the horizon through the sliding doors, where the sky was painted in streaks of amber and violet. He hated the waiting. The silence. It gave his thoughts room to circle, like wolves with no kill in sight.

Next came Obanai Iguro, his steps measured, his gaze sharp. Kaburamaru stirred across his shoulders, tongue flicking as though tasting the tension in the air. Iguro didn’t greet Sanemi; he rarely greeted anyone, but Sanemi’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a sneer at the sight of him. The serpent and the gale, both too prickly to acknowledge their similarity.

“Don’t tell me you rushed here just to glare at walls,” Sanemi muttered.

Iguro’s eyes narrowed. “Better than wasting breath talking.”

The silence deepened between them, but it was not a comfortable one.

Soon after, Rengoku’s voice rolled through the corridor like thunder. “Ah! So I am not the first to arrive!” His tone carried the heat of a bonfire, his stride loud enough to draw eyes from the Kakushi stationed in the wings. He moved as though the tension couldn’t touch him, as though the world outside the estate wasn’t growing darker by the day.

Sanemi groaned. “Keep your voice down, flame-brain.”

“Ha! If demons fear silence, they will surely cower at my voice!” Rengoku replied, undeterred. He laughed, loud and earnest, and the sound was almost jarring against the tight air.

Behind him, Mitsuri Kanroji hurried in, pink and green locks bouncing with every step. She carried herself with the same urgency as the others, but her face softened the edges of it. She paused near Rengoku and offered Sanemi and Iguro a small, bright smile. “It feels… heavy today, doesn’t it? Almost like the air is warning us.”

Sanemi snorted. “You’re imagining things.”

But Mitsuri’s words lingered even after she moved to stand beside Rengoku.

The Hashira trickled in one after another. Shinobu glided in with her usual grace, hands folded neatly in front of her, her smile unreadable. Tengen arrived soon after, loud jewelry clinking with every movement, though even his flamboyance was muted, a shadow of the usual spectacle. Muichiro drifted in quietly, gaze somewhere far away, his steps light as though he’d wandered in by accident.

And then Gyomei entered. His presence was unmistakable, each step deliberate, beads clicking softly between his fingers, the faintest sound of breath accompanying his whispered prayers. The Kakushi bowed lower when he passed, as though gravity itself bent with him.

Giyu Tomioka came last.

Always last.

He slipped through the threshold like water, his footsteps silent, his expression unreadable. Unlike the others, he did not exchange glances, did not nod or offer even the smallest acknowledgment. His gaze lingered briefly on the floor, then shifted out toward the gardens. The slant of light caught his haori, half-patterned, half plain, plus that same half warding fox mask, and then he was still.

The nine of them stood in silence, waiting.

Even Rengoku’s voice dimmed into quiet, though his eyes still burned bright. Mitsuri fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, glancing toward Shinobu, who gave her a small, reassuring smile. Sanemi cracked his knuckles. Iguro’s hand brushed Kaburamaru absently.

At last, the inner doors slid open.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki was brought forward by Amane, his wife, and their children, following close behind. The master’s body was frail, his skin pale, marred by the creeping curse that had spread across his features. And yet, when he entered, the weight of the room shifted entirely.

Every Hashira dropped to their knees in unison.

Kagaya’s voice was soft, softer than the cicadas outside, but it carried without effort. “Thank you all for coming so swiftly.”

The quiet broke only with the creak of wooden floorboards as the Hashira straightened. No one interrupted. No one dared.

“Reports have come to me from across Japan,” Kagaya continued, his gaze sweeping across them. “Reports that suggest a pattern. Demons no longer move as lone predators. They gather. They strategize. They stalk not only individuals, but communities. Families.”

A murmur ran through the Hashira, brief, hushed. Even they, who faced death nightly, stiffened at the thought of demons growing… organized.

Kagaya raised a hand, and silence returned.

“You have all fought tirelessly. You have given more than anyone could ask. But now, the battlefield changes. And so must we.”

His breath caught, a tremor of pain visible before Amane steadied him. Still, his eyes gleamed, clear, determined, unyielding.

“We meet at dusk,” he said.

The words rang through the hall like the toll of a bell.

Every Hashira felt the shift. The sense that what was to come would not be another cycle of missions, of blood and return, but something sharper. A turning point.

No one spoke at first. Even Sanemi, fists tight at his sides, held back his retort. Even Shinobu, lips curved as if to tease, remained silent. They all knew what it meant when Kagaya spoke like this.

War was changing.

And they were being asked to change with it.

One by one, the Hashira bowed their heads, their silence carrying the weight of acceptance. Some with fire in their chest, some with dread coiled deep in their stomachs, some with the indifference of those already half in another world.

But all of them, all nine, waited for the command that would send them into the night.

“We move at dusk.”

Kagaya Ubuyashiki’s voice, soft yet absolute, filled the Hashira meeting hall. The room itself was simple, wooden beams, tatami floors, candlelight flickering in half-shadows, but when their frail master spoke, even the air seemed to tighten.

The silence was not mere reverence. It was anticipation. A stillness before the break of storm, when lightning holds its breath on the horizon.

The Hashira stood in a semi-circle, each a pillar of strength, each carved from a different piece of steel. Their uniforms bore scars of battle, the faint lingering smell of ash and blood carried in with them. These were not warriors who merely fought demons; they embodied the final line between humanity and annihilation.

And still, even they leaned forward to listen.

Kagaya sat on his cushions, back straight despite the ravages of illness. His scarred face was bathed in amber glow, Amane kneeling close by, her hand steady at his side. Their children lingered in the wings, quiet, solemn, eyes far too old for their age.

When Kagaya spoke again, it was slow, deliberate. Each word carved from fragile lungs, yet it carried the weight of inevitability.

“There are demons moving in ways we have not yet seen. Coordinated. Calculated. Purposeful.” He drew in a shallow breath, his lips parting faintly, his tone that of both warning and mourning.

“This is no longer the time for solo pursuit. You will go in pairs… or groups. Each of you will face something unusual. Learn what you can. Eliminate what you must.”

The words settled like dust, heavy and final.

Kagaya’s eyes drifted first to the Wind and Serpent Hashira.

“Sanemi. Iguro. You will go north to the town of Ueda. People are disappearing, not randomly, but in specific clusters. Families. Travelers. Orphans. The pattern matters.”

Sanemi bristled, arms crossing tight over his chest. His white haori hung loose, the scars on his face catching light like torn paper. He scowled, but said nothing. A storm always lived under his skin, waiting.

Beside him, Obanai’s lips curved faintly downward, mismatched eyes unreadable beneath his shadowed bangs. Kaburamaru shifted across his shoulders, tongue flicking. A quiet nod was all he gave, though his posture betrayed a coiled anticipation.

Between them, silence stretched like a taut wire.

Then Kagaya turned.

“Kyojurou. Tengen.”

The Flame and Sound Hashira straightened in unison, fire and spectacle personified.

“You will head to the village of Tamasaki. Reports claim their mayor has been nothing but generous… but people are going missing during his visits. No wounds. No bodies. Only silence.”

Kyojurou’s expression erupted like fire catching kindling. His fists clenched at his sides, his entire presence burning with conviction.

“Understood! We shall uncover this deceit!”

Tengen rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair, though his grin betrayed amusement. “If the demon’s hiding as a politician, it’s already more flamboyant than me. That’s a problem.”

Laughter nearly cracked the tension, nearly. It hovered at the edges of the room, suppressed before it could bloom.

Kagaya’s gaze slid again.

“Gyomei, Mitsuri, Muichiro.”

The Stone, Love, and Mist Hashira. Three forms of strength, three opposites bound by a single order.

“You will travel west, along the coastal cliffs. Something lurks by the sea. Entire boats vanish at night. Screams carry on the tide. Even the crows refuse to fly over.”

A faint click of prayer beads echoed in the silence. Gyomei bowed his head deeply, his broad frame like a mountain made flesh. Though sightless, his presence anchored the room, calm and immovable.

Mitsuri pressed her hand to her chest, eyes wide with both dread and determination.

“I’ve never fought near water… I hope my uniform can handle the spray!”

Her voice was light, but her heartbeat was heavy, worry tangled with hope.

Muichiro blinked, gaze already drifting as if the words were clouds floating past. His lips parted faintly, whispering to himself more than to anyone else. “The sea… it’s big… endless.” His voice carried no fear. Only distance.

Kagaya offered no correction. He trusted them all the same.

And finally…

“Shinobu. Giyu.”

The words cut through the chamber like the hush before thunder.

The Insect and the Water. Oil and ice. A pairing not unwise, but one that drew its own shadows.

“You will move east. A village struck by a tsunami last season is reporting demon sightings in the forests. We believe the creatures are meeting, planning. It’s fragile ground, emotionally and geographically. Proceed with care.”

The silence this time was different. Heavier.

Shinobu tilted her head, her ever-present smile curling, though her eyes gleamed sharper. She glanced sidelong at the man beside her.

Giyu Tomioka stood still, the shadow of his half fox mask casting sharp lines across his face. His posture betrayed nothing, not fatigue, not concern, not even the faintest ripple of thought. If he heard the order, he gave no sign of it.

Shinobu’s lips curved sweeter, voice lilting with feigned playfulness. “Well, Giyu, it seems we’ll have some quality time together~”

A tease. A provocation. A test, perhaps.

He gave nothing in return. Not a word. Only a single nod, small and absolute, before his gaze returned to the floor.

Around them, silence deepened, not tense, but cold.

Kagaya let it pass, his expression never faltering. Finally, he spoke once more.

“We are closer to the edge than ever before. Trust one another. Return alive.”

The words were not a request, nor a plea. They were an invocation. A command carved into the marrow of each warrior present.

For a long moment, no one moved.

And then the meeting dissolved.

The Hashira broke from their semicircle, their haori swaying like banners of war. Some lingered with murmured exchanges, some moved with haste, already setting their minds to their missions. The weight of duty pressed down upon them all, yet in their different ways, they carried it as they always had, through strength, through will, through silence.

Sanemi left first, boots loud, muttering something sharp under his breath. Obanai trailed with only Kaburamaru’s quiet hiss for company.

Kyojurou clasped Tengen by the shoulder, booming laugh chasing their footsteps out into the dark. “We’ll root out this deception and set the night aflame with justice!” Tengen only smirked, tossing a final remark about which of them would be more dazzling.

Mitsuri lingered close to Gyomei, her words soft, her presence bright against his grounded calm. Muichiro drifted like mist, silent, detached, his thoughts unreachable.

And Shinobu…

She paused just outside the meeting hall, lantern light catching on her violet eyes. She glanced up toward the night sky, where clouds parted faintly to reveal distant stars.

Her smile was still there. It always was. But it shifted, softened, just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered sideways, almost unconsciously, to where Giyu’s figure disappeared into the dark.

No words left her lips. But the thought was there.

Is he already gone?

The night was young. Their orders are clear.

And across Japan, the demons stirred.

The Nights by Avicii

The Hashira dispersed from the Ubuyashiki estate like shards of light breaking through shadow, each scattering in a different direction, each carrying Kagaya’s words like an unspoken weight.

The night sky above was a tapestry of stars, distant and cold, but the air itself felt thick with an unseen current. The demons were moving with intent, Kagaya had said. The thought lingered in the minds of all present, pressing against bone and marrow.

Sanemi and Iguro left first, silent except for the harsh crunch of Sanemi’s boots against the gravel. Kaburamaru hissed faintly as the serpent curled tighter around Iguro’s shoulders. Neither man spoke, but the tension between them was sharp enough to cut.

Kyojurou, all fire and brilliance, clasped Tengen on the back with a laugh loud enough to echo through the night. Tengen clicked his tongue, muttering something about “idiot enthusiasm,” but the faint smile that tugged at his lips betrayed a rare camaraderie.

Mitsuri fluttered toward Gyomei and Muichiro, her steps quick and light despite the heaviness of the mission given. She looked from one to the other, the silent mountain of Gyomei and the drifting gaze of Muichiro, and she clasped her hands together, her heart already full of determination.

They went their separate ways, into the breath of the world where demons stirred unseen.

The road to Ueda stretched long, framed by withered rice paddies and the skeletal remains of abandoned farmhouses. A cold wind pressed against their haoris, scattering dust across their path.

Sanemi walked ahead, his arms crossed tightly, his face twisted into its usual scowl.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” he muttered over his shoulder.

Iguro tilted his head, Kaburamaru flicking its tongue in the moonlight. “Better than filling the air with noise.” His voice was sharp, coiled, much like the serpent that clung to him.

“Tch.” Sanemi spat to the side, his jaw clenching.

They passed a row of prayer stones, half-broken, moss crawling like veins across their surface. The wind howled through the gaps. Ueda was still miles ahead, but already the land felt wrong.

“The reports said whole families went missing.” Sanemi’s voice was low now, eyes narrowing. “Not just one or two people. Whole groups.”

“That means intelligence,” Iguro replied. His fingers brushed the hilt of his blade, the serpent-patterned wrapping catching what little light the moon offered. “A demon with a plan. Not just hunger.”

Sanemi’s jaw worked. He hated silence, but even more, he hated the implication. Demons weren’t supposed to be organized. If they were…

He gripped his blade tighter.

The outskirts of Ueda reeked of abandonment. Homes stood dark, shutters nailed shut, doors hanging loose. The silence was suffocating.

Sanemi kicked open the door of one house, blade ready, but inside, only dust and the faint smell of rot lingered. No bodies. No blood.

“Too clean,” Iguro murmured. His mismatched eyes scanned the empty rooms. Kaburamaru hissed quietly, tongue flickering toward the floorboards. “They’re being taken alive.”

Sanemi stiffened. “That’s worse.”

A sound, faint, like a breath. From beneath the floor.

Sanemi dropped into a crouch, hand flat against the wood. He could hear it now: scratching, desperate. His blood ran cold.

He ripped the floorboards free with a grunt, and beneath, wide, hollow eyes stared back at him.

A child. Thin, filthy, trembling. A gag was stuffed in their mouth. Their small hands clawed toward him weakly.

Sanemi’s face twisted, rage burning. “They’re storing them.”

Iguro’s expression hardened. His blade flashed free, the moonlight glinting off its serpent design. “Then the demon is close.”

…

The village of Tamasaki loomed with lanterns glowing against the river, warm and festive in appearance, almost mocking, given the horror whispered in its alleys.

Kyojurou’s laughter filled the air as he strode boldly into the main street, his fiery mane catching the lantern light like a living flame. “What a beautiful place! How radiant the energy of the people! Truly, one could never guess demons prowled beneath such cheer!”

Tengen sighed loudly, throwing one jeweled hand into the air. “You’re drawing eyes. We’re supposed to be low profile, idiot.”

“Low profile?” Kyojurou barked a laugh, slapping his palm against his sword’s hilt. “I am always prepared to meet my enemy head-on! If they hide, let us be so dazzling that they cannot ignore us!”

Tengen pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering about flamboyance versus idiocy, though in truth, he found a grudging respect for the man’s spirit. Kyojurou’s fire was raw, unyielding. Dangerous, yes, but invigorating.

As they made their way toward the mayor’s manor, shadows followed. Men in fine robes stood too still at the edges of the streets. The music of the festival dulled beneath an unseen tension.

“See those?” Tengen murmured, his eye glittering. “They’re watching us.”

Kyojurou’s grin only widened. “Then let them watch! By the night’s end, they will know that justice burns brighter than any lantern!”

Tengen’s smirk was razor-thin. “And if we’re lucky, they’ll lead us right to our prey.”

The mayor’s manor loomed tall, lanterns glowing warmly at every window. Servants bowed as the Hashira approached, smiling too widely, their movements too synchronized.

Kyojurou’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade, his voice carrying like thunder. “Mayor of Tamasaki! Step forth and answer for these disappearances!”

Tengen hissed, shoving at his arm. “Subtlety, you fool!”

But the doors opened smoothly, and the mayor emerged, tall, handsome, his smile perfect, his robes immaculate. He spread his arms as though in welcome.

“Honored Hashira,” he said, voice rich as honey. “What brings such esteemed warriors to my humble home?”

Behind his eyes, though, something glinted. Something sharp. Something hungry.

Tengen’s hand twitched toward his blades. “Found him.”

Kyojurou’s grin blazed. “At last!”

…

The coastal cliffs were jagged silhouettes against the silver wash of moonlight. The sea churned endlessly below, its waves lashing against the stone with the sound of thunder. Salt clung to the air, thick and unrelenting.

Mitsuri pressed her hands against her chest, trying not to shiver. Her uniform clung damply already. “It feels… sad here,” she whispered, voice nearly carried away by the sea wind.

Gyomei moved with careful steps, beads clicking steadily between his hands. He lifted his face toward the void of the ocean, listening. “The cries of the lost remain,” he murmured, voice as heavy as stone. “The tide carries their suffering still.”

Muichiro walked slightly apart, his eyes half-lidded, his thoughts far. “Boats vanish because something drags them down. Strong currents… or strong arms. Doesn’t matter.” His words were distant, but his grip on his blade was certain.

Mitsuri tried to smile, though her heart trembled. “Then we’ll bring them peace, won’t we? All of us together!”

Gyomei inclined his head in solemn agreement.

From the cliff’s edge, the wind shifted, carrying with it a sound. Not the sea. Not the wind. A wail. Long, broken, and impossibly far.

Mitsuri gasped softly, clutching Gyomei’s sleeve. Muichiro tilted his head, eyes narrowing, finally sharpening.

“The demon knows we’re here,” he said simply.

The waves crashed harder against the rocks, as though in answer.

They followed the cries down into the jagged ravine where the cliffs met the sea. The rocks were slick with spray, and the roar of waves nearly drowned out all else.

Mitsuri’s breath caught as she saw it: a boat, splintered against the rocks, bodies lashed to its mast like grotesque offerings. Their faces were frozen in terror, their mouths open as if still screaming.

Muichiro drew his blade in one smooth, quiet motion. His eyes reflected the moonlight, no longer hazy but razor-sharp. “There.”

From the depths of the sea, it rose. A demon, pale and bloated, its limbs long as oars, webbed hands stretching wide. Its mouth gaped, filled not with teeth, but jagged shards of coral.

It shrieked, the sound piercing enough to shake the cliffside.

Mitsuri’s heart raced, but she raised her blade, determination burning bright through her fear. Gyomei stood unmoving, beads clicking steadily, the unshakable mountain before the storm.

The sea boiled as the demon lunged.

The Hashira were scattered across Japan, north, south, east, west, but each felt it in their bones: Kagaya had been right.

The demons were moving with intent.

And the night was only just beginning.

The doors of the Ubuyashiki estate slid shut behind the departing Hashira, the moonlight washing over the courtyard in a cold glow. For a long moment, the master and his wife stood in silence, the night alive with cicadas and the faint rustle of the trees. Even if he was the one commanding, Kagaya’s words also affected him and his family as much as every Hashira.

While they didn’t fight, they commanded respect through their actions beyond direct.

Bloopers: Rainbow Factory by Woodentoaster

Sanemi shoved his hands into his haori pockets, his scarred face turned toward the northern horizon. The thought of families disappearing, of children being stolen away in the night, made something coil and seethe in his chest. He clicked his tongue, a sharp sound cutting the air.

“Tch. Whoever’s behind this, I’ll tear them apart before they even have time to scream.”

Beside him, Iguro adjusted Kaburamaru’s coiling weight on his shoulders, his pale eyes narrowing beneath the cloth that covered the lower half of his face. His voice was quiet, almost hissing.

“You should focus on not rushing ahead, Sanemi. If it’s organized, if there’s a pattern… then someone is laying traps.”

His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, almost absentmindedly. “That demon isn’t working alone. If you charge in, you’ll cost us both.”

Sanemi shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone, but said nothing. The silence between them spoke enough, bitter, uneasy trust, but trust nonetheless.

Not far away, Rengoku laughed, his voice booming across the courtyard like a sudden flame leaping to life.

“HAH! What a splendid assignment! To uncover deceit, to protect the people of Tamasaki, it fills me with passion!”

His grin was as wide as ever, his golden eyes blazing with determination.

Tengen, arms folded, tilted his head toward the Flame Hashira with a raised brow.

“You’re actually excited about investigating a mayor? I thought you lived for big, flashy battles, not paperwork and speeches.”

The Sound Hashira smirked, shaking his head. “Still, I suppose if it is a demon hiding behind politics, that’s pretty flamboyant. Theatrics at its finest.”

“Of course!” Rengoku replied, fire practically in his breath. “Even if the foe hides behind masks of kindness, it is our duty to cut through deception and strike true! People’s lives are not for show!”

Tengen chuckled under his breath. “You’re a walking motivational speech, you know that?” But his eyes gleamed, the idea of uncovering the layers of mystery sparking a different kind of excitement.

A little farther back, Mitsuri skipped lightly on her feet as she walked alongside Gyomei and Muichiro. She was still holding her hand against her chest, her eyes wide with a mixture of nerves and determination.
“Boats disappearing, people vanishing into the sea… oh, it sounds terrifying, doesn’t it? But also…! We get to fight together! And with the sea breeze! I just hope my uniform doesn’t shrink if it gets too wet…”

Gyomei walked with slow, deliberate steps, his prayer beads clutched gently between his massive fingers. Though his sightless eyes gazed into darkness, his face was calm, serene, and even. Each word he spoke carried weight, like the steady toll of a temple bell.

“We must tread carefully. The ocean is not a battlefield for man… but if demons claim it, then we have no choice but to meet them there. Every soul stolen from those waves deserves our protection.”

Muichiro’s voice cut in softly, almost as if he wasn’t speaking to them at all.
“Water changes how sound moves. How vision works. We’ll be… slower. Less effective. Unless we adapt.” His eyes, distant as the stars above, narrowed slightly. “I’ll figure something out.”

Mitsuri blinked, then smiled warmly at him. “That’s amazing, Muichiro! You always think so far ahead, even if you look like you’re daydreaming. I’ll do my very best, too! We can’t let those poor people keep suffering!”

The Stone Hashira’s hand hovered above her shoulder for a moment, then dropped, the weight of his silence serving as comfort more than any words could.

Across the courtyard, the Wind stirred again as Sanemi adjusted the collar of his uniform. “We don’t have all night to stand around. I’m leaving before dawn.” His sharp eyes turned to Iguro for only an instant. “Keep up, or get out of the way.”

Iguro’s reply was quiet, venom-laced with calm restraint. “Try not to bleed out before I get there.”

They moved in opposite directions, but their paths inevitably curved toward the north.

Rengoku slapped Tengen on the back with a grin that could split the night in half. “Come, my flamboyant friend! Let us prepare ourselves for the grand stage of Tamasaki! Justice will be ours!”

Tengen groaned, rubbing the back of his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed amusement. “You really don’t stop shouting, huh?”

The three on the western path, Gyomei, Mitsuri, and Muichiro, stayed close, their silhouettes stretching long against the silver moonlight. Each step carried them closer to the sea, to the haunting cries no crow dared to echo.

And above them all, the night breathed, heavy with promises of blood and revelations.

For even as they split into their missions, none of them knew the truth: that each thread they followed was tied to something greater, weaving toward an inevitable clash that would shake even the strongest pillars.

A.N. / Chapter 12 is done! A bit messy, mainly because I wanted to include and involve another set of missions. I will focus purely on Shinobu and Giyu, obviously, but I did want to have the other Hashira get a bit of time in the spotlight. Of course, giving them to seven other Hashira would make this story incredibly long, so let’s make do with what we can. Of course, if anyone wants a specific character to also be looked at, please let me know. I wanted to show the Kakushi’s opinion of each of the Hashira, while also for Giyu, I wanted to add a new perspective and conflict on why Giyu seems to show animosity towards the Kakushi, which is connected to a larger conflict Giyu has with his character, and is related to his past. For the time being, I’ll work on Chapter 13, because this will be more crucial for Giyu and Shinobu specifically. See you all later!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 13:

PRIVET PRIVET by ₳С₴łĐ₳

The road east had not yet healed.

What remained of the tsunami-struck village was a skeleton of its former self, scorched wood, crooked beams, and makeshift shelters built in sorrow. The tide had come months ago, yet its echo still clung to the air, heavy in salt and grief. Houses leaned like mourners, their foundations crumbled to silt. Children, barefoot and thin, stared hollow-eyed from behind the safety of their mothers’ legs. Every step through that place felt like trespassing on wounds that would not close.

Shinobu’s steps were light upon the broken path, her insect-patterned haori catching the sea breeze like a butterfly’s wing. She paused and glanced over her shoulder at her silent companion. “You’ll get left behind if you keep dragging your feet, Giyu.”

The Water Hashira’s hair shifted with the wind, but he said nothing. His posture was calm, rigid, the half-fox mask still hiding the left side of his face. It was the remnant of Usaki’s curse, the only physical shield he allowed himself. Shinobu didn’t expect a reply. She had long grown used to his silence.

At the village edge, the last sunbeams bent across the ocean, staining the water crimson. A few villagers looked up at their approach, wary, exhausted eyes locking onto the white of their uniforms. Hope flickered there, faint as a dying candle.

A Kakushi hurried forward, bowing. “Shinobu-sama. Tomioka-sama. Thank you for coming. The forest… it hasn’t been right since the wave. No birds. No animals. No sound. Only shadows.”

Shinobu’s gaze turned to the dark treeline. Indeed, it didn’t merely appear quiet; it seemed lifeless, as if sound itself had been stripped away. “We’ll handle it,” she said softly. “You’ve suffered enough.”

Without a word, Giyu stepped past her and into the trees.

“…He’s always like this,” the Kakushi whispered nervously.

Shinobu smiled, her voice like silk. “Don’t worry. He hasn’t snapped. If he had, I wouldn’t still be standing.”

The deeper they walked, the stranger the world became. No chirps, no rustle, not even the creak of bark. Wind moved, yet nothing stirred. The forest felt preserved in stillness, embalmed like a corpse.

“This isn’t natural,” Shinobu murmured.

Giyu nodded once. “Something’s watching.”

Soon, the first signs appeared. Not blood. Not bodies. Instead… belongings. Toys, sandals, rosaries, folded kimono sashes, all arranged in deliberate circles. Untouched by dirt, weather, or time.

“These are altars,” Shinobu whispered, kneeling before a child’s sandal. “Someone’s memorializing deaths. Or pretending to.”

Giyu halted, hand on his hilt. His visible eye narrowed. “Above,” he said.

Shinobu shifted just as a figure dropped from the canopy, pale limbs stretching like rope, glassy, lidless eyes glowing faintly. It landed in the dirt with a hiss like boiling water.

Fast. Not erratic. It didn’t strike. It observed.

“This one doesn’t want to fight,” Shinobu said calmly. “It’s measuring us.”

But Giyu had already moved, Water Breathing, Eighth Form: Waterfall Basin. His blade swept clean through the demon’s body. The figure shattered like water, scattering into mist.

An illusion.

The true presence retreated, a laugh scattering across the trees like broken glass. “Ara, ara… two beautiful minds. One empty. One fragile.”

Giyu froze. That voice. It crawled like ice along his nerves. The tone was too familiar.

Shinobu’s grip tightened on her sword. “Not another one like her…” She groaned. What was the coincidence and chance of them running into a demon with the same cadence as Usaki?

The demon’s voice slipped from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You fought Usaki, didn’t you? The doctor? Her echoes still fester in you, mask-boy. She’s still singing in your skull.”

Shinobu glanced sharply at Giyu. His hand had fallen slightly from his blade, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t let it in, Giyu,” she said firmly. Giyu ignored her as he was already doing his best to resist.

But the demon laughed. “Oh, but he already has. I’ve known of this human since his blade slayed my friend!”

It materialized again, drifting like smoke into flesh. Tall, too thin, with limbs that bent as if boneless. Its chest bore prayer beads nailed into its flesh. Its mouth stretched too wide.

“I am Akahito,” it hissed. “Usaki’s kin. She wove minds into webs; I weave them into graves.”

Shinobu exhaled through her nose, already cataloging details. Slow regeneration. Not built for combat. Its art was cerebral, manipulation, entrapment.

Giyu, though, was still. His mask felt heavier, biting into his face. The words dragged him back to another forest, another night, where Sabito and Makomo had stood between him and death, and paid for it.

The demon smelled blood in silence. It slithered closer, whispering.

“You weren’t meant to be Hashira. You were a ghost piggybacking on better men. Sabito’s fire. Makomo’s grace. You survived only because others fell.”

Shinobu’s eyes flicked toward him, reading the stiffness in his shoulders. She spoke lightly, but the edge in her tone was steel. The silence she was witnessing was the time she knew this demon was attacking Giyu’s mind.

“Demons love lies, don’t they? Twist a truth just enough to wound. Tiresome.”

But the words slid off Giyu’s back like water. The demon’s voice wasn’t lying. It was echoing what he already believed.

His thoughts surged. Sabito should have been Water Hashira. Makomo should have been it. Either him or her. Not me. Urokodaki knew. I saw the look on his face when I told him. Disappointment. Shame. A mistake, walking where two ghosts should be breathing.

He tightened his grip on his blade, not to strike, but to keep his hand from trembling.

Shinobu caught the flicker. Her smile didn’t falter, though her heart pinched. Giyu’s silence wasn’t cold indifference. It was weight, one she had never seen him set down.

Akahito lunged again, not with claws, but with voice. “Your breath, Water boy, is borrowed. Every form is Sabito’s echo. Every step, Makomo’s. You’ve never slain a demon worth remembering. You don’t belong here.”

Giyu was so glad that the demon’s voice was only a whisper in his head. Glad that Shinobu couldn’t hear this. Alas, the fact that this demon was in his mind absolutely infuriated him.

Giyu’s eye flickered to what little life they had again, his blade slashed air, carving through illusions, scattering echoes. Each strike landed true, yet none cut flesh.

The demon split into five, circling. Each wore Sabito’s fox mask. Each bore Makomo’s gentle eyes.

Shinobu exhaled sharply. “Damn it…”

The illusions whispered, perfect and cruel. You let us die. You didn’t lift your sword. You stood frozen.

For the first time, Giyu’s mask cracked at the edge. His breath faltered. Realizing he had faltered, he quickly decided to let the demon get close to him so he to meet at the range.

Shinobu struck. Insect Breathing, Dance of the Bee Sting: True Flutter, her blade flashed like a darting hornet, skewering one figure. Poison laced through, it dissolved into smoke. She pivoted, destroying another, her voice calm but clipped.

“Giyu. Focus. Illusions have no weight. Listen to the ground. To the wind.”

But his mind churned louder than any storm.

Urokodaki’s disappointed eyes. Sabito’s laughter was cut short. Makomo’s soft voice tells him to survive. His hands trembled.

I shouldn’t be here. I never should’ve been Hashira. I am only filling a grave too large for me.

The demon fed on it, voice swelling triumphant. “Yes… drown, Water boy. Drown in the silence you carry. That mask of yours, a grave marker you drag across battlefields. How heavy is it now?”

Shinobu’s eyes flicked. She saw it, the smallest drop of his guard slipping. She moved, intercepting another strike, blade ringing.

“Giyu!” she snapped. For once, her voice had no tease, no softness. “You are here. You’re standing. Whatever else you think you are, you are alive. So fight!”

The words hit him like a stone breaking the surface of still water. His breath wavered. Then steadied.

“That’s it… Right… into… my… range.” Giyu mumbled in his mind, for even when the demon had attacked him mentally, he was ready. “You cannot break a mind with the voices I already here.” Now his eye firm, he readied himself.

The forest shifted. His eye sharpened. The demons’ whispers rang the same, but his mind, for one fragile heartbeat, silenced them.

Sabito’s voice, not the cruel imitation, but the true one, the memory Giyu had buried. You’re too slow, Giyu. But you learn. You always learn.

Makomo’s voice, gentle and soft, “You slipped up and tripped. Remember when you fell into the river and we had to pull you up? Urokodaki-sensei had to teach you how to swim right after. You learned, and became graceful.”

And finally, Urokodaki, “You three are my pride… my family… and my cherished treasures, as were the rest of my students.”

He lifted his blade, Water Breathing: Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust. Giyu’s visible eye glared at the demon. Showing no real signs of mental fatigue, which confused Akahito.

The demon lunged and vanished again, weaving in and out of sight, echoing laughter through the trees as if the forest itself were mocking them.

Shinobu did not trust her eyes. She tracked the rhythm of its movements with her ears, with the almost imperceptible shift of wind when something displaced the air. Her steps were light, her stance low, katana raised in careful readiness. She had fought enough demons who loved theatrics to know they thrived when their prey relied only on sight.

But Giyu stood utterly still.

His body was not loose and flowing as it normally was when wielding his style. Instead, it was rigid, his head tilted slightly toward the shadows between two dead trees. His grip on his katana was precise, but his knuckles were pale.

“You’re doing it again,” the demon purred. Its voice slithered around them, impossible to place. Male and female at once, young and ancient, thick with echoes. “Shutting the world out. Trying to be quiet enough to stop hearing them. But they’re always there, aren’t they, Tomioka?”

The words pressed in like fog, curling into ears, slipping beneath thought. Shinobu shivered involuntarily. She had resisted Usaki’s blood demon art, but only just barely, only by retreating into sharp wit and calculation. This one was different. This one didn’t claw at memory like a blade. It whispered, dripped, wove through the cracks like water.

And it wasn’t directed at her.

Giyu’s visible eye had narrowed, the muscles of his jaw tight. He did not answer. But Shinobu saw something flicker across his expression, not fear, not even anger. Something worse. Recognition.

The demon continued, voice oily and patient.

“You let them die. Sabito. If you were faster. If you were stronger. Makomo. She wouldn’t have died. Your master knew it. That’s why he looked at you that way. You were his mistake.”

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. The way Giyu’s grip twitched betrayed everything. He was feeling, and he was going through something.

“Giyu,” she called softly.

Still no response. His stance did not shift, but his silence was suffocating. Not the silence of a swordsman calculating a strike, but of a man bracing, as if standing barefoot on fire and willing himself not to move.

The demon chuckled, circling unseen, its voice now above them, now behind, now inside.

“…This is what Usaki couldn’t make sense of. You don’t resist madness. You already live in it. But instead of drowning, you’ve built a home inside. Walls of water, flooding every crevice. I should be able to twist you. I should make you kneel. Make you claw your own face off. But your mind is already cluttered. Drowned in so much noise.”

Shinobu’s heartbeat quickened, though her face remained composed. She had never heard a demon sound… unsettled. Mocking, yes. Confident, always. But this one’s voice trembled with something almost like hesitation.

And then she realized: the demon wasn’t frightening Giyu. Giyu was frightening her.

For as he blinked once, his gaze sharpened, not with the panic of a man crushed under memory, but with something far colder.

There was silence there. A silence that wasn’t emptiness, wasn’t despair. It was the stillness of someone who had already lost too much and had nothing left to surrender.

The demon faltered. For the first time since appearing, her laughter died.

“What… are you?”

Giyu exhaled. A quiet, deliberate breath. And then he moved.

Like water breaking through stone, his strike flowed swift and unbroken, Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance. His sword cut the space where she had just stood, fluid and merciless, no wasted motion.

Shinobu followed instantly, a blur of violet, her slender blade angling with precision. She darted behind Giyu, striking when his motion opened a path. Her sword kissed the demon’s pale shoulder, slicing shallow but true, leaving venom behind.

The demon shrieked, recoiling with unnatural speed, her blood hissing when it met the earth. Her glassy, lidless eyes dilated wide, not from pain, but from fear.

“You’re… you’re a freak!” she spat, her voice breaking with hysteria. “A black well. Empty. Bottomless!”

Shinobu tilted her head, smiling that airy, deceptively sweet smile of hers. “You entered a mind not meant to be trespassed. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

And right on sync.

His blade lifted. Water Breathing: Eleventh Form, Dead Calm.

But this time, it wasn’t the lifeless stillness of surrender. It was the stillness of water bracing to surge. His blade carved once, clean as moonlight, cutting not just the illusions but the cords that tethered them to the demon’s art.

Akahito shrieked, body unraveling as the forms dissipated. Its chest split, prayer beads shattering. A definitive slice to their neck.

Shinobu was already there, blade darting like a wasp. Her poison slipped into its veins. She smiled faintly as it convulsed. “You wanted to drown us in silence. Instead, you’ll rot in it.”

The demon’s voice cracked, its whispers faltering, until only ash fell between them.

Akahito gritted her teeth, angered that the combined forces of a surprise strike and poison were all it took for her to be defeated.

“Seriously? Was Usaki really that much better than me? She always was!” Akahito yelled out as the final remains of her ash finally dissolved. A pitiful and anticlimactic end to a demon that was not even a Twelfth Kizuki, unlike her peer, Usaki, was.

The forest exhaled. The stillness broke. Wind rustled leaves again. Somewhere, an owl cried.

Shinobu sheathed her blade, turning toward him. Her tone softened back into silk, though her gaze lingered.

“You cut it close, Giyu. If you let every demon rummage through your head, you’ll have none of it left.”

He didn’t respond. His mask felt unbearably heavy. The words of Sabito and Makomo, even when forged into illusions, stung too real. He had heard them numerous times, but they still hurt. He nodded once, as if agreeing.

“If you had been inflicted by the demon, you likely would’ve reacted much worse than me.” Giyu responded back to Shinobu, eying her up, “The many failed Tsuguko’s and Kanae? The number of people you let close to you as a demon slayer would have only predisposed you to more death, so the demon would’ve had much more material to use against you.”

Shinobu tilted her head, smile faint. She didn’t push. She never did. Whatever battles Giyu fought, she knew they weren’t always against demons of flesh. But to hear Giyu basically explain once more what the demon would’ve done to her, it made her double back.

“Not only did he know what parameter the demon would’ve done to influence me… but he also knows of everything I would’ve put to heart…” Shinobu was beginning to think Giyu might actually be something like a sociopath…

No silent person… would know this much about people… But then again, if he observes as much as she theorizes, then once again… Giyu wasn’t thinking he was too good or over any of the other Hashira.

Now, Shinobu was actually mildly terrified of Giyu, for his insight and deduction. Not just for what the demon would’ve done, but also implicitly almost exposing her for what she does after Kanae had passed, which was further exemplified by the loss of her tsuguko’s… “How… absolutely infuriating…”

“Come on,” she said gently, turning back toward the village. “Let’s tell them it’s safe to sleep again.”

Giyu followed, silent. In his mind, the whispers still echoed. But beneath them, buried faintly, was something else, Sabito’s laughter, Makomo’s encouragement, not as accusations, but as memories. They hurt. They always would. But they were his.

And for tonight, at least, he carried them forward.

“…So,” she said at last, her tone deceptively casual, “we’re keeping score now? That’s two demons who’ve tried to manipulate your mind and ended up regretting it.”

Giyu did not reply.

But Shinobu noticed. His fingers, tight on the hilt before, loosened just slightly. Not released. Not easy. But a subtle shift.

He was trying.

Even if he would never say it, even if the silence stretched like an ocean between them, he was trying.

And though she could never guess what storms raged within him, she stepped to his side in the clearing of silent altars, her presence as light as her step.

Untrust Us by Crystal Castles

The forest was alive again with sound, but not in a way that comforted. Leaves whispered overhead, shaken by a breeze that seemed to recoil from the two Hashira lingering beneath. The branches still bore faint scorch marks from the demon’s pathetic death. Moonlight bled through the canopy in fractured beams, painting the ground in uneven silver. It felt less like light and more like a watchful eye.

The forest was quiet again. Too quiet.

Shinobu stepped carefully over the torn earth where the demon’s body had finally disintegrated, the scattered embers of its form glowing and fading like dying fireflies. The silence that followed wasn’t peace; it was the kind that pressed in on the lungs, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

Her fingers brushed against the lacquered sheath of her blade, lingering there as she studied the man standing several paces ahead of her. Tomioka Giyu, the Water Hashira.

He hadn’t so much as shifted since the demon perished, his back turned to her, the white of his haori sleeve faint against the dark woods. His mask, carved with the simplicity of a fox’s face, caught a thin ribbon of moonlight. His sword, however, was already sheathed. The fight was over.

And yet… he lingered.

Shinobu exhaled softly, her gaze narrowing just slightly.

That demon… Akihito, she thought. Just like Usaki before her. They had not tried to overwhelm him with brute strength or claws or venom. No, they had gone straight for his mind. Straight for whatever lived in the silence he carried.

Twice now. Two different demons. Both unsettled. Both backed away in unease from something they had found inside him.

“You’ve built a home in madness.”

“Empty and bottomless. A black well.”

Words she couldn’t shake.

Shinobu knew demons to be cruel, manipulative, even creative in their torment. But not redundant. Not consistent. Not like this.

Coincidence? She didn’t believe in those. Not here. Not with him.

She moved closer, her steps barely stirring the underbrush. “You know,” she began carefully, tone lighter than the gravity in her chest, “for two demons to say your mind is already a battlefield… I do start to wonder.”

Her voice was neither playful nor accusatory, though it could have been mistaken for either. It was the soft nudge of a hand trying to brush back a veil.

No answer.

Giyu’s posture remained stiff, his head angled ever so slightly away, as though the night sky above the branches was more deserving of his attention.

Shinobu pressed, though she told herself she shouldn’t. “They aren’t afraid of much. But they hesitate with you. Not because you’re strong, though you are, but because your mind… unsettles them. Giyu, what are they seeing in there?”

The question left her lips and hung, caught in the breathless air. She realized only then that she hadn’t laced it with teasing as she normally might. This wasn’t a game. She genuinely wanted to know.

And for a moment, she thought he might give her silence again.

But then, his voice, low, muted, like water flowing under ice:

“…You’re doing it again.”

Shinobu blinked. “I’m…”

“Prodding.”

He didn’t turn. His shoulders didn’t move. But the word landed sharply, as if something raw had pressed too close to the surface.

“Stop prying into my head.”

It wasn’t harsh. Not loud. Not even cold. But it was a blade. Not the swing of one, the quiet, restrained edge pressed flat against the skin of the throat.

Shinobu froze, the reply balanced on her tongue. She studied him, studied the slight tension in the way his hands had curled just so at his sides, the way his spine had locked as if bracing against some unseen force.

She tried, carefully, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just…”

“You’re trying to fix something that isn’t yours,” he interrupted, the words flat, clipped.

A silence dropped between them, deep enough that even the cicadas stilled.

Shinobu’s lips pressed together. She had seen broken men before. She had tended to soldiers whose minds had shattered under the weight of blood and loss. Those fractures had edges you could see, jagged, sharp, but visible.

Giyu was not jagged. He was not cracked open.

He was sealed.

Whatever lived inside him, whatever had driven demons themselves to falter… it was buried under layers of silence, wrapped in walls so thick that she wasn’t even sure he could hear himself anymore.

“…Alright,” she said at last, her voice steady, though something tugged at her chest. “I won’t press.”

A pause. She let her gaze slide to him, softened but firm. “But just know, the mind is like the body. If you never clean a wound… it festers. And it spreads.”

No response.

Not even a nod.

Instead, he stepped forward again, into the depths of the forest, his movements quiet, measured. Heavy, not in clumsiness, but in weight.

Shinobu followed. And though her feet were light as always, she felt strangely heavy too.

They moved without speaking, the forest swallowing them whole. The moon rode high, pale beams threading through the canopy.

Shinobu’s thoughts churned as she kept pace.

She remembered Akihito’s words. Remembered the way the demon had looked at Giyu, not with mockery but with unease. The way her voice had faltered when she said he was “already living in madness.”

That wasn’t manipulation. That was recognition.

Her hands curled at her sides. She hated puzzles she couldn’t solve. She hated wounds she couldn’t stitch. And Giyu Tomioka… he was both.

Why won’t he let anyone in? she thought.

She had teased him for his aloofness before, that distance he carried like a cloak. But teasing had always been a mask for curiosity. A mask for… something else she couldn’t quite name.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t dismissive, not truly. He was… closed. Shut away. Like someone who had locked the doors not just against the world, but against himself.

And yet, demons saw it. Felt it. Enough to recoil.

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. That was what unsettled her most.

What had Akihito seen in him? What had Usaki seen?

What had been buried so deep in his silence that it made even monsters hesitate?

By dawn, they reached the edge of the village.

What little had survived the tsunami stood crooked and hollow, the skeletal remains of houses rising like ribs from the earth. Ashen timbers leaned against each other as if exhausted. Some places still smelled faintly of salt and rot, as though the sea had refused to retreat entirely.

Children played here, she realized. Families ate here. And then, one day, the ocean swallowed them.

Now, demons circled like vultures in the aftermath.

Crows spotted them from the trees, their black wings shifting uneasily.

Shinobu scanned the ruins, her sharp gaze landing on claw marks raked into the wood of one half-collapsed inn. Too deep. Too fresh.

She tilted her head slightly toward Giyu. “There,” she murmured.

He nodded once, stepping forward, silent as the tide pulling back from the sand.

And for a moment, Shinobu forgot her questions. Forgot her confusion. Because the hunt began, and with it came the old rhythm, the quiet understanding between slayers who knew the weight of death too well.

Dady Issues by The Neighbourhood

The village still smelled of salt and silt.

Shinobu stepped over the warped wooden beams of a collapsed home, her sandals sinking slightly into the mud that coated everything. The air was thick with damp, seaweed still tangled in branches, broken rice baskets floating in puddles like ghosts of meals that would never be eaten.

The tsunami had receded three days ago, but its scars lingered everywhere. Half of the homes near the shore had been swept clean off their foundations. Families huddled under makeshift shelters, straw mats lashed together with ropes, fires too small to keep out the chill of the night.

And yet… There were no demons here. None that she could sense.

That, at least, was one mercy.

Shinobu adjusted the basket she carried. Dried beans, wrapped rice balls, and medicine were packed carefully in small pouches. All of it had been collected at the Corps’ estate and redistributed, handed off to Kakushi and the few slayers not on patrol. They weren’t soldiers in this kind of war, against water and nature, but they could still carry, still bandage, still lift beams from the wreckage so that grieving families didn’t have to.

Behind her, she heard footsteps.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His presence was always the same: steady, muted, like a stone dropped into deep water, sinking without a ripple.

“Giyu,” she said, forcing her tone lighter than she felt, “I was wondering when you’d appear. I was starting to think you’d slipped back into the trees.”

The Water Hashira came into view, his dark hair still damp as if he’d been near the sea not long ago. His fox half-mask caught the sunlight briefly before shadow swallowed it again. He carried nothing in his hands, no food, no medicine, just that same unreadable silence.

Shinobu offered him a smile, though her hands tightened slightly around the basket.

“The villagers say the tide reached nearly to the shrine. It must have looked like the whole ocean was rising to swallow them.”

Giyu said nothing. His gaze drifted over the ruined houses, the children clinging to their mothers’ robes, the men trying to mend nets with trembling hands.

Shinobu let the silence sit for a moment. Then, softly, she asked:

“…What do you think we should do?”

That got him to glance at her. Only a fraction, but his eyes shifted from the wreckage to her face.

Her smile thinned. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not asking you to rebuild the houses yourself. I know the Corps isn’t meant for disaster relief. But the people are starving, cold, and terrified. We can’t just… pass by.”

“They’re already receiving help,” Giyu finally said, voice low. “The magistrates. The local shrines. It isn’t our task.”

Shinobu’s brow furrowed. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

He didn’t answer.

She sighed through her nose. “You’re right, technically. The Corps exists for one reason: to kill demons. But if demons are opportunistic, and they are, then what happens when word spreads of a starving village without walls, without strength? Do you think a single priest with rice rations will keep them safe when the first moonlit hunger comes crawling?”

For a heartbeat, she thought she’d cornered him with that logic. But Giyu only turned his eyes back toward the sea, the wind tugging faintly at his haori.

“They’ll endure,” he said.

Something in his tone made Shinobu pause. Not because it was cruel, it wasn’t. But because it carried no optimism either. Just a flat certainty, like the tide itself.

Her lips pressed together.

“…Do you always think of people like that?” she asked after a pause. “That they’ll endure, no matter what?”

He didn’t answer.

Shinobu tilted her head slightly, studying him. “Or is it that you think they must? Because you’ve endured. Because you had no choice.”

That made his shoulders tighten, if only slightly.

For once, she let the silence linger, filling it with the distant sounds of waves and hammering where villagers tried to rebuild walls. She wasn’t teasing this time. She wasn’t trying to provoke. She genuinely wanted to know.

Finally, she said, “The Kakushi are already running food drives here. Bandaging wounds. Distributing what little rice and millet they’ve scraped together. Why not us too? Why only them?”

“Because if we stay too long, they’ll rely on us,” Giyu murmured.

Shinobu blinked. “Is that… bad?”

He gave no reply.

But his words hung in the air, strange and heavy.

Rely on us.

She turned that over in her mind. The villagers, already so frightened of the Corps, were whispering about the Hashira, who brought only swords but no solutions.

If they relied too much on them, maybe they’d forget how to live without them. Forget that demons were shadows in the dark, not gods to be bargained with.

Or maybe, she thought, Giyu simply didn’t want to be needed.

Shinobu studied his profile, the half-mask, the rigid stillness. A man carved of silence, standing in a place filled with voices begging for help.

“…You know,” she said softly, “sometimes I can’t tell if you’re merciless or just terribly kind. And neither would surprise me.”

At that, his eyes flickered, not to her, but downward, to the mud at his feet.

Shinobu adjusted her basket again. “I’ll distribute these rations with the Kakushi. You can… watch the tide if you’d like.”

She moved past him then, not waiting for an answer.

But as she stepped toward the cluster of shelters, she heard him follow after all. His stride was quiet, steady, like water returning to its channel.

Hours later, as the sun dipped low and painted the ruined coast in amber light, Shinobu found herself kneeling beside a young girl who clung to her sleeve. The child’s hands were sticky with rice from the onigiri she’d been given, her wide eyes full of exhaustion.

Shinobu brushed the girl’s hair back gently. “Eat slowly, alright? There will be more tomorrow.”

When she stood again, she glanced back.

Giyu was there, at the edge of the shelters, standing just outside the ring of firelight. Watching. Not approaching.

The villagers didn’t go near him. The Kakushi, too, kept their distance.

Shinobu’s chest tightened with something she couldn’t name.

He doesn’t realize, she thought. Or maybe he does. That to them, he looks like the tide itself, vast, unapproachable, merciless when it rises, but quietly necessary when it recedes.

She looked away, unsure if the ache in her chest was pity or something sharper.

That night, as they left the village and followed the forest path back toward the Corps’ estate, Shinobu broke the silence.

“You never said what you thought of the damage.”

“…There’s nothing to say,” Giyu replied.

“There’s always something to say,” she countered lightly. “Even if it’s just that you hate the sea.”

He didn’t respond.

Shinobu’s smile thinned again. “Or maybe you hate yourself for being Water, yet unable to stop it.”

At that, he stopped walking.

Shinobu turned, surprised.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t glare. Just stood there in the moonlight, the half-mask shadowing his face.

And in that silence, Shinobu realized she’d pressed too close again.

“…Never mind,” she said softly, stepping ahead once more. “Forget I said anything.”

He followed, as steady as ever.

But she wondered if his silence tonight carried a weight even he couldn’t endure forever.

A.N. / So this is also a bit of an interlude as the next chapter I have will be a much more breakthrough chapter. Especially for Giyu and Shinobu, I think this will be the perfect start for the spiral many of the Hashira will endure when they bring Giyu around them. Once more, I do not expect anyone to properly understand what I am doing, and I will keep trying to ensure it is perfect in the tone to my liking. I know Shinobu is very prevalent when someone likely wants another character, like maybe Mitsuri or Kyojurou, but I put Shinobu because she has the most screentime with Giyu by far. Other characters will have to wait. Anyways, see you in Chapter 14!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 14:

Serial Killer by Slayyyter

The village was quiet now, though not in peace, in exhaustion. Still recovering from the tsunami’s devastation, its bones were fragile: broken beams, soaked earth, ashes where homes once stood. Shinobu and Giyu, when not tracking demon trails, had bent themselves into the rhythm of relief: repairing walls, carrying buckets of clean water, comforting terrified survivors.

For the first time in days, the air seemed still. A false stillness. The healing was beginning. And the village could be seen with potential and hope, rather than despair.

As the moon reached the apex of the sky, indicating the peak of nighttime, the wind shifted. Heavy. Metallic. The unmistakable tang of blood.

They both froze.

A shadow stretched long across the field, reaching them before the figure emerged from the trees.

A towering demon lumbered forward, not only tall but dense, his muscles swelled as though forged from raw spite. Each step pressed divots into the sodden ground. His mouth curled, showing teeth like broken glass.

“You.” His voice cracked like old wood. His glowing eyes locked on Giyu. “The one who slaughtered Usaki. The one who twisted her blood art back against her.”

“Another one? Why are these demons holding a grudge?” Shinobu sighed in a tad bit of annoyance.

Shinobu’s hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, her breathing sharp but controlled. She tilted her head just slightly, assessing, searching for weakness. But before she could speak, Giyu muttered under his breath.

“Demons with grudges are always the messiest.”

The demon snarled, the tendons in his neck twitching. “You will suffer the same madness she did.”

The earth seemed to ripple under his feet, a pulse of pressure rolling out like the tremor before a quake. Shinobu’s eyes widened. It wasn’t physical. It was something deeper.

Then…

The air shattered.

It fell on them like a wave of black glass, slamming both into the depths of his Blood Demon Art. A prison without walls. A theater of their own minds.

Shinobu’s Mind

Lavender. A soft garden. Blossoms trembled lightly under a warm breeze. Too gentle. Too cruel.

Shinobu’s body tensed, her eyes darting across the scene.

And then she saw her.

Kanae.

Her sister stood smiling in the center of the garden. The same soft smile Shinobu had imitated for years. Only here, in this vision, it cut sharper than any blade.

Shinobu’s knees weakened. Her hand shook against the hilt. “Kanae?”

Kanae tilted her head, gentle as ever. “Why do you keep smiling, Shinobu? You don’t have to pretend for me anymore.”

The words seeped into her chest like poison.

Behind Kanae, the garden began to crack. The flowers shriveled. The air curdled with the stench of blood. Shadows stretched across the grass, forming shapes, three small silhouettes. Her tsuguko. One by one, their heads bowed as phantom claws ripped through them.

“No…” Shinobu’s whisper broke against her throat.

“You couldn’t save me,” Kanae’s voice continued, but now it wasn’t Kanae’s, too deep, too cruel. “You couldn’t save them. Not your sister. Not your students. Not even yourself. You’re too small, too weak.”

The demon’s laughter mingled with her sister’s voice.

“Even your body betrays you. So short, so frail. A Hashira? You? What a hollow mask you wear.”

Shinobu’s fists trembled. Her teeth clenched hard enough to ache. She wanted to scream, to strike, to deny it, yet her arms felt heavy, her breath shallow. Rage burned inside her, violent and suffocating, but she had caged it for years, forced it beneath the practiced smile. And now the cage rattled, breaking.

The voice pressed closer. “Where was your strength when Kanae bled out in your arms? Where was it when your tsuguko begged for help?”

Tears pricked her eyes, not out of weakness, but fury she dared not show.

She clenched her jaw, her hands curling into fists. Rage gnawed at her, at herself, at the world. At demons.

For years, she had smiled, soft and calculated, to cover the fire inside her chest. She had hidden her small frame behind poisons and intellect, convincing herself that strategy could be strength. That her smile could carry Kanae’s legacy.

But here, stripped raw, the demon’s words pierced her armor.

“You wear Kanae’s smile like a mask, but you don’t fool anyone.”

The illusion, Kanae stepped closer, her smile splitting into a sneer.

“You’re not strong enough to be her.”

Shinobu’s grip wavered on her blade.

Yet… in the very pit of that torment, a new thought coiled.

Maybe… she didn’t have to be Kanae. Maybe she didn’t need to be tall, or strong, or anything but what she was. A blade that struck differently.

The anger still burned, but in it she felt the faintest spark of control.

Giyu’s Mind

Black rain.

No illusions of gardens, no mirages of warmth. Only the endless rhythm of rain falling onto an empty street.

Giyu stood there, drenched. His fox mask half-glinted against the dark, heavier than ever.

Then came the voices. Not one. Not two. A hundred, crashing in waves around him, echoing in the void.

“Mad.”

“Crazy.”

“Demon-tainted.”

“You liar.”

He turned, but there was no one. Only shadows in windows, faceless villagers spitting words he had heard since childhood. The night Tsutako died. The night Kaito died. When the villagers intervened in Kaito’s devastated house, finding a young Giyu’s own face torn open, half his body soaked in blood, the mutilated bodies of Tsutako and Kaito on the floor, no one believed him.

Even when he bound numerous demons. Even when he beat them and dragged the corpses for them to see.

“No such thing as demons. You lost your mind.”

The whispers clawed at his skull, louder, harsher.

“Crazy.”

“Mad.”

“Worthless.”

And then, deeper, familiar.

“Sabito.”

“Makomo.”

Two figures stood in the rain. His friends. His family-in-training. Both with broken masks, blood dripping down their faces.

“You let us die,” Sabito whispered, voice like shattered glass.

“You didn’t even slay one,” Makomo said, sadness cutting sharper than anger.

Giyu’s throat closed. His chest squeezed until he could barely breathe.

Then another voice rose. Not theirs. Urokodaki’s.

“Your weakness killed them.”

His head dropped, shadows pooling beneath his chin.

The demon’s voice cut through, cruel and taunting. “Where did your voice go, Giyu? Why don’t you speak? Why do you only stand silent while others bleed for you? Where is your courage to defend yourself now?”

The fox mask seemed to split, heavier than bone, a half-shield for a half-man.

“You hide behind silence because you have nothing to say.”

The rain fell harder, pounding into him, drowning out even his own breath.

The rain blurred everything. His silence pressed down like stone. The whispers of Sabito and Makomo grew harsher, cutting him open.

“You couldn’t save us.”

“You don’t deserve the title of Hashira.”

Giyu’s throat quivered, but no sound came out. He had lost his voice years ago, drowned in guilt and shame.

The demon’s growl echoed across the void. “Where is your voice, boy? Did you bury it with your friends?”

The rain poured harder.

But deep inside, he felt something stir, not defiance, but the memory of Sabito’s eyes. The fierce, determined fire. Sabito and Makomo hadn’t died because Giyu was worthless. They both had chosen to protect. To stand. To fight.

And Giyu, even broken, still lived. Still fought.

His hand closed on the hilt at his side. Slowly, he drew breath.

Maybe words weren’t his way. But silence didn’t mean absence. Silence could be a blade, sharp and patient.

The rain didn’t stop. But he stood straighter beneath it.

Their bodies twitched in the real world; both Shinobu and Giyu were caught in the demon’s Blood Demon Art. To any observer, they were statues, frozen mid-breath, blades unmoving.

The demon grinned, hulking arms crossed, savoring the feast. “That’s it,” he growled. “Break yourselves for me. Collapse under what you already carry.”

His muscles swelled, veins pulsing across his arms. He wanted them shattered, not from blade wounds, but from inside their skulls.

But whilst for the Hashira, this felt like minutes were passing, in reality, it was only a second at most, and therefore, when the demon was about to punch at a seemingly distracted Giyu, the half-masked individual.

“What…” The demon growled with frustration.

The demon’s body warped and slid like oil through the ruined outskirts of the village, slithering between crumbled walls and the frightened eyes of survivors who clutched lanterns against the dark. Its movement was not flesh but fluid shadow, slipping over clay roofs and half-drowned fences, vanishing as soon as it was glimpsed.

It was not running from the Hashira.

It was drawing them in.

The voices had already begun.

“Catch me, Water Pillar,” the demon’s echo pulsed, not through the air, but inside the bone, behind the ear, in that murky space where thoughts became indistinguishable from memory. “Let’s see what you fear most.”

Giyu sprinted soundlessly over debris, sandals splashing mud, his blade a dull silver in the lanternlight. Shinobu darted beside him, fast and precise, her body weaving between the broken beams of collapsed houses. Villagers peered from their shacks and shelters, whispering about what they saw; only some of those whispers were real.

The demon did not use brute force. It eroded. It corroded. It peeled back the layers of a person’s self until they weren’t sure what remained.

It did not want Giyu dead. It wanted him unmade.

The first blade of its art cut fast.

“Hey… isn’t that him?”

Voices rose out of the fog like shapes from childhood.

“That boy, he’s the broken one, right?”

“I heard he talks to himself.”

“Didn’t his sister and her fiancé get killed by a bear?”

“Demons aren’t real. That boy’s sick in the head.”

“Maybe he killed them himself. He keeps bringing back weird ash and bodies.”

Giyu slowed. His grip on the hilt tightened. His pace faltered.

The fog curled like a noose around his neck.

He had heard these words before. Long ago. Too young to carry them, too guilty to forget them.

He remembered blood. The eyes of the demon. The silence of disbelief.

And he remembered being utterly, fatally alone with the truth. It didn’t help that the environment he was in resembled his old village.

His stride stopped completely.

Shinobu’s head snapped sideways, pupils narrowing. She saw him pause mid-run, shoulders rigid, blade hovering useless at his side. His mask glinted with the lanternlight, but his eyes beneath were glassy, unfocused, drowning in memory.

“Giyu!” she shouted, leaping onto the same path. Her sandals slapped wet ground. Her sword stayed drawn, ready, but her gaze was fixed on him.

He didn’t answer.

Her mind sharpened. The demon’s game was clear.

It was clever. It didn’t lunge. It didn’t strike. It whispered until warriors broke themselves.

“Giyu!”

Still nothing.

She moved quickly, closing the distance, and with a harsh grip seized his shoulder, yanking him around to face her. His eyes met hers, lost, distant, but catching flickers of violet in the dark.

“Look at me!” she barked, her voice cutting through the phantom murmur.

The spell shuddered.

His gaze steadied just enough to blink. Once. Twice.

Shinobu didn’t let go. “They’re not real. The demon is getting into your head. It’s in your head, and you know it. Don’t let it decide what’s real.”

He breathed, slow, tight. A thread of control wound itself back into his chest.

“…I know.”

And the fog peeled back. The whispers thinned. The shapes dissolved.

The true villagers, confused, frightened, but silent, remained.

The demon, perched unseen above them, hissed. Its art hadn’t broken him.

“You’re so close to shattering, Tomioka,” it whispered, a voice only he could hear.

Giyu looked up calmly, blade sliding into position. “And yet, I haven’t.”

Shinobu stepped forward with him, lips twitching into something faintly real, faintly honest. “I think you’re scaring the demon, Giyu.”

“Good.”

Then they ran.

The hunt wound deeper into the night. Lanterns swung in the damp breeze, casting long shadows through alleys half-flooded from the tsunami’s aftermath. The demon never slowed. It slipped between walls, vanished under roofs, and appeared in corners where no one looked.

It mocked through silence more than sound.

“She’s too small.”

“Her sister was the real warrior.”

“She only survived because someone else died.”

“She uses poison because her arms can’t even swing a blade.”

Shinobu faltered mid-leap. The voices struck like pins into her lungs. Her chest stuttered. For a heartbeat, her balance broke.

Her jaw clenched. Her throat tightened. Not because she believed them, but because she already thought them herself.

The demon had reached inside and found them waiting.

Giyu’s voice cut through the air.

“Shinobu! Above you!”

Her reflexes snapped before thought. She slashed upward, steel whistling through dark, catching not mist, not shadow, but flesh.

A screech ripped the night. Black blood sprayed in a narrow arc, spattering across shingles.

The demon stumbled back, arm half-severed, dissolving into ink.

He’d been invisible to her. Not to him.

The demon’s expression split between fury and fear. “How… how can you see this? My art plays on the mind! You should be blind!”

Giyu didn’t answer immediately. His gaze fixed on the shifting smear of shadow, calm as stone.

The demon pressed harder, voice writhing in the cracks of thought.

“Don’t you hear them? Your friends? Your teacher? You killed them all. Sabito, Makomo… drowned because of you. You let them die. You are unworthy. Even your title is stolen.”

The words poured like acid into every corner of memory.

Shinobu glanced at him sharply. She expected strain, or flinch, or despair.

But his eyes… were hollow.

Not empty.

Not vacant.

Weathered.

Like a stone left in a river too long to feel erosion anymore.

“Do you always see it?” she whispered, landing lightly beside him.

His eyes stayed forward. “I see a lot of things.”

A pause.

“The kind you stop reacting to.”

The demon froze.

It realized.

This wasn’t resilience. This was familiarity. Acclimation.

The Water Pillar did not break free of the Blood Demon Art. He lived with it.

“What are you?” it breathed.

Finally, Giyu’s gaze met the demon’s. His voice carried no rage, no pity, no fear.

“I’m someone who doesn’t need you to break me.” He raised his sword. “I already did that myself.”

The demon’s body quaked with fury. “You’ve weaponized your own madness!?”

It lunged.

Desperate.

And the Hashira moved.

Together.

Shinobu’s small frame darted first, blade glinting with poison, step impossibly light even in flooded alleys. Giyu followed, heavier but surer, striking like the current beneath a calm surface.

The demon tried to split them apart with voices, illusions, fragments of memory sharpened into weapons.

“Too weak.”

“Too guilty.”

“Too broken.”

But Shinobu kept her eyes on the present. On the Water Pillar beside her, the one who endured illusions by knowing them too well.

And Giyu, he cut forward as though those words were nothing but river stones underfoot, already worn smooth.

The phantom noise cracked.

The night narrowed.

The demon screamed, shrill, furious, realizing its art was useless against those who already lived inside its cage.

Steel arced. Poison sliced.

And for once, the voices went silent.

In Essence by Ka$tro

The demon stumbled backward, its hulking frame shuddering under the weight of wounds that didn’t even bleed right away. He had expected resistance; Hashira always fought with bite, but not this.

And certainly not that look in Giyu’s eye.

The Water Hashira’s gaze wasn’t vacant anymore, nor was it the detached calmness that defined him. Tonight, there was something alive flickering inside those pale irises, lit by moonlight. A faint smirk curved against the shadow of his half-mask, and the demon froze.

Not joy. Not hate. Something worse.

Satisfaction.

“W-What… what is this?” the demon hissed, muscles twitching. “Why are you smiling?”

Shinobu, who had braced herself for another desperate wave of the blood demon art, felt her stomach twist instead. Giyu tilted his head in the smallest motion, the silver light painting one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow.

“Because you’re finally scared,” he said evenly, voice like water flowing over stone. “And that’s how it should be.”

The demon staggered, then bared his teeth with a snarl. “Don’t… don’t speak as if you understand fear. I make fear!” His blood demon art crackled in the air, unseen but felt, sharp pulses worming into the corners of the mind. “I’ll show you again. I’ll break you both. You’ll drown in the pit like your pathetic memories…”

But his words broke as Giyu stepped forward. No rush, no flourish. Just steps, slow, deliberate. Each one is heavier than the last.

“You think madness is power,” Giyu murmured, the tip of his sword catching the moon. “But demons are just what happens when madness chooses to live forever.”

The demon’s fury snapped, and he lunged with a roar.

The blade was already moving.

“Water Breathing: Fifth Form…”

The sword vanished into a rain of slashes. Silent, fluid, as though the night itself had turned to blades.

“…Merciful Rain After the Drought.”

At first, the demon didn’t even feel pain. He blinked, sneer half-formed, then every nerve screamed. His body convulsed. Dozens, hundreds of paper-thin cuts erupted beneath his flesh, hidden but merciless. Arteries split quietly. Tendons tore like frayed strings.

He collapsed to his knees, choking.

Shinobu’s breath caught. That form wasn’t for this. That form was mercy. She had seen it before, the quiet, graceful end to suffering. A clean severance. But Giyu wasn’t using it to grant rest. He was using it to prolong every heartbeat of agony.

The demon twitched, trying to crawl away, but Giyu’s steps followed, steady, precise, like a shadow stitched to his prey.

“You call humans fragile,” he said lowly, voice almost conversational. “You call us weak. Crazy.”

He crouched, blade glinting, eyes locking with the demon’s wide, trembling ones.

“But you are the true lunatics. You are the ones who twist yourselves into monsters just to cling to breath. What’s more insane than refusing death and devouring the living just to pretend you’re not already rotting?”

The demon’s teeth chattered in rage, trying to muster venom, but only choked syllables spilled out. “Y-you’re… not… sane… you’re…”

SLASH.

A shallow cut, deliberate, along the demon’s cheek. Blood welled, sizzling against the night air.

“Sanity is a word demons don’t deserve to use.”

Giyu’s tone never rose, never wavered. He cut again, this time across the hand, slicing each tendon carefully. The demon howled.

Shinobu’s fingers tightened around her sword hilt, but she couldn’t move. Not yet. She watched. She listened. And she began to wonder if this was what Usaki had meant by “twisting madness.”

Because this wasn’t a man out of control. This was a man who had chosen to sit in madness and wield it like a blade.

The demon thrashed, tried to rise, and another slash across the leg severed the balance. He crashed back down into the mud, wheezing, bleeding ash.

“You can’t even stand anymore.” Giyu leaned forward, blade at his side, his half-mask gleaming. For the first time, his lips curled higher, revealing teeth. A smirk, glee, almost. “Tell me. Who’s fragile now?”

The demon’s panic boiled into fury. “You… you enjoy this, you’re no better than us!”

And Giyu… laughed.

Just a breath of it. Small, low, but real.

Shinobu felt ice race through her veins. She had never heard him laugh like that.

“No better?” he repeated. “No. I’m worse. Because I’m human… and I choose to carve you apart. Piece by piece. Not for hunger. Not for survival.”

He raised his sword. The moonlight caught its edge.

“But for justice.”

The demon’s scream echoed, animalistic and cracking, as Giyu dragged the blade across his torso in a dozen deliberate cuts, never deep enough to kill, just enough to hurt. The demon writhed, clawing at the dirt, gasping broken pleas.

Shinobu finally forced herself forward, her voice breaking through the haze.

“Giyu!”

He didn’t look at her.

“Enough,” she pressed, though her own voice trembled. “He’s finished. End it.”

Giyu tilted his head, still crouched beside the demon. His eyes, pale and lit with something dangerous, met hers briefly.

“Demons never stop,” he said softly. “So why should I?”

Then, finally, he stood. One clean, final motion, his blade arced through the air, slicing neatly through the demon’s neck.

The head hit the ground with a dull thud, mouth frozen in disbelief. The body slumped, steaming, already disintegrating into ash.

Giyu exhaled once. Straightened. And turned away as if it had been nothing.

Shinobu remained frozen. She had seen Giyu fight countless times, had even fought beside him against horrors that would have torn lesser slayers apart. But never like this. Never with that curve to his lips, that clarity in his eyes, that subtle thread of madness woven into his calm.

It wasn’t rage.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was… certainty.

He believed every word he’d said.

“Demons are what happens when madness chooses to live forever.”

The ashes scattered into the night air, leaving only silence behind. Giyu sheathed his sword, his haori brushing softly in the breeze. He didn’t look back at the remains. He didn’t need to.

“…Crazy and mad,” he muttered under his breath as he adjusted his mask. “That’s all they are.”

“…Giyu.”

Her voice came out gentler than she expected. He stopped, shoulders tense beneath the layered haori, but he didn’t turn.

Shinobu swallowed. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, wanted to demand. Was this what he’d been hiding behind that silence all this time? That he enjoy it? That he let himself slip into the same madness they fought to eradicate?

Instead, she asked only one thing.

“…Do you really believe that?”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the whistle of wind over broken beams and empty fields.

Then, quietly, without looking back, he answered.

“I do.”

And he walked on.

Shinobu stood there, her blade still loose at her side, the ashes fading around her feet. Her chest tightened, a pressure she couldn’t quite name.

For the first time since she’d met him… she wasn’t sure if Giyu was the calm one.

Or the one who had simply learned to live inside madness, and call it clarity.

Farben by Orange Sector

The village had gone still again.

The air reeked of salt and soot, of wounds too raw for any true silence. Even though the demon’s body had dissolved to ash, the heaviness it had left behind refused to leave. Shinobu watched the last traces of it scatter in the night wind, vanishing into the dark sky like faint smoke. And when she finally turned her eyes back toward Giyu, he was already walking ahead, his shoulders square, his steps measured, as if nothing had occurred.

She knew better.

Shinobu followed, keeping pace just behind him. The villagers, huddled in corners of ruined homes, still glanced up at them occasionally with hollow gratitude, but most were too weary to notice. Relief efforts would continue tomorrow, food drives, clearing debris, and patching roofs, but for now, their presence was only a shadow moving through rubble.

“Giyu,” Shinobu called softly.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn.

The words stayed in her throat for a moment longer, until she quickened her pace to walk alongside him. His face was still. Expressionless. The faint smirk from earlier, the terrifyingly human glimpse of satisfaction, was gone, replaced by his usual impassive mask.

She drew in a breath. “About earlier… your swordplay. It was…”

“Necessary,” he interrupted, voice flat.

Her lips pressed together. “That isn’t what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eye flicked to the path ahead. “The demon’s dead. That’s all.”

Shinobu studied him out of the corner of her eye. His hand still rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, even though the danger was gone. His knuckles weren’t tense; he wasn’t wound tightly as if expecting another attack, but the placement was deliberate. Habitual. A man who never put down his sword.

“You don’t usually smile when fighting,” Shinobu said quietly.

That made him pause for half a step. Not much, but enough that she noticed. He exhaled through his nose, long and steady.

“It wasn’t a smile.”

“It looked like one,” she countered gently.

His eye narrowed the slightest degree, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he muttered, “Demons deserve worse.”

There it was again, that bite, sharper than his usual monotone. Shinobu let the words hang for a moment before she spoke. “You dislike them more than the rest of us, don’t you?”

“I don’t dislike them,” he said. “I hate them.”

Shinobu blinked, momentarily taken aback by the directness. The calm, cold way he said it left no space for interpretation. It wasn’t just duty. It wasn’t just the mark of a slayer who had seen too much. It was personal. It was marrow-deep.

“Especially when they crawl into my mind,” Giyu added after a pause, tone lowering, like gravel underfoot.

That struck Shinobu harder than she expected. Her chest tightened slightly because she remembered, clear as day, that other small, almost throwaway comment from him.

Weeks ago, in passing, when she had used her status and power to drag Giyu to the Hashira Dinner meeting, he had mumbled then, barely audible: I hate doctors.

And now here he was, voicing that same distrust, different words, same undercurrent. He despised invasions. Demons. Doctors. Anything that pried into the fragile fortress of his mind.

Shinobu slowed her pace slightly, letting the thought settle.

“Giyu,” she tried again, this time her voice softer, less formal. “When that demon used its blood art… what did you see?”

For a long while, he said nothing. His steps continued over cracked earth, his haori catching the breeze in uneven flickers of dark and patterned fabric. She thought he might ignore her entirely.

Then he spoke, so quietly she almost didn’t catch it.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Shinobu frowned. “It matters to me.”

That earned her the faintest flicker of a glance. Just one, from the corner of his eye, before he turned forward again.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Her chest stung, but she didn’t let it show. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” she said with a thin smile. “And I usually find they’re wrong.”

No answer.

The silence stretched between them. They reached the village gates, where the dirt path met the road that would lead back to their estates. Behind them, the sounds of tired villagers dwindled. Ahead, only the night.

Shinobu tried again, unwilling to let the thread snap. “I… saw Kanae.”

That stopped him.

He froze, feet rooted, head turned slightly toward her without lifting his gaze. His lips parted, but no words came.

Shinobu’s smile was faint, brittle, but her voice was steady. “The demon showed me Kanae. Reminded me of how I couldn’t save her. Of how weak I was.”

His jaw tightened. He still didn’t speak.

Shinobu’s hands clenched at her sides, hidden by her sleeves. “It hurt. And it was cruel. But it wasn’t real. Just… claws in my memory, twisting everything.”

At that, Giyu finally muttered, “Demons aren’t cruel because of their blood arts.” His tone was low, simmering. “They’re cruel because they’re demons. Because they keep existing when they shouldn’t.”

She tilted her head. “Is that really what you believe?”

He finally looked at her. Not long, but long enough. And his eye was a darker blue than the night around them. That half mask is blocking Giyu’s left eye from the public.

“Yes.”

It was so certain. So unshakable.

And Shinobu… didn’t know what to say.

She wanted to argue. To remind him that Kanae had believed in kindness, in the possibility of something different. To say that his hatred was dangerous, consuming. That it wasn’t the Giyu she thought she knew.

But all she could think about was how he had mumbled those other words, how he had admitted hating doctors. How he had said it the same way he said I hate demons. Not out of irritation, not out of exaggeration, but with a quiet, immovable truth.

He wasn’t closed off because he had nothing to say. He was closed off because everything inside him was locked in place like iron.

They began walking again, the gravel crunching beneath their sandals.

The moon hung heavy above, pale light spilling across the broken road. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Shinobu wanted to bridge it. To reach across the chasm he carried inside. But the more she tried to form the words, the more she realized… Giyu didn’t want the chasm bridged.

He needed it.

And that terrified her.

Still, she tried. Her voice was soft when she said, “You’re not crazy, you know.”

His head tilted, just slightly.

“You may think you are,” she continued. “And others may have said you are. But you aren’t.”

His lips pressed thin, unreadable.

“I don’t need to hear that,” he murmured at last.

“Maybe not,” Shinobu admitted. “But sometimes, it’s still good to hear.”

He didn’t reply.

By the time they reached the dark stretch of forest outside the village, the night was so quiet it pressed against their ears. Shinobu let her thoughts churn, but kept them behind her lips. Giyu walked with his usual measured pace, sword resting lightly in his hand, his presence as silent and steadfast as a shadow.

And as the village lights disappeared behind them, Shinobu realized something chilling.

For all his quiet restraint, for all the stillness he showed the world… there was a storm inside Giyu Tomioka.

And tonight, for just a glimpse, she had seen it break.

Ethereal by Txmy

The forest outside the village was quiet, almost unnaturally so, as if it had absorbed the remnants of the demon’s malevolent presence and chosen to remain still in mourning. Shinobu walked a few steps behind Giyu, letting him set the pace. The crunch of debris beneath their feet was the only sound, mingling with the faint whisper of wind through the battered trees.

Shinobu had been silent for much of the walk, her thoughts still tangled in the memory of the demon’s attack and the way Giyu had handled it. His calm, methodical dismantling of the creature had left her unsettled, not in fear, but in awe and confusion. She hadn’t seen that side of him before. That quiet gleam in his eye, a mixture of controlled fury and satisfaction, had lingered in her mind, as if challenging her to understand something she couldn’t fully name.

And now, in the stillness of the night, he spoke.

“Shinobu,” Giyu’s voice was low, even, carrying with it a weight that made her freeze mid-step.

She looked up at him, adjusting the strap of her sword, trying to mask the flicker of apprehension in her chest. “Yes?”

He didn’t turn to meet her gaze, but his words cut through the quiet like a blade. “Kanae… would be proud of you.”

Shinobu blinked, taken aback. She didn’t respond immediately, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “P-proud?” she asked, her voice faint.

“Yes,” Giyu said, finally meeting her eyes for the briefest moment. There was no teasing, no judgment. Only a calm certainty that unsettled her more than any accusation could. “Of how far you’ve come. Of everything you’ve accomplished as a Hashira.”

Shinobu’s shoulders stiffened, and she lowered her gaze. The praise should have comforted her, but instead it only reminded her of the weight she carried. Of the failures she had buried deep inside herself. Of Kanae, smiling, and the three Tsugukos she had sworn to protect, lost under her watch.

“You…” she began, but the words faltered.

Giyu continued, his voice steady, unwavering. “I know. You’ve carried more than anyone should. You’ve seen what it is to lose people you care about because of your own limitations. Physically weak… too short, too frail. I know the thoughts that have haunted you. That if you had been stronger, faster, more capable, maybe Kanae would still be alive. And the three Tsugukos. You’ve shouldered that blame alone.”

Shinobu’s chest tightened. She wanted to protest, to deny it, but the quiet honesty in his voice made her lips tremble. He wasn’t accusing her. He wasn’t berating her. He was… seeing her. All of her, the pride, the self-recrimination, the careful composure that hid so many jagged edges.

“You…” she whispered, voice barely audible. “How, how do you know?”

Giyu’s eye flicked slightly, as if weighing how much to reveal. “I see it in you. Always. Even when you smile, even when you joke or act confident, I see the moments where you hold yourself back. Where you measure every movement, every decision, every step you take because of fear that someone else might be hurt. I’ve seen it for years.”

Shinobu’s heart thudded in her chest. She felt the familiar sting of embarrassment, the tight knot of guilt tightening further. She had spent so long pretending, so long hiding her fears behind poison and smiles, that hearing someone speak them aloud, so clearly, so accurately, made her falter.

Giyu took another step forward, his blade lightly brushing against his side, his presence both grounding and intimidating. “Your contributions to the Corps… they’re invaluable. You’ve trained Kanao, guided Aoi, and nurtured the Butterfly siblings. The lives you’ve touched, the people you’ve saved, they depend on you being sharp, being careful, not reckless.”

Shinobu’s hand twitched at her side. She wanted to speak, to assure him that she was fine, that she had everything under control. But the memory of her planned indulgence, the wisteria extract she had been considering to push her limits temporarily, made her stomach clench. She knew instantly that Giyu might already suspect. His gaze, calm and piercing, made her flinch inwardly.

“And you,” he said, a note of steel threading through his words, “as annoying as you are… I hope you’re not hiding any self-reckless decisions. Not tonight, not ever.”

Shinobu’s throat went dry. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword, almost subconsciously, and she felt the heat of guilt flare within her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The words wouldn’t come.

Giyu continued walking, and after a moment, she followed, keeping pace beside him. There was silence, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy with the weight of unspoken truths, of shared understanding, and of the subtle, unbreakable bond forged through years of mutual respect and quiet observation.

“I…” Shinobu finally said, voice tentative, “I’ve always felt… too small. Too weak. Not enough.”

Giyu didn’t answer immediately. He simply walked, the night air rustling around them. Then, quietly, he said, “Size and strength… they matter. But they’re not the measure of a Hashira. Or a person. You’ve saved more lives than most will ever know, using the skills you have. Using the mind and heart that you’ve honed. That’s what matters.”

Shinobu’s chest constricted. The words were meant to reassure her, but they also carried the weight of all she had failed to protect. “But I couldn’t save…”

“No,” Giyu interrupted gently, but firmly. “You couldn’t save the dead. You never could. But you can protect the living. That’s why your decisions matter. That’s why I’m speaking to you now.”

Her fingers curled around the hilt of her sword, almost unconsciously, as if grounding herself. The truth of his words pressed against her chest like a steady weight. She had spent so long punishing herself for her limitations, for the lives she couldn’t save, that she had almost forgotten the lives she did save.

“You’re…” she began, searching for the right words, “…you’re right. I know I’ve done… good. I’ve trained them. I’ve helped.”

“You’ve done more than good,” Giyu said. He finally looked at her fully, his eye softening just slightly behind his mask. “You’ve done the necessary. Vital. Without you, more would have died. And I won’t let you forget that. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Shinobu’s gaze dropped to the ground, the forest floor uneven beneath their feet. She could feel the pulse of her own heartbeat, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. And yet, there was a flicker of panic, sharp and sudden.

He knew.

He had to know about the wisteria extract. She had never told anyone. Never allowed anyone to see that part of her, the part willing to push herself dangerously beyond limits to gain strength. And now, with his piercing gaze and the weight of his words, she felt the sting of exposure.

“You…” she murmured, uncertain. “…how much do you…”

“Enough,” he said simply. His tone left no room for argument, no room for evasion. “I don’t need details. I just need to know that you aren’t doing something reckless. That you aren’t putting yourself in danger unnecessarily.”

Shinobu flinched inwardly, but only slightly. “I’m…” Her words faltered again, caught between truth and concealment.

“Good.” Giyu’s voice was quiet, firm, but not harsh. “That’s all I need to hear.”

For a moment, they walked in silence again, the only sounds the rustling of trees and the faint echo of distant waves from the coast beyond. Shinobu’s mind spun, conflicted between relief at his concern and fear at his awareness. She had always admired his ability to see through people, to discern what was hidden behind masks, gestures, and words. And now, more than ever, she recognized how much he saw in her.

Finally, she spoke, voice barely above a whisper, “You… you always see through me, don’t you?”

Giyu’s steps didn’t falter. “I’ve learned to watch. To notice. To understand.”

“And… are you angry?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“No,” he replied simply. “I’m concerned. And I expect you to care as much about yourself as you do about others. That’s the difference between reckless and responsible. That’s the difference between surviving and not.”

Shinobu exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from her shoulders. She still felt the weight of guilt for her past, the ache of her losses, and the prickling fear of her hidden indulgence. But there was also a faint warmth, a reassurance, steady and grounding. Giyu wasn’t judging her. He wasn’t demanding answers. He was reminding her of her value, of the lives she touched, and of the responsibility she bore not just to others, but to herself.

“And…” she hesitated, taking a careful step closer. “…thank you. For saying that. Even if it’s… blunt.”

He glanced at her, just slightly, before turning his gaze forward again. “You need to hear it sometimes. You’ve earned the reminder.”

The forest seemed to exhale around them, the oppressive weight of the night easing slightly. Stars shone faintly between the swaying branches, scattered points of light in the darkness. Shinobu fell into step beside him, silently reflecting on the words, on the unspoken bond between them, and on the cautious vigilance they shared as Hashira.

For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel the faintest flicker of hope, that even in the midst of her regrets, of her fears, and of her burdens, she could continue to fight, continue to protect, and continue to be more than her limitations.

And as they walked back toward the road leading away from the village, Giyu’s calm presence beside her was a steady anchor, one she didn’t know she had needed until now.

The night was far from over. But for the first time, Shinobu felt she wasn’t carrying the weight alone.

A.N. / Alright, I unfortunately will have to speak in my author notes section with a stern and disappointed tone. The point of my story is to particularly highlight a developing friendship story for Giyu, which, while it does take a difficult turn for Giyu, points to a bedrock bond that they all develop. Particularly with people complaining about their hatred for Shinobu, or women trying to change men to adhere to their standards, that is NOT the point of my story. There are no gender roles being played here, nor is that my purpose. Shinobu, in this story, cares for Giyu; everyone does. Even Sanemi and Iguro do, because Giyu was chosen by Kagaya to be the Water Hashira. Even if Sanemi and Iguro have problems with Giyu, they will work together out of respect for Kagaya. The same applies to Shinobu and the other Hashira. All the Hashira in my previous chapters hinted that they all wanted Giyu to be there at the dinners with them. They all wanted him there. And frankly, would you really claim that a person full of grief is how someone should act? Or is the problem that the supposed friend who is trying to help him is a woman? Mitsuri does the exact same thing to Iguro in the manga and anime, and I don’t see anyone complaining about that. And yes, while Shinobu herself has her own problems, this doesn’t mean she doesn’t have the right to TRY and help Giyu with good intentions. Yes, there will be points of conflict, yes, perhaps some people will take it the wrong way, but I am here to say that is NOT the case. The point of this story is to highlight the themes of friendship and bonding, and their mutual benefits. Both characters, actually, every Hashira will benefit from developing a bond with Giyu. It just so happens that because Shinobu is the person who we see speak to Giyu the most, she is a medical professional, and is intelligent, she is the perfect person to be a connection for Giyu and the rest of the Hashira. Would Mitsuri be a better option? Muichiro? Kyojurou? This story is about letting people in. It won’t only be Giyu, but also Shinobu, Iguro, Sanemi, also everyone. It takes time, and while Shinobu is doing most of the work, she is doing this because she has genuine care for Giyu, and now, she is on the receiving end of Giyu’s own attempt to be generous. That is the point of my story, not some gender specific role characters play. And also, I don’t plan on having too much romance in this story, perhaps a bit of Mitsuri and Iguro, but that’s it. So please, respect the interactions for being genuine, unless it is EXPLICITLY stated to be malicious, and enjoy as Giyu becomes a better, happier person, because wanting a character to remain miserable is not a healthy mindset. I’m sorry for this rant. I’ll see you next chapter, but I want to get this out of the way before I see people complain more about stuff like this.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 15:

Nothing And Everything by Pavel Kalatsei

The faint glow of lanterns traced soft halos across the polished wood of Kagaya Ubuyashiki’s estate. Even with the night air heavy from the scent of damp earth and ash, remnants of the disaster the Hashira had endured, the place seemed untouched, as if serenity itself protected it. Yet, within its walls, tension always lingered after missions. Death never followed them here, but the shadow of it always pressed against the sliding doors.

The Hashira returned in pairs and alone, weary in posture though rarely admitting it. Their uniforms were stained with soot, blood, or seawater from the aftermath of the flooded village. Silent healers moved among them, offering salves, bandages, and cups of tea, while Amane Ubuyashiki oversaw it all with her steady, almost otherworldly calm.

Giyu Tomioka gave his report first.

True to his nature, it was clinical and stripped of embellishment. He recited the events with measured pauses, never coloring them with emotion, just the bare facts. He described the demon’s ability to manipulate minds, the village’s desperation, the resistance effort mounted, and how, in the end, the demon was executed.

Kagaya listened as he always did, not just with his ears, but with the stillness of his presence. His pale, fragile face betrayed little, though now and again, his brows lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly. He let Giyu finish entirely before speaking, his soft voice carrying through the chamber like water over stone.

“You did well, Tomioka,” Kagaya murmured, folding his thin hands. “The people will rest easier tonight, because of you.”

Giyu gave only the faintest of bows, murmured something inaudible beneath his breath, and turned to leave before anyone could draw him into further discussion. The half-fox mask he’d worn during the mission still hung at his hip, catching the flicker of lantern light as he disappeared down the shadowed hall.

Shinobu remained a step behind him but paused, bowing gracefully before Kagaya and Amane.

“I, too, will give my account,” she said, her voice lilting and polite as always.

Kagaya’s gaze warmed faintly, and Amane inclined her head, ushering her forward.

Shinobu spoke carefully. She described the chaos of the village after the flooding, the terror the demon had exploited with its illusions, and how Giyu had remained unnervingly steadfast, resisting the mental probing that had undone others. She told of the long night of battle, of citizens saved, of their slow pursuit of the demon until it was cornered.

But when she reached the end, she chose her words differently.

“He executed it with his Fifth Form, Merciful Rain After the Drought,” Shinobu said smoothly. “Though… mercy was not his intent. He stretched it out, cutting slowly, drawing its end until the creature begged. He declared that demons are nothing more than madness made eternal. And then…”

Her words trailed softly.

Kagaya tilted his head, his ruined skin bathed in the lantern’s faint glow. “And then?”

Shinobu folded her hands neatly in her lap, masking the faint flicker of hesitation in her chest. “And then he smiled.”

For a moment, silence pressed into the chamber, broken only by the faint rustle of Amane shifting her silk sleeve.

“A smile?” Kagaya echoed. His tone held no judgment, only curiosity, though that gentleness somehow pressed more than if he had raised his voice.

Shinobu lowered her eyes. “Not cruel. Not joyous. Something quieter. Satisfaction, perhaps.”

Kagaya let the words hang before finally nodding. “I see. Thank you, Kocho. That will be all.”

She bowed again, excused herself, and followed the faint sound of laughter down the hall where the others had gathered.

…

Later, in the common room where cushions were arranged in a loose circle and tea steamed gently in their cups, the remaining Hashira let their fatigue settle. The rhythm of their camaraderie, jagged and loud at times, soft and reverent at others, filled the still air.

Sanemi cracked the lull first, biting into a peeled orange segment and tossing the rind with a flick of his wrist.

“Oi, Shinobu,” he grunted, eyes narrowing with idle curiosity. “You and that gloomy bastard were paired up, right? Tomioka.”

Across from him, Tengen reclined dramatically, his bangles clinking faintly as he sprawled. A sly grin tugged at his lips.

“Oh? A romantic getaway with Mister Sunshine himself? Come now, Shinobu, don’t be stingy. We need all the juicy details.”

Mitsuri perked up beside him, eyes round and eager. “Ohh! Did he say anything sweet to you? Or was it all serious?”

Shinobu smiled thinly into her cup, her violet eyes glimmering as though amused. The tea’s warmth filled her palms, though her mind stirred elsewhere. When she finally spoke, her voice was light, as though confiding a trivial anecdote, but beneath it ran the current of something sharper.

“Well,” she began softly, “it certainly wasn’t boring. The demon we encountered had… unusual abilities. Projection, hallucinations. It tried to dig into our thoughts, twist them against us. But Giyu-san…” she paused, as though weighing the right phrasing, “resisted it. He did not waver. Quite impressive.”

Gyomei’s deep rumble answered first, prayer beads slipping softly through his fingers. “That does not surprise me. His will is steady, even when his heart is clouded.”

Shinobu inclined her head gently. “Mm. Perhaps so.”

Sanemi snorted. “Figures. The guy’s too much of a block of ice for tricks like that to get under his skin.”

Iguro gave a small grunt, coiling his arms across his knees. “Doesn’t change the fact he’s insufferable. But… useful.”

“Oh, but what happened after?” Mitsuri leaned forward, chin resting on her palm. “Did you two finish it off together?”

Shinobu’s lips curved just faintly. “No. He finished it.” She let the words breathe a little before adding, “The most notable part was how he did so. He used his Fifth Form, Merciful Rain After the Drought.”

That drew attention. Several Hashira tilted their heads.

Shinobu went on, stirring her tea, her gaze never rising from the pale steam. “But it wasn’t mercy he used it for. No… he drew it out. His cuts were invisible, countless, delicate, meant not to end swiftly, but to make the creature feel every second. He carved it until it begged.”

The room stilled. The faint hiss of tea cooling in its pot was suddenly audible.

“And then,” she added after a long pause, “he smiled. A small smile from what I could see.”

Mitsuri’s eyes widened. “He… smiled?”

Shinobu nodded gently. “The smile was very small. Besides, the smile was not cruel. At least… I don’t think so. It was more like satisfaction. As though something in him found completion in that moment. He said demons are nothing but madness made eternal, and that such madness deserved to die slowly.”

The silence broke with a sharp laugh from Sanemi. He leaned forward, teeth bared in a grin that was more wolfish than amused.
“Hah! Now that’s more like it. About damn time he stopped pretending to be some noble saint.”

Iguro’s mismatched eyes glinted faintly. “If he truly did that, then perhaps he isn’t as useless as he looks.”

Even Tengen, who so often mocked Giyu, hummed low in approval. “Flashy, in its own quiet way. Never thought Tomioka had it in him.”

But not everyone shared that note.

Kyojurou’s broad shoulders shifted as he leaned forward, firelit hair framing the thoughtful set of his expression. His voice was warm but grave. “That is dangerous. To kill with satisfaction, to indulge in the death of an enemy, it chips away at you. Slowly, piece by piece. Even if he believes himself in control, that road narrows over time.”

Gyomei’s deep sigh followed, resonant as distant thunder. “May we pray that what he holds within does not one day collapse upon him… and upon us.”

Mitsuri chewed her lip softly, gaze flickering between them. “But maybe… maybe it was just the moment? Even if it looked frightening, maybe he only wanted to make sure the demon suffered for what it did.”

“Or maybe he’s just finally showing his true colors,” Sanemi muttered, unconcerned. “We all have demons we want to bleed out slow. He’s no different.”

Muichiro, who had been staring absently at the sliding door as if the moonlight itself had captured his attention, spoke suddenly in a soft, distant voice. “Tomioka fights like someone who doesn’t care about anything. Maybe that’s why demons can’t break him.”

The words hung, ethereal and strange, but not untrue.

Shinobu let the discussion carry itself, her polite smile never faltering. She sipped her tea again, though its warmth felt muted now, dulled by the memory replaying in her mind. That faint smirk, cutting across his usually blank mask of a face. The way he had spoken was calm, plain, yet with a clarity that chilled her more than any fury ever could.

She had chosen carefully what to reveal. Enough to paint the picture, enough to provoke their responses. But not the whole of it. Not the precise curve of that smile, nor the haunted glimmer behind his eyes as he murmured words that weren’t meant for her ears: Demons are what happens when madness chooses to live forever.

That, she kept. For herself.

Kyojurou’s warning lingered, though. Satisfaction in killing, even righteous killing, was a poison that didn’t show its symptoms until too late. And Giyu, cold, detached Giyu, had worn it like a second skin, as though it were not new, but something honed.

As the conversation shifted away, drifting into anecdotes of other missions, bursts of laughter here and there, Shinobu remained silent. Her cup was empty, but she continued to hold it, staring into the pale ceramic as though it contained the answers she sought.

The others laughed, argued, and muttered. Sanemi’s sharp voice collided with Tengen’s boisterous remarks; Mitsuri giggled at some aside; Iguro muttered something dark under his breath. Gyomei prayed quietly, beads clacking softly in rhythm. The noise rose and fell like waves.

But Shinobu sat still at its center, the calm mask never leaving her face.

Inwardly, though, she felt the shadow of it, that moment of realization. She had always known Giyu was strong, unyielding, a pillar among them. But tonight, she saw something else: that he was terrifying.

Not because he had lost control.

But because he hadn’t.

Because he had smiled, softly, faintly, as he killed.

And it left her wondering: was it satisfaction in justice? Or was it the glimpse of a man who had already stepped too far into the very madness he condemned?

For the first time, Shinobu found herself uncertain which frightened her more.

The room was still warm with the lingering scent of steeped tea and scattered tangerine peels, their faint citrus sharpness mingling with the earthy aroma of tatami mats. A storm had passed earlier in the day, and though the sliding doors were shut tight, the air still carried a subtle dampness. The lanterns burned low, their light soft, golden, and almost drowsy, as if inviting everyone to let their exhaustion sink in now that the demons had been cut down and the blood scrubbed from their blades.

The Hashira were gathered in the common room, their circle loose and uneven, each body carrying fatigue in a different posture. Sanemi sprawled with one leg bent, tearing into a strip of dried jerky as though he had to punish the food with his teeth. Mitsuri, ever bright despite her own injuries, leaned close to Gyomei, speaking to him in hushed tones while her hands fluttered as if painting her words in the air. Iguro sat half-shrouded in shadow, methodically sliding a whetstone against the edge of his sword, the rasp of metal whispering between their silences. Tengen lay dramatically reclined against a cushion, his arms spread wide as though he had fought not demons, but a stage of admirers, and now waited for applause.

Even Kyojurou, though quieter than usual, still radiated a warmth like a steady fire. Muichiro had drifted a little apart from them all, gazing vaguely at the paper-screen windows, though whether he watched the lantern glow or the memory of stars, no one could tell.

And Shinobu, small, straight-backed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, sat between their fragments of conversation, listening as she always did.

It was rare for them to linger together this way, not for strategy nor Kagaya’s summons, but merely because the evening pressed upon them with no urgent call to arms. Rare, too, that they allowed themselves these little rituals of rest: tea in chipped porcelain, shared food, small talk that sometimes dared to laugh. They were all acutely aware that such nights could be their last.

Shinobu sipped her tea, savoring its warmth as much as its taste, then placed the cup down with a deliberate softness, the clink almost musical in the hush that followed. She glanced once around the circle, her sharp gaze sweeping over them, as if silently measuring how far each one would bend before breaking. Then, with a breath gentle as a sigh, she broke the fragile calm.

“So,” she said lightly, “who’s planning the next dinner meeting?”

A few heads turned.

Sanemi grunted around his mouthful of jerky. “You volunteering?”

Shinobu’s smile tilted. “Not exactly.” She adjusted her sleeves, smoothing out a wrinkle as though that were the true subject of her attention. “But I’d like to suggest a rule for the next one.”

Iguro’s whetstone stilled. His eyes, narrow even at the best of times, flicked toward her. “Here we go,” he muttered.

Shinobu folded her hands primly, posture perfect, as though lecturing pupils at the Butterfly Mansion. “Everyone. And I do mean everyone, no exceptions, attends.”

The room paused.

“…You mean even him?” Tengen asked finally, his tone balancing between playful tease and wary acknowledgment.

“Yes,” Shinobu said, her voice calm, firm, unyielding. “Even Giyu-san.”

Mitsuri’s green eyes widened. “But doesn’t he hate those?”

“He doesn’t hate them,” Shinobu replied smoothly, lifting her cup again, as if to steady her own insistence behind the ritual of sipping tea. “He just… acts like he does.”

Sanemi let out a scoff so sharp it might have been a blade. “Because he does. He just sits there in silence, eats, and leaves. You call that being social?”

Shinobu turned her gaze on him, her smile sweet as poisoned honey. “Yes, Sanemi-san. I call that progress. For him, anyway.”

Iguro exhaled a long, quiet sigh, clearly irritable. “It makes the whole room awkward.”

Her expression shifted, still smiling but with a subtle tightening around her eyes, a look that made even Sanemi blink, as though realizing she had drawn blood without ever raising her voice. “He’s a Hashira,” she said, the gentleness replaced by something sharper. “He deserves a seat at the table, just like the rest of us, whether you like the way he chews or not.”

For a moment, the room held still.

Tengen, sensing the tension, let out a chuckle. “Didn’t peg you for such a loyal defender, Shinobu. Falling for the silent type?”

A ripple of light laughter followed, though brief.

“I don’t have the patience to fall for anyone,” Shinobu said easily, brushing away the jest with the air of swatting a stray moth. “But I am observant. And the Giyu you all talk about isn’t the Giyu I’ve seen.”

That silenced them.

She set her cup aside, stood, and smoothed her haori as if the movement itself gave her resolve. Her voice, though never loud, cut through the room like the edge of a scalpel.

“He’s quiet. Withdrawn. Awkward, yes. But don’t mistake restraint for weakness or silence for emptiness. You all think you know him…” She turned her head slightly, her sharp eyes glancing across each of them in turn, lingering just enough to press her words deeper.

“…but I don’t think any of you do.”

The silence that followed was taut, a string stretched tight. Even Sanemi didn’t immediately fire back.

With that, Shinobu gathered her cup, bowed her head politely, and stepped away, the faint swish of her haori brushing the tatami as she left them in her wake.

Behind her, the quiet rippled.

Tengen exhaled, huffing. “She’s serious about this, huh?”

Sanemi clicked his tongue. “…Ridiculous.”

Kyojurou, who had been listening with uncharacteristic restraint, finally spoke. His voice was steady, thoughtful, but warm. “Perhaps… it would do us good to try again. Even if he only says three words. He’s still our comrade.”

“…Two words,” Iguro corrected dryly. “He usually skips verbs.”

Mitsuri let out a soft laugh, unable to help herself, though she quickly covered her mouth as though embarrassed. “Still… I think Shinobu-chan is right. Tomioka-san should be with us. We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

Muichiro, still gazing toward the dim window, murmured absently, “He doesn’t care about being together.” His voice was dreamlike, far away. “But maybe that’s why demons can’t break him.”

The whetstone rasped again against Iguro’s blade. Gyomei, hands folded over his prayer beads, bowed his head and said nothing, though the soft movement of his lips in prayer suggested he was already offering words for the soul of a man still living.

The idea lingered. Uncomfortable, unwelcome to some, yet undeniable.

Because Shinobu Kocho had made up her mind.

And when she did?

There was no room for argument.

Ultimately, the decision was made quickly: their long-neglected dinner meeting would not take place at the Butterfly Estate or at Kagaya’s residence, but instead at the Rengoku household.

It was Mitsuri who first proposed it, clapping her hands together with excitement. “Why don’t we host it at Kyojurou’s place? It’s so spacious, and it feels so warm and lively there!”

“Warm?” Sanemi snorted. “Every time I step inside that estate, I feel like I’ve been set on fire. It’s because the guy talks so loud that the walls practically rattle.”

“Ahahaha!” Tengen leaned back, tossing a rice ball into the air and catching it in one bite. “But he’s not wrong. Rengoku’s estate is flashy in its own way, with big hallways, wide tatami rooms, and that enormous training yard. It’d be a perfect setting for a gathering.”

Kyojurou’s broad smile seemed to brighten even further at the suggestion. “If everyone wishes it, then of course my home is open to you all! There is plenty of space for food, conversation, and camaraderie. And my younger brother, Senjurou, would surely be delighted to meet you all.”

The mere mention of his family quieted the room for a beat.

Iguro raised an eyebrow, speaking carefully. “And your father? Would he… permit such an event? He isn’t exactly known for being welcoming.”

Kyojurou’s expression didn’t falter, but the shift in his tone was subtle, like a candle flame lowering against the wind. “My father is… seldom around during the evening hours. He spends most of his time in his own quarters, reading or resting. I doubt he will appear, and even if he did, I assure you he would not stop us.”

There was a gentle honesty in his words, but also an unspoken weight, one everyone noticed, though none commented on.

Instead, Kyojurou continued, his voice softening just a touch. “Senjurou, however, would not mind in the least. He is a kind boy, and I believe he would be glad to see the estate filled with life, rather than silence.”

The room was quiet again, though for different reasons now. Mitsuri placed her hands over her chest, her green-pink eyes misting with tenderness. “Oh, that’s so sweet. Poor Senjurou… I’d love to see him again. He must be so proud to have a brother like you.”

Kyojurou’s smile flickered, just briefly, a ghost of something uncharacteristically wistful passing through his features, but he quickly straightened his back, letting his voice ring bright once more. “He is a boy with ga reat heart. I would be glad for him to know the strength and kindness of my fellow Hashira.”

Sanemi grunted, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. “Tch. Guess it doesn’t matter to me where we eat, so long as there’s enough entertainment and food to keep me from listening to Tengen brag all night.”

“That’s not bragging, it’s truth,” Tengen replied smoothly, flicking an imaginary speck from his nails. “Besides, with my three wives preparing the dishes, you’ll be eating like kings. I’ll bring them along to help cook.”

Mitsuri clapped her hands again, nearly bouncing in her seat. “Oh! I can help too! Cooking for everyone sounds fun. I’ll make a big hotpot!”

“Flashy, noisy, and full of chaos,” Iguro muttered under his breath, though he didn’t object outright.

Gyomei, who had been silent, folded his hands together gently. His voice came low and resonant, as though it carried the weight of prayer. “If it brings warmth to young Senjurou and strengthens the bonds between us… Then it will surely be worthwhile.”

Muichirou, who had been staring dreamily at the drifting lantern light, murmured absently, “The estate sounds far… but the sky is clearer there. The stars will be bright.”

The consensus was quietly forming, their circle of voices weaving into something firm.

Finally, all eyes drifted to Shinobu, who had been silent throughout the discussion, sipping her tea with her usual delicate composure.

She caught their gazes and set her cup down softly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I think it’s decided then. The Rengoku estate is.”

Her gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the quiet corner where Giyu lingered, half-turned away from the group, his expression unreadable as always.

She didn’t say anything more, but the look was enough.

Whether he liked it or not, Giyu would be there too.

When the gathering broke apart, the Hashira filed into the night with plans to reconvene. Kyojurou lingered behind with Shinobu, their footsteps falling together across the wooden porch.

The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and smoke.

“Thank you, Shinobu,” Kyojurou said after a pause, his voice quieter than the roaring cadence he was known for. “For insisting that Tomioka attend. He would not come if it weren’t for you.”

Shinobu tilted her head, her expression unreadable save for the faint smile tugging at her lips. “Well, someone has to make sure he doesn’t vanish completely. And perhaps… he’ll find some small comfort, being surrounded by those who understand what it means to carry this kind of life.”

Kyojurou studied her for a moment, then gave a firm nod, his eyes bright in the moonlight. “Yes. That is well said.”

He looked out at the dark horizon, where his estate lay waiting in the distance. “And Senjurou will be happy. I worry he spends too much time in silence. It is good for him to know… that we are not only swords, but people.”

Shinobu’s gaze softened at that, though she didn’t comment.

The two Hashira stood for a moment longer, listening to the quiet of the night.

Somewhere far off, an owl hooted.

And in that silence, a quiet promise had been made: their next dinner would not only be a gathering of warriors, but a chance to bring light into a house where silence had reigned for too long.

Ur Alive by ILLENIUM & WYLDE

Kyojurou’s estate was glowing with warmth.

The paper lanterns lining the walls cast soft, golden halos across the tatami, swaying faintly in the night breeze that slipped through the opened shoji doors. Outside, cicadas sang in the summer dark, their buzzing softened by the steady crackle of braziers where skewers of fish and vegetables roasted. The scent was rich, charcoal smoke mingled with soy glaze and the earthy sweetness of miso broth simmering in an iron pot.

Inside, the dining hall had been transformed. Kyojurou had gone to great lengths, and it showed: the table stretched long and wide, laden with platters, bowls, and bamboo baskets filled with steaming rice, grilled eel, salted salmon, pickled daikon, and soft tofu topped with ginger. Every seat was carefully arranged with lacquerware, chopsticks, and even folded paper charms, Senjurou’s handiwork, shyly offered to brighten the place.

Kyojurou had insisted it be lively. “A gathering should never feel small,” he had said earlier, his laugh booming so loud it rattled the cupboards. “If we are to feast, let us feast boldly, with food, with laughter, and with stories that echo long into the night!”

It began smoothly enough.

Mitsuri was the first to fill the room with sound, her eyes glittering as she spoke of a new mochi recipe she had tried that week. She described it in mouth-watering detail, sweet bean paste blended with chestnut, wrapped in delicate rice flour, dusted with kinako. She clapped her hands to her cheeks as she admitted she had nearly eaten the entire batch herself.

Muichirou, seated near her, didn’t contribute much, his gaze often drifting out the window to the stars, but whenever Mitsuri prompted him with a direct question, he would tilt his head, blink once, and respond with something oddly sharp and perceptive for his age. His soft-spoken remarks earned chuckles from Gyomei, who sat beside him. The Stone Hashira’s presence, as always, carried a sense of grounding. He nodded thoughtfully at each comment, offering words of calm encouragement in his deep, resonant voice.

Sanemi and Iguro, of course, sat near each other, both brooding yet unmistakably attentive to the flow of conversation. Sanemi grunted often but kept his temper reined in, for once. Iguro spoke little, his voice cutting in dryly only when he found an opening to correct, comment, or undercut someone’s exaggeration.

Tengen, in contrast, filled every lull with a story of such flourish that even Mitsuri, with her boundless optimism, laughed until tears welled at the corners of her eyes. One tale involved him leaping from a rooftop onto a speeding cart, kabuki-style, to rescue a merchant’s daughter. Mitsuri gasped and clapped; Sanemi rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.

The room was warm, lively, and, despite the differences in temperament, almost familial.

Then the door creaked.

Every head turned, even if only slightly.

Giyu stepped in.

He looked exactly the same as ever: the half-and-half haori draped over his frame, the same flat expression, the same quiet aura of distance. A fox mask, weathered and unused, hung loosely against the side of his head.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable. Not out of malice, but habit. The laughter thinned. Conversation dipped, just enough to notice. Tengen leaned back in his seat with a low whistle. Iguro muttered something into his sleeve. Sanemi visibly sighed, leaning away as if the very air had changed.

But Giyu said nothing.

He bowed once, small, almost imperceptible, toward Kyojurou, then crossed the room in measured steps. He took a seat without fuss, lowering himself with the kind of deliberate care that left no room for ceremony yet somehow demanded acknowledgment.

And then, Shinobu followed.

Her arrival was almost choreographed, the beat behind his, as if she had waited intentionally. She entered with the same effortless grace as ever, her smile delicate, her voice a gentle note as she greeted the group. Without hesitation, she settled into the seat beside Giyu, her presence quietly shielding, almost protective.

The others noticed. They always noticed.

Shinobu didn’t say much at first. She never needed to. Her smile alone carried sharpness, soft enough to pass as pleasant, yet precise enough to remind others not to press too hard.

And so the meal resumed.

Food passed hand to hand, the platters heavy and steaming. Drinks were poured. Mitsuri’s delighted exclamations returned. Sanemi muttered under his breath about the sake being weak, only for Tengen to tease him into drinking twice as much.

Through it all, Giyu remained quiet.

But he ate.

And he listened.

And this time, this rare, delicate time, he stayed.

He did not leave after the second plate. He did not excuse himself without a word. He did not avoid the Kakushi as they moved through the estate to carry away empty trays.

He was there. Silent, yes, but present.

The change was small, almost invisible, but undeniable.

At one point, Sanemi leaned sideways toward Iguro, his tone laced with equal parts suspicion and irritation. “Strange. He’s not fleeing like usual.”

Iguro tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind the edge of his bandages. “Maybe he’s waiting for dessert.”

A ripple of laughter moved faintly around the table.

Then, cutting through it all, Shinobu’s voice chimed. Light, airy, but with a barb of truth that made Sanemi bristle.

“Or maybe,” she said smoothly, “he’s human like the rest of us. Who knew?”

Sanemi rolled his eyes so hard his whole body moved with it, but he didn’t argue.

Tengen chuckled, swirling his sake. “Well, if he is staying, then surely the food must be top-tier. Rengoku, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Kyojurou beamed, chest puffing with pride. “I did my best!” His booming voice carried so strongly that it made Senjurou, who was peeking nervously from behind the doorframe, flinch before offering a shy smile.

Giyu said nothing.

But when Kyojurou passed him the grilled eel, placing it on his plate with firm enthusiasm, Giyu accepted it with a quiet murmur.

“…Thank you.”

Two words. Barely above a whisper.

Yet they landed with more weight than a dozen of Tengen’s stories.

Kyojurou’s eyes widened, then softened. That, for him, was enough.

And perhaps, for now, it was enough for the rest of them, too.

Because for once, just this once, the table felt whole.

The night unfolded slowly, as meals shared among comrades often do.

Senjurou, coaxed gently forward by Mitsuri, joined them halfway through, his shy demeanor steadily melting under her bright affection. She piled his bowl high with rice, asked endless questions about his favorite foods, and complimented his paper charms until the boy’s cheeks glowed red.

Tengen, never one to let a room slip into sentiment without some sparkle, proposed a “flashy toast” midway through the meal. He stood tall, cup raised, his speech dramatic and laden with unnecessary flair. Yet even Sanemi, grumbling the entire time, raised his drink at the end.

Gyomei offered a prayer of thanks afterward, his voice resonating deep into the beams of the estate. Silence followed, not heavy, but reverent. Even Sanemi bowed his head.

Shinobu’s laughter rang out lightly when Mitsuri spilled soup across the tatami, and even Iguro, usually quick with a barb, quietly helped clean it up. Muichirou dozed off briefly against his sleeve, but when Kyojurou teased him awake with a booming laugh, he blinked blearily, mumbled something about the stars being brighter here, and drew a rare chuckle from the group.

And through it all, Giyu remained, not as a ghost on the periphery, not as a fleeting shadow excusing himself at the first chance, but seated among them. Quiet, yes, but steady.

He listened to Kyojurou’s booming laugh, to Mitsuri’s bubbling joy, to Sanemi’s coarse complaints and Shinobu’s sly retorts. He accepted food when offered, his small nods a language all their own. He spoke little, but not once did he stand to leave.

For one evening, the unlikeliest of miracles occurred.

The Hashira, burdened as they were with duty and loss, with scars and silence, became simply… people.

And for the first time in a long while, the table felt whole.

A.N. / Chapter 15 done! We have another Hashira Dinner Meeting happening! And yes, Giyu is here again with them, so now he’s a part of the group! As for the whole ordeal with the demon missions, I wanted to basically add the recurring idea that the Hashira assumes what isn’t true with Giyu. And we eventually learn that this thought that many of them have will be a point of contention. It’s an issue they have to solve, and hopefully, having Giyu here will help everyone understand. The other thing I want to mention is basically we’re reaching the stage of them bantering and generally just rambling and getting to know one another. It’s a very fun and nice feeling part of the story to write, so I hope I can properly get it done right. As for the last chapter, keep the stuff you learn there, because it will be recurring and mentioned again. There is a lot to speak about, as I even had to flesh out and change the past of some Hashira and Demons themselves, so keep an eye out for that. Once again, anything different is intentional for this story. Alright, see you all!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 16:

Alejuandro by Lady Gaga

Kyojurou’s estate breathed with the gentle rhythm of warmth and light. The evening sun had long since fallen, leaving the lamps and lanterns within the dining room to cast golden shadows across the wooden floors. Their glow softened the sharp edges of each Hashira, their colors and temperaments contained within the walls of a single space. It was rare for all of them to be seated together like this, rarer still for the air to be so calm.

The long table stretched wide, laden with bowls, steaming plates, and lacquered trays filled with enough food to rival a festival’s spread. Grilled eel, seasoned vegetables, clear soups flecked with seaweed, rice balls neatly wrapped in shiso leaves, all prepared with care and arranged to honor both abundance and hospitality. The centerpiece, however, stood out: a fragrant platter of salmon daikon, its aroma of delicate broth and softened radish filling the air each time the steam rose.

Kyojurou had insisted on hosting. His booming laugh and insistence on warmth had carried the preparations, and though the meal was large, he had seen to every detail. Even so, when they sat at the table, he too ate in silence, honoring the food, savoring it, allowing the rhythm of shared presence to take precedence over sound.

The silence was not awkward.

Instead, it was the rare silence of warriors who trusted the space they were in.

Mitsuri sat nearest the center, her bright pink hair catching the lantern light as she delicately picked at her rice. She ate with surprising grace for someone whose personality was so bubbly, her chopsticks moving steadily and without pause. Every so often, her eyes would dart around, as though she wanted to break the silence with chatter, but then, with a soft smile, she seemed to decide that perhaps silence itself could be sweet. The food was delicious, after all, and her joy radiated even without words.

Beside her, Iguro ate in quiet precision. His bandaged face remained half-turned toward his bowl, chopsticks moving with near mechanical rhythm. Each piece of food was taken with exact care, each bite slow, controlled. Yet his gaze flicked toward Mitsuri more often than not, as if watching her enjoyment itself sustained him more than his own meal. When she smiled faintly, he seemed to ease, barely perceptible, but there.

Across the table, Sanemi tore into his food as though it were another opponent to be conquered. His chopsticks clattered now and again, his appetite more hurried, less refined. Still, despite his rough manner, he finished each dish placed in front of him, even the grilled vegetables he often sneered at during missions. Though his jaw worked in sharp lines, there was no anger behind it. For once, even his sharp breaths felt muted.

Muichiro sat with his back straight, his bowl balanced neatly in one hand, his chopsticks moving without thought. His pale gaze drifted more often to the drifting steam above his soup than to the food itself. He ate quietly, almost absently, yet his pace was steady. Every so often, he’d blink, realizing his bowl was empty again, before filling it anew. There was a strange peace to the way he moved, as though eating in this space was more meditation than necessity.

Gyomei, the largest presence at the table, handled each dish with a gentleness that betrayed his immense size. His prayer beads clinked faintly at his wrist as he lifted food to his mouth, his posture as respectful as though he were in a shrine. He murmured blessings under his breath, gratitude for each bite. The food seemed smaller in his hands, but he treated it with reverence, as though each grain of rice mattered.

Tengen, by contrast, sat with his usual flair even in silence. He picked his bites carefully, theatrically almost, as though every selection from the trays was part of a performance only he understood. His jeweled headband glittered in the lamplight, catching faint sparks of firelight each time he moved. Yet for all his usual flamboyance, he too respected the moment, chewing slowly, savoring flavors, his expression shifting with amusement as he observed the others quietly.

And then there was Giyu.

He sat slightly apart, though not by much, his shoulders slightly hunched as if to minimize his presence. His haori pooled softly against the tatami, one patterned sleeve resting near his lap. His chopsticks moved without hesitation, not fast, not slow, but steady, practiced. His bowl of rice was already half-finished, his miso soup cooling nearby.

But what drew notice, or rather, would have, if anyone were watching, was the way he lingered with the salmon daikon.

The broth clung lightly to the softened radish, the salmon flaking tenderly at the edge of his chopsticks. He ate it without expression, yet his pace slowed when the flavor touched his tongue. The faint saltiness of the broth, the sweetness of the simmered daikon, the richness of the salmon, it was subtle, homely, comforting.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t comment. But the silence around him carried a subtle shift, as though even without words, this was his comfort dish. Each bite seemed to anchor him more than the last.

Shinobu, seated beside him, noticed.

Her eyes flickered briefly, her lips curving faintly, though she said nothing. She ate her vegetables calmly, posture poised, but her awareness lingered toward the man beside her. Perhaps it was the tiniest relief to see him eat without reserve, to see him settle without retreat.

The crackle of the hearth filled the room. Somewhere outside, cicadas buzzed in the warm night, their song filtering faintly through the paper doors. The steady clink of chopsticks against bowls became its own quiet rhythm, a shared soundscape of warriors who, for this night, were simply people at dinner.

Mitsuri, unable to hold her excitement entirely, broke the silence once, just once.

“This is so good,” she whispered, eyes shining as she looked down at her plate of roasted vegetables.

Her voice was soft, reverent almost, and no one teased her for breaking the quiet. A few faint smiles passed along the table. Even Sanemi’s chewing slowed.

Kyojurou, seated at the head, radiated satisfaction. His wide smile was calmer than usual, less of his booming cheer, but his pride was unmistakable. He glanced around the table, his gaze lingering on each of his comrades, his friends. His chest rose with quiet gratitude.

When his eyes landed on Giyu, who was lifting another piece of salmon daikon with steady hands, Kyojurou’s smile deepened just slightly.

This was what he had wanted: not just food, not just noise or celebration, but this. A table where every Hashira sat, shared warmth, and rested without burden.

Even in silence, the bond was there.

Minutes stretched. Bowls emptied. Plates thinned.

Iguro set his chopsticks down briefly, refilling Mitsuri’s tea before his own. Sanemi reached without asking for another serving of eel, and Muichiro absentmindedly offered him a spoonful of soup in exchange. Tengen gave a small, amused hum when Gyomei passed him a dish with careful hands, as though the quiet exchange itself was worthy of applause.

Shinobu finished her soup and folded her hands neatly in her lap, glancing once more at Giyu. He still hadn’t said a word, but his bowl of salmon daikon was empty now, and for a fleeting second, there was the barest trace of pause in his movements, as though reluctant to set it down.

She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

The lanterns flickered, the hearth glowed, and the night pressed softly against the walls.

For this moment, fleeting as all things were in their world, they were not Hashira burdened with blood and battle.

They were simply people, quietly sharing a meal.

The room shifted again, not with awkwardness this time, but with amusement, when Tengen leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on the table, the firelight from the hearth dancing across the jewels on his headband. The crackle of flame paired with his grin, broad and mischievous, promised mischief.

“All right, all right,” he declared with a theatrical flourish that nearly knocked over his cup of tea. “Since this gathering is far too peaceful, let’s spice it up! A game! Let’s go around and say what qualities we’d want in a significant other. You know, if we weren’t busy slaying demons and dazzling the nation with our magnificence.”

Mitsuri gasped, clapping her hands like a child at a festival. “Ooh, that’s a cute question!” Her eyes already shimmered, her chopsticks forgotten beside her bowl.

Shinobu arched a brow, lips curving faintly. “A curious choice of topic… but I suppose I don’t mind hearing the answers.”

Sanemi groaned loudly, head dropping back like the ceiling had suddenly become fascinating. “Are you serious right now? We’re doing this?”

“Yes!” boomed Tengen, grinning. He leaned back, tossing his hair dramatically as if he were center stage at a kabuki performance. “Of course we are. It’ll reveal our truest selves! And naturally, I’ll go first, because who better to set the standard than me?”

Mitsuri giggled. “Go on!”

“Now, I already have three fabulous wives,” Tengen began, striking a pose that would’ve been absurd if it weren’t so him. “So clearly, I am the authority here. But if I had to say what matters most…” He paused, letting the tension build before pointing at himself with both thumbs. “It’s a grand personality! Big presence! Someone who can hold their own and sparkle just as flamboyantly as I do! A life like mine, ah, a life of flamboyance, requires a partner who shines with just as much brilliance!”

“Too loud,” Iguro muttered under his breath, though his tone was less irritated than resigned.

Kyojurou laughed heartily, the sound booming across the room. “Ha! Then I must agree with part of that! For me, I would seek someone spirited, with energy and charisma, who laughs freely, who burns brightly! A flame that never dims, no matter the hardship!”

“Sounds exhausting,” Iguro muttered again, sharper this time.

“On the contrary, it sounds alive,” Kyojurou countered warmly, though his attention soon shifted to the others, his eyes eager to hear them speak.

All eyes landed, surprisingly, on Muichiro next. The boy, who had spent much of the evening eating quietly with the occasional absentminded comment, blinked like he had only just realized he was included. He tilted his head, chopsticks pausing midair.

“I think… someone quiet,” he said softly. “Someone who’d let me lie on her lap while I think. Maybe hum a little.”

Mitsuri melted instantly, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “That’s so sweet!”

Shinobu’s lips curved faintly at that. “Someone who makes you feel at peace?”

“Mm. And who remembers to feed me,” Muichiro added matter-of-factly, as though that were the more crucial requirement.

That broke the composure of half the table. Mitsuri nearly fell over laughing, while even Sanemi barked out a sharp, unwilling snort.

Shinobu leaned back, eyes glittering with amusement. “For me,” she said at last, folding her hands neatly on the table, “it would be someone who challenges my thinking. Who makes me curious? Keeps me on my toes even when I’m annoyed. Someone difficult, perhaps.”

Her gaze flicked almost imperceptibly toward Giyu, sitting at her side, before returning to her plate with a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

Sanemi barked out a laugh. “That’s a nightmare. Why would you want that?”

“Because it’s interesting,” Shinobu replied sweetly. “Don’t you like to be kept engaged?”

Sanemi scoffed. “If she can beat me in a fight, then she’s worth keeping around. That’s simple. Don’t care about much else.”

Mitsuri giggled behind her hand. “That’s incredibly you, Sanemi.”

“Damn right it is,” Sanemi muttered, crossing his arms.

Iguro, sitting close enough to Mitsuri that their shoulders nearly touched, folded his own arms tighter, his voice dropping. “Someone kind. Strong. A good listener. Brave. Someone who smiles at everyone. Even when she shouldn’t. Someone who… would never turn her back on someone like me.”

Mitsuri’s eyes went wide. Her cheeks flushed pink to match her hair. Her chopsticks slipped clumsily from her hands and clattered on the table, and she ducked her face down so hard it nearly disappeared in her bowl.

“M-me? Uh… I think I’d want someone who likes me even though I’m… weird,” she stammered, her voice shaking with both nerves and excitement. “Someone who doesn’t think I’m too much, or too loud, or too pink, or… or anything.”

“You’re perfect,” Iguro murmured so quietly only she could hear, his mismatched eyes softening.

Mitsuri froze, breath catching in her throat, but her smile that followed was like a sunrise.

The rest of the table let the moment pass respectfully. Kyojurou beamed knowingly; Tengen winked with exaggerated subtlety.

And then, slowly, inevitably, all eyes turned toward the one who had yet to speak.

Giyu.

Still as stone, he sat with his rice bowl half-finished, the flickering lantern light casting long, sharp shadows across his face. His hand moved methodically with the chopsticks, no sign of haste or hesitation. He didn’t look up.

Shinobu tilted her head. “And you?” she asked, her voice lighter than usual, though there was something searching beneath it.

The silence stretched long enough for Sanemi to groan. “Don’t tell me you’re skipping this, too.”

Finally, without lifting his eyes from the table, Giyu spoke.

“If she makes the best salmon daikon,” he said flatly, “I’ll marry her. No questions asked.”

The words hung in the air, absurd in their bluntness.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Mitsuri burst out laughing, almost knocking over her tea. “That’s so specific!!”

Sanemi nearly choked on his tea, sputtering. “You’re actually serious, aren’t you!?”

Giyu, deadpan, finally glanced up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

That did it. Kyojurou roared with laughter so loud it rattled the dishes, while Tengen slapped the table, wheezing with approval. Even Muichiro, normally unbothered by social absurdities, let out a tiny puff of laughter through his nose.

Shinobu pressed a hand delicately to her mouth, trying to contain her smile, and failing. “I suppose it’s true then,” she teased, eyes dancing. “The way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.”

“Salmon daikon,” Giyu reaffirmed gravely, like he was swearing an oath of blood.

The laughter that followed was warmer than the fire in the hearth. Mitsuri leaned against her arm, giggling until tears formed in her eyes. Tengen praised him for his “flamboyant commitment to flavor.” Even Sanemi couldn’t quite stop the smirk pulling at his mouth, despite muttering about how “damn stupid” it was.

And somehow, amidst the teasing, the incredulity, and the roaring laughter, something subtle shifted again at the table.

Not awkwardness. Not suspicion. Not the weary distance that often followed Giyu.

Warmth.

A thread of understanding, tenuous but real, weaves itself between them.

Because for once, Giyu hadn’t left. He hadn’t withdrawn into silence so heavy it made the others restless. He had stayed, he had spoken, and though his answer had been strange and hilariously specific, it had been his. Honest, in its own quiet way.

The meal stretched long into the night. Stories were swapped, more jokes teased out, and seconds, even thirds, of Kyojurou’s cooking disappeared with gusto. Senjurou, drawn by the laughter, shyly joined them midway, quickly welcomed and given the seat of honor beside his brother.

When the beverages ran low and the lanterns began to burn dim, the Hashira found themselves sitting back, sated and tired but oddly content.

For once, the table felt whole.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like a family.

The dinner carried on with lively chatter, second and third servings being passed around, and stories swapped like sparring matches. The table was loud, messy, and full of life, exactly the kind of atmosphere that once might’ve driven Giyu to quietly excuse himself early, slipping away without fanfare like smoke leaving the room.

But tonight, he stayed.

Not because of the conversation, though he did occasionally glance up when someone said something half-interesting, but because of one simple reason:

The salmon daikon was really good.

So good, in fact, that by the time Shinobu glanced at him again, Giyu was already on his third bowl, quietly working through it with the slow determination of someone savoring a rare treat. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even look up. He just ate, with a quiet kind of peace rarely seen on his face.

Kyojurou noticed first. His booming laugh echoed through the estate’s dining room like a drumbeat. “Hahaha! I never thought I’d see the day when Giyu rivals me in appetite! It’s like watching a fish take to land!”

Mitsuri, who had just taken a bite of sweet potato tempura, leaned so far across the table that her hair nearly dipped into her soup. She gasped, cheeks flushing with excitement. “Giyu! I didn’t know you liked food this much! Especially that much!”

“...It’s salmon daikon,” he said bluntly, as though that explained everything. His chopsticks clinked softly against the bowl as he scooped up another bite.

“You’ve eaten more than I,” Mitsuri whispered in awe, as though she had just witnessed a miracle.

“You’re going to explode,” Shinobu added dryly. Her voice carried its usual teasing lilt, but her eyes softened with quiet amusement as she watched him go for another serving. There was something oddly endearing about seeing the normally stoic Water Hashira so absorbed in something as simple as food.

Tengen leaned back dramatically, squinting with exaggerated suspicion as he stroked his chin. The firelight from the hearth glinted against the jewels of his headband. “This is concerning. I’ve seen that expression before… that’s a man who would marry a cook and mean it.”

“No questions asked,” Giyu replied, without hesitation, his voice as flat as the surface of a still pond. His eyes never left the bowl.

For a moment, the table fell quiet in surprise.

Then Sanemi barked out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re serious!? You’re serious!” He leaned forward, staring down the length of the table as though trying to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating. “The hell is wrong with you, Tomioka?”

Giyu lifted the bowl, drank the broth, and set it down with the calm resolve of a man entirely unbothered. “It’s salmon daikon,” he repeated.

“Still going?” Sanemi muttered, jaw tight, as though Giyu’s simple determination was somehow a personal affront.

Muichiro, seated beside Gyomei, tilted his head slightly, his wide eyes fixed on Giyu. His voice came out quiet, almost thoughtful. “Should we be worried?”

“Worried?” Mitsuri echoed, blinking.

“About him exploding,” Muichiro clarified, expression perfectly serene. “He doesn’t usually eat that much. If he bursts, it’ll get on the food.”

Mitsuri nearly choked trying not to laugh, clutching her stomach.

Kyojurou slapped the table, shaking with unrestrained laughter. “Nonsense! Let the man enjoy his meal! This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him! Truly magnificent!” He leaned across, loudly adding another helping to Giyu’s bowl without hesitation.

Iguro, who had been unusually quiet until now, crossed his arms tightly, his pale eyes narrowing. “At this rate, there won’t be any left.” His tone was flat, but the faintest twitch of his mouth betrayed mild irritation, or perhaps jealousy.

Mitsuri waved her hands frantically, giggling nervously. “No, no, there’s still plenty left, Obanai! Don’t worry! Besides, isn’t it kind of sweet seeing him enjoy himself so much?”

“Sweet,” Iguro repeated under his breath, clearly unconvinced.

Shinobu smirked slightly, her eyes never leaving Giyu. “So all this time, the secret to getting Giyu to stay in one place wasn’t a good conversation or friendship… it was radish and fish. Noted.”

That finally earned Giyu’s attention. He paused mid-bite, lifting his gaze toward her with a faint crease between his brows. His tone carried a quiet suspicion. “…Did you plan this?”

Shinobu rested her chin in her hand, tilting her head just so. “If I did, would you hold it against me?”

The silence stretched long enough that Mitsuri leaned forward in anticipation, her chopsticks hovering mid-air.

Finally, Giyu blinked, looked back down at his bowl, and resumed eating.

“…No.”

That one word seemed to ripple through the table louder than any of Sanemi’s outbursts. Mitsuri squealed with delight, clapping her hands together as though she had just witnessed a breakthrough. “Ahh! He actually answered! Shinobu, you got him to answer!”

Shinobu simply smiled, hiding her own small triumph behind the rim of her cup.

Kyojurou grinned so wide it looked as though his face might split in two. “Marvelous! Tonight is truly a night for miracles! Friendship, laughter, and full bellies! What could be better!?”

“Less shouting,” Sanemi muttered, though even he didn’t sound quite as sour as usual.

Tengen clapped his hands together with theatrical flair, his rings glinting in the firelight. “Clearly, we have discovered Giyu’s one true weakness. From now on, every mission briefing will be catered with salmon daikon. We’ll never lose him again!”

“Do not,” Giyu said firmly, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Too late,” Tengen shot back, smirking. “The idea’s already been planted.”

Mitsuri nearly fell over laughing. Muichiro blinked slowly, as if trying to imagine demon slayers carrying bowls of salmon daikon into battle. Even Sanemi couldn’t hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

And Gyomei, quiet, calm, ever the steady anchor, pressed his palms together in gentle reverence. “It brings me joy to witness such peace among us, fleeting though it may be. A moment of warmth shared, even amidst our burdens.” His voice was soft but carried, deep enough to settle the room for a moment.

The fire crackled. Lanterns glowed against the paper walls. Bowls and chopsticks clinked in rhythm with laughter and light-hearted bickering.

And at the center of it all sat Giyu Tomioka, not withdrawn, not vanished into the shadows as he so often did, but present. Quiet, yes. Reserved, certainly. But undeniably there, eating his fill among comrades who had finally coaxed him into staying.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

Because tonight, in his own quiet way, Giyu was part of the table.

And for everyone there, fiery, loud, chaotic as they were, that was more than enough.

The question came after the fourth round of food and a lull in conversation. Tengen, ever the extravagant one, leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head and smirked.

Hymm for the Weekend by Coldplay

“Alright, here’s one for all of you,” he said, voice cutting through the warmth of the dinner. “What’s a technique or… unique thing you have that most people couldn’t use to defeat demons?”

For a moment, only the clatter of chopsticks and muffled chewing filled the room. A few Hashira looked up mid-bite, others gave thoughtful pauses, while some, predictably, seemed ready to answer at once.

Kyojurou was the first. He always was.

“My voice!” he boomed, holding up his cup like a victorious warrior. “HAHAHAHA! It shakes the battlefield! When I shout, even demons flinch!” He let out a thunderous laugh, gesturing with wide arms. “I’ve seen their eyes widen in fear before my blade even touches them. A voice, when paired with conviction, can carry more weight than steel itself!”

His laughter rolled through the room like fire on kindling, and even the quieter Hashira couldn’t help but glance at him with softened expressions.

Mitsuri clapped her hands with delight. “That’s amazing, Kyojurou! It’s so like you to turn something as simple as your voice into a weapon. I think for me… it’s probably my strength! I’m really proud of it.” She smiled bashfully, cheeks warm. “Most people don’t expect me to be so strong, so when I fight demons, that surprise becomes my weapon. It lets me protect others before the demon even realizes what’s happening.”

Shinobu tilted her head ever so slightly, hiding her smile behind her hand. Mitsuri’s sincerity was almost overwhelming in its brightness, but it was genuine, and it left the room softer than Kyojurou’s boisterous energy.

Tengen’s grin widened. He leaned forward on one elbow, the beads in his hair catching the lantern light. “Shinobi training, obviously. I was raised for it. Traps, poisons, silent movement, all things that kill before demons even know they’re being hunted. Flashy and efficient.”

He gave a wink toward Shinobu, who merely lifted a brow, unimpressed, though her lips twitched like she wanted to smile.

Muichiro, who had been staring at his plate with mild disinterest, spoke suddenly. “I move based on instinct, not thought.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “I don’t know why it works, but it always does. Like I’m remembering something I forgot a long time ago. My body just… knows.”

The table stilled for a moment. Muichiro blinked, as if realizing he had said more than usual, then returned to eating his rice without another word.

Gyomei’s deep, steady rumble broke the silence. “Brute strength,” he said simply. His hands, massive and scarred, folded together as though in prayer. “And clarity of soul. That is all I need. Without clarity, strength is wasted. Without strength, clarity cannot protect.”

There was a stillness in his voice that drew the others into it, grounding the table after the highs and lows of the others’ answers.

Then, Iguro spoke. His tone was sharp, concise, each word chosen with the same precision he wielded with his sword. “Disregard the need for stealth. Demons use it constantly, their tricks, their shadows, their hiding. I refuse to grant them that advantage. Light, sound, environment, I expose everything. Strip them of the dark they rely on. Force them to fight in the open where their lies cannot hide them.”

Kaburamaru coiled tighter around his shoulders as if punctuating his point.

Shinobu tapped her cheek thoughtfully, then smiled. “Poisons, obviously. Since I can’t cut a demon’s head off like the rest of you, I simply melt it from the inside out. A demon’s body may regenerate, but its systems still obey the rules of biology. Adaptation is key. Where brute strength fails me, I thrive by… creative means.”

Her tone was sweet, but her smile sharpened like a blade hidden behind flowers.

Then Sanemi snorted, loud and derisive. He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, his scar catching the lamplight. “My blood,” he said flatly. “Marechi. The rarest kind. It makes demons feral. Ruins their control. They lose themselves the second they smell it, desperate, ravenous. Most people can’t even use it; they’d die from blood loss before they ever made it work. But me?” His grin was sharp, humorless. “I bleed just enough to break them. Then I tear them apart while they’re starving.”

The mood shifted, not uncomfortable, but heavy. Sanemi didn’t flinch from it. He just leaned back again, daring anyone to comment.

And then… all eyes turned to Giyu.

He was quietly finishing another bowl of salmon daikon, as if completely unaware that the conversation had cornered him. But when he realized the silence lingered, heavy and expectant, he finally set the bowl down.

“…My blood,” he said.

Sanemi frowned, brows lifting. “What? You got marechi too?”

“No.” Giyu’s voice was flat, almost indifferent. “It’s the opposite.”

That earned him more than one puzzled look.

He finally looked up, calm, quiet, unreadable. “Demons hate my blood. The smell. The taste. They say it’s disgusting. Bitter. Rotting.”

The room hushed.

“…Like what?” Shinobu asked, her tone light, almost teasing, but her eyes were sharp.

Giyu paused. His lips parted, but no words came. He hesitated longer than anyone expected, long enough for Sanemi to frown, for Iguro to tilt his head, for even Mitsuri to look anxious.

Finally, he spoke in a low, almost resentful whisper:

“They say it smells like rust, ash, and sleep.”

Shinobu’s smile faltered. Her eyes widened just slightly. Her hand, still resting at her cheek, slowly lowered to her lap.

“…Rust, ash, and sleep,” she echoed softly.

Shinobu lingered at the table long after Giyu had excused himself. The others tried to move the conversation forward, but the weight of his words still clung to her. It was like smoke, thin, invisible, but impossible to breathe around.

Rust. Ash. Sleep.

The phrases echoed in her mind, circling like restless moths around a flame. When he’d said it, his tone had been too steady, too practiced, as if he had repeated that description countless times in his head and hated every syllable. She could still see the faintest flinch ripple through him, the way his fingers had tensed around his bowl. That tiny reaction had revealed more than his words.

Shinobu pressed her fingertips together under the table, trying to quiet the racing of her own thoughts. Rust and ash, there was no mistaking the chemical bite of it. Sedatives, heavy ones, the kind her mentors in the medical corps had warned her about. The kind reserved for violent prisoners, for raging animals too dangerous to contain. And sleep, the way he said it, almost like an accusation, aligned too well with the dull haze such drugs brought down over one’s body.

Demons called his blood that. Why?

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at the half-finished cup of tea in front of her. She had studied poisons her entire career, memorized symptoms and effects, brewed countless concoctions of venom and antidote. She knew how chemicals reshaped the body, dulled the senses, clouded the mind. And yet, the idea that Giyu’s very blood carried those properties was something else entirely.

It wasn’t poison in the ordinary sense; it wasn’t crafted, brewed, or distilled. It was him.

The realization unsettled her. She thought back to all the little things she had noticed about him over the years: the quiet stillness in his eyes, the sluggish way he sometimes responded in conversation, the way he carried himself as though sleepwalkers’ fog still weighed on his shoulders. Had it always been there? Had she mistaken what was innate for mere personality?

No, she thought. That wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t sluggish. He was deliberate. And demons, the creatures most sensitive to blood, reacted with revulsion. They tasted sedation in his veins, a forced stillness.

Shinobu’s chest tightened.

He had muttered before about hating doctors. She had brushed it off at the time as another of his many barriers, his quiet disdain for social niceties. But now, in the light of his confession, she wondered if it wasn’t disdain but memory. What had he gone through to leave traces of sedation in his blood? Had someone drugged him, treated him like an animal? Or was it some deeper condition that molded him this way?

Her mind, analytical and medical, tried to map the possibilities. Genetic predisposition? Early exposure to chemicals? Trauma altering the chemistry of his body? Each hypothesis led to darker corners of imagination. She knew only one thing for certain: he didn’t want to speak of it.

Shinobu exhaled slowly, disguising the sound as a sigh over her tea. Her outward expression remained the same gentle smile she wore so well, but inside, she was burning with questions she dared not voice aloud. If she pressed him too soon, he would retreat further. If she waited too long, she risked never knowing at all.

What struck her most wasn’t just the biology of it; it was the way he had accepted it. He hadn’t fought to deny it, hadn’t tried to reframe it. He simply said it, in the same blunt tone he used for everything else, as if it were a fact of his existence he had long stopped questioning.

Rust, ash, and sleep.

Sedatives.

That was how demons perceived him. That was what ran in his veins. And yet, he still rose to fight them, still carved through darkness with that stillness, still bore the title of Hashira.

Her hands tightened in her lap, nails biting faintly against her skin.

She hated the thought of him resigning himself to something so… lonely. To bear blood that demons despised, to carry in his body what others might call a defect, a curse, or an anomaly. He didn’t see it as unique; he saw it as something rotten. Something shameful.

Shinobu’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before she forced it back into place.

She understood that kind of thinking. She had lived with her own weakness every day, reminded constantly that her strength was not physical, that she survived only through venom and wit. She had been haunted by the belief that if she were stronger, Kanae would still be alive, that if she had been more, her tsugukos would not have died under her watch. That bitter “if only” had become a silent companion.

And now, seeing Giyu flinch under his own truth, she wondered if he, too, carried a similar burden. A self he couldn’t escape.

Shinobu lowered her gaze, letting the voices of the others wash over her without registering their words. Deep down, she made a quiet decision.

The next time she saw him, really saw him, she wouldn’t let him carry that burden alone. Whether he wanted it or not, she would be there. Not as a doctor. Not even as a fellow Hashira. But as someone who refused to let him believe that his blood, his existence, was nothing more than rust, ash, and sleep.

Even if she had to sit through his silence for hours.

Even if all she could do was keep him company over another bowl of salmon daikon.

Shinobu breathed in, steadying herself, and let the thought anchor her. For tonight, she would let him go. But in the quiet that followed, her resolve grew roots.

She would not let him be consumed by that bitterness alone.

Not while she was still here.

It clicked.

“That’s the smell of sedatives,” she said slowly, voice quiet but carrying. “Heavy ones. The kind used on wild animals. Some… not even legal anymore.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Giyu flinched.

It was faint, so faint most of them wouldn’t have caught it. But Shinobu did. So did Sanemi, and perhaps Iguro.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t say a word.

He muttered something under his breath, too low for anyone to catch, and stood.

The sound of his chair scraping against the floor seemed too loud in the silence.

Without another word, Giyu turned and left the dinner. His footsteps were quiet, even, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands flexed faintly at his sides, betrayed the storm beneath his still surface.

Shinobu’s eyes followed him, narrowing slightly. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she bit back her words.

“…He didn’t deny it,” she said finally, soft but clear.

Tengen’s usual bravado seemed to dim. He tapped the table once with his fingers, but said nothing.

Kyojurou, for once, didn’t laugh. His gaze lingered on the door, his brightness dulled with worry.

Sanemi leaned back with a grunt, arms crossing. “…What kind of life do you live,” he muttered, “that your blood turns into sedative?”

Nobody had an answer.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy, pressing in on them with the weight of things unspoken.

And Shinobu, still staring at the door where Giyu had vanished, was already thinking.

Already piecing together threads she wasn’t sure she wanted to unravel.

Silently, she swore, next time, she’d make Giyu sit through dessert. Not just for food.

But because someone needed to stay by his side.

Even if he refused to ask for it.

A.N. / Alright! And just when you think there was progress in making Giyu socialize, he once again, almost immediately, pushes his walls back up! Conflict time! This was a really interesting part of the story to write, in my opinion, mainly because it involved me having to really dig into each Hashira’s personality, their traits, and trying to find acceptable matches and likelihood stuff regarding them. As for Giyu, I made it so that his blood is the opposite of Sanemi’s, one, to kind of symbolically represent how different and opposing Giyu and Sanemi really are, and two, the disgusting blood will be a point of importance to Giyu, the more we learn about him. It plays a significant role for Giyu and contributes to his socalled “suffering.” This has been very fun to write, mainly because of the unique individual personalities every Hashira has. For example, making Obanai not strictly infatuated with Mitsuri which is a very common misconception. Also, Giyu is not someone who never speaks back or is depressed. He will defend and respond, even if his responses are mostly misunderstood. Anyways, see you soon for Chapter 17.

Final thing to ask, but if there were any tags you feel I should add, what should they be?

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 17:

Oxytocin by Billie Eilish

The warmth of the dinner began to die down as the night pressed on.

Giyu’s departure left a quiet ripple through the gathering, like a sudden wind snuffing out a single candle in an otherwise well-lit room. The clatter of dishes and the murmured rhythm of cleanup helped distract some of the Hashira, but the atmosphere wasn’t the same. The air held a subtle imbalance, a quiet weight pressing down on them all, though none of them chose to name it.

There were glances exchanged, questions that hung suspended between them, unsaid but palpable.

Sanemi muttered under his breath, his jaw tight as he stacked his empty bowl onto the tray with a little too much force. The dull crack of ceramic meeting ceramic cut sharper than it should have.

Iguro remained silent, but Kaburamaru shifted on his shoulders, its little head turning toward the doorway Giyu had left through, as if the serpent sensed something lingering in his absence.

Tengen let out a long, theatrical sigh, his rings catching the low light of the lanterns as he rubbed at his temples. He said nothing extravagant for once, though his silence betrayed him more than words would have. A flicker of curiosity and something like concern passed through his usually flamboyant expression before vanishing behind that trained indifference.

Mitsuri had tilted her head slightly, pink-green strands of her hair slipping over her shoulder. She looked almost puzzled, as though trying to piece together the rules of a puzzle she hadn’t realized existed until tonight. Her wide eyes darted from one Hashira to another, searching for a thread of understanding to cling to.

But Shinobu… Shinobu was quiet in a way that made the others’ silences feel shallow. Her chopsticks rested neatly across her plate, untouched since she had set them down minutes ago. The small cup of dessert in front of her, sweet and untouched, seemed forgotten.

Her gaze was lowered, but she wasn’t seeing the food anymore. She wasn’t even seeing the room. Her thoughts had already left the warmth of the table, trailing after Giyu into whatever distant, shuttered place he had gone.

“Rust, ash, and sleep.”

Her own words echoed back to her, a thread she had tugged at half in jest, half in analysis. She hadn’t expected it to strike anything real. Yet the way his expression had faltered, the minute flinch he had failed to mask, that was no casual reaction. That had been real.

That was pain.

And she couldn’t shake it.

Shinobu’s outward smile remained faint, polite, perfectly practiced as ever. But behind it, her thoughts worked furiously, layering hypothesis on hypothesis, digging through memory and knowledge. What kind of life left such a mark that it bled into the very scent of someone’s blood? What kind of trauma seeped into a body so deeply that even demons recognized it, recoiled from it, and named it aloud?

Rust. Ash. Sleep.

She knew those scents intimately. They were the hallmarks of sedation, of chemical force. Substances used to knock raging beasts unconscious, or to subdue violent patients restrained against their will.

And demons had smelled it in him. Not once, not by chance, but enough that he had remembered it, enough that he had repeated it, as though it was a familiar refrain.

Her mind spun, quick and unrelenting. There were explanations, countless possibilities. Early exposure to toxins? A hereditary quirk of metabolism? Something inflicted on him deliberately?

She remembered his muttered bitterness, I hate doctors. At the time, she had dismissed it as gruff indifference, another wall in his fortress of silence. Now… it sounded different in hindsight. He hadn’t hated doctors because of disdain. He had hated them because of experience, because they had touched his life in a way he had never forgiven.

Her chest tightened at the thought.

If that was true, then the pieces fit in chilling ways. His withdrawn manner, his heavy silences, his gaze always half-lidded if he existed on the edge of sleep. The deliberateness in his movements, the way he seemed constantly half-drifting but never unprepared. What if that wasn’t his personality? What if it was residue, years of residue, etched into his very veins?

The idea made her throat ache.

She glanced up for the briefest moment. Mitsuri was still frowning faintly in concern. Tengen had leaned back, masking his thoughts behind a lazy sprawl of limbs. Iguro sat as still as stone, though Kaburamaru had curled tighter against his neck. Sanemi still wore a scowl, tapping his thumb against the table as though irritation alone could shake off what lingered in the air.

They were all thinking about it. None of them said so.

None of them really understood him.

Shinobu lowered her gaze again. She suspected she didn’t, either, not fully. But she understood enough to know that this wasn’t just an oddity. This was pain.

Pain Giyu had chosen not to explain. Pain he likely had no words for.

Her smile flickered, almost imperceptibly, before she steadied it back into place. To anyone else, she looked calm, pensive maybe, but unfazed. Inside, though, she was restless, unsettled, her heart pulled in two directions at once. Part of her wanted to stand, to follow him immediately, to corner him until he admitted the truth. Another part of her knew he would shut down harder if she did. He was not a man who yielded under pressure. He was one who closed himself off further with every push.

So she remained where she was, her thoughts burning like a hidden flame.

What happened to you, Giyu Tomioka?

The question sat heavy in her chest, unspoken and unanswered. She wanted to ask it, not as a fellow Hashira, not as a doctor, not even as the ever-smiling Insect Pillar, but simply as someone who cared. She hated the thought of him resigning himself to such bitterness, accepting that his very blood was something tainted, unwanted.

That was too familiar. Too close to her own reflections. She, too, had carried years of silent blame. If only she had been stronger, Kanae would still be alive. If only she had been more vigilant, her three tsuguko would not have been lost. Weakness was her constant companion, whispered into her ear every time she caught her breath too quickly, every time she had to rely on poison where others relied on raw strength.

She knew the taste of self-condemnation.

And now she wondered if Giyu knew it too.

The silence around the table deepened. The Hashira were each lost in their own thoughts, though none voiced them. It was easier to keep their concerns hidden beneath ritual calm than to admit worry aloud. Sanemi scowled and shoved another dish into the stack. Iguro’s mismatched eyes narrowed briefly, then dropped to his hands. Mitsuri bit her lip, her shoulders tightening slightly. Tengen, usually incapable of silence, only drummed his fingers against the table as if weighing something he couldn’t name.

They were worried. They wouldn’t admit it, not here, not now. But they were.

Shinobu reached for her teacup at last, though she didn’t drink. The porcelain was warm against her palms, grounding her. She kept her smile small, controlled, even as her eyes softened with something uncharacteristic of her usual playfulness.

The others didn’t need to know what she was thinking. Not yet.

But she made a quiet decision in that moment: she would not let Giyu bear that weight alone. Even if she never pried the truth from him fully, even if all she could do was sit in silence across from him while he ate another bowl of salmon daikon, she would still be there. To remind him, in whatever small ways she could, that he was not defined by the bitterness in his blood.

That he was more than rust, ash, and sleep.

The clatter of another dish broke her thoughts, pulling her back into the present. The night moved on, as nights always did. But her mind didn’t let go.

And though no one spoke of it, the absence of Giyu Tomioka lingered at the table like a shadow that none of them could ignore.

Veil By Akiaura

Giyu was gone.

Far from the estate, far from the warmth of paper lanterns, hot food, and the easy laughter he had never truly believed belonged to him. The voices of the others faded into the distance until the night reclaimed everything.

The air was crisp. The woods whispered. His steps were sharp, precise, barely leaving imprints on the soil as if he wanted no trace of himself left behind. The haori at his shoulders caught the moonlight in fleeting flashes as it shifted in the wind. But no storm stirred the trees.

The storm was inside him.

He could still hear her voice. Clearer than the rustle of leaves, sharper than the calls of night birds:

“That’s the smell of sedatives…”

And that was all it took. One word. A single word.

Sedatives.

The syllables cracked through him like lightning splitting a tree. The sound split something old, something fragile inside him. Behind his eyes, memories pressed in, uninvited and merciless. It was like opening a door he had spent years barricading shut.

In his head, images bled through.

Black walls. Too dark. A room too clean, too empty, where the air smelled of chemicals that burned the back of his throat.

He was smaller then, swallowed by a gown that never fit right.

The floor shone in a way that didn’t allow shadows.

And he… couldn’t move.

His limbs had not belonged to him. His body felt like wet clay, sluggish and foreign. His voice never came out right, muffled, thick, useless.

He remembered the sound of things. That was the worst part.

The click of syringes against metal trays. The slow, heavy thud of locked doors. The measured scrape of shoes belonging to men who never rushed because they never needed to. They always knew he couldn’t run.

And above all, the voices. Always the voices.

“You’re not well, Giyu.”

“Stop talking about demons.”

“Your sister and her fiancée died from an animal. That’s what the police said.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“You need help.”

“Breathe, Giyu. This will calm you down.”

Calm him down. Those words always came before the sting of needles. Before the weight pressed him down into the bed. Before the fog would settle in like swamp water filling his lungs, until he was drowning without thrashing.

And there had been another voice, one that cut deeper than the rest. His uncle’s. Always lingering just outside the door, speaking low to the men in coats.

“He keeps saying it was a demon.”

“He won’t stop.”

“He’s not getting better.”

Sometimes, softer. Regretful. Apologetic. But never to him. Never for him.

Giyu remembered the heat of his own screams as his throat tore raw. He remembered his fingernails clawing at sheets, at wrists pinning him down. The tears he swore would dry into scars.

Then nothing.

Over and over again.

Sedated into silence. The sounds of other people screaming, just like him.

The woods stretched out around him now, tall and skeletal against the pale sky. His fists trembled as he came to a stop beneath them. His breath fogged faintly in the night, ragged despite the calm surface of his face.

He stared at his own hands. They looked steady, pale under the moonlight, though he could feel the faint ghost of trembling in his bones. These hands had slain demons, held a blade against monsters no one else could understand. But still… still, they were stained with something else.

Not blood. Not demon’s ichor.

Memory.

“My blood smells like sedatives,” he whispered to the trees. But even before, his blood was disgusting to demons… Perhaps something before?

The words fell flat, a secret shared with no one but the night. He let out a sound that might have been a laugh, except it carried no warmth. It rasped, bitter and hollow, scraping his throat as though laughter didn’t belong to him anymore.

Of course, demons hated it. That smell. That taste. Rust. Ash. Sleep.

A blood that disgusted them. A blood that silenced them.

He hated it too.

“Of course they hate me,” he said, slower this time. Each word landed with the weight of something already decided long ago. “Everyone does.”

He didn’t mean it as self-pity. He hated self-pity. No, what lived in his voice was something worse. Conviction. A belief that had hardened into truth long ago, like concrete around his ribs.

And yet…

Shinobu hadn’t turned away. She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t dismissed him like so many others had. She looked. She listened. She tried to understand.

That was terrifying.

Because if she knew, really knew, what had been done to him, what he had been forced to endure, the humiliations, the restraint, the endless nights staring into black ceilings because he was told he was “dangerous,” “delusional,” “sick?”

If she knew, would she still stay?

Would anyone?

The others never asked. They didn’t want to. They had their own pain, their own ways of stitching themselves back together. His silence suited them just fine. Silence suited him just fine.

But Shinobu… she noticed.

“That’s the smell of sedatives.”

The way she said it, her tone balancing science and sorrow, it slipped past every wall he had built. And he hated that it hurt. Hated that it left him feeling raw, like an old wound torn open.

Because pain meant something had reached him. And if it could reach him, it could break him.

And yet… somewhere deep inside, beneath all the resentment, beneath the scarring that layered his soul, was a whisper he refused to name:

It meant someone finally noticed.

Giyu’s shoulders slumped. He let his haori fall more heavily against him, as if its weight might ground him. He tilted his head up, staring past the branches that cut ragged shapes into the night sky.

For a moment, he let himself imagine it, what it would feel like not to stand alone in the dark woods. Not to stand alone in himself.

The image flickered, fragile, as if the world would snuff it out the way it always did.

But still… it lingered.

Shinobu’s face, calm yet sharp. Her eyes narrowed, not in dismissal but in thought. In recognition. She had said the word. And he had hated it, but she had said it like someone trying to share its weight.

The night deepened. A branch cracked somewhere in the distance, perhaps an animal, perhaps nothing. Giyu turned his face away from the sky, grounding himself back in shadow.

His fists clenched again, tighter this time. The memories pressed closer, restless phantoms. White rooms. Locked doors. The sting of steel. Voices telling him who he was, what he wasn’t.

Dangerous.

Delusional.

Broken.

He breathed once, deeply, forcing the forest air into his lungs until the bite of pine burned the ghosts back into silence.

Dangerous. Perhaps.

Delusional. No.

Broken… maybe.

But he was still standing. Still breathing. Still cutting down demons with these same poisoned hands.

The silence stretched around him, the woods holding their breath. Giyu lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shadow his eyes.

“Sedatives,” he muttered again. His voice was softer now. Not angry. Not mocking. Just… tired.

And yet, under that tiredness was something else. Something he could not name and refused to let grow.

The faintest hint of what it might mean to be seen.

He stood there until the moon slipped free of the clouds, silver light washing the world in pale clarity. Alone, yes. As he had always been. But not untouched.

Because her words lingered still.

And no matter how far he walked into the night, he could not shake them.

“That’s the smell of sedatives.”

And for the first time in years, the word didn’t just choke him.

It left him wondering if someone might stay to say it again.

November 8 by Reidenshi

The days passed with grim routine.

The demons didn’t stop, and neither did Tomioka Giyu. He moved like a shadow slipping between branches, swift and unrelenting. His steps were soundless, his blade carried the weight of inevitability. The Water Hashira left no demons alive and little of them behind.

Where once his sword danced like a river, flowing with precision and balance, now it ripped like a storm-torn sea, violent and raw. His Fifth Form, once a graceful stroke of mercy, had grown jagged, merciless. Flesh tore. Bones shattered. His silence, once mournful, now burned with unspoken fury.

Blood spattered across his mask, his half-and-half haori. In the pale light of the moon, it all blended into something otherworldly. To the demons he struck down, he was not a man, not even a slayer, but an apparition: faceless, silent, untouchable.

Yet the ones who saw him most closely, the Kakushi, could not shake the fear he left behind.

The Kakushi had always whispered about Tomioka. His aversiveness, his refusal to engage, the way he’d look through them instead of at them. He rarely spoke unless necessity demanded it. He never lingered in their presence longer than required. Even his thanks, when given, were clipped, barely audible.

That was enough to make him unnerved.

But lately, things had changed.

Now, it wasn’t just avoidance. It was fear.

Whispers rippled through the Butterfly Estate, spilling from lips like an infection:

“He doesn’t even look at us anymore. Like we’re not there…”

“He killed a demon right in front of me, kept slashing even when it stopped moving. It was… horrible.”

“I’ve seen Sanemi-sama lose his temper, but Tomioka-sama doesn’t snap. He just… quietly destroys. That’s worse.”

The younger Kakushi, the ones still green, avoided his assignments outright. The veterans gritted their teeth and obeyed, but their eyes followed him warily, as though he might turn his sword on them next.

And then came the muttered remark that traveled farther and faster than any other:

“Honestly… I’d rather work with Shinazugawa-sama than Tomioka.”

It had been spoken in jest, half-exasperation, half-resignation. But others began nodding. Agreeing. Repeating. Until it wasn’t a joke anymore.

When even Sanemi’s name became the “safer” option in comparison, the Hashira themselves began to notice.

The night was dark and moonless when Shinobu Kocho stood at the edge of the Butterfly Mansion’s garden corridor. A lantern glowed faintly at her side, casting warm light over her clipboard and the paper clutched in her hand.

It wasn’t a mission report on demons.

It was a report on Tomioka Giyu.

Her eyes scanned the words carefully, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Increasing aversion from Kakushi. Five individuals have requested reassignment when listed under Tomioka Giyu’s support. One collapsed after witnessing extended combat during post-battle cleanup. Frequent descriptions include: ‘unpredictable,’ ‘brutal,’ ‘relentless.’”

Shinobu tapped the edge of the clipboard against her thigh. Her thoughts turned.

This wasn’t just discomfort. It wasn’t even dislike. This was systemic avoidance.

The Kakushi worked with everyone, every Hashira, every slayer, even the notoriously volatile Shinazugawa. They patched wounds on raging bodies, carried the dismembered, endured curses, and endured grief. They were used to pain. They were used to fear.

And yet… Tomioka’s name was different.

That meant something was wrong.

Something deeper.

Shinobu flipped back through her notes. Mission logs. Medical charts. Attendance slips. Her eyes narrowed.

There it was again.

“No medical evaluation submitted.”

“No injury report.”

“No follow-up check.”

That wasn’t just unusual. It was unacceptable. Protocol demanded that each Hashira undergo examination following significant combat, especially long missions. It wasn’t simply about treatment; it was about ensuring continued readiness.

But Tomioka…

Nothing.

Not one chart.

Not one report.

Her jaw tightened.

She rounded the corridor and found two Kakushi near the garden steps. Their black uniforms were tidy, their white masks resting at their hips. When they saw her approach, both froze, straightening nervously like children caught in disobedience.

“Kocho-sama!” one stammered, bowing.

“Good evening,” Shinobu said, her tone pleasant, as always. But her eyes were sharp. “I have a question for you both. It concerns Tomioka-san.”

The silence that followed was louder than cicadas.

The Kakushi stiffened, exchanging quick glances. Their hands fidgeted.

“W-we didn’t do anything,” one blurted. “He doesn’t even speak to us!”

Shinobu raised a hand delicately, her smile never faltering. “Relax. I’m not here to accuse. I’m here to understand. Tell me, why hasn’t Tomioka-san received a medical examination? He returned from a lengthy mission, didn’t he?”

The two attendants shifted uncomfortably. Their silence spoke volumes.

“…Ma’am,” one said finally, carefully, “we… tried. We sent requests. We logged them properly. But he…”

“He ignored them,” the other finished quietly. “Said he was fine. Said wounds heal. He didn’t want… more hands on him.”

Shinobu’s smile lingered, but her eyes darkened.

More hands on him.

Her mind flickered back.

To the dinner.

To his flinch.

To his voice, hollow and heavy: “My blood smells like sedatives.”

And now…

Hands. The one thing he recoiled from most.

“…I see,” Shinobu said softly, bowing her head in dismissal. The Kakushi exhaled shakily, relief palpable, as they hurried off into the shadows of the estate.

But Shinobu remained still, the night breeze tugging at her haori, her expression unreadable.

Far from the estate, the night pressed close around Tomioka Giyu.

The sky was ink, starless. The woods stretched endlessly, silent but for the crunch of leaves beneath his sandals. His mask was streaked with drying blood, his half-blue, half-green haori clung damp to his back. He was a smear of shadow in the darkness, indistinguishable from it until his blade gleamed in the dim light.

The demons came. They always came.

They lunged with teeth bared, claws slicing through the air, shrieks tearing into the night. And Giyu cut them down.

Not with the gentle inevitability that once defined his style. Not with water’s flowing mercy.

But with ragged fury.

His breathing forms, once crisp, dissolved into improvisation. Blades slammed into flesh again and again, long after the demons’ regenerative flames sputtered out. Limbs scattered. Heads rolled. He carved them as if every strike carried something he couldn’t say aloud.

The forest floor reeked of iron.

When the demons’ bodies finally dissolved into ash, Giyu stood panting in the silence. The mask hid his face, but his shoulders trembled. His hand clenched so tightly around the tsuka of his blade that his knuckles whitened, veins rising.

And then, as the ash floated away, he laughed.

It was hollow. Brief. A broken sound that belonged to no one.

“Maybe Shinobu was right… Everyone hates me,” he muttered under his breath.

The woods didn’t answer.

Back at the estate, Shinobu stood under the lantern glow, watching the fireflies spark in the night. Her thoughts refused to rest.

Tomioka Giyu.

Always quiet. Always distant. Always apart.

But now, he was unraveling. She could see it. The Kakushi could see it. Even the other Hashira, though they pretended otherwise, could sense the cracks forming.

He didn’t trust his hands to touch him. Didn’t trust healers to mend him. Didn’t trust anyone to be near him.

And yet, he was throwing himself against demons more savagely than she had ever seen.

As if fighting them wasn’t a duty. As if it were released.

Her eyes lowered, her voice slipping into the night like a whisper.

“…What happened to you, Tomioka-san?”

Days after the dinner that had ended not with laughter, nor even with the content silence of full stomachs. It ended with unease, the kind that seeped into bones and stayed long after the lanterns dimmed.

Giyu’s absence and notoriety became increasingly present. Where he had sat, the tatami mat seemed colder, a hollow left in his shape. Mitsuri stared out onto the sky with her lips pressed together, as though if she blinked too hard, she’d see him still sitting there, quiet and distant, but at least there.

The others carried themselves outwardly as if nothing had happened. Rengoku, ever the flame, even smiled when the Kakushi would pass by during his missions. But his fire was dimmer, the warmth in his voice lacking its usual brilliance. It was the sort of smile given to reassure others rather than himself.

They were Hashira. They didn’t flinch easily. And yet, tonight, when the word sedative had left Shinobu’s lips and Giyu had reacted like a wound torn open, they had all felt something ripple beneath the surface. Something they didn’t understand.

It wasn’t until days after, when the Kakushi would move back and forth, and communication spread, did some of the Hashira lingered. None spoke at first, though each could sense the thoughts weighing on the others.

It was Tengen who finally broke the silence. He leaned back against the wooden post, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the shadows swaying outside.

“His pulse,” he said quietly, his usual flamboyance gone. “It changed.”

The others turned.

“When Kocho mentioned sedatives, his heart spiked,” Tengen continued. His voice carried no performance, no playful tilt; it was grave. “Tomioka normally moves through life with a rhythm so slow it’s like he’s half asleep. But that moment? It was like a drum in a warband. Sharp. Heavy. Fear.”

Mitsuri hugged her knees, listening. Her eyes softened. “So it really hurt him, didn’t it? Not just… a memory. Something deeper.”

Rengoku’s fists were clenched against his thighs, the fabric of his uniform straining at the knuckles. He hadn’t said much since Giyu left, but his eyes burned with quiet intensity.

“It is not weakness to fear,” he said at last, his voice carrying its usual strength but edged with thought. “What troubles me is that Tomioka has borne this alone. For it to shake him so…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Gyomei sat in stillness, his massive form hunched slightly as his prayer beads slipped through his fingers. The blind Hashira’s expression was unreadable, yet his silence carried more weight than any words.

Finally, he rumbled: “His spirit trembles. I felt it long before this night. He bears a burden unseen. Tonight only revealed the cracks.”

The words landed heavily.

Mitsuri shifted uneasily. “The Kakushi have been whispering too,” she admitted. “They’re scared of him lately. They say he pushes them away, won’t let them near his wounds, lashes out if they try. Even Sanemi doesn’t scare them like that.”

Rengoku’s head snapped toward her. “He refuses treatment?”

“Yes,” Shinobu’s voice cut in, though she was standing a few paces away, half-hidden in the corridor’s lantern glow. She had lingered, clipboard against her chest, though she hadn’t intended to join. But she couldn’t remain silent when the matter was dragged forward.

“The Kakushi told me he won’t allow them to touch him. Not for wrapping wounds. Not for basic examination. He avoids it all.”

“That…” Mitsuri’s voice wavered. “That isn’t good.”

“It is dangerous,” Gyomei corrected softly. “A wounded man who refuses healing only invites his own end.”

Rengoku’s jaw tightened. “Tomioka fights harder than most. He’s disciplined. Yet… why would he reject the help of comrades?”

Tengen exhaled sharply. “Because to him, it isn’t helpful. That word, ‘sedative,’ did more than sting. It pulled him somewhere. Somewhere none of us has seen. Somewhere dark.”

For a long time, no one spoke. Each Hashira wrestled with their own recollections of Giyu, the quiet man, the aloof shadow among them. Always present, never truly with them. The swordsman who fought like water but seemed to choke on his own silence.

Mitsuri broke it first, voice trembling: “I don’t think Tomioka-san believes he deserves to be helped.”

Everyone looked at her.

She fiddled with her sleeve, cheeks flushed but eyes uncharacteristically serious. “He… he never smiles. He never eats with us unless someone pulls him into it. And when he talks, it feels like he expects us to push him away. Like he’s waiting for it.”

Tengen tilted his head, considering. “You’re saying he doesn’t think he belongs.”

Mitsuri nodded, hugging her knees again. “Yes. That’s why he fights so hard, isn’t it? Like if he destroys enough demons, maybe it’ll… I don’t know, make up for something?” Mitsuri was basing this on how well she knew Iguro.

She didn’t know the whole details, but she could feel the baggage that held Iguro down. That was there for Giyu as well.

Her words struck deeper than she realized.

Rengoku’s expression faltered for just a heartbeat. The Flame Hashira, always radiant, always burning, felt a chill flicker through him. “To fight only for atonement… that is no way to live. That is a man burning himself down, not carrying the flame forward.”

Gyomei’s hands paused on his beads. “And yet… perhaps he knows no other way.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Each of them pictured Giyu, not as the Hashira they stood beside, but as the man who had walked out into the night, swallowed by shadows, unable to look anyone in the eye.

Tengen was the first to move. He pushed off the post and strode toward the garden, hands clasped behind his head, though his eyes were sharp. “We can’t pretend this doesn’t matter. If he keeps unraveling, it won’t only be his life in danger. He’s Hashira. His collapse could cost others theirs.”

Rengoku rose to his feet as well, shoulders squared. “Then we must not let him bear it alone. Whatever shadows haunt him, we face them together.”

Mitsuri’s eyes shone with worry. “But… what if he won’t let us? What if he keeps running away?”

Gyomei lifted his head, though his eyes remained closed. “Then we must stand close enough that he cannot run far. Even if he refuses our hands, he will know we are here. That knowledge alone can anchor a lost soul.”

Shinobu lingered, gaze on the floor. She said nothing more, but her mind churned. She thought of the way he had flinched at her words, the way his pulse had surely thundered in his chest as Tengen described. She thought of the Kakushi’s reports, “more hands on him,” and what that revealed, if one read between the lines.

A picture was forming. A cruel one. And though she did not yet know its full shape, she felt its edges cut deep.

The night stretched on. One by one, the Hashira dispersed to their quarters, though none found sleep easily.

Rengoku stared at the ceiling of his room, fists clenched, vowing silently that he would not let Tomioka drift further away.

Tengen sat cross-legged, almost meditating in his estate, which was something he rarely did. He listened to the faintest sounds of the estate, the beating of hearts, the rustle of sheets, and noted with unease that Tomioka’s was not among them. The man had not returned.

Mitsuri curled under her blankets, eyes wet, whispering to herself that she’d try harder to make him smile next time. Even if it was just a little. Even if it took years.

And Gyomei prayed. For Giyu’s soul. For the strength to guide him back from whatever pit he was slipping into. For the patience to wait until Giyu himself reached for their hands.

But outside the estate, Giyu fought.

He fought not only demons, but himself. His mask and haori blended into the darkness, his sword carving jagged arcs rather than flowing streams. Each strike was ragged, as though his body sought to bleed out all the memories clawing at him.

When dawn came, the countryside bore witness to his storm. Demon corpses shredded, the soil soaked and torn.

And yet, in the wreckage, the man himself remained silent. Unseen. Unheard. Carrying scars the others could only begin to guess at.

But within the Butterfly Mansion, four Hashira and one doctor knew one truth:

Tomioka Giyu was unraveling.

And if they did nothing, the shadow that walked among them might be consumed entirely.

A.N. / What a chapter! We have some more stuff to talk about with Giyu. I was a bit worried about revealing information, but holy, I am on Chapter 17! So I feel this is a nice time to actually reveal some stuff. The weekend is approaching, and I have been enjoying the remainder of my summer, so uploads on a daily basis may get more difficult. I’ve seen people wanting me to include the Kamados, and I decided that it would be a good idea. The only problem I have is that I begin to ask myself, what would be a good place to end the story? Should I end it at Giyu’s final happiness? When he feels he is free from his burden and trauma, or at the literal end of his life? It brings up quite the conflicting purpose and pace for me. And it can really determine how long this story as a whole will be. So, I will have to think carefully about it. Regardless, I will see you all for Chapter 18! Got an idea for that chapter already, as we will see Shinobu investigate a bit more. Thank you, and bye!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 18:

Reflections by The Neighbourhood

The evening wind curled through the Butterfly Estate like a hush meant to silence restless thoughts. But Shinobu Kocho was not one to be easily stilled.

Not when something was missing.

Not when someone like Tomioka Giyu had managed to slip past every layer of documentation, conversation, and familiarity she relied on to understand those around her.

It started with the reports.

Then came the Kakushi’s fear.

Now, the deeper she looked… the more nothing she found.

Giyu Tomioka, the Water Hashira, technically had a file. But it was thin, unnervingly thin. A list of missions completed, a few notations of injuries, and a single line in the medical registry:

"Cleared for field duty. No immediate psychological hindrance to combat.”

(Signed: ???, Date: …Unreadable due to ink smudge.)

No name. No official checkup. No origin.

It was maddening.

Shinobu sat at her desk, the paper lantern beside her casting a thin, wavering glow across the mess of scrolls she had pulled from the archives. Her tea had gone cold some time ago, the steam long vanished, but she hadn’t touched it in hours. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she flipped through the sheets again, hoping some overlooked clue might appear if she studied them long enough.

It was unlike her to waste time. She prided herself on efficiency, on clarity, on precision. But the file mocked her with its gaps, daring her to admit she had found nothing.

Her mind returned to the dinner, how Giyu had stiffened, how he had left. And the words that lingered most of all: rust, ash, and sleep.

Shinobu tapped her nail against the edge of the page, sharp and restless. She had said it almost offhandedly, curious to see his reaction. She hadn’t expected it to land like a blow. His expression had flickered, almost imperceptibly, but her eyes had caught it. A flash of recognition. A wound reopened.

She closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose.

What are you hiding, Tomioka?

The Butterfly Estate was a place built on routine. The shuffle of Kakushi footsteps in the hall, the soft rustle of paper sliding doors, the faint scent of herbs from the infirmary. Normally, it soothed her, a constant rhythm beneath her work. But tonight, the familiar noises only underscored her frustration.

She leaned back in her chair, gaze fixed on the ceiling beams.

Her first instinct was irritation. Tomioka had a talent for evasion, for silence. He gave so little of himself to others that it felt less like shyness and more like refusal. That silence was a wall, and Shinobu despised walls. She preferred directness, answers, evidence, facts. Not these shadows, not this blank paper.

But beneath the irritation, something else stirred. Something heavier.

She remembered the way the Kakushi whispered about him. The way they avoided his presence, as though his shadow chilled them. She remembered how the other Hashira spoke of him: unreliable, difficult, withdrawn. She remembered Sanemi’s scorn, Obanai’s suspicion, even Rengoku’s awkward attempts to warm him with kindness, only to be met with emptiness.

And she remembered the little things, the cracks in the mask: the faraway look when his name was called, the way he seemed to hold himself as though waiting for a blow.

Shinobu was no stranger to pain hidden beneath polite faces. She had spent years crafting her own mask after Kanae’s death, wearing sweetness where bitterness might have consumed her. She knew the art of pretending all too well.

But Giyu… he didn’t even pretend. He simply… disappeared. Even when sitting among them, even when speaking, his presence was like a ghost, hollowed, as though part of him had never left that day his sister was taken.

Her jaw tightened.

She had pried into many lives. Sometimes, the knowledge saved them. Sometimes, it allowed her to predict, to heal, to correct. Information was power, and she wielded it to keep her family alive. But Tomioka resisted that reach. His silence was more than habit, it was armor.

And what kind of man needed armor that strong, even among allies?

The lantern hissed faintly as a moth brushed its surface. Shinobu blinked, grounding herself, and turned back to the file.

A list of missions. A handful of injuries, all logged with frustrating brevity. “Fractured ribs.” “Deep lacerations.” “Minor concussion.” No elaboration. No physician’s name attached.

She pulled another scroll from the pile, comparing dates. Other Hashira had thick, multi-page records, detailed reports from Kakushi, medical notes,and  observations of behavior after traumatic battles. Hers were immaculate, naturally. Rengoku’s carried flourishes of praise, full accounts of his unshakable morale. Even Sanemi’s were thick, a litany of wounds and disciplinary warnings.

But Tomioka’s?

Like water slipping through her fingers.

She closed the file again, fingertips pressing hard against the cover. Her smile, thin, brittle, curved upward in reflex.

“Maddening.”

The word was soft, but her tone was sharp.

Why did it unsettle her so much?

Because she could not place him. Because even now, after years of working alongside him, she didn’t know if he was steady or broken, trustworthy or fragile.

Because…

She exhaled again, letting the thought form.

Because she had seen enough of trauma to know its weight. And she had felt it when he left the room, when the word sedative landed like a stone in his chest. She had felt the tension ripple across the table, seen Mitsuri’s confusion, Tengen’s raised brow, Gyomei’s subtle shift of prayer beads. They had all felt it, even if none named it.

And Shinobu hated being left to guess.

She rose from her desk, pacing lightly across the room. Her haori trailed at her ankles, the butterfly pattern flickering in the lantern light. Her mind refused to still.

She thought of Kanae again, Kanae, who had once told her gently that some people hid not to deceive, but to survive. That some wounds were so deep, so poisonous, they could not be spoken aloud.

But Kanae had always believed in reaching through, in warmth. Shinobu was not Kanae. Her patience was thinner, her methods sharper. She did not believe silence should go unchallenged.

And yet…

She stopped at the doorway, looking out at the garden where night blossoms stirred in the wind.

And yet, she could not deny the unease in her chest. That sense of something wrong, something coiled so tightly within Tomioka that even the air around him seemed brittle.

“Rust, ash, and sleep.”

The words came unbidden. She whispered them into the empty hall.

Rust, blood long oxidized. Ash, something burned to nothing. Sleep, a forced quiet, not natural rest.

Not the scent of someone living freely. Not the scent of someone at peace.

But of someone burdened, poisoned, restrained.

Her hand lifted, fingers curling lightly against her lips.

What had been done to him?

And why did no one know?

The lantern sputtered; her tea had grown entirely cold. The records lay strewn across her desk, but she knew she would find no more tonight. She had combed through them thrice already, and the file remained as empty as it had been at the start.

Yet her resolve did not dim.

If the paper failed, she would turn to people. To whispers, to fragments of memory, to anything the Corps might remember of Tomioka before he became the ghost among them. She would follow the threads until they gave her something solid to hold.

Because now… now it wasn’t just curiosity. It was a necessity.

He was one of them, one of the nine pillars holding their world together. If one pillar cracked, if his silence concealed something that might one day break him in battle, they all risked collapse.

And more than that…

Shinobu touched the edge of her haori, letting her hand still there.

More than that, she thought of his eyes. Distant, yes. Closed off, yes. But not empty. Never empty. Something was there, behind the water’s surface. Something fragile. Something he protected with silence.

And for reasons she did not yet care to name, Shinobu found herself unwilling to let it vanish unseen.

The wind moved again through the estate, brushing the blossoms, carrying the faintest scent of night herbs from the gardens. Shinobu drew in a slow breath, then released it.

Tomorrow, she would resume her duties. Tomorrow, she would smile as always, command the Kakushi, tend the injured, and maintain her mask. But tonight… she allowed herself the truth.

She was maddened by Giyu Tomioka. Maddened by his silence, by his evasion, by the emptiness of his file. Maddened by the questions he left in his wake.

But more than that, she was unsettled.

Because for the first time in a long while, Shinobu Kocho did not simply want to know someone.

She wanted to understand.

And Giyu Tomioka remained the one soul she could not yet reach.

She tried Kagaya Ubuyashiki first.

The Master of the Demon Slayer Corps sat calmly in his shaded room, Amane by his side. His smile, as always, was warm, even if his body seemed weaker than the last time she’d seen him.

“I appreciate you seeing me,” Shinobu said with a respectful bow.

“You are always welcome, Shinobu,” Kagaya murmured gently. “What troubles you?”

She was direct. “Tomioka-san.”

Kagaya’s expression didn’t change. But Amane glanced at her husband briefly, then lowered her eyes.

“I’ve reviewed the medical and psychological documentation,” Shinobu continued. “There’s… almost nothing. No formal exam. No background. I’ve tried asking the Kakushi, and they seem hesitant.”

Silence.

“…Master,” she pressed. “Why is that?”

Kagaya smiled softly, almost wistfully. “Because Giyu is a difficult man to follow. A mountain of silence.”

“That doesn’t explain why there’s no history.”

“No,” Kagaya agreed. “But some mountains refuse to be mapped.”

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed. “Then he refused his own medical examination?”

“He refused many things,” Kagaya said calmly. “A position. A title. Rest. Sleep. Comfort. But most of all, he refused to be seen.”

“…You allowed that?”

“I do not force Giyu to do what he does not wish to,” he answered. “That is all.”

Shinobu turned slightly toward Amane. “Did he ever say why?”

But Amane remained quiet, her gaze politely lowered.

It was a dead end.

A dead end with a locked door.

Later, Shinobu found herself sitting under the veranda, a cup of tea untouched beside her. The sun had begun to dip low, gold shadows stretching long across the polished wood.

She stared at her notes. All of them… about nothing.

Tomioka Giyu:

• Became Hashira shortly after Kanae
• Quiet. Reclusive. Rarely speaks unless directly addressed.
• Brutally effective in battle.
• Uncooperative with Kakushi.
• Refuses checkups.
• No known background.
• No mentor.
• No family.

The cup shook slightly in her hand.

Who even are you?

The first thing Shinobu realized, as Kagaya’s words faded into the stillness of the room, was how quietly frustrating silence could be when it came from him. Kagaya Ubuyashiki had a way of making silence feel like a blessing, like a prayerful pause before wisdom was spoken. But this silence… this silence was evasive. Protective.

And it made Shinobu’s chest tighten.

She bowed, thanked him, and excused herself with a calm expression, because that was what one did in Kagaya’s presence. But when she stepped into the Butterfly Estate courtyard, her hand clenched too tightly around her clipboard, and her knuckles blanched white beneath the sheen of evening light.

It wasn’t an answer. Not really. Kagaya hadn’t lied; she would have known. But he had not told her everything either. That much was clear.

Later, sitting beneath the veranda, tea cooling untouched at her side, Shinobu flipped again through her pitiful collection of notes. A single sheet, half-filled. A man’s life, condensed to less than the summary of a mission briefing.

Tomioka Giyu.

Hashira. Slayer. A shadow standing just at the edge of her periphery. Always there in battles, and yet not. Always present at meetings, and yet so utterly absent. She could picture him clearly, sitting in his usual place at the council table, his arms folded in his sleeves, eyes cast low, that unreadable heaviness in his bearing.

A mountain, Kagaya had called him.

But even mountains had ridges, slopes, stones, and caves. They could be mapped. Traveled. Climbed.

Giyu, however… nothing.

No childhood record. No notes of when he joined the Corps, or under whose hand he trained. No detailed medical history. Not even something as small as handwriting samples in old reports. She had more recorded history on slayers who had fallen in their first year than she did on one of her fellow Hashira.

The paper trembled in her grip, and Shinobu let out a slow, quiet breath. She forced her hand flat, pressing the notes against her thigh to still them.

“Why does this unsettle me so much?”

It wasn’t as though she particularly liked Tomioka. He was curt, aloof, and stubborn. Their conversations were few and never pleasant. He treated her sharp remarks like rain against stone, barely noticing, never reciprocating. And yet…

And yet.

There had been something in his voice at the dinner. Something in the way he flinched when the sedatives were mentioned, in the way his eyes narrowed as though against some invisible touch. The words that had slipped out of his mouth unguarded, I don’t like demons, especially when they prod into my mind.

He hadn’t meant to say it. Shinobu knew enough of reading between the lines, of listening to the words unsaid, to know he had spoken more truth than he intended. And that truth had lodged itself into her thoughts like a splinter.

She sipped at the tea at last, though it had long since gone lukewarm. The bitterness only made her frown deepen.

If Giyu’s silence had been nothing but stoicism, she could ignore it. If his coldness had been nothing but a personality quirk, she could dismiss it. But it wasn’t. It was shielding. Hiding. A refusal to be seen.

Which meant there was something worth hiding.

She tried the Kakushi again.

The ones assigned to him, the ones who had been unlucky enough to serve under his hand. Each of them reacted the same way, stiffening at his name, lowering their voices, glancing around as if his shadow might fall on them for even speaking of him.

“He… he doesn’t let us wrap his wounds,” one whispered, twisting nervous fingers. “Last time I tried, he shoved me back. Not hard, but he said no one should touch what isn’t theirs.”

Another added, “He never goes to the infirmary. Says injuries mend on their own. He doesn’t even let us stitch shallow cuts. He just… walks away.”

“And if you press?” Shinobu asked.

The Kakushi exchanged nervous looks. One swallowed.

“Then he glares. Not loud. Not angry. Just… that look. Like you’re nothing. Like you shouldn’t be there. It’s worse than shouting.”

Worse than shouting.

Even Sanemi’s fury, volatile as it was, could be understood. Could be matched. Tomioka’s quiet rejection, though, that hollow, unflinching way of pushing people out without raising his voice, that unnerved them.

When Shinobu dismissed the Kakushi, she stood in the hall for a long moment, staring at the painted screens before her. Her hand tapped absently against her clipboard, her jaw tight.

The pieces were there. Each of them jagged, small, unfit to align neatly. But she could feel the outline of something terrible in their shape.

Giyu avoided treatment. Giyu avoided touch. Giyu avoided being seen.

And Giyu destroyed demons with a brutality that unsettled even hardened attendants.

What kind of man lived like that?

What kind of wound could grow so deep that even now, years later, it bled beneath every action?

That night, Shinobu couldn’t sleep.

The Butterfly Estate was quiet, lulled by crickets and the occasional sweep of night wind against shoji screens. Her sisters-in-arms slept soundly in their rooms, healers and attendants curled into futons after long hours of tending to the Corps.

But Shinobu sat at her desk, lamp casting dim amber light across the scattered notes she had recopied for the third time.

Mission logs. Giyu’s name was there, always written as though someone else had filed it on his behalf. No handwriting of his own. No letters. No additional commentary.

Injury records. Sparse, incomplete. Always “self-treated” or “declined medical attention.”

Psychological checks. Blank. Only the single forged entry.

She dipped her brush in ink, hesitated, then wrote at the top of a fresh sheet:

Tomioka Giyu – Missing Pieces

Her strokes were sharp. Precise.

She listed each gap, each unanswered question, each void.

Who trained him?

Where was he from?

Why is there no history of his family?

Why won’t he allow himself to be touched?

What happened to him before he became Hashira?

Her hand stilled on the last question.

And beneath it, almost against her will, the brush moved again:

What am I afraid of finding?

The ink bled slightly into the paper, spreading like a dark bruise.

Shinobu set the brush aside and leaned back, letting the silence of the night press in around her.

Her fear wasn’t irrational. She knew what it was. She had felt the faint tremor in her chest when she’d heard him mumble about blood that smelled of rust and ash and sleep. She had seen the way his jaw clenched at the word sedative.

Whatever haunted him wasn’t some trivial dislike. It wasn’t mere stoicism. It was deeper. Older. And it bore the unmistakable weight of trauma.

She, of all people, recognized it.

Shinobu’s hand pressed lightly to her chest, over the place where old pain still lived, where her sister’s death had carved something permanent. She knew the way grief reshaped people. How it made them unrecognizable even to themselves.

And yet, Giyu’s grief, or whatever it was, was something she couldn’t even name.

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

She rose then, sliding open the veranda door to let the cool night air rush in. The estate gardens spread before her in shadowed bloom, the wisteria rustling softly in the dark.

The moonlight pooled across the paths, silver on stone, pale against the branches.

Somewhere beyond that horizon, she knew, Tomioka was still out there. Fighting, killing, pushing himself through another endless night without rest. His mask of calm stretched too tight across something raw and wordless beneath.

She folded her arms around herself, not against the chill, but against the hollow unease that had lodged in her ribs.

She whispered into the quiet, almost to herself:

“Who even are you, Tomioka-san?”

The night, of course, gave no answer.

But Shinobu couldn’t shake the sense that until she found one, she wouldn’t know peace.

And perhaps neither would he.

Je te laisserai des mots by Patrick Watson

She tried Tengen next. He was lounging in a garden, polishing one of his blades while one of his wives braided his hair. He grinned when she approached.

When he spotted Shinobu, he grinned widely, his teeth flashing brighter than the steel he polished.

“Kocho! Finally tired of Giyu’s brooding and ready for flashier company?”

Shinobu didn’t return the grin. Instead, she inclined her head politely, hands folded in her sleeves. “I have a question.”

Tengen raised a brow. “Ooh, serious tone. Ask away.”

“Do you know anything about Tomioka-san before he became a Hashira?”

For just a moment, Tengen’s hand stilled against the cloth, polishing his blade. He blinked, and the grin dimmed slightly before returning. “Ah. That guy.”

Shinobu’s eyes flicked to him, sharp even in the soft glow of fireflies. “Yes. That guy.”

“Hmm…” Tengen leaned back, twirling the blade in his hand with practiced ease, his gold eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Do I know anything, huh? Not much. Didn’t train with him, if that’s what you’re hoping. Different regions, different paths. But I do remember when he popped up.”

Suma perked up behind him. “You mean Giyu-san? The quiet one who barely eats at dinners?”

“That’s the one,” Tengen said, flashing her a quick smile before returning his gaze to Shinobu. “It was right after Kanae got promoted, actually. Then, bam, suddenly there’s Tomioka, standing there in the uniform, already a Hashira. Out of nowhere. No noise, no buildup, just appeared.”

Shinobu frowned slightly. She remembered that time too, though dimly. Kanae had spoken of the new Water Hashira only once, describing him as “reserved, but earnest.” After that, there had been silence, as if even Kanae had been unable to draw him out.

Tengen flipped his blade, inspecting the gleam of its edge under the lantern light. “I think he would’ve gotten the title earlier, honestly. He was already strong, already meeting the standards. But… he was difficult.”

“Difficult?” Shinobu pressed.

“Yeah.” Tengen shrugged, casual as though discussing the weather. “Kept turning things down. Missions, recognition, and help. Thought he didn’t deserve it, I guess? Always muttering stuff about ‘shouldn’t be here,’ or whatever. Really brought the mood down. Doesn’t fit the part of a Hashira at all, right?” He chuckled. “Not exactly flamboyant material.”

Suma tugged at his braid lightly. “Tengen-sama, don’t be mean. Tomioka-san just seems lonely.”

“Lonely, gloomy, same thing,” Tengen retorted with a grin. But his eyes, as they flicked back to Shinobu, were more serious. “Point is, he was always like that. From the very start. Didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t even want the title, if the rumors were true.”

Shinobu tilted her head slightly. “And yet he accepted.”

“Eventually.”

“Why?”

Tengen paused, twirling the blade between his fingers, the fireflies catching in arcs of silver light. For a long moment, the only sounds were the gentle splash of koi in the pond and Suma’s quiet humming.

“Dunno,” Tengen said at last. “Maybe someone twisted his arm. Maybe he couldn’t avoid it any longer. But if you ask me, Kocho…” His grin slipped, turning thoughtful, almost sharp. “I think the guy believes he’s walking on borrowed time. Like he’s not supposed to be here at all.”

Shinobu’s brows drew together. “Borrowed time?”

“Yeah.” Tengen set his blade aside, propping it carefully against the bench before leaning forward. His voice lowered, the bravado dimmed, and for once his tone carried weight without spectacle. “You’ve seen him fight. You’ve seen how he moves. Doesn’t fight like someone aiming to live, does he? Fights like someone already dead, just trying to burn up the last of what’s left.”

The words sank deep, and Shinobu felt something cold curl in her chest. She thought of the Kakushi’s trembling reports, of the way Giyu had flinched from a casual touch at dinner, of the violent precision with which he had cut down demons.

“…Anything else?” she asked quietly.

Tengen leaned back again, his grin sliding lazily back into place as though the moment of sharpness had never been. “Nothing concrete. Guy’s like a fog, you see the outline but never the shape.” He gave a careless shrug. “Why? You writing a report on him?”

Shinobu’s gaze slipped sideways, her lips pursing faintly. “…Because there is no shape.”

For a time, they both sat in silence, broken only by Suma’s gentle fussing with the braid and the cicadas humming beyond the garden walls.

But Shinobu’s mind was restless.

Fog. Borrowed time. Refusing recognition. Out of nowhere.

Piece by piece, the fragments built a picture that was no picture at all, an absence, a hollow. Tomioka Giyu, the Water Hashira, was nothing more than silence stitched into human form. No history. No origin. No records. Not even a medical file worth its ink.

Her hands curled slightly in her lap. It was more than suspicious; it was dangerous. For someone in their position, surrounded by demons and entrusted with the Corps’ survival, every Hashira’s history mattered. Their health, their psychology, their resilience. She knew nearly everything about the others, their apprenticeships, their tragedies, their habits.

But Giyu? He was foggy.

A mountain of silence.

And that silence was starting to rot.

She rose gracefully, bowing her head to Tengen. “Thank you. That will be all.”

He blinked, then laughed. “That’s it? Not even going to stay for tea? Come on, Kocho, you’ll ruin my image if people think I can’t hold your attention longer than three minutes.”

“Perhaps another time,” she said politely, though her tone was cool, distracted.

She turned and walked back through the perfumed garden, her sandals clicking softly against the stone path. Fireflies danced in the corners of her vision like sparks in the dark.

Behind her, Tengen leaned back on the bench with a sigh, muttering under his breath. “That woman’s going to dig herself into trouble.”

Suma tied the end of his braid and kissed his cheek. “She worries about him.”

“He’s not the only one she should be worrying about,” Tengen replied, picking up his blade once more. But his grin was dimmer now, his gaze distant, as though the fog he’d described lingered even in his mind.

Shinobu walked away from the Uzui estate with her thoughts tangled and restless. The moon hung low, casting silver bars of light through drifting clouds. Each step of her sandals across the quiet road echoed louder than she expected, as though the world itself had hushed to listen.

She replayed Tengen’s words over and over. They matched what she had already suspected, yet hearing them aloud only deepened the unease pooling in her chest.

No history. No roots. A man who seemed to exist only from the moment he became Hashira, and nothing before.

That was impossible.

Every Hashira had a story. Every one of them bore scars, tragedies, apprenticeships, and teachers. Mitsuri’s background was known, her passion clear. Rengoku’s lineage was storied and proud. Gyomei’s records detailed his temple, his disciples. Even Sanemi, brash and brutal, had his younger brother known to some.

But Giyu? Nothing. Only fog.

Her sandals stopped against the path, her hand tightening on the strap of her haori.

Because there is no shape.

The words echoed like a whisper that refused to die.

She thought of Kagaya’s cryptic answer, of Amane’s quiet silence, of the Kakushi who trembled even at his name.

And beneath it all, always beneath it, she thought of his eyes.

Distant. Hollow. Like someone who had drowned long ago and simply refused to sink.

Shinobu drew a steadying breath and resumed walking, the night wind tugging gently at her hair.

If Giyu Tomioka truly refused to be seen… then she would find a way to see him anyway.

Even if she had to tear through fog and silence to do it.

Even if what waited on the other side was something she wasn’t ready to face.

The air outside the Flame Estate was alive with the sounds of training. The dull thud of wooden swords meeting, the shouts of young slayers in practice, and the steady rhythm of feet on packed earth made the grounds hum with disciplined energy. Shinobu Kocho stood at the edge, her hands folded neatly inside her sleeves, her gaze tracking the bright figure at the center of it all.

Kyojurou Rengoku’s presence was unmistakable; his laughter thundered across the yard as he encouraged the trainee he sparred with, his movements sharp and decisive despite the cheer that radiated from him. His haori flared dramatically as he pivoted, wooden sword cracking against his opponent’s guard. And when the exchange ended, his booming praise was as bright as fire itself.

It was typical of him, Shinobu thought faintly. Kyojurou lived like a flame, illuminating, warm, and consuming all at once. But it wasn’t that quality that had brought her here today. She had questions, ones that had grown thornier and sharper with every dead end she’d encountered.

When he finally noticed her, he lifted his head with his usual exuberance. “Shinobu! What a joy to see you!”

Her polite smile came automatically. “Rengoku-san. You seem busy.”

“There is always time for my comrades!” he declared, clapping his trainee on the shoulder and dismissing the boy with words of encouragement. Then, wiping the sweat from his brow, he strode toward her with the kind of radiant energy that seemed impossible to dampen.

Shinobu didn’t waste time. “I need to ask you something. About Tomioka.”

Kyojurou’s broad grin faltered, not vanishing but softening into something almost puzzled. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “That’s rare. He’s not usually the subject of interest.”

She crossed her arms, studying him carefully. “Do you know anything about his past?”

For once, the Flame Hashira didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted past her, toward the distant hills where the sky stretched endlessly. The delay itself was unusual; Kyojurou was rarely a man to pause before speaking.

“…I… actually don’t,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than usual.

“That can’t be,” Shinobu pressed. Her tone wasn’t harsh, but there was a precision to it. She had followed every trail so far, and all of them led nowhere. A man could not exist within their ranks without leaving some kind of trace, some sliver of humanity that tethered him to the world. Yet with Giyu Tomioka, it was as though the threads had all been cut.

“Well,” Kyojurou said slowly, rubbing his chin, “I did see the name ‘Tomioka’ once. In one of those thick medical tomes you always carry around, the ones you write in. Thought it sounded familiar at the time, but I can’t remember what it was about.”

Her breath stilled. “Where?”

He squinted, as though pulling a memory from firelight. “I think it was about pharmaceuticals. Something about dosages and side effects. Sorry I can’t remember more.”

Shinobu’s brow furrowed, lines deepening between her eyes. That didn’t make sense. She knew every patient she had treated, every page she had annotated. Her medical records were more than just notes; they were extensions of her mind, each detail woven carefully to ensure nothing important slipped through the cracks. Why would the name Tomioka be there, tucked between dry lines about dosage and reaction, if he had never once stepped inside her infirmary?

Unless…

Fragments collided in her mind.

“He doesn’t want hands on him.”

“The blood smells like sedatives.”

“He flinched.”

The words echoed, disjointed but insistent. She had written them off before, strange behaviors, odd reports from Kakushi, impressions left in the wake of silence. But together, strung across the fragile line of memory, they whispered something darker.

The wind picked up then, cold against her face, tugging at the ends of her haori as though the evening itself was urging her to see what she had been avoiding. Kyojurou studied her with the solemn patience of one who recognized weight when it settled on another’s shoulders.

“You’re worried about him,” he said gently.

Shinobu didn’t answer. She closed her notes instead, the faint snap of parchment against wood breaking the stillness between them.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

The Butterfly Estate was quiet after hours, lanterns dimmed in the hallways, the rustle of night insects filling the gardens beyond the paper walls. Yet her chamber was lit by the steady glow of a single lantern, its flame wavering but unyielding as she worked.

Volumes of her medical records lay spread across the floor in careful stacks. Each bore her handwriting, precise, efficient, meticulous. Page after page was filled with details of injuries treated, reactions observed, deaths recorded, survivors patched together by her hand. A history of pain, but also of care.

And yet… somewhere in this ocean of knowledge, Kyojurou claimed, the name “Tomioka” had once appeared.

She flipped through each volume one by one, fingers quick, eyes sharper than the lantern light should have allowed. But the more she searched, the more the emptiness grew.

Giyu Tomioka.

The name was there, once, faintly, half-buried in a paragraph describing sedative effects. No dates, no details of a patient, no clear reference. Just the word, tucked in like a shadow.

Her hand hovered over it, her chest tightening.

What are you hiding?

Her thoughts spiraled, restless and relentless. A Hashira could not exist without a foundation, without the struggle that carved strength into flesh and bone. Yet Giyu’s foundation was air. Silence. He moved like water, fought like a current, and disappeared like mist. He left no trace except his victories, his wounds, and his silence.

It was infuriating. It was frightening. And above all, it was human.

Because silence did not come from nothing. Silence came from weight. From memories so sharp they could not be touched, from wounds so raw they refused to close.

Shinobu sat back at last, the lantern light catching in her eyes, exhaustion tugging at her frame, though her mind remained sharp. She was chasing a ghost, she realized. Not just the outline of a man, but the hollow where his life should have been recorded.

Her notes mocked her with their clarity.

Tomioka Giyu:

Became Hashira shortly after Kanae.

Quiet. Reclusive. Rarely speaks unless directly addressed.

Brutally effective in battle.

Uncooperative with Kakushi.

Refuses checkups.

No known background.

No mentor.

No family.

The words stuck like a thorn. Every Hashira had someone, whether alive or dead; there were always records. Rengoku carried the legacy of his father and clan. Tengen, the burden of his shinobi lineage. Even Sanemi, despite his refusal to speak of it, had connections the Corps knew about.

But Giyu?

It was as though he had appeared fully formed from nothing, carrying only his blade, his silence, and that faint, unsettling scent that demons whispered about. Rust. Ash. Sleep.

Shinobu pressed her hands together, fingertips white from the pressure. The lantern flame guttered, throwing her shadow long and thin against the wall.

Who even are you?

Her mind whispered the question again and again, looping through every interaction she’d ever had with him. His quiet interjections. His absent gaze. The way he seemed to look past everyone, as though he stood in two worlds and never committed to either.

She hated mysteries. She hated gaps in her knowledge. And yet, she realized with something like dread, the enigma of Tomioka Giyu might not be one she could solve with ink and notes.

Because ghosts did not leave maps.

Because some wounds could not be forced open.

The lantern flickered once more, the wick bending low. And in that dim light, Shinobu Kocho stared down at the name “Tomioka” inked faintly on the page, an anomaly, a shadow, a whisper of sedatives and silence.

And for the first time in a long time, she realized she had no idea what she was looking for.

Only that she could no longer stop looking.

A.N. / Chapter 18! We’ve done it! We’ve come pretty far. We’re still going and have a lot to do. I do officially have an idea of when to end the story, and when to properly manage to finish Giyu’s general story. I will have him meet the Kamado’s pretty soon, but considering how people mentioned his hatred for demons is much more apparent, I would have to do something pretty drastic, or the Kamado siblings would have to do something very drastic themselves, for them to convince Giyu to spare them. But I decided I will do this rather soon, because I want to highlight the current relationship between Urokodaki and Giyu. I think it’d be very nice to show another side of Giyu’s struggles, as he’s forced to go back to a very place of guilt and shame for Giyu. Anyways, I’ll see you all for Chapter 19.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 19:

Old Enough to Understand by Rex Orange County

The night was thick with ash and sweat, but the clearing was quiet again, demonless.

Shinobu sheathed her blade slowly, letting the faint purple glow of her insect form fade into the silence. Her breath steadied, the measured rhythm of a physician’s patience settling back into her bones. She could still hear the rustle of the forest, branches quivering from the recent fight, leaves trembling in the heavy wind that had carried demon ash across their path.

Beside her, Mitsuri clapped her hands together, pink hair bouncing as though she hadn’t just torn a demon to ribbons. “Shinobu-chan! You were amazing as always! That feint with your third form, so cool!”

Shinobu smiled gently, brushing a blood-spattered strand of hair behind her ear. “You weren’t too bad yourself. Though…” her eyes glanced at the heap of obliterated flesh that had once been an upper-rank’s follower, “…you didn’t need to obliterate that demon’s entire torso.”

Mitsuri puffed her cheeks, almost comically, though her eyes still carried the seriousness of the battlefield. “It was trying to bite a kid’s face!” she exclaimed, stomping her foot lightly against the earth. “No mercy for face-biters.”

Shinobu chuckled softly, the sound too delicate to disturb the night. For a brief moment, her mood lifted. Mitsuri had that effect, color where there was none, warmth where only ash lingered. But the levity was short-lived, broken by the sound of another figure stepping through the trees.

“Obanai!” Mitsuri lit up instantly, her posture brightening like lantern light.

Iguro approached with his usual guardedness. Kaburamaru was curled loosely around his shoulders, its scaled body flickering in the dim moonlight. His bandages were fresh; his striped haori was only lightly scuffed. To anyone else, he looked unharmed, practically untouched by the battle. Shinobu’s eyes narrowed. She noticed these things. She always noticed.

“You’re not injured, are you?” she asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t see you take a hit.”

“I’m fine,” Iguro replied flatly, his tone as clipped as the wind that followed him. “Just arrived.”

Shinobu’s gaze slid downward, toward the lower half of his face, wrapped in fabric, concealed as always. He had worn those coverings since the day she first met him. During physicals, during missions, on rare occasions, they sat across a table together. Always hidden. Always masked.

“You know,” she said quietly, though not unkindly, “I’ve always wondered…”

Iguro’s heterochromatic eyes flicked toward her, the faintest trace of caution sharpening their edges. Mitsuri blinked between them, sensing a tension she could not name.

“…Why do you never let me see underneath? During physicals. During checkups.”

The forest air seemed to still, as though it too awaited his answer. Mitsuri’s lips parted in a small sound, but she didn’t speak.

“I’m a doctor,” Shinobu continued gently, her voice even, clinical, yet touched by curiosity. “A trained medic. I’ve seen burns. Scars. Deformities. I’ve treated soldiers with their throats ripped open and their faces half-split. Yet you always refuse.”

Iguro’s jaw tightened beneath his wrappings. Kaburamaru hissed softly, its small tongue flickering in the air.

“I don’t like to be looked at,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, but with an undercurrent of iron.

“That much is obvious,” Shinobu replied lightly, a faint curve at her lips. “But not the reason why.”

Silence again.

Iguro did not move. His eyes, however, betrayed a brief flicker, defensiveness? Pain? It was hard to name.

Shinobu did not press further. Her gaze softened, her hands falling back to her sides. But still, her mind lingered on the question. Her profession was one of answers, of unraveling mysteries within the body. And yet, here before her, stood another riddle wrapped in fabric and silence.

Her eyes trailed to the bandages again, and then, unbidden, her memory tugged elsewhere.

A fox mask.

With two flower marks, and the fact that Giyu did not seem to be someone of a flower person. Sure, Giyu has always expressed a preference for nature and the outside. Embellished with soft blue and yellow details, a delicate water motif. Giyu Tomioka’s mask. Always worn, always present. It covered almost the entire left side of his face, his eye, his jaw, his chin, but not his ear, his mouth, or his nose.

Shinobu had always assumed it was tradition. Something he had done when he was younger? Maybe he liked masks?

But then, Shinobu always felt that there was a darker, more secretive reasoning for the mask.

What if it wasn’t?

What if it were like Obanai’s wrappings? Not tradition, but concealment. Not heritage, but protection.

A shield.

A wall.

A barrier of silence not meant to be crossed.

“I wonder,” she murmured to herself, almost too quietly, “if those who hide their faces do it for the same reason.”

Obanai’s eyes shifted slightly, but he gave no answer. Kaburamaru, however, hissed again, low and defensive, as though sensing a truth buried too deep to unearth.

Shinobu did not turn back to him. Instead, she pivoted away, her tone polite but subdued. “…I apologize if that was too invasive. It’s a habit of mine to ask. I want to understand what’s hidden, especially when I’m the one trusted to keep it safe.”

Iguro’s voice followed her, softer, lower than before.

“Then don’t ask unless you’re ready for what you’ll see.”

She paused, her breath catching faintly.

It wasn’t a threat. Not from Obanai. It was simply… truth.

A truth that curled like smoke around her chest. A truth that tasted of sedative-laced blood, of half-buried scars, of a fox-shaped mask under a pale moon.

Shinobu bowed her head slightly, ending the conversation without another word.

That night, after they returned to the Butterfly Estate, Mitsuri lingered behind with Obanai, her voice gentle, coaxing, as she tried to lighten the shadow in his tone. Shinobu left them to it, her steps carrying her back to her study.

She lit a candle. The flame trembled, casting pale light against the shelves of her medical texts.

Pulling her journal close, she flipped to a page she had begun not long ago. At the top was written in neat script:

Tomioka, Giyu — Observations.

The page was nearly blank. Frustratingly so. She tapped her pen against the margin, thinking of the mask again. Slowly, she wrote:

Fox Mask – Left side of face obscured. Covers the left eye, nose, jaw, cheek, and forehead. Reason unclear.

She paused, the ink pooling faintly. Then she added:

Scar? Injury? Psychological refusal?

Her pen stilled. Then another line formed.

Same as Obanai? Concealment for protection… or shame?

The room seemed colder as she leaned back, the flame crackling faintly. She glanced up at the shelves above her desk, the tomes filled with her careful handwriting, years of annotations. She could recall every page, every patient, every scar catalogued and sutured. And yet, when it came to him, when it came to Giyu, there was nothing.

A void. A ghost.

She lowered her pen, but her thoughts would not still.

How much has the Corps not told me about my fellow Hashira?
And how much have they chosen never to say at all?

The candle flickered, casting shadows that reached like grasping hands across her desk. She felt them, curling at the edges of her mind, whispering of mysteries too long ignored.

For the first time in a long while, Shinobu realized she wasn’t simply curious.

She was afraid.

Afraid of what she would find if she kept looking.

Afraid of what it would mean if the walls came down, Obanai’s bandages, Giyu’s mask, all those quiet silences that the Corps had let stand.

And more than anything, afraid of what truths lay buried in the face of a boy who had grown into Giyu Tomioka.

She dipped her pen again. On the page, below her notes, she wrote only one last line.

He is not who he seems. But neither is he absent. He is simply… hidden.

The ink bled into the parchment, and the night carried on.

But Shinobu did not sleep.

She kept the candle burning, waiting, searching.

For answers.

For a shadow.

For the ghost behind the mask.

And sure enough, Shinobu’s mind began to wander even more. To the point, it got the Love Hashira worried and concerned for the shorter woman. Shinobu was, in fact, so distracted that she failed to even recognize that the Serpent Hashira had left, having received another mission from his crow. It wasn’t until Shinobu felt a rather strong tap from Mitsuri did Shinobu blink out of her thoughts.

All the while, having a notebook and pen out. Shinobu always carried one around to assist and document any injuries or observations that Shinobu feels are important to keep.

The Love Hashira leaned closer, her hair falling in pastel waves across her shoulders as she spoke with gentle brightness.

“Shinobu-chan…” Her voice carried no judgment, only warm observation. “You’ve been thinking really hard lately. I can tell.”

Shinobu’s mind stilled. The faintest sigh escaped her lips, more like a breeze than a release. She set the pen down on the edge of the notebook, letting it rest beside the untouched page.

“I have,” she admitted at last. Her voice was soft, almost reluctant, as though she were unveiling something fragile. “About Giyu.”

Mitsuri’s eyes widened slightly at the name. “Oh?”

“It’s his mask,” Shinobu explained, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook as though the act of speaking required anchoring. “I’ve been trying to understand why he never shows the left side of his face. Even during wounds, checkups, and training, he never lets anyone see. He’s always careful.”

Mitsuri tilted her head, lips pursed in thought. The imagery of the Water Hashira, always composed, always masked, rippled through her mind. Slowly, she nodded. “Like how Iguro-san is with his mouth and bandages.”

“Exactly.” Shinobu’s eyes flickered, catching the flame’s glow. “At first, I thought it was just a stylistic choice. Maybe even part of Urokodaki’s tradition. But now…”

Her voice trailed, lost in currents of thought. With a decisive gesture, she closed her notebook, the sound of paper against paper strangely final. She stared not at Mitsuri but past her, gaze distant, as though caught in the eddy of a memory she could not quite grasp.

“…I think there’s something more to it.”

Mitsuri folded her hands on her knees, the weight of Shinobu’s tone softening her own expression. “You think he’s hiding something painful?”

Shinobu’s fingers traced the smooth cover of the closed book. “I suspect so. Something physical or emotional. Maybe both. And I think Iguro might understand that kind of pain.”

The hall outside creaked faintly. Both women turned their heads at the sound of measured footsteps approaching, the cadence slow and deliberate.

From the shadow of the corridor, a figure emerged, pale haori marked with stark stripes, his face obscured by familiar wrappings. Obanai Iguro. His serpent Kaburamaru shifted restlessly on his shoulders, its tongue flicking out to taste the candlelit air.

He had heard enough.

“Tch.” The sound was sharp, almost disdainful, though his tone was subdued. “Don’t compare me to him.”

Shinobu didn’t rise. Her posture remained composed, hands folded lightly atop her desk. Only her head turned slightly, the fall of her hair framing her face as she regarded him with calm curiosity. “You’ve said that before, Iguro-san. That you think he’s narcissistic and boastful.”

Iguro’s mismatched eyes gleamed in the half-light, hard and unyielding. “He is. Always so quiet, like we should all be impressed. Always apart. Always acting like no one understands him.”

Mitsuri shifted in her seat, her warmth faltering into unease. She glanced at Shinobu, as though hoping for mediation, but the Insect Hashira remained steady.

“That’s not what I’ve seen,” Shinobu said softly. The firmness in her tone carried weight, though it never lost its gentleness. “At least… not anymore. I used to think the same. But ever since our mission…”

Her words trailed. For the briefest instant, the calm mask slipped. Her eyes lowered, lashes casting shadows against her cheek, and a memory flickered across her features, something quiet, unspoken, too fragile to name aloud.

“He doesn’t act like someone who thinks he’s better,” she finally continued, voice low. “He acts like someone who doesn’t think he belongs.”

The statement hung heavy in the air. Iguro stiffened, his body rigid. His jaw moved beneath the bandages, as though he ground his teeth, but no retort surfaced.

Shinobu didn’t look up to meet the silence. Instead, her gaze lingered on the desk, on the closed notebook that carried questions without answers.

“I’ve been trying to understand him,” she admitted. “Piece things together. But the more I try, the more I realize how little anyone knows about Giyu.”

“That’s because he doesn’t want to be known,” Iguro snapped, the words quick, defensive, like the strike of a blade meant to sever the thought before it grew roots.

“Or maybe,” Shinobu countered gently, “he’s afraid of what people will say once they do.”

The flame flickered, casting shadows that stretched across the walls like living things.

Iguro’s breath stilled. Beneath the wrappings, something unspoken tightened, and though he didn’t move, the silence that followed was louder than any denial.

Mitsuri’s eyes softened as she looked between them. She folded her hands together, voice dropping to something tender, almost pleading.

“I think… sometimes people act cold because the warmth hurt them before.”

Both Shinobu and Iguro turned slightly toward her. The pink-haired Hashira blushed faintly, embarrassed by her own earnestness, but she pressed on.

“I mean it,” she said, more firmly now. “You don’t have to tell me everything to know you’re hurting. I’ve felt that from both of you.”

Her words wove through the silence like threads of silk, binding without constraining, gentle yet impossible to dismiss.

Shinobu’s lips curved faintly at the corners, not a smirk but the ghost of a smile, grateful, tired, touched. “That’s a very Mitsuri-like thing to say.”

Mitsuri giggled softly, the sound like windchimes breaking the tension. “I mean it. People don’t have to say everything out loud for me to feel it. Sometimes it’s easier to hide behind masks or bandages, but the feelings still seep through.”

Kaburamaru shifted again, sensing the weight in its master. Iguro’s shoulders drew taut. He stood there, unmoving, eyes fixed on the floor as if staring hard enough could anchor him against words that cut too close.

At last, he turned, steps heavy as he walked back into the corridor. His voice followed him, quieter now, carrying something that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite resignation.

“…Just don’t expect kindness to fix someone who’s already broken.”

His words echoed into the hallway, fading with the rhythm of his retreating footsteps. The night reclaimed the silence he left behind.

Mitsuri frowned, her brows knitting. “Iguro-san…” she whispered softly, the ache in her tone betraying the weight she carried for him.

Shinobu did not answer immediately. Her gaze lingered on the corridor long after Iguro disappeared into its shadows. Slowly, she lowered her eyes once more to the desk.

Her fingers brushed the closed notebook, tracing the outline of its edge. The page inside was still blank.

“…Then maybe understanding is the best I can offer,” she murmured, almost to herself.

The candle flame bent under the weight of a passing breeze, guttered low, then steadied again. Mitsuri stayed at her side, silent but present, warmth in her posture if not in her words.

And Shinobu, with her notebook still closed and her questions unanswered, felt the weight of two men’s shadows, one veiled by bandages, the other by a fox-shaped mask.

Both hiding.

Both hurting.

Both untouchable in ways she could not yet name.

All the while this went on, later in the night, Shinobu got a unique response from a crow.

“Caw! Caw! Message for Shinobu Kocho!” The crow began to descend towards Shinobu, handing her a note. She immediately could tell that the crow was from the Rengoku Estate, likely Kyojurou’s crow.

But why was Kyojurou sending her a message? Was it medical-related?

Turns out, it was… but not in a critical way, more of an observation and analytical way…

“Sorry for the random message, Kocho, but I wanted to give you a follow-up on what you wanted to know about Tomioka. From my own experience, he was already a Hashira before I became one. And when I tried to find anything about him, nothing came up. However, one interesting thing I wanted to let you know about was when I spoke to my father, Shinjurou, the former Flame Hashira, he seemed not to know much. However, once I described Tomioka to Shinjurou, he seemed to be interested once I explained the half fox mask he wore. When I asked my father what was wrong, he said the former Water Hashira, Sakonji Urokodaki, had also worn a mask around his face at all times. Shinjurou says he hasn’t spoken to Urokodaki since he retired, and doesn’t know what or if Urokodaki’s relationship with Tomioka could entail. However, when I specifically described Tomioka's warding mask, which was a fox to Shinjirou, he told me that Urokodaki would give his students masks with those properties. So perhaps Tomioka has a connection to Urokodaki? As for what that connection is, Shinjirou couldn't explain. He says he's heard of Tomioka and might've seen him briefly before he retired, but his alcoholism has messed up his sense of time and direction recently.”

And with that, Shinobu had unintentionally been given a grey point. There was a connection between Giyu and the former Water Hashira, Urokodaki. She wasn’t sure how deep it went, but it was something.

Her pen lay silent beside her hand, waiting.

But for tonight, no ink would spill.

We Hug Now by Sydney Rose

The sun set lazily over the mountains, dragging streaks of orange and fading violet across the wide sky. Clouds thinned and scattered like brushstrokes from an artist’s trembling hand, each smear dissolving into mist as the last of the light melted into the horizon. The glow caught the edges of the forest that wrapped protectively around the small estate Muichiro Tokito called home. It was a modest place, quiet, built from simple wood with sliding screens and a single winding path lined with river stones. Nestled against the slope of the mountain, it looked almost like it had grown out of the earth itself, as though the mist had condensed into walls and beams and quietly decided to stay.

Perfect, really, for the Mist Hashira.

Muichiro himself hadn’t been expecting company. He hadn’t even known dinner was to be hosted at his estate until that morning. Still half-asleep and combing his long, unruly hair with absent fingers, he had blinked when Mitsuri Kanroji leaned through the doorway and announced the plan in her sing-song cheer.

“Why… my house?” he’d mumbled, voice slow, the haze of dreams still clinging to his words.

“Because you never eat with us, Tokito!” Mitsuri had beamed, all brightness and rose-colored warmth. “So we’re bringing the party to you!”

He hadn’t bothered to argue. Muichiro rarely did.

Now, hours later, his quiet estate no longer felt like his own. The air pulsed with life, voices overlapping, the rhythm of knives against cutting boards, the sharp hiss of sizzling pans, the occasional roar of fire. It was so strange to hear so much noise echoing through the walls that was usually only heard as the faint scratch of a brush or the slow creak of tatami. The once still grounds were alive with clattering dishes and the aroma of food rising into the night. Smoke curled out the open windows like a beacon.

In the kitchen, three particular Hashira had claimed the space with the authority of generals waging culinary war.

“Wahaha! Let the flames cook this to golden perfection!” boomed Kyojurou Rengoku, his laugh reverberating as he flipped skewers with all the flourish of a swordsman mid-battle. The firelight danced across his face, reflecting the same endless energy that lived in his eyes.

“I swear if you burn another rice pot, I will shave off your eyebrows,” Tengen Uzui said flatly, though his voice carried its usual flamboyant lilt. His hands moved with a different kind of precision; every slice of daikon radish was a performance, every knife stroke a rhythmic beat. His head tilted slightly, catching the gleam of the blade. “This salmon daikon needs to be flawless. We have a certain stoic guest to bait in.”

“I’m making hearts out of the carrots!” Mitsuri chirped, her pink apron dusted with flour, her hair bouncing as she leaned over a chopping board. Every movement seemed fueled by joy, as if even peeling vegetables could be a declaration of love.

The kitchen smelled of soy and fire, of charred edges and sweet simmering broth.

Outside, Muichiro sat beneath a tree that overlooked the slope of his grounds. His body leaned lazily against the trunk, and his eyes were half-lidded as he watched the evening sky through shifting leaves. He liked clouds the most when they looked like they were drifting nowhere in particular, soft, aimless, untethered. His breathing was quiet, almost rhythmic, though his head tilted faintly when the scent of grilled salmon finally reached him. His nostrils flared just slightly, the faintest wrinkle of his nose betraying interest.

“…Hm,” he murmured, eyes opening a touch wider. “Smells good.”

When the table was finally set, it glowed like an offering. Glossy skewers of chicken and vegetables, simmering miso soup, polished bowls of rice still steaming from the pot, fresh greens seasoned with sesame. At the center, gleaming and fragrant, sat Tengen’s salmon daikon, a dish that practically commanded reverence, its aroma slipping into every corner of the house.

The Hashira arrived slowly, one by one, their presence folding into the noise like additional instruments joining an orchestra.

Sanemi Shinazugawa was the first to enter, the scar across his face catching the dim light. He scowled, though his nostrils betrayed him, twitching at the smell. “Tch. Smells good,” he muttered, as if admitting it aloud was a kind of defeat.

Iguro Obanai came behind Mitsuri, his form quieter, his steps nearly silent. His pale eyes scanned the room once, then lowered. The bandages around his mouth concealed any expression, but the way he lingered near Mitsuri betrayed a softer presence he rarely showed the rest. Mitsuri, glowing as always, practically radiated happiness in her pink kimono apron.

Gyomei Himejima stepped in after, his bulk filling the doorway with quiet gravity. He bowed his head, prayer beads shifting faintly as his lips moved in silent reverence. Even his careful steps seemed deliberate, as though he were making sure the earth beneath them felt no burden.

Muichiro had already moved, though none noticed when, he was now sprawled near the low table, lying flat on the tatami with his hands folded across his chest, gazing at the ceiling beams as though they were clouds.

And then…

“Oi,” Tengen’s voice carried easily from the kitchen. His eyes glittered beneath his headband. “He’s here.”

The room stilled, just for a heartbeat.

Giyu Tomioka stepped into the doorway.

He didn’t enter with a shout like Kyojurou, nor with the dramatic air of Tengen, nor with Sanemi’s perpetual aggression. His presence was quieter than quiet, slipping into the estate like a shadow at dusk. He wore his uniform, his half-mask covering the left side of his face as it always did. His hand rested loosely at his side, no visible tension, no grand introduction.

Only a small nod.

Yet his eye, calm, sharp, unreadable, moved immediately to the table. Specifically, to the steaming bowl of salmon daikon at its center.

Kyojurou erupted before the silence could linger. With his usual booming cheer, he slammed a hand against Giyu’s back, nearly knocking him forward. “Tomioka! I see the fish does call to you!”

“…It’s made well,” Giyu mumbled, his voice so soft it almost drowned beneath the others’. He stepped toward the farthest corner of the table, seating himself with a distance that felt deliberate but not entirely cold.

No one pushed him further. Not yet.

Mitsuri glanced toward Shinobu and winked, her eyes sparkling with hope. “He’s here,” she whispered behind her hand. “I think this counts as progress.”

Shinobu, serene as ever, lifted her teacup. The steam curled around her expression, hiding the faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s the food,” she said. “Not us.”

“Maybe both,” Mitsuri replied, her voice bubbling with optimism.

The meal began with the quiet rhythm of clattering bowls and chopsticks. For all their differences, the Hashira shared the table with a certain unspoken grace. Kyojurou laughed thunderously at nearly everything, Tengen critiqued presentation with exaggerated flair, Mitsuri exclaimed at every new flavor, Sanemi grunted through his mouthfuls, and Muichiro only occasionally shifted to acknowledge he was, in fact, awake.

Giyu… ate silently.

At first, it was nothing unusual. His eyes lowered to the rice, to the soup, to the salmon. His hands moved without hesitation but without haste. He chewed as though the food’s weight grounded him. It was not joy, not exactly, but it was something that anchored him here.

What startled them all, in ways they didn’t fully voice, was that he did not leave.

Usually, Giyu would rise after the first round, bow with polite detachment, and vanish into the dark like he’d never been there at all. But tonight, even after the second helping, even as conversations rose around him, he stayed seated.

By the time the third bowl of salmon daikon was emptied, his hands still resting lightly against the edge of the table, he remained. Silent, yes. Distant, yes. But present.

And Shinobu Kocho, who had been watching with the kind of patience that could outlast mountains, lowered her cup and let her gaze linger on him.

She wondered, quietly, without pressing, without prodding, if tonight she might glimpse something more than silence. If perhaps, just for a moment, she might catch the smallest crack in the mask.

The night continued, laughter rising, voices overlapping, dishes passed from hand to hand. And in the midst of it all, Giyu sat with them, listening.

The room settles into a steady rhythm of quiet laughter, clinking chopsticks, and easy conversation. Lantern light flickers against the wooden beams of Muichirou’s small estate, casting a warmth that softens even the sharp edges of Sanemi’s scowl and the austere silence of Iguro’s posture. For once, the Hashira feel less like a gathering of warriors and more like a group of people who, despite everything, have learned how to share a table.

And, against all odds, Giyu isn’t just present. He speaks.

He finishes another spoonful of salmon daikon, sets his chopsticks down with that same restrained precision, and looks up. His voice comes low, nearly swallowed by the din, but still clear enough that all heads turn.

“Who made this?”

Kyojurou practically leaps at the opportunity, his voice booming with uncontainable pride. “I did! With Mitsuri and Tengen’s help, of course.”

For a moment, the fire crackles louder than the conversation. Giyu’s eyes linger on Kyojurou, then shift briefly to the bowl in front of him, then back again. He nods once, very slightly.

“It’s good. Spicier than usual. But very good.”

The words are plain. Unadorned. But they land with the force of an unexpected festival firework. Kyojurou’s entire face lights up, his smile blinding in its sincerity. Mitsuri clasps her hands together in delight, nearly tipping over her tea.

Before anyone else can bask in this rare sliver of Tomioka-praise, Tengen leans dramatically across the table, one jeweled eye gleaming with theatrics. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that still manages to carry across the whole room.

“Spicy and good, huh? Sounds like someone’s falling in love.” He twirls a chopstick between his fingers as though it’s part of a performance. “Don’t tell me this is your version of a proposal, Tomioka. You did say you’d marry anyone who made the best salmon daikon.”

The air vibrates with suppressed amusement. Mitsuri squeals softly into her sleeve, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Muichirou, half-dozing with his cheek against the table, opens one eye lazily, curious to see if Giyu will take the bait.

Shinobu doesn’t laugh outright. She merely raises an eyebrow and hides her smile behind the thin rim of her teacup, her eyes glittering with mischief.

Giyu’s gaze flickers to her, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to Tengen. His expression is unreadable, carved in the same quiet stone it always is.

“I said that,” he answers flatly. Then, after a deliberate pause, “But I didn’t say I’d follow through.”

Tengen makes an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like he’s been struck. “Oh-ho? So you’re a tease now, too?”

This time, a ripple of laughter passes around the table. Even Sanemi, who usually treats these dinners like punishments, huffs a short, unwilling chuckle. Mitsuri leans into Iguro’s side, giggling, while Kyojurou’s booming laughter shakes the walls.

Through it all, Giyu gives no reply. No flustered protest, no defense. He simply picks up his chopsticks again, as though the conversation never happened, and eats another mouthful of daikon with the same deliberate calm as before.

The conversation spills onward like a river around a stone. But the stone, Giyu, unbothered and unshaken, remains a silent centerpiece.

Mitsuri, ever the peacemaker, tries to soften the teasing. “I think it’s nice he said something. Praise from Tomioka-san is very precious!”

“Like gold!” Kyojurou bellows, raising his cup of tea as if to toast.

Tengen smirks, fanning himself with a napkin. “Like an eclipse. Rare, fleeting, and dramatic.”

Sanemi scoffs. “More like a rock falling on your head. Unexpected, and you don’t know what to do with it.”

That earns another round of chuckles. Even Muichirou lets out a soft, dreamy laugh before drifting back into his cloudlike silence.

Shinobu, meanwhile, studies Giyu over the rim of her cup. He isn’t glaring or retreating from the attention, though his shoulders are stiff, his hand steady. He just… absorbs it. As though he expected it all to happen, and long ago resigned himself to it.

“Anyway,” Tengen says, waving a jeweled hand toward the fish, “it seems we’ve uncovered Tomioka’s weakness. If the demons can’t kill him, maybe salmon daikon will.”

“An honorable way to go!” Kyojurou declares. “To be felled by deliciousness!”

“Idiot,” Sanemi mutters, shoving another mouthful of rice into his mouth.

Mitsuri clasps her hands again, her eyes bright. “But isn’t it wonderful? Food really does bring people together. I mean, look! Tomioka-san is still here! Usually, he disappears before dessert.”

At this, several Hashira exchange subtle glances. Gyomei nods once, solemnly, though his eyes soften as though in agreement.

Giyu, for his part, doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t defend himself either. He only takes another sip of tea, sets the cup down with quiet precision, and says nothing.

But Shinobu does.

“Maybe,” she says lightly, “it’s not just the food. Maybe he simply enjoys our company.”

A quiet hush falls over the table, not heavy, not uncomfortable, but charged in the way a single struck string carries sound through silence.

Obanai shifts, his voice low and edged. “Doubtful.”

Mitsuri shoots him a look, but Shinobu doesn’t flinch. Her smile remains gentle, her gaze steady on Giyu.

And Giyu… doesn’t look away.

For a moment, the air holds still, the fire’s crackle and the distant cicadas the only sound. Then he blinks once, slowly, and says, in that same steady monotone, “The food is good.”

Laughter bursts out again, breaking the tension. Tengen slaps the table. “Cold as ice! He dodges smoother than I do!”

Shinobu only hides her smirk behind her sleeve. But inwardly, she notes the faintest curve of his lips, not quite a smile, but not the absence of one either.

The night stretches on. Plates empty, cups refill. Sanemi eventually loosens his shoulders, Kyojurou begins telling exaggerated tales of past missions, and even Obanai softens slightly under Mitsuri’s radiant cheer.

But through it all, Shinobu keeps stealing glances at Giyu. Not because she expects him to laugh or suddenly spill his secrets, but because, tonight, with a bowl of salmon daikon in front of him, he isn’t vanishing into the background.

He’s here.

Still.

Present.

And that, Shinobu thinks quietly to herself, is worth more than any answer. Shinobu feels that it is during these times that Giyu may not need help.

Maybe, just maybe, he can be fine and be around others.

But then again, there was that small part of her that second-guessed. A small but growing part, that even now, the half-masked individual they see quietly, the man who liked salmon daikon, was not who they thought he was.

A.N. / Might be a double upload today, I am really feeling a writer's high and wanting to also finish as much as I can here. This and another chapter will be like a 2 part for everything before I ultimately decide on Tanjirou and Nezuko being introduced. The thing is, I started this in the universe, the Demon Slayer Universe, around Summer. It will turn to Autumn, so I’m making the assumption that Giyu meets Tanjirou and Nezuko within the winter near New Year’s. I might also make Tanjirou and Nezuko a bit different, but I also do not know if I want to basically make this a spin-off of my existing story, The Dancing Star. Speaking of, I am interested in it, just the 12k words a chapter has tired me out. I’ll try to update it, but I am juggling work, jobs, and multiple stories. See you in Chapter 20!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 20:

Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood

The room had been brimming with warmth only moments ago, laughter, the kind that tumbled over itself, chopsticks clattering against bowls, small comments sparking banter that felt too human for people who lived so close to death. The simple joy of eating together, rare as it was, had wrapped the estate in a fragile sense of peace.

And then Tengen, flamboyant to a fault, tried to raise the stakes.

The cork of the imported bottle cracked open with a sound sharp as a kunai leaving its sheath. The scent of alcohol, heady, sweet, biting, spread across the table like smoke seeping under a door.

It was subtle at first. Mitsuri tilted her head curiously, her pink and green braids sliding across her shoulders as her eyes rounded in gentle surprise. Muichiro’s gaze drifted toward the bottle, unfocused as ever, like he was staring through the glass rather than at it. Iguro’s reaction was quieter but no less clear: his fingers tightened around his teacup, body shifting minutely as if he could shield Mitsuri from even the smell.

But two others reacted in perfect, wordless synchronicity.

Sanemi’s scowl deepened, lines cutting across his already sharp features. His hand flexed, knuckles whitening as though some phantom memory was coiling in his fist. His eyes narrowed on the bottle, not at Tengen, not at the table, but at that glass container itself, as though it embodied something ugly he couldn’t name aloud.

And Kyojurou, bright, boisterous, flame in human form, quietly dimmed. His laughter cut off mid-breath. His posture straightened unnaturally, every part of him too rigid for a man who normally radiated ease in his own skin. The smile that had seemed carved into his very bones faltered, not into sadness, but into something blank. A silence so loud it made Shinobu blink.

They rose almost at the same moment. No words passed between them. No cues exchanged. It was like the scent alone had knocked them both into the same current.

“Gonna get some air,” Sanemi muttered, already halfway to the sliding door.

Kyojurou only nodded, voice a soft echo instead of its usual fire. “Yes… Air would be good.”

The panel slid open, wood against track whispering too loudly in the pause they left behind. Their footsteps receded into the cool night air, the silence stretching in their absence.

Tengen lowered the bottle slowly, his flamboyant mask slipping just enough for irritation and something like regret to flicker across his face. He held it loosely, no longer brandishing it like a prize but as if it had turned into dead weight. “…Huh.”

It might have ended there, just an awkward lull, a misstep in an otherwise warm evening. But Shinobu noticed what most might not.

Giyu hadn’t moved. He stayed seated, chopsticks in hand, the faint steam from his bowl curling past his face. But the stillness was too exact, like a pond holding back the ripple of a stone dropped into its depths. His chopsticks hovered mid-air for a heartbeat too long before finally touching the food again.

He didn’t look at the bottle. Not once. But his body told the story he wouldn’t. The barest shift of his shoulders, an almost imperceptible lean away from the table’s center where the scent clung the thickest. His fingers, so steady even in battle, twitched just once as though remembering a reflex he had suppressed.

And still, he forced himself to take another bite. A deliberate act, grounding himself one chew at a time.

Shinobu’s eyes lingered on him. She had learned long ago that his silences weren’t empty; they were choices. And this silence felt louder than any protest Sanemi might have thrown.

Mitsuri, bless her heart, noticed too, though in her own way. She leaned forward, voice soft but firm, eyes flicking toward Tengen. “Maybe we don’t need the alcohol.”

Her words carried weight, gentle but unshakable.

Tengen, usually one to push boundaries for the drama of it, caught that tone and sighed. With a flick of his wrist, he set the bottle aside, further from the food, further from the company. “…Yeah. You’re right.”

The air loosened slightly, though not fully. The smell still lingered faintly in the room, ghostlike, even without the bottle open on the table.

Shinobu sipped her tea, her gaze slipping again toward the empty doorway where Sanemi and Kyojurou had vanished. She remembered Sanemi’s clenched hand. Kyojurou’s vanished fire. And then, her eyes returned to Giyu, the man who now chewed slowly, methodically, with all the outward indifference of a stone in a stream.

But she had seen it. That twitch. That lean. That pause.

Something about that smell had clawed at all three of them, and though none would say it aloud, the thread binding their reactions was too stark to ignore.

Her mind itched with unfinished thoughts, half-formed and uncomfortable. What was it about the scent of alcohol that pulled that from them? What was buried there, heavy enough to silence even Rengoku’s laugh?

And that was when Shinobu remembered the letter Kyojurou had said. How his father had clearly been drinking, to the point of clear alcoholic abuse. After all, his father apparently had a difficult time even trying to figure out the time… That certainly was a concerning development, but now it made her think, how long and serious did this impact perhaps Kyojurou and his little brother?

But she didn’t finish the thought. Not yet.

The dinner pressed on, quieter now. Mitsuri filled the gap with cheerful humming between bites, Iguro shadowing her with quiet murmurs. Muichiro picked idly at his rice, expression unreadable. Gyomei said little, but his steady presence seemed to mend the edges of the room. And Tengen, though usually a man who chased spectacle, kept his flamboyance subdued, almost as though his failed attempt at levity still sat sour in his throat.

And through it all, Giyu stayed.

He didn’t retreat into silence so complete that it shut everyone out. He ate, occasionally nodded when spoken to, and once even let out the faintest hum of approval when Mitsuri passed him a dish she’d cut into flower shapes.

It was small. Fragile. Easy to miss.

But to Shinobu, watching from the corner of her eye, it was a crack in the mask.

The ghost of something human.

And beneath it all, the seed planted in her mind by that bottle’s sharp, lingering scent.

Something was wrong.

Not just with Sanemi’s clenched jaw or Kyojurou’s vanished fire. Not just with Giyu’s twitch and lean, and stubborn chewing.

But with the shadows they all carried shadows that, for one fragile evening, the dinner had nearly kept at bay.

Now, with that single scent, she glimpsed them again.

And she knew, this wasn’t the last time the mask would slip.

This was only the beginning.

The night air is cooler outside, a quiet breeze brushing against the trees as the rest of the Hashira step out, joining Sanemi and Kyojurou beneath the moonlight. The feast’s warmth lingers faintly in their bellies, but out here the stars hang sharp and distant, and the air tastes of pine and damp earth. A stillness sits between them, made heavier by the things unsaid.

Tengen walks up last, the once-glorious bottle now corked and forgotten under his arm. His usual bravado has dimmed, voice quieter, unsure. “You two just dipped without a word. I didn’t think alcohol would be such a touchy thing.”

Sanemi leans against a tree, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw flexes as he looks away, like the ground itself irritates him. “It is.”

Kyojurou’s posture is steady, shoulders square, spine tall, but not his voice. His brightness has softened into something grave. “My father… after his wife, my mother, Ruka, passed… he changed.” He doesn’t look at anyone as he speaks, eyes instead on the half-lit horizon. His hand tightens against his side, knuckles paling. “He drowned himself in alcohol and became angry, violent. Not all at once, but slowly, like a fire burning in damp wood. Smoldering, choking. He stopped being a Hashira. Stopped being a father.”

The words bleed into the night like smoke.

He pauses, his throat bobbing once before he forces himself to continue. “I had to pick up where he left off. Protect Senjurou. Carry the Flame. It wasn’t a choice,e it was survival. When your home stops being safe, you either let it crush you, or you shoulder it until your back breaks.” His voice lowers, rougher now. “I couldn’t let my brother carry that weight.”

The others fall quiet. Even Tengen, who could usually lace the darkest stories with some kind of flair or jest, holds his tongue. Mitsuri clasps her hands before her chest, her usual softness muted, and Muichiro, who often drifts between presence and absence, stands very still, his pale gaze fixed on Kyojurou as though trying to etch every word into memory.

Then Sanemi speaks. His voice is bitter, the words sharp but carrying the weight of exhaustion. “My old man was always a drunk. Before my mother ever died, he’d come home angry. Slurred words, swinging fists. I remember hearing my siblings crying in the night and praying he wouldn’t come near our room.” His lips curl in a humorless sneer. “Didn’t always work. Sometimes he came anyway. He liked reminding us who had the power.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly, before adding in a voice softer but no less venomous, “He died like he lived. Pathetic. Picked a fight in some tavern and got himself stabbed. Left bleeding in an alley. No one even cared until his body started smelling.”

The confession sits raw in the open air.

A sharp silence follows. Mitsuri looks down, lips trembling like she wants to speak but can’t find the words. Tengen shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting toward the bottle under his arm as though it’s become a poison. Even Gyomei, usually grounded in prayer, lowers his head, heavy beads of his rosary clicking faintly as his lips press together in grief.

Sanemi tilts his head back, staring at the sky like he’s daring it to strike him down. His throat works, but no tears fall. He’d burned that part of himself out long ago.

Kyojurou, by contrast, bows his head just slightly. For all his roaring fire, for all his thunderous optimism, his voice carries a gentleness when he finally murmurs: “I’m sorry you lived that, Sanemi.”

The Wind Hashira scoffs but doesn’t spit. He doesn’t thank him either, but his silence is its own kind of truce.

Behind them all, Giyu lingers half-shadowed in the dark. His form is quiet, his eye trained not on the others but on the ground at his feet. He has said nothing, but his presence pulls at Shinobu’s attention like a thread snagging on thorns.

He hears them all speak about fathers. About households shattered by alcohol. About the way a smell, a bottle, a drink can unravel entire childhoods. And all he can remember is not a father, not even a mother’s hand, but black rooms and locked doors.

Sterile hallways.

Glass vials.

Men in white coats with alcohol-stinking hands pressing him down on a table. Injecting him when he cried about demons in the walls. Slapping him when he flinched from invisible claws that tore only in his mind.

Their version of exorcism was restraint. Their mercy was sedation. Their kindness was silent.

Because he was the problem.

The alcohol sting on their hands, the sharp tang in the air, that was the smell of being erased. The smell of helplessness.

He doesn’t share this. How could he? How could he put words to the way his body remembers the reek of disinfected rooms and whiskey-laced breath pressing down on him until he choked on fear?

So he says nothing.

No one consoles him, not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know. They don’t see the way his hands tremble, just barely, when he flexes them at his sides. They don’t see how he stares down at those hands now, hands that clutched salmon daikon like it was a lifeline minutes ago, and feels again like a child strapped to a chair, begging to be believed.

The night presses around them. The others shift, the conversation dipping into uneasy silence, but Giyu remains fixed, a quiet ghost among the living.

The gentle blend of snow and rain begins to drift down from the skylight at first, like a soft breath across the landscape. The air feels damp, as though every lungful of oxygen carries the faint chill of water vapor sinking into the bones. The mist thickens around the edges of the estate, curling and unfurling like restless spirits. The trees blur, their outlines fading until only dark smudges remain against the glowing sky. Stones along the walkway shine wet with moisture, each fleck of snow melting the instant it touches their surface.

It is quiet, eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that seems to swallow sound whole, where even the smallest movements feel amplified. The crack of a branch far away, the brush of fabric as someone shifts their stance. It is the silence of the world holding its breath.

Suzume No Tojimari by RADWIMPS

Muichirō stands quietly near the doorway, his slender form outlined by the pale light spilling from inside his estate. The glow behind him softens his outline, haloing his hair in a faint mist of silver. His eyes track the fog as it rolls in among the trees, wide and contemplative, as though the entire drifting scene belongs to him alone.

“I like it when it’s like this,” he says suddenly. His voice is soft, and though it carries no particular weight, it draws every head in his direction. “The mist always reminds me that things don’t need to be clear to be beautiful.”

For a moment, no one moves. Some are surprised he’s speaking; Muichirō often lets silence do the talking for him. Others simply listen, allowing the unusual serenity in his tone to carry over them like the snow settling on the earth.

The boy’s gaze does not shift from the mist. His shoulders are relaxed, his eyes half-focused as though speaking more to himself than to those gathered around him.

“Lady Amane was right to give me this place,” Muichirō continues after a pause, voice low, carrying the cadence of someone half within memory. “She always knows what’s good for us. So does Lord Kagaya. I’m thankful for them.”

The snowfall thickens, each flake distinct for a moment before disappearing into the fog. The mist clings heavier now, obscuring what little distance the eye could hold. It seems to gather closer, blanketing the group in a hush that feels both protective and suffocating.

And then Muichirō’s words begin to slow. His voice stutters almost imperceptibly, the syllables weighed down as though something in his chest has snagged.

Because a memory presses forward, unbidden.

He remembers the night his father left.

The wind had been fierce, sharp enough to pierce through skin. Their house had rattled under its grip, the windows shuddering with each gust. Inside, his mother’s fevered coughing had filled the air, wet, ragged, terrifying. She burned with heat no water could cool, her breath shallow, each exhale trembling closer to silence.

His father had wrapped himself in the only cloak they owned. Muichirō remembers the man’s hand briefly resting on his head, then sliding to his brother’s shoulder, promising in a low voice that he would return with medicine before dawn. His words had been firm, certain, the way only a father’s words could be.

But he never came back.

Muichirō remembers waiting by the door, holding his twin’s hand until their fingers cramped, until they could no longer tell whose was trembling more. He remembers watching his mother’s chest rise in shallow jerks, each one slower, weaker than the last.

She died before the sun rose. And their father never returned.

The weight of it sits heavy now, though he does not speak it aloud. He never does. He has learned that some truths rot if aired too often, that silence is the only vessel capable of holding them without spilling over. But the memory, even unspoken, drapes over his shoulders heavier than the snow blanketing the earth.

The others sense the shift. They don’t need the details. They feel the tension in his silence, the way his eyes seem far away and too sharp all at once.

But just as Muichirō’s memory claws at him, another shadow shifts.

Further back, unnoticed by many, Giyu quietly moves.

As the flakes begin to fall, he turns away. He doesn’t announce his departure. Doesn’t excuse himself or pause to offer explanation. He just steps back into the estate, the mist curling after him like a veil. To most, it is abrupt. Rude. Callous.

Sanemi scowls faintly, his arms crossing tight over his chest. “Tch. Typical.”

Iguro, standing with his usual guarded watchfulness, narrows his eyes behind his bandages. “He can’t even pretend to care for once?” His voice is sharper than usual, a hiss that cuts the mist.

Sanemi snorts, lips curling with disdain. “Too busy brooding like he’s the only one who’s suffered. Arrogant bastard.”

The judgment lingers in the cold night, heavy as the snow beginning to carpet the ground.

But Shinobu, who has remained a quiet observer as always, sees something different.

Her eyes trace the path Giyu’s back had cut through the mist as he left. She had caught the faint twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders hunched slightly at the first snowflake. He hadn’t met anyone’s eyes, not hers, not anyone’s.

Because it wasn’t indifference.

It was fear.

She doesn’t say it aloud. She only presses her lips together, gaze softening with something like reluctant understanding.

Inside, Giyu’s world has already begun to spiral.

The snow always does this, always pulls him back.

The bite of the wind in that blizzard, the night he stumbled barefoot and bleeding from that building. The desperate agony of lungs that refused to fill, no matter how he gasped. The sharp sting of snow against broken skin as he tripped again and again through drifts taller than his knees.

He remembers the way his breath had rasped, so loud in his ears he thought it might crack his skull apart. He remembers the burn in his legs, the tremors in his arms, the dizziness blotting his vision until the world spun white and black.

He had almost died that night.

Would have died, frozen in silence, body stiff and small and alone in the endless snow, if Sabito and Makomo hadn’t found him. He’d been half-delirious, his words fractured nonsense, his skin blue at the edges. He barely remembered how Sabito had hoisted him up, how Makomo’s voice had threaded through the storm, guiding them back to Urokodaki’s cabin.

That cabin had been warm. Belief. A place where they didn’t laugh at his broken explanations. A place where hands held his shivering body without pinning it down, where voices spoke calmly instead of hissing commands. Where the fire crackled and the walls did not reek of disinfectant and alcohol, but of pine and soup and something he would later come to call family.

The snow reminds him of both things, the failure to die and the failure to live. The night he escaped and the years he spent bound. What was done to him, and what he became to survive it.

Now he sits in the dark corner of the estate interior, his half-mask still clinging to his face, fists clenched in his lap. His breath rattles, quiet but uneven.

Outside, faint voices drift through the walls, Sanemi’s rough bark, Iguro’s sharper hiss, Mitsuri’s trembling softness as she tries to soothe them. Even Muichirō’s silence carries weight, echoed in the mist.

But Giyu does not return to them.

Not yet.

Because the snow is still falling.

And in his chest, the storm hasn’t stopped.

Yes to Heaven by Lena Del Rey

The snowfall outside continued to fall in slow, unbroken sheets, like the sky was exhaling its quiet sorrow upon the world. Mist still clung to the edges of the estate, weaving around the black silhouettes of pine trees that swayed faintly in the wind. It was the kind of night that felt too still, too heavy with unspoken weight, and perhaps that was why one by one the Hashira had finally trickled back into Muichiro’s estate.

Inside, warmth embraced them. Tatami mats softened their steps, and the golden glow of lamplight pooled against the polished wood, keeping the encroaching fog at bay. Yet the warmth only seemed to make the absence more noticeable.

Because Giyu was gone.

His seat, his quiet, tucked-away corner near the long table, was empty now. A neat stillness replaced him, almost eerie in how complete it was. His bowl of salmon daikon had been eaten, every trace of broth carefully rinsed away. His cup and utensils were washed, set upside down to dry. Even his chair was pushed in, its legs aligned with the others as if he’d never been there at all.

Sanemi was the first to break the silence. He stood stiffly, arms folded, his usual scowl deepening. “Seriously? Slips away again without saying a damn word.”

His voice carried the sharpness of irritation, but there was something else buried inside it too, something he didn’t bother to name.

Iguro shifted beside him, his pale fingers absently brushing against Kaburamaru, who coiled loosely across his shoulders. The serpent tilted its head as though listening, its dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. Iguro’s own voice was flat, low. “He always does this. Too proud to say goodbye. Too important to linger.”

The words settled heavily in the room.

Mitsuri looked as though she wanted to protest, her pink-and-green hair shimmering faintly as she leaned forward, mouth opening to speak, but she faltered. The weight of the mood pressed down, and she shrank back, lips trembling as she lowered her gaze to the floor.

For a moment, no one else dared to fill the silence.

Except Shinobu.

She lingered near the table, her delicate hands resting loosely against its polished edge. Her eyes, sharp and violet, studied the space where Giyu had been, but not with the same irritation or dismissal that the others carried. She noticed the details others overlooked. The neatness of his corner. The deliberate care in how he’d left everything behind.

“He cleaned his spot,” she said at last, her voice soft but cutting through the quiet.

The others glanced at her, some confused.

“Did it without anyone noticing,” Shinobu continued. “Even while we were all here.”

The implication hung unspoken in the air. That Giyu’s departure hadn’t been careless or arrogant. It had been intentional, quiet, almost apologetic. Not the gesture of a man who thought himself above others, but of one who wished not to trouble them. Of someone avoiding notice, rather than demanding it.

Sanemi’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. Iguro shifted his weight but said nothing.

It wasn’t the kind of observation one could dismiss outright.

The mood, however, did not lift. The air remained thick, laden with the earlier conversation outside, with the revelations of broken fathers and fractured households. And now, layered atop that, the echo of Giyu’s silent exit.

Eventually, the group moved. Slowly, methodically, they began to tidy the kitchen and dining space.

Muichiro moved as if in a dream, absent-minded yet gentle, lifting bowls and stacking them with surprising precision. Mitsuri busied herself at the sink, humming faintly, a soft, wavering tune that sounded like she was trying to keep her own spirits afloat. The sound of water splashing and porcelain clinking filled the silence.

Kyojurou and Sanemi stood side by side, drying the dishes. Their movements were opposite in style: Kyojurou’s brisk yet almost cheerful, Sanemi’s rougher, sharper, but they worked in rhythm nonetheless. Iguro, though not one to linger in chores, silently took up a broom, sweeping the tatami floors with rigid efficiency.

The room slowly began to feel lighter, the weight dispersed into small, ordinary motions.

It was Tengen who finally broke the quiet. Not with his usual booming voice or flamboyant flair, but with something subdued.

“…I won’t bring alcohol again.”

The words caught a few of them off guard. Mitsuri blinked. Kyojurou paused mid-dry. Sanemi arched a brow.

Tengen scratched at the back of his neck, his usual confident grin absent. “I didn’t think it’d bother people like that. I figured, we’re all adults. Thought it’d liven things up.” His voice lowered, quieter. “But… I didn’t know.”

The heaviness in his tone was unusual. It carried not only an apology but an admission that he had failed to see something vital about the people standing beside him.

Kyojurou inclined his head in acknowledgment, his voice calm, respectful. “Thank you, Tengen.”

Sanemi only grunted, unwilling to give voice to his agreement, but he didn’t sneer or scoff further. That alone was a concession.

The room remained quiet for a moment longer before Tengen added, almost awkwardly, “Next time… I’ll bring dessert instead.”

It was Mitsuri who lit up instantly, her entire expression softening into joy. “Oooh, please do! Maybe dango or mochi! Or even taiyaki, oh, taiyaki would be wonderful!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious, a small spark against the dimness. A few chuckles rippled through the group, not loud or boisterous, but enough to ease the edges of tension. Even Iguro’s posture softened faintly at the sight of her smile.

The evening wound down in that gentler current. The chores were finished, and the kitchen was clean once more. One by one, the Hashira began preparing themselves for departure, missions awaited, duties called, and the world outside would not wait for their sorrows to be resolved.

Yet as they gathered their things, Shinobu lingered. Her eyes drifted once more toward the empty place at the table.

She thought of Giyu, of the way he had slipped away unseen, of the precision in his absence. Of the silence he carried like armor, and the storms she could now almost glimpse beneath it.

He wasn’t as cold as the others believed.

Not indifferent. Not proud.

Just still trapped in a storm that only he could feel.

And for the first time, Shinobu felt certain of it.

Luminary by Joel Sunny

The weeks bled into months with a kind of quiet rhythm.

Winter pressed itself against the land, firm and steady, as though it intended to test every soul who walked its roads. The days were short, the nights long and bitter. Snow became a familiar sight, draping rooftops, lining the edges of the mountain paths, collecting along the estates of the Hashira like the steady accumulation of memory itself.

And through it all, the dinners continued.

At Lady Amane’s encouragement, and Kagaya’s own warm insistence, the Hashira found themselves summoned to each other’s estates in turn, breaking bread, sipping tea, and lingering in one another’s company. What began as a somewhat awkward experiment had grown into something more: a fragile but meaningful thread that tied them together outside the battlefield.

They had learned things about each other, small things, unimportant perhaps, but the kind that stitched people closer without them realizing.

Mitsuri, for instance, had a sweet tooth beyond compare, and her face could light up an entire room when a tray of mochi was set in front of her. Muichiro, though often lost in thought, had a quiet fondness for arranging stones in careful patterns near the garden ponds, and the others would sometimes find themselves joining in without questioning why. Sanemi, to everyone’s shock, was surprisingly meticulous with cleaning after dinner, scouring every plate as though scrubbing away invisible sins. And Rengoku, though already known for his booming voice, proved himself to be a patient listener when others spoke, nodding, smiling, encouraging every hesitant word.

Even Tengen had changed. After the night he’d brought alcohol, he never once mentioned it again. Instead, he came bearing other delights: elaborate sweets from the villages, steaming trays of takoyaki, even candied chestnuts he claimed were “festival-grade.” He kept the atmosphere lively without drowning it in excess.

Yes, something had shifted among them all. The ties of fellowship, tenuous as they sometimes were, had thickened.

All except for one.

Shinobu noticed it the most.

She had always been observant, trained to read subtleties in the flutter of wings, the twitch of a poisoned limb, the fleeting microexpressions on a patient’s face before the truth came spilling free. And so it was no surprise that her eyes returned, again and again, to the same empty corner, or rather, not empty, but quietly subdued.

Giyu.

He still attended the dinners. He still sat among them. But that was all.

He ate, always politely, finishing every bite as though he felt compelled not to waste. He listened, never interrupting, rarely engaging. When others laughed, he gave a small neutral nod, but his lips never curved, and his eyes never softened to match. When asked questions, he answered in the fewest words possible, never cruel, but never warm.

The others had tried, in their own ways, to reach him.

Mitsuri, of course, had once scooted right up beside him, cheerfully asking about his favorite food, only to receive the quiet reply: “Anything warm.” She had smiled anyway, though Shinobu caught the flicker of disappointment.

Rengoku had boomed encouragement at him across the table, “Your spirit is strong, Tomioka! I can feel it!” to which Giyu had inclined his head, murmured “Thank you,” and returned to his daikon.

Even Sanemi, rough though he was, had made the attempt, though it came in the form of half-grumbled complaints during a shared patrol. Giyu had said nothing, and that silence had driven Sanemi to snap, “You’re impossible,” before stalking off.

Iguro, meanwhile, rarely tried at all, his suspicion of Giyu too deeply ingrained. Muichiro was too lost in his own drifting thoughts to push much. And Tengen, perhaps feeling guilty from before, treated Giyu with an almost exaggerated casualness, speaking around him rather than directly to him.

It wasn’t that Giyu avoided them entirely. He simply… kept his walls.

The same walls that had been visible that night, months ago, when he’d left the estate before the snow had fully settled.

Shinobu thought of it often, the way his shoulders had stiffened, the way he had disappeared without a word, the way the others had assumed indifference when she alone had seen something else. Fear.

Now, as she sat across from him at another of these dinners, she wondered how much longer he could keep living behind those walls without suffocating inside them.

Tonight’s gathering was at Mitsuri’s estate, a place alive with warmth and color. Her rooms were adorned with bright fabrics, cheerful flowers in vases, and painted charms strung across the beams. The meal had been extravagant, filled with broths and rice balls and sweet red bean paste for dessert. The others laughed, voices bouncing off the wood and silk, energy light despite the bitter cold outside.

But Giyu’s seat was the same as ever: careful, quiet, contained. He ate, nodded at the right times, and when Mitsuri excitedly pushed an extra plate of sweets his way, he accepted it politely and finished it without remark.

Shinobu found her gaze drifting back to him again and again.

She could not deny it: part of her wanted to tear down those walls herself, if only to see what truly lay behind them. Was it pride, as Sanemi believed? Was it arrogance, as Iguro muttered? Or was it, as she suspected, something else entirely, something rawer, quieter, a wound that had never healed?

She thought of that night again, of the neat bowl he’d left behind, the way he’d cleaned his space so deliberately. A man who wanted to vanish without being noticed, but who could not bear to leave a mess for someone else to shoulder. That was not arrogance. That was not indifference.

It was loneliness.

Still, she said nothing. She let the others chatter, let the warmth of Mitsuri’s home cover the moment. There would be time. There had to be time.

The evening wound down as it always did. They tidied together, laughter slowly fading into comfortable quiet. One by one, they bid their goodbyes, cloaks drawn tight against the night, until the group dispersed to their separate estates.

Shinobu lingered only a little, exchanging soft words with Mitsuri before she too departed. Outside, the snow crunched faintly under her sandals. The moon lit the road in silver.

And somewhere in the darkness, she knew, Giyu was walking alone.

The next morning, the crows came.

Each Hashira had their own, of course, trained, sharp-eyed, loyal to the Corps. Their calls echoed across the sky, carrying news, summons, orders.

But one crow in particular, old and weathered, had returned to a master who rarely spoke to it beyond necessity. It was Giyu’s crow, Kanzaburo.

Giyu knelt on the engawa of his estate, brushing melted snow from the wooden boards. The crow fluttered down, wings beating against the cold air, and landed before him with a brisk caw.

“Mission! Mission!” it croaked. “Head immediately, Mount Kumotori!”

Giyu’s eyes flicked upward, the faintest ripple in his otherwise unreadable expression.

Mount Kumotori.

The crow went on, rattling off details in clipped bursts: disappearances in the villages nearby, strange scents of blood carried on the mountain winds, sightings of shadows moving against the snow. The work of a demon, almost certainly.

Giyu listened in silence, then rose to his feet. His haori shifted in the cold breeze, half-patterned, half-plain, as if embodying the very division of himself.

Without hesitation, he gathered his blade.

There was no word to anyone else, no farewell to his peers, no explanation. Just the quiet acceptance of duty, and the long road leading to the mountain where something waited in the snow.

Something that, perhaps, would echo the storm still locked within him.

A.N. / And with that, we had some small conflicts amongst the Hashira, but it has been resolved mostly! I found this part difficult to write, mainly because I wanted to make the time run by. And frankly, I think it worked out. When it comes to progress in speaking to someone, it is never consistent. Sometimes, it will be quick and meaningful, while sometimes you will have moments where progress halts. And so, the timeframe does two things for me. It allows me to show how the art of progress is inconsistent. For Shinobu, there are times when she will find out a lot about Giyu, but there will also be times when she won’t find anything else. Plus, the other Hashira, like Gyomei, Tengen, Kyojurou, and Mitsuri, are also intrigued, and likely, so will the other Hashira, since Giyu is clearly the only one who is still the odd one out. And you might notice the other reason, but you’ll find that out in the next chapter. Anyway, I will see you when that occurs. See you!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 21:

Empathy by Crystal Castles

The road to Mount Kumotori was long. Even for someone like Tomioka Giyu, whose legs had carried him across endless provinces, forests, and winding river valleys in the pursuit of demons, the sight ahead gave him pause.

From the last village before the mountains, he could see the towering rise of Kumotori. Its peaks were shrouded in a mantle of white, snow resting heavily across the trees, blanketing even the lowest slopes in cold silence. The air smelled sharp, of ice, pine, and woodsmoke carried faintly from somewhere unseen. Giyu adjusted the strap of his haori across his shoulder and exhaled slowly.

The trek would not be a short one. And it would not be forgiving.

The crow had cawed its mission at dawn that morning, urgent and insistent, until Giyu had quietly gathered his gear and set out without a word to the others. He had always walked alone; it was not unusual, but now, the weight of the assignment pressed strangely against his chest.

“Head to Mount Kumotori,” the crow had barked, circling overhead before vanishing into the pale sky. “A family at around its peak, the Kamado, may be in danger. Investigate immediately!”

The name clung to him. Kamado.

He had not recognized it, but in the village, when he stopped briefly for supplies and asked where the mountain’s path began, the name stirred immediate recognition among the people.

“Oh, the Kamado family?” said one woman, middle-aged, carrying a bundle of rice straw under her arm. She had looked him up and down. Giyu had hidden his demon slayer attire, allowing the villagers to not assume much. Giyu did not need a group of other villagers looking down on him. Even if the half fox mask was a sight of oddity, it didn’t seem to cause uproar. “They’re good folk. Live all the way up top, past where most would even dare build. Dangerous winters up there. But they’ve always managed.”

Another villager, a thin man stacking firewood outside a shop, leaned in. “Used to be the father who came down, long ago. He’d sell coal black as night, the finest kind. But…” He shook his head, lowering his voice. “The man grew ill. Stopped coming. Now it’s the boy, eldest son. Tanjirou, I think they said his name was.”

“Tanjirou,” Giyu repeated quietly, storing the syllables away.

The woodcutter nodded. “Every day, that boy climbs up and down this monster of a mountain. Snow, mud, storms, it doesn’t matter. He sells charcoal, gathers what supplies they can afford, and goes back up. Sometimes we don’t know how he even survives it. Carrying sacks heavier than him, half-frozen, and still polite enough to bow to every elder he passes. Always smiling, even when he’s bone tired.”

Another voice joined in, the priest at the small place of worship near the edge of the village. He had overheard while sweeping the steps. His words carried a reverent hush.

“And yet… it is not only coal that the boy carries. Every New Year’s Eve, he comes here without fail. He performs the dance of fire, through the entire night into the morning. No rest, no breaks. Just the rhythm of his steps and the flame of his spirit. It is something to see. A devotion older than we can recall.”

The villagers nodded among themselves, as though speaking of something sacred. Giyu, listening in silence, found his brow tightening ever so slightly.

A boy. A child, walking this impossible path, bearing the weight of his family on his back. Selling coal in the teeth of snowstorms, bowing, dancing, smiling even through exhaustion. Giyu turned his gaze back to the mountain, following the jagged lines where its slope seemed to pierce the clouds. His hand rested unconsciously on the hilt of his blade.

How?

The question echoed in him with strange insistence. How could a child climb this every day? How could one so young shoulder such a burden without breaking?

The villagers had spoken warmly, even admiringly, but admiration did not ease the harsh truth of such a life. For Giyu, whose own childhood had been swallowed by grief, blood, the white silence of snow, and the black walls he was trapped in, there was something almost unbearable in the thought.

He remembered, unwillingly, the cold that had once bitten into his own bones. The endless whiteness of winter nights when he had run barefoot, delirious, lungs tearing open with every breath. Snow had not been gentle then. Snow was never gentle. It suffocated. It killed.

And yet… this boy endured it, day after day, night after night.

The Kamados. Eldest brother, Tanjirou.

The name pressed at him again, heavy and unfamiliar, but carrying weight nonetheless.

He set his jaw, pulling his haori tighter against the bite of the mountain wind, and began walking.

The path was steep even from the start. The dirt road that wound lazily out of the village soon gave way to stone and packed earth, the slope climbing steadily upward. The further Giyu went, the less sound there was beyond his own steps, the crunch of snow beneath his sandals, the faint rustle of trees bowing beneath their frozen burdens.

The mountain loomed higher with every turn, its peaks wrapped in mist, white against the fading gray sky. It felt endless, like a wall between the world below and some unreachable height above.

As he walked, Giyu’s mind replayed the villagers’ words. The father is too sick to work. The boy, Tanjirou, is carrying on the duty without hesitation. The family is waiting at the top.

It reminded him of other families. His own, long buried. Others he had failed to protect. The endless rows of names carved into his memory. His pace quickened, almost unconsciously.

But the higher he climbed, the more the weight of it pressed on him. The cold grew sharper, cutting against his skin. His breath curled into the air in pale clouds. His legs worked steadily against the incline, each step sinking into snow that grew deeper with every mile.

Was this truly the path a child took every day? Giyu stopped once, crouching near a patch of disturbed snow. A faint trail, footsteps. Smaller than his own, lighter, but steady. The path was marked here and there by the shape of a burden dragged along the slope, perhaps a bundle of coal or firewood.

He traced the prints with his eyes, following where they disappeared higher into the white. His hands curled faintly at his sides.

It was true.

The boy really did this.

He resumed walking, each step heavier with thought. The villagers had spoken as though it were admirable, a story of resilience. But what Giyu saw in the prints, in the weight of the mountain itself, was not resilience. It was sacrifice. Silent, crushing sacrifice.

A child should not bear this. A child should not bleed his body into the snow for survival.

And yet… Tanjirou did. Every day. Without fail.

By the time the trees thinned and the mountain spread open into a broad, snow-drifted ridge, the sky had begun to darken. Clouds gathered thick and gray, the threat of another storm pressing close. Giyu paused, gazing up toward where the slope vanished into whiteness.

Somewhere up there, a family waited in a cabin or hut carved against the storm. The Kamado family. And at their heart, a boy named Tanjirou.

Giyu’s hand rested once more on the hilt of his blade. Not in threat, but in something closer to a vow. Whatever danger waited on this mountain, whatever had drawn the crow’s warning, he would find it.

For the boy who walked through the snow every day.

For the family who lived at the top of a world meant to crush them.

He took a breath, deep and steady, and stepped forward into the climb.

The path up Mount Kumotori was long and merciless, a gray expanse stretching endlessly into white. Tomioka Giyu pressed forward, his sandals sinking into the snow with each steady step, his haori snapping against the biting wind. The clouds had rolled in thick, heavy, and low, darkening the sky to a dull iron sheen. Soon, snow began to drift downward, at first a few stray flakes, but gradually thickening into a gentle curtain that veiled the world.

It was quiet. The kind of silence that only mountains could hold, where even the cry of crows felt swallowed by the expanse. Giyu adjusted his grip on the strap of his haori and continued, gaze fixed on the ridge above him. The villagers’ words echoed in his mind.

The Kamado family lives at the very top. The boy, Tanjirou, comes down every day. The father, Tanjurou, has been sick for years now. A family surviving where no family should survive.

The snow thickened, clinging to his hair and shoulders. His breath turned to mist before him. The incline grew steeper, forcing him to lean forward, muscles burning with the climb. He traced faint footprints buried under fresh snow, the trail of someone who had descended not long ago, carrying a weight. A sled mark, dragging alongside. Charcoal, perhaps. The boy’s route.

That a child could do this every day was almost unfathomable. The mountain itself seemed to reject life, as though testing all who dared linger on its slopes. Giyu pressed harder, more determined than ever to reach the top before the storm consumed the path.

Hours bled together in the climb. The snow grew thicker, the air colder. His body was strong, conditioned by years of training, but even he felt the ache pressing into his bones. Each step left a deep imprint, swallowed seconds later by drifting snow. But then…

Through the white veil, the shape of a house emerged.

He slowed, narrowing his eyes. A cabin, clinging to the mountainside. It was small, wood darkened with age, its roof bowed under a blanket of snow. Thin trails of smoke should have curled from a chimney, the warm glow of firelight should have seeped through the shutters. But no smoke rose. No light shone.

Something was wrong.

Giyu’s breath stilled in his chest as he approached. Snow crunched softly beneath his sandals. The silence grew heavier, pressing against his ears. Then he saw it, the door, splintered inward. The walls, slashed and broken, as though something massive had torn through them. A smell hit him then, carried faintly even in the frozen air.

Blood.

He stepped inside.

The interior was dim, gray with the filtered light of the storm outside. His eyes swept the room, and his stomach tightened. The walls were smeared with red. Pools of it darkened the floorboards, staining the tatami. Furniture had been overturned, crushed, and broken. And there…

Bodies.

A woman, sprawled across the floor, her chest caved in where claws had raked deep. Her face, once kind perhaps, was frozen in terror. Around her, four small children lay scattered, limp, cold, and pale. Their throats torn open. Their blood soaked the floor around them.

They had been murdered brutally, savagely. Yet not consumed. Not eaten.

Giyu’s breath caught, though his face remained a mask. His hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, the familiar weight grounding him as he scanned the scene.

A demon attack. There was no doubt. The marks, the destruction, the scent of blood, he had seen this countless times before. But something was off.

Demons killed to feed. They tore flesh from bone, devoured until nothing remained. But here, though the family had been slaughtered, their bodies lay untouched, bloodied but whole. The demon had struck and then… stopped.

Why?

He moved carefully through the wreckage, each step deliberate. His eyes lingered on the children, so small, far too small. Their clothes were patched, threadbare. The house itself was cramped, one room serving all. It was far too small for a family of this size, offering barely enough space to live, much less to thrive.

They had lived in hardship. That much was clear. Survival, day after day, was already a battle. And now, even that battle had ended in blood.

A faint sound escaped him, a breath, nearly a sigh, but his chest was tight, as though the mountain air itself had frozen inside him.

He forced himself to keep moving. There was more to see.

At the back of the house, past the torn mats and broken beams, he found a small door leading out into the snow. Beyond it, nestled against the slope, was a clearing half-buried in drifts. And there, set into the earth, covered in a thin sheet of white, was a grave marker.

He brushed snow aside with his hand, revealing the carved name.

Kamado Tanjurou.

The father. The one the villagers had spoken of, who once came down to sell coal, who had grown ill and faded into silence. His grave lay simple, humble, as though dug by bare hands.

Giyu stood in the cold, the snow dusting his shoulders, staring at the stone. The picture sharpened in his mind. A father gone. A mother struggling. A boy, forced to become a man long before his time, carrying the mountain itself on his shoulders to keep his family alive.

And now, this.

He turned.

In the snow around the grave, faint but fresh, were footprints. Not the small prints of children. Not the heavier steps of the mother. These were the steps of someone older. Wider. Firmer. The tracks led away from the house, downward, disappearing into the thickening storm.

Someone had survived.

The eldest son. Tanjirou.

Giyu’s heart quickened, though his face remained still. He crouched, fingers brushing the edges of the tracks, confirming their direction. They were recent, not yet buried fully by snowfall. The boy had fled down the mountain. Away from the carnage.

Had he seen it? Had he come home to find his family slaughtered? Had he run in terror, grief, disbelief?

Or… was there another reason?

Giyu’s eyes narrowed. His breath clouded before him. Snowflakes clung to his hair and lashes, melting against his skin. The mountain seemed to hold its breath with him, silent, watching.

A demon had been here. A demon had killed this family. But one had lived.

And the bodies, untouched.

Why had the demon not eaten them? Why leave them whole, blood soaking the floor, their lives taken, but their flesh abandoned?

The thought pressed hard at him, unsettling. He had seen demons act with cruelty, malice, and hunger. But this, this was strange. Wrong.

He rose slowly, gaze shifting back toward the distant slope where the footsteps vanished into white. The snow was falling harder now, obscuring the trail. If he waited too long, the prints would vanish entirely.

Giyu adjusted the blade at his hip, his decision already made.

The Kamado family was gone. But the boy, the eldest, Tanjirou, was alive. Somewhere down this mountain, lost in the storm, carrying the weight of everything he had just lost.

And perhaps… not alone.

If the demon lingered, if it followed…

He stepped forward, snow crunching beneath him, following the trail.

The mountain wind howled louder, swirling flakes into his vision, but he did not falter. His pace quickened, every sense sharp. His pulse beat steadily in his ears, grounding him.

There was no time to waste.

The story of the Kamado family had not ended here, in blood and silence. It had shifted, turned, narrowed into one fragile line, footsteps leading down into the storm.

And Tomioka Giyu would follow it.

The boy was trembling.

The snow bit at his skin, but it wasn’t the cold that had him shaking it was the desperation in his arms, clutching the girl against him as though the entire world wanted to tear her away. The girl herself, fangs bared, nails sharp, breath thick with a predator’s hunger, was hardly recognizable as human. She snarled, straining against her brother’s grip, a crude metal hatchet shoved between her jaws to prevent her from biting down on him.

And yet the boy wouldn’t let go.

Giyu had seen this scene too many times before, siblings clinging to siblings, lovers cradling lovers, parents grasping onto children already long lost. There was nothing new here. Nothing surprising. Just another tragic repeat of the endless script demons left behind.

His feet moved without hesitation, the crunch of snow sharp as he closed the distance. His hand rested on his sword’s hilt, water-breathing poised to strike. The demon girl’s eyes glowed with the same hunger as all the rest.

And as Giyu went to slash down, the boy turned and shifted him so that he and the demon would evade his quick strike.

The boy tumbled to the ground, knees cutting into the snow as if the earth itself was grinding him down. His arms loosened enough for Giyu to seize the demon by the back of her kimono. She writhed and hissed, teeth snapping around the hatchet handle. Giyu held her firm, eyes narrowing in disgust, not just at her, but at the boy kneeling before him.

But before he could bring his blade down on the demon, the boy broke.

“Please!” His voice cracked, raw and scraping. “Please don’t hurt her!”

The sound was pitiful. Not commanding. Not fierce. Just pleading.

A brother begging for a demon’s life.

Giyu’s voice cut through the wind, sharper than the edge of his sword. “Get up. That thing is a demon. It is not your sister anymore.”

The boy didn’t. His hands pressed into the snow, head bowed, shoulders trembling. He could barely lift his eyes to meet Giyu’s. “She’s my sister. Please… I’ll find a way, I’ll do anything, just don’t kill her…”

Giyu’s patience cracked like ice underfoot. He snapped forward, voice rising with a harshness he rarely let loose.

“Do you think the village will help you?!”

The boy froze.

Giyu dragged the demon girl closer, her claws swiping in the air uselessly as she snarled against the gag. “Look at yourself! Covered in blood. Dragging a demon behind you like some deranged fool. Do you think they’ll welcome you? They’ll see you for what you are showing them, a boy who’s lost his mind. They’ll look at that thing, and they won’t see a sister. They’ll see a monster. And do you know what she’ll do once you get close enough? She’ll slaughter them. Every last one. Men. Women. Children. Just like she did with your family!”

The words sank like stones into the boy’s chest.

His lips quivered, but still he begged. “No… she wouldn’t, she’s not like that…”

Giyu’s anger flared. He stepped forward, looming, his voice a lash of contempt. “Stop lying to yourself! It’s a demon. A beast. That’s all it’ll ever be now until it dies! And you…” He jabbed a finger toward the boy, every syllable like spitting venom. “You’re pathetic. Weak. On your knees, groveling like a dog. Do you think that earns you anything? Respect? Mercy? Pity?”

Tanjirou then yelled out to Giyu, “How can she! She was a human when I left last night! And there’s another demon I can smell! It doesn’t match with Nezuko!”

That intrigued Giyu. Was this boy able to smell things as well as Urokodaki? If so… Perhaps he could be a demon slayer. Even then, if this were true, this made Nezuko’s case more dignified.

“Is that so? Perhaps another demon came, and your sister was exposed to its blood. Then I should kill this thing so your sister can go to heaven, if she hasn’t killed anyone, as you claim.” Giyu responded, seemingly uninterested in Tanjirou’s case.

The boy’s breath hitched, his whole body taut. But he didn’t rise. He didn’t argue. He only kept pleading, broken and hoarse.

And that enraged Giyu all the more.

“All you’ll get in this world,” Giyu snarled, voice low, dangerous, “is spat on. Kicked down. Disrespected. Stared at like filth. That’s the future you’re begging for. And you disgust me for it.”

The boy’s fingers dug into the snow, nails scraping dirt beneath the frost. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to look away. “She’s all I have left,” he whispered. “Please… please don’t take her from me, too.”

For a fleeting moment, something in Giyu’s chest twinged. Something he shoved down immediately, locking it away behind the walls he’d built long ago.

He couldn’t afford to let it surface.

“You think your begging matters?” Giyu growled, his voice rough, guttural. “I’ve seen boys like you before. Boys who cry and plead and swear they’ll protect someone. Do you know what happens? They die screaming, and the people they love die with them. That’s all.”

He tightened his grip on the demon girl, his other hand pulling free his blade. Steel hissed in the snowy air, the reflection of the blade glinting in her wild, feral eyes.

The boy’s heart lurched. He scrambled forward, desperation breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait!”

Giyu’s glare bore into him, colder than the mountain winds. “You walk up and down this mountain every day. You dance from night until sunrise. You carry your family’s survival on your back. And yet, this is what I see.” He sneered, the words cutting deep. “A weak, pathetic boy on his knees, begging. Not strong. Not resilient. Just pitiful.”

The boy’s breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling too fast, his body caught between collapse and defiance.

“If you truly care about her,” Giyu said, his voice a final sentence, “then fight for her. Not with words. Not with tears. With strength. With your own hands.”

He gestured sharply with his sword toward the snow, where the hatchet had fallen when the boy tripped earlier. Its handle jutted from the white like a buried relic.

“Pick it up.”

The boy stared, stunned, his breath caught in his throat.

“Pick it up,” Giyu repeated, his voice sharp as a whip. “Fight me. Prove to me that your sister is worth saving. Or stay on your knees, and I’ll kill her here and now.”

The demon girl snarled again, thrashing violently in his grip, the hatchet handle now out of her mouth and dropped on the snow-filled floor near Tanjirou.

The boy’s gaze darted from his sister’s face, bloodied, monstrous, but still hers, to the blade gleaming at her neck. Then to the hatchet in the snow. His chest burned with ragged breaths, his fingers twitching at his sides.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To collapse.

But Giyu’s words carved into him like ice.

Begging won’t save her.

No one will respect him for pleading.

No one will save him but himself.

Giyu’s sword steadied, a cold edge just above the demon girl’s throat. His eyes locked on the boy, unflinching, merciless. “Choose. Now.”

Snow swirled around them, the silence broken only by the girl’s guttural snarls and the boy’s desperate breaths.

Tanjirou’s hand moved. Slowly, shaking, but with a growing fire. His fingers stretched toward the hatchet. Toward the only weapon he had. Toward the only chance left to prove that his sister’s life was worth more than his begging.

And Giyu, expression unreadable, blade poised, waited.

Waited to see whether this boy would rise.

Or whether his weakness would end with the slice of steel.

The blade gleamed, so close to severing the last tie the boy had left.

And the snow kept falling.

Tanjirou’s body trembled, but he stayed where he was. His voice cracked, raw. “If I don’t beg for her… then who will?!”

The words rang in the crisp mountain air, but to Giyu, they meant nothing. He stepped closer, blade angled down.

And once Giyu’s blade struck down, slashing into Nezuko’s shoulder and arm, and once that went on, Tanjirou seemed to snap.

“Stop it!” Tanjirou yelled loudly as he grabbed both the hatchet and a nearby rock. He threw the rock towards Giyu, who simply blocked it with his blade.

“Pathetic. I should just slay this demon and get out of here. At least the villagers hold him in high enough regard to care for him.” Giyu told himself as he watched Tanjirou head behind a tree, seemingly to throw another rock at him.

He quickly dodged it, eying Tanjirou, who was charging at him with his hands behind his body, straight on.

“Is this kid seriously stupid? Charging straight on? Pathetic.” And as soon as Tanjirou got within his distance, before Tanjirou could move his hands, Giyu slammed his pommel down right on Tanjirou’s back, knocking the kid unconscious.

“Such a let down…” Giyu thought before he looked at the fallen boy, and realized something, “Wait… Where’s his hatchet?”

Giyu then looked up and saw the hatchet twirling towards him. He managed to tilt his head away, but that was a close call. “Right before he went behind that tree, he actually threw both the rock and the hatchet… Then hid his arms purposely to make it seem he was charging at me with his hatchet head on…” Giyu then eyed the hatchet, stuck in a tree, as he was clearly in disbelief.

“He knew he couldn’t defeat me, so he tried taking me out after he himself was eliminated… This kid…” Giyu had to admit, the explosive intelligence this kid had already shown was commendable. He would’ve been a good candidate for the demon slayer corps. “A shame he has a demon by his side…”

But as Giyu was in thought, he was unexpectedly kicked by the side, launching him away from the boy. He stiffened, coughing up blood near where he was before he went flying a bit. Quickly readjusting his body, he gritted as he was about to charge back to save Tanjirou from the demon.

“Shit! The demon’s going to eat him!” But what Giyu saw next stunned him.

End of Beginning by Djo

The demon had gotten between Giyu and Tanjirou, and her hand was sprawled out. The other was decapitated and didn’t grow back. There was free meat for her to eat, which she needed to regrow her arm, and yet… She was not eating him…

“Not to mention my blood…” Giyu looked down, seeing the bits of blood that had sprinkled around Tanjirou. Even the smallest bit of his blood was enough to make demons react and run away. It was the very reason he had lived when he should’ve died, because every single demon had avoided his blood.

But not Nezuko…

“She clearly smells it, and her face clearly shows she hates it… But she went through it… to get closer to her brother… In pretty much any case where this would happen, the sibling would’ve definitely gotten eaten by the demon… So… are these kids special?” Giyu thought as he looked on.

Suddenly, he was confused. Demons were nothing but crazy lunatics who feasted and let their minds succumb to their desires. And people who sympathize and beg, just like he did, angered him.

There was no use in explaining things relating to demons to anyone, because the line between truth and lie always caused punishment for him. So, if Tanjirou went down, he would’ve gone through the same fate. But the way he kept defending a demon, it absolutely pissed Giyu off.

But seeing Nezuko go through his disgusting blood, which had splattered too close to Tanjirou for any demon not to smell it, it required mental strength and perseverance, enough to show that somewhere behind that body and desires… a human, actually, was there…

Watching as Nezuko quickly charged at him, Giyu retracted his blade and quickly chopped Nezuko’s neck with his hand, knocking her out again.

He sighed, grabbed a quick bamboo muff, and put it on Nezuko’s mouth. “Maybe these kids are worth it… and… different…” Giyu sighed, deciding to trust that small gut instinct that something was different. Besides, the demon had done something with his blood that no other demon had done before, so maybe she was still in there.

The snow had slowed into a quiet drift, thin flakes tumbling from the gray sky like scattered feathers. Tomioka Giyu walked in silence, each step leaving deep impressions in the frost. Across his back was slung the boy, Kamado Tanjirou, limp from unconsciousness, his breath shallow but steady. Against his chest, he carried the girl, Nezuko, bound and gagged in bamboo, her weight unnervingly light for someone who should have been feral, thrashing, ravenous. Instead, she rested almost still, her small frame slack with the deep sleep he had forced upon her.

It was early morning, but the clouds and dark but gentle snowstorm acted like a protective barrier, meaning Nezuko wasn’t being burnt.

“W-Where…?” The boy seemed to finally awake. Giyu sighed as he plopped both of them down.

“You’re awake?” Giyu asked the boy, Tanjirou, who mumbled, before turning to see Nezuko alive, her arm retracted back slowly, and a muffle in her mouth. The boy clearly looked confused, but Giyu knew and answered.

“Demons require less energy when they attach their lost limbs,” Giyu explained to Tanjirou, as Tanjirou nodded. “Anyways, follow me. I’m going to take you to a place where you and that thing can be kept.”

Tanjirou gritted his teeth, “My sister is not a thing.”

Giyu shrugged as he looked at him, his voice stern and blunt, “Demons are freaks of nature. They don’t deserve my respect. Besides, if you want to keep it alive, it burns in the sunlight, so find something to cover it with.”

Giyu would have continued further to where he was leading Tanjirou and Nezuko, but Tanjirou was insistent on finding something for Nezuko to stay in.

The scene that occurred when Nezuko woke up confused Giyu.

Obviously, Giyu was highly skeptical, and being a hawk, watching Nezuko when she took a single step.

Nezuko had seemed to have actually calmed down, albeit she stared with hostility at Giyu. But when she shrank down, following Tanjirou’s command, a part of him was watching Nezuko following the orders with absolute bewilderment.

“A demon following orders from a human… And here I thought I’d seen crazier things…” Giyu thought as he watched Nezuko stay in the little compartment Tanjirou had made.

“Now that you’re satisfied with your worries, let’s keep going.” Giyu shrugged as he simply led the way. “At least the boy is keeping up and not tired, which is impressive.”

Their warmth pressed faintly through his layers, reminding him that he was not alone on this climb. Yet every step felt heavier than it should have, heavier not because of the weight of the children, but because of where he was heading.

Mount Sagiri.

The path was familiar, though he had not set foot upon it since he was thirteen years old. Snow blanketed the landscape differently now, but beneath the white ,he could still trace the slope of trails where Urokodaki Sakonji had made him run until his legs gave out. He knew the ridges where tree roots had once caught his sandals, sending him tumbling. He remembered the streams that had frozen his bones when he was ordered to cross in winter, the taste of water metallic and sharp. His mind recalled it all, unwillingly, each memory striking against the quiet with an ache he had tried to bury for years.

He had sworn he would never return. And yet here he was.

The half-mask covering the left side of his face grew heavier the closer he came. Carved in the likeness of a fox, its lacquer long dulled by time, the mask had been meant to ward, to protect. To grant courage. He had been given it alongside Sabito and Makomo, the three of them stepping onto the path of slayers together.

Sabito, who had smiled with ferocity in his eyes. Makomo, who had been gentle but steady, her patience endless. And Giyu himself, hollow and frightened but desperate to prove he was not worthless.

Only one had returned from Final Selection.

The fox mask now served not as a charm of protection but as a reminder of failure. It pressed against his temple with every step, heavy as the mountain air in his lungs.

He remembered the last words Urokodaki had said to him, words that had etched themselves into his bones the night after the Final Selection

The words had cut deeper than claws. And so, Giyu had left. Without farewell. Without ever looking back.

He had walked down the mountain then with only silence in his chest, believing himself unworthy of Urokodaki’s training, unworthy of his care, unworthy even of the mask he now wore. That had been six years ago. Six long years of silence.

Now, with the Kamado siblings following him, he was climbing that same path back up.

The mountain grew steeper. Giyu’s breath came in slow misted puffs, his sandals crunching against frozen earth. The forest around him was quiet, eerily so. No birds sang in the branches, no river murmured beneath ice. It was as if the mountain itself was watching, waiting. He wondered if Urokodaki felt the shift in the air, if the old man knew someone was coming.

He tightened his hold slightly, not enough to harm her but enough to ground himself. This girl, this demon, was an anomaly. Dangerous, yes, but perhaps also something more.

That was why he was taking them to Urokodaki.

Because if there was anyone left in this world who could judge the impossible fairly, it was Sakonji Urokodaki.

The climb stretched into hours. Snow deepened, the sun dipped low, and shadows of pines stretched long across the slope. Giyu’s body moved on unyielding instinct, muscles enduring, but his mind wandered unbidden to the years he had lost.

He saw Sabito again in flashes. The boy’s grin before they sparred. The cut of his jaw when he declared he would protect them all. The blood that had not been his own when Giyu stumbled out of Final Selection alive, Sabito’s fox mask shattered somewhere behind.

He saw Makomo’s quiet smile, the way she adjusted his stance with careful hands, telling him to breathe softer, smoother. The way she had believed in him, even when he hadn’t.

Their absence gnawed at him still. And the mask he wore, half fox, half broken, was all that remained to remind him.

Every step up Sagiri was a step through ghosts.

At last, through the veil of snow, the cabin came into view.

Nestled against the slope, its roof sagging under years of snowfall, the small wooden home looked unchanged from his memories. Smoke no longer curled from its chimney; it was early still, perhaps, or the fire had not been lit. The shutters were drawn tight against the storm, but faint lines of lamplight glimmered through the cracks.

The sight stopped him.

His steps faltered at the edge of the clearing, snow crunching as he shifted his weight. His breath caught in his throat, though he forced it steady.

The cabin was the same. But he was not.

He remembered standing there as a boy, heart hammering, fox mask hanging askew on his face, Sabito and Makomo at his side. He remembered Urokodaki’s voice calling them in for the evening meal, the warm smell of rice and broth spilling into the cold air. He remembered laughter that had not been his own, hands pushing him forward when he lingered too long at the threshold.

And he remembered leaving, alone, silent, under the cover of night. His footsteps in the snow then had been the same as they were now. But then, he had never returned.

Until today.

The cabin stood before him, unchanged, waiting. His pulse beat heavy in his ears.

He adjusted Tanjirou on his back, shifted Nezuko carefully in his arms. They stirred faintly, alive, fragile. They were the reason he had come back.

And yet, standing before the cabin, he could not move.

The words from six years ago echoed again in his skull, sharper than the mountain wind.

He had left.

Now, after all these years, he was here again, bringing with him not proof of worth, but two more burdens. A boy and a demon. A pair of impossible children that no one else would dare believe in.

The mask against his face felt unbearably heavy. He reached up, fingers brushing its edge, tempted to tear it off and leave it buried in the snow. But his hand fell back to his side.

It was part of him now, as much as his failures were.

Snow swirled softly in the clearing. The cabin waited. Urokodaki, unaware, waited.

And Tomioka Giyu stood just outside, unmoving.

He had not yet gone in.

A.N. / Hey everyone! Chapter 21 is here! Purposely leaving you all on a cliffhanger, as I am deciding on how to properly make Giyu and Urokodaki converse. I definitely will make it so that over the course of the two years Tanjirou and Nezuko train, I will have Giyu come over to check on them, mostly due to the insistence and guidance, more so of Kagaya and Amane. I will likely have Giyu keep a wall up when it comes to Urokodaki. And as this goes on, this will also impact the whole Giyu attendance with the Hashira Dinner Meetings. It will make the Hashira think Giyu is isolating himself, or thinking he’s too good, you know how it goes. It will be a definitely interesting conflict for Giyu and Urokodaki, as well as Giyu and the rest of the Hashira. Also, one thing I realized was that Kanae was probably alive when Tanjirou was training with Urokodaki. I am not actually sure. But Kanae was said to have died when she was 17, and thus, since Giyu was 19 when he first found Tanjirou and Nezuko, just imagine Kanae had died recently before the time of this story’s beginning.

As for the updates, sorry I didn’t update my story yesterday. I decided to actually take a break yesterday, so kind of make up my mind on how to properly format the next couple of chapters. The updates are back to 1-2 a day, hopefully, unless I say so. See you in Chapter 22!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 22:

Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

The forest had quieted since the clash. The snow had begun to settle again, softening the blood-scented ground into a brittle white hush. Each crunch of their steps seemed louder for it: Tanjirou’s ragged breathing, Nezuko’s small body raddling inside the box Tanjirou carried on his back, and Giyu’s even, measured pace leading them deeper into the woods.

Tanjirou’s head still ached from the blow. His vision blurred whenever he tried to focus too sharply, but he kept his eyes on the man ahead, the strange mix of patterns in his haori swaying with each step. That left half, checkered green and yellow, looked alive in the snowlight, while the right, pure, blood-deep red, remained as still and heavy as stone. And above it, the fox mask. Half of one, anyway. A cracked warding mask, its left side bound against Giyu’s face, the paint faded, as if it had borne decades of silence.

Tanjirou’s lips parted before he had the courage to speak.

“Where… where are you taking us?”

His voice was hoarse, heavy with exhaustion, but he made sure it was steady. He needed to know.

Giyu didn’t slow. The snow sighed under his sandals as if nothing had reached him. For a moment, Tanjirou thought he would be ignored. That perhaps words weren’t something this man allowed the world.

Then, without turning his head, Giyu spoke.

“To my teacher.”

The words dropped like a stone in still water, rippling outward in Tanjirou’s chest.

“Your… teacher?”

“Urokodaki Sakonji. He lives in the mountains.”

The name meant nothing to Tanjirou, but the way it left Giyu’s mouth carried weight. It wasn’t reverence, exactly. Not tenderness either. It was something tangled, something Tanjirou’s nose caught before his ears fully processed.

A storm of smells swirled around Giyu. Not blood, not steel, but the deeper scents, the ones people tried to bury inside themselves.

Shame.

Regret.

A sharp edge of guilt, cold as ice.

And underneath it, faint but there, fear.

Tanjirou stumbled, just a step, not from weakness but from the overwhelming clarity of it. His nose was rarely wrong. These emotions weren’t fleeting scents; they were carved into Giyu like grooves in stone.

And Giyu felt it. He didn’t turn, didn’t even twitch, but the rhythm of his breath faltered for the smallest moment. As if realizing something he hadn’t expected to be revealed.

“…You can smell it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Tanjirou hesitated, lips parting to answer, but Giyu continued, voice lower this time, edged with unease.

“You’re like him.”

That name again, him. Urokodaki. Tanjirou held the thought carefully, though it only deepened the confusion swimming in him.

Giyu finally glanced back. For a moment, snowflakes drifted across his half-mask, veiling his expression, but his eyes, cold, deep, unreadable, locked on Tanjirou.

“My teacher. He has a nose like yours. Can smell the truth in a man better than the man himself could.”

Tanjirou swallowed. He wanted to say something, wanted to insist he wasn’t special, that he just needed to protect Nezuko, that was all, but the weight in Giyu’s voice pressed him silent.

They walked again. Nezuko, still shrunk into her childlike form, clung close to Tanjirou’s side. She never once let her gaze leave Giyu.

Minutes passed in the hush before Tanjirou spoke again, softly.

“Is… is that why you’re taking us to him?”

Giyu’s jaw tightened. His breath clouded before him, dissolving into the pale air.

“…Partly.”

The answer was too thin, too clipped. The air around it carried too much unsaid. Tanjirou could smell that too, the restraint, the heavy stone pressed against words desperate to break free.

Giyu exhaled slowly.

“Urokodaki is just my teacher. Nothing more.”

The dismissal was sharp, final. But the emotions tangled in his scent screamed otherwise. Pride. Wound-deep respect. That edge of fear again, not of the man, but of what his teacher represented.

Tanjirou bit down on his questions. He understood enough of grief and silence not to pry where a man clearly guarded himself. Still, the thought wouldn’t leave him.

This teacher… Urokodaki… if he’s anything like what I smell in Giyu, then he must be someone who shaped him more than he wants to admit.

They walked on. The mountains rose steadily in the distance, shadows beneath the moon. Tanjirou’s body ached with every step, but his mind clung to the undercurrent in Giyu’s words.

“You’re like him.”

The thought echoed. Could it really be true? Could Tanjirou be anything like this teacher, a man who could train someone as skilled and fearsome as Giyu?

And then, in the silence, another realization bloomed unbidden.

Giyu’s scent, beneath the shame and regret, there was something else. A thread of fragile hope. Thin, but there.

Not hope for himself.

Hope for… Tanjirou.

The idea sent a shiver through him.

Could that be what Giyu saw? That maybe, just maybe, he could carry something forward where Giyu could not? That Tanjirou could… be worthy?

The word tasted too heavy, but it clung to him nonetheless.

The snow thickened as they ascended the mountain paths. The world quieted further, until only the wind hummed against bare branches. Each step seemed to press heavier, not with weight, but with the sense of something approaching.

Then, at last, through the veil of trees, a figure appeared.

He stood at the entrance of a small home carved into the mountain slope. His frame was broad, his posture still, but his presence filled the clearing like a shadow stretching over the snow. His face was hidden behind a full fox mask, weathered and marked with the passage of years.

For a long breath, he did not move. He simply watched.

Tanjirou felt Nezuko tense behind him, inside the box. Even without a word, the man’s aura pressed down, measured, heavy, but not unkind. It was a weight born of years lived, years endured.

And then the man’s gaze shifted.

It landed not on Tanjirou, nor on Nezuko, but squarely on Giyu.

The half-mask on Giyu’s face caught the moonlight, fractured white against the shadows. The mismatched haori, half-checkered green and yellow, half-deep red, swayed in the cold wind.

For the first time since Tanjirou had met him, Giyu seemed to waver. Not in his stance, not in his grip on the sword at his side, but in something deeper. His breath slowed, his shoulders drew slightly inward, as though the presence of this man, the man who had once been his teacher, stripped him bare in ways no demon ever could.

The silence stretched. Snow fell. The past and present seemed to collide in that frozen air.

And then, Urokodaki finally spoke.

“…Giyu.”

The single name carried more than any question, any accusation. It carried recognition. It carried weight.

Tanjirou looked between them, his heart tight in his chest. He did not know what history bound these two men together. But he could smell it, the bond, the pain, the unspoken truths that clung between them like scars unseen. There was clearly something distancing them, and it overwhelmed Tanjirou a bit.

And he knew, instinctively, that whatever came next would shape not just his fate, but Nezuko’s. And perhaps even Giyu’s.

The mountain air stilled, waiting.

The climb to Mount Sagiri was as quiet as it was suffocating. The mountain air had a crispness that clung to Tanjirou’s lungs, yet every step up the uneven path seemed to echo with weight he did not understand. For Giyu, however, every stone beneath his sandals struck like the tolling of a bell, each one ringing with a memory, each one with the faces of the dead.

It had been years since he had set foot here. Years since he last followed this trail back to the cabin where his teacher, Urokodaki Sakonji, still lived in seclusion. And yet the moment he smelled the cedar bark, the moss damp with mountain mist, the faint crisp sting of foxglove along the ridges, his chest constricted. This was home to him, once. A place of training, of survival, of rebirth. But also a graveyard for what he had failed to protect.

Sabito. Makomo.

Their names seemed to resurface with every inhale. The mountain was saturated with their presence, like the spirits themselves clung to the wood and stone, whispering. His hand twitched at his side, wanting to silence the ghosts, but they pressed closer, suffusing the very air. He could feel them in the stillness of the trees. He could almost see their shadows in the mist.

Behind him, Tanjirou bore the wooden box strapped across his back. His gait was steady, though his breathing was heavy from the incline. The boy’s heart was a furnace, burning so loudly it practically roared through the silence. Giyu didn’t need a heightened sense of smell to know it; the boy’s emotions leaked out of him in waves. Resolve. Worry. A stubborn ember of hope.

And then there was the box.

The demon within stirred faintly, but Giyu’s mind was a storm. That he was leading them, both of them, here, into Urokodaki’s home, filled him with dread. How could he explain? How could he ask the man who had given him life, who had saved him from despair, to take this on?

The cabin emerged at last from the mist. Familiar. Unchanged. The wood panels still stained dark from rain, the slanted roof still carrying the weight of years, the faint smoke from the chimney carrying the scent of burning cedar. It was as though time itself had frozen here, waiting for him to return.

And with it, the shame clawed up his throat.

He remembered the day he left this mountain, dressed in the very same attire he now wore. The half-warded fox mask Sabito had given him rested now against his jaw on the left side. The split haori across his shoulders, the checkered green and yellow pattern Sabito had once worn, merged with the pure dark red that had belonged to another. Both halves stitched together, as though he had cobbled his worth out of what the dead had left behind.

Back then, he had carried nothing but the weight of their faith in him. And he had failed them.

Now, he returned carrying a boy. A boy who could perhaps do what he never had. A boy whose scent of honesty, conviction, and unbearable kindness struck him as something cruelly familiar. A boy who might become what Sabito and Makomo believed he, Giyu, once could have been.

He stopped just short of the door. His throat was parched. His hand trembled against the wood frame, but he steadied himself. Tanjirou’s wide, earnest eyes flicked up toward him, his lips parting to ask something, but Giyu silenced him with a look.

It was then he felt it, the shift in the air, sharp and heavy.

When he knocked at the door... Urokodaki answered.

Urokodaki was already there.

The old man stood in the doorway after Giyu knocked. His presence filled the space as though the mountain itself had taken form. He was still masked, the crimson tengu visage hiding his expression, but his stance said everything. His posture was straight, alert. His hands were steady. And though his features were hidden, Giyu knew those unseen eyes were narrowing, honing in on what stood before him.

Specifically, the box on Tanjirou’s back.

The air tensed. Urokodaki’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing as though he could already reach for a blade. The faint breeze seemed to still, as if nature itself braced for his judgment.

“I can smell it.” Urokodaki’s voice was deep, muffled behind the mask, yet sharp as a blade. “There is a demon here.”

Tanjirou’s shoulders jolted. He froze, his body instinctively stepping back, though he dared not flee. The box shifted slightly with the movement, the demon inside stirring faintly at the rising tension.

Giyu moved quickly, stepping between Urokodaki and Tanjirou, his hand firm at his side but not on his sword. He bowed his head low, his voice controlled yet weighted with strain.

“Yes. There is a demon,” Giyu admitted, his words almost rasping. “But it is not what you think.”

Urokodaki’s silence was damning. The air grew colder, the mountain itself holding its breath.

Giyu continued, the words scraping out of him. “She is the sister of this boy, Kamado Tanjirou. Their family was slaughtered. She was turned, and yet… she resists. She has not killed. Not once. I witnessed it myself. She protected him. She fought against her nature.”

Tanjirou’s fists clenched at his sides, his teeth grit, but he said nothing, too afraid that any word would shatter the fragile thread holding the moment.

Urokodaki’s head tilted, the crimson mask inscrutable. “And you bring them here. To me.”

“I…” Giyu faltered for a moment. His chest clenched. “Because he has something, Sensei. Something rare. His sense of smell is sharp, keen. Like yours. He can read the air, read emotions, in a way that… in a way that makes him suited. When I fought him, I felt it. He has talent, even if untrained. He has heart. He could be… the next Water Hashira.”

He swallowed hard, shame biting down on the words in his head. “…he could be what I never was.”

The silence stretched long. Tanjirou’s breath quickened, his knuckles white against the straps of the box. Giyu’s chest burned as though he had been cut open, exposing his failures for the mountain to see.

Finally, Urokodaki stepped forward. His presence was heavy, each footstep sinking into the earth. He moved past Giyu, standing before Tanjirou. The boy straightened instinctively, his eyes wide but unwavering.

The tengu mask tilted closer. The faintest sniff. And then another. Urokodaki inhaled slowly, deeply.

“I can smell the demon,” he said at last. His words were even, though tension laced them. “But I can also smell something else.”

Tanjirou swallowed, his lips parting. “She’s my sister,” he said, his voice shaking but resolute. “She hasn’t hurt anyone. I swear it. I’ll protect people. I’ll find a way to turn her back. Please. Please believe me.”

The words cracked, but the flame in them did not falter.

Urokodaki’s silence pressed down like an avalanche. Then, slowly, he turned his masked face toward Giyu.

“You would ask me,” he said, low, measured, “to train him. To make him into a slayer.”

Giyu lowered his head again, shame and hope warring within him. “…Yes. I think it would be the best decision if you trained him.” Giyu explained to Urokodaki, keeping himself strict to the point, and not much else. He kept his restraint, ensuring nothing else would come up.

“I can’t hold a boy with a demon here,” Urokodaki explained, knowing the risks.

Giyu sighed, “She went through my blood to protect her brother from me.” Giyu admitted, sighing, which alone caused Urokodaki to stop and ponder.

The mountain air hung heavy. The fox masks of Sabito and Makomo seemed to whisper in the trees, unseen but felt. The ghosts pressed close, watching, waiting.

And then, at last, Urokodaki exhaled.

“…Bring them inside,” he said.

The weight shifted. The tension eased, if only slightly. The mountain breathed again.

Giyu’s chest burned as though he had just crossed into another world. His eyes lingered on the doorway of the cabin, on the ghosts that still haunted its frame. He had left this place in shame, clothed in the garments of the dead, carrying nothing but regret.

Now he returned, still cloaked in their memory, but bringing with him something fragile and impossible: hope.

Cardigan by Taylor Swift

The cabin sat in silence except for the low whistle of the wind outside, threading itself through the mountain pines. The air was sharp and cold, the kind that sank through clothes and into the marrow of the bones. Yet inside, the hearth kept a steady warmth. The flames danced orange, licking at the dark shadows along the walls.

Tanjirou sat at the edge of a straw mat, his hands folded loosely on his lap. He was still, his body slumped with exhaustion, though his eyes moved slowly from the flicker of the fire to the tatami lines etched beneath his knees. His breaths came steady but shallow, a rhythm struggling to stay calm. Only hours ago, his world had collapsed in blood and snow. He carried the weight of that silence now, heavy as a coffin pressing against his chest.

Urokodaki Sakonji watched him from across the cabin, arms folded within the wide sleeves of his teal haori. The carved red tengu mask obscured his face, but not the deliberation in his posture. He had listened to Giyu’s recounting of the events, Nezuko turned demon, Tanjirou’s desperate resistance, and the astonishing restraint that had followed. He had listened, and he had weighed the story carefully.

At last, he straightened.

“Tanjirou Kamado,” Urokodaki said, his voice low but firm, carrying the resonance of old wood struck by a mallet.

The boy lifted his head. His eyes, still swollen from grief, met the featureless mask.

“You will stay here. I will train you. If you wish to cut through this despair, if you wish to protect what remains, you will become a Demon Slayer.”

Tanjirou blinked, the words heavy as a boulder sinking into water. He bowed his head, clutching his hands tighter in his lap. “…Train me? To… to fight demons?” His voice was faint, hesitant, almost cracking under the tremor of his fatigue.

“Yes.” Urokodaki’s reply was iron, steady, decisive. “You will learn to wield the sword. To strengthen your body until it no longer breaks. To sharpen your senses until they are as keen as your will. This path will not be merciful. It will demand everything.”

For a moment, silence returned, broken only by the cinders shifting in the hearth. Then Tanjirou bowed deeper, until his forehead brushed the mat. His voice wavered but did not falter. “Please… please teach me. I’ll do anything. For Nezuko. For my family.”

Giyu, standing at the cabin’s threshold with his back against the wall, exhaled quietly. The boy’s desperation was a mirror of himself so many years ago, yet brighter, less poisoned by bitterness. He closed his eyes briefly, and the image of Sabito’s grin, confident, unyielding, flared against his mind’s eye. Makomo’s gentle smile followed, as though whispering her quiet faith.

When Giyu opened his eyes, the firelight caught the half-mask strapped across the left side of his face, its fox warding charm staring blankly at the floor.

“Rest first,” Urokodaki told Tanjirou. His tone softened, a rare gentleness threading beneath its weight. “The body remembers loss. You must recover before you can stand again. Tomorrow, we will begin.”

Tanjirou nodded mutely, lying back onto the mat. His hand brushed against the wooden box at his side, where Nezuko slept in silence. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips before his exhaustion overcame him, dragging him into dreamless dark.

The boy’s breathing had settled into the steady pattern of sleep when Urokodaki turned to Giyu. “Tell me more.”

Giyu’s gaze remained fixed on the fire. His arms crossed, the checkered green-and-yellow on one half of his haori catching the glow, the deep red on the other side seeming to drink it in. “He fought me,” Giyu said at last. “Not with skill. Not with strength. But with desperation that did not break. His scent carried no malice, only resolve. And he did show explosive growth during the small time he fought me.”

Urokodaki tilted his masked head. “And the girl?”

“She resisted.” Giyu’s throat worked as he forced the words out, still half-unbelieving. “Even in her hunger. She shielded him. Shielded a human. It should be impossible.”

The fire popped softly, sparks drifting upward into the chimney’s dark throat. Urokodaki said nothing, waiting.

Giyu continued, slower now. “His sense of smell… it startled me. He cut through me as though my emotions were written plainly on my face. Shame. Fear. Regret. Just like…” He stopped abruptly, swallowing the rest.

“Just like mine?” Urokodaki finished gently. His tone held no accusation, only recognition.

Giyu’s jaw tightened. He turned away, the scarred fingers of his right hand clenching into his sleeve. “…Yes.”

Urokodaki approached the fire, crouching beside it. His mask turned toward the boy sleeping with his box beside him. For a long time, the only sound was the firewood crackling. Then he said, “Sabito would be proud.”

The words landed like a hammer against Giyu’s chest. He flinched, his hands curling tighter.

“And Makomo as well,” Urokodaki added, quieter, the names weighted with years of grief. “They would have been proud of what you have become, Giyu.”

But Giyu’s face twisted, and his eyes burned, though they did not spill. He shook his head once, violently. “…Don’t.” His voice cracked through clenched teeth.

Urokodaki studied him, unyielding yet calm. “Why deny it? You have carried their hopes further than they ever could.”

“No.” Giyu’s voice was a rasp now, hollow and sharp. “You told me I failed you and them. Don’t lie to me after that night had happened.”

His words broke. Urokdaki remained silent because he knew he did. And he regretted it. He’s held way too many regrets, and this is one of them.

The silence after them stretched long. He pressed his hand against the fox mask at his face, the half charm that mocked him with its reminder.

“I left with this mask once. I left wearing this haori. And I left with nothing but their deaths behind me. And now… now I return in the same clothes, carrying the weight I never shed. Only this time, it’s with a boy who might succeed where I couldn’t.”

The fire flickered, shadows bending against the cabin’s walls like silent witnesses.

Urokodaki inhaled slowly through his mask. “So you brought him here not only because he deserves a chance, but because… You wish him to inherit the Water Hashira title.”

Giyu closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. “…Yes.”

Urokodaki nodded once, understanding not only the words but the ache beneath them. “Then let him. Do not think of it as your failure, Giyu. Think of it as the world’s second chance.”

Giyu said nothing. His chest rose and fell, heavy, the silence a fragile shield against the flood of emotion threatening to surge.

Urokodaki turned back toward the boy. Tanjirou’s sleeping face was softened, his lips slightly parted, his brows still faintly creased as though even in slumber, he carried worry. The box behind him stirred faintly, and Urokodaki caught the faintest shift of breath from within. His heightened senses confirmed it; the demon inside lived, yet its aura pulsed with an odd quiet, subdued in ways demons rarely were.

“You ask much of me, Giyu,” Urokodaki murmured.

“I know.” Giyu’s voice was almost inaudible, the crackle of the fire nearly drowning it. “But if anyone can mold him into something worthy, it’s you. The least I can do for failing you, back at the Final Selection.”

Urokodaki stiffened, once again aware of the poor choice of words he had said that night, which clearly had impacted Giyu more than he thought and hoped…

The masked man considered this in silence. His hands folded within his sleeves, his breath measured. Then, with the quiet authority of a verdict, he said, “Then I will. Tomorrow begins his path.”

The flames swayed, their light catching the half-mask on Giyu’s face and the divided haori upon his shoulders. Urokodaki saw the shadow of the boy Giyu had once been, trembling beneath his burdens, and the man he had become, forged in silence and regret. And beside him, he saw the boy who might yet burn brighter.

The past, the present, and the possibility of the future sat together in that small mountain cabin, as the night wrapped them in its cold embrace.

The night had settled deep into the folds of Mount Sagiri, quiet save for the rustle of leaves caught in a wandering wind. Tanjirou was inside, asleep at last. His chest rose and fell in the uneven rhythm of grief, subdued only by exhaustion. Urokodaki sat near the doorway, his mask tilted slightly down, watching, listening, weighing the boy’s future as though it were a fragile ember that needed just enough air to grow into a flame, but not so much that it burned itself out.

And Giyu? Giyu stood at the edge of the clearing, shoulders tense beneath his mismatched haori. He couldn’t stay in that room, not with Urokodaki’s silent eyes and Tanjirou’s restless dreams pressing down on him. The air was thick with things he wasn’t ready to say.

So he left.

The forest swallowed him quickly, its shadows familiar, even comforting. The damp soil muted the crunch of his footsteps, but the silence pressed in nonetheless. His breath came shallow as he made the trek toward Mount Kumotori, where the Kamado household lay in ruins. He told himself it was necessary. Someone needed to see it through. Someone needed to give the family the dignity of rest, to lay their broken bodies to the ground.

But beneath that thought, buried under layers of discipline, was the truth: he couldn’t stand being in Urokodaki’s presence any longer. Not tonight.

The Kamado cabin still stood, at least what remained of it. The air was heavy, stinking faintly of iron and old blood, though the snow had covered much. He found the bodies where they’d been left, stiff now, their faces pale and waxen. He swallowed hard.

One by one, he began to gather them, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. It wasn’t the first time he had buried the innocent. It wouldn’t be the last. But this family… this family had been whole. They had warmth, laughter, and bonds Giyu could smell clinging to the timber of the cabin, even now, like smoke lingering after a fire.

Yet something was wrong.

He crouched beside the mother’s corpse, studying the wounds with a soldier’s precision. His eyes narrowed. The cuts were deep, jagged, violent, but they didn’t match Nezuko’s teeth, nor her claws. He checked the other children. Then the youngest children. Each one bore the marks of savagery, yes, but not consumption.

His hand tightened on the hilt of his blade.

If Nezuko had done this in the frenzy of transformation, there would have been signs of feeding. Flesh torn away, organs missing, marrow sucked clean. That was how demons sustained themselves. But here? No. The Kamado family had been slaughtered, left like broken dolls in the snow. Not eaten.

Another demon had done this.

Giyu sat back, his jaw locking tight. Tanjirou had been right.

He remembered the desperation in the boy’s eyes, the way he clung to the impossible hope that Nezuko wasn’t responsible. He’d wanted to dismiss it then, wanted to cut through hope with the cold steel of practicality. Yet here, staring down at the truth carved into these lifeless bodies, Giyu felt the weight of shame coil around his chest.

There was another demon. One who killed without feeding.

And if that was the case, then this wasn’t just a tragedy. It was malice.

The realization dug deep into him, scraping against old memories.

He thought of Sabito, his fierce grin, his unwavering will. He thought of Makomo, gentle, steady, her eyes holding a wisdom beyond her years. Both had believed in him, trusted in him, even when he had faltered. Both had perished, leaving their hopes tangled around his shoulders like chains.

He remembered that blasted demon, who had hunted them all, just for a grudge. The Hand Demon didn't even do it for feeding, but just for a grudge.

And now, here he was, burying another family. Carrying another failure.

The shame burned. The same mismatched haori on his back felt heavier than it ever had. He had left this mountain years ago, draped in Sabito and Makomo’s memory, convinced he could bear it. Yet every life lost seemed to tug at those threads, unraveling the little strength he thought he had.

And Tanjirou? Tanjirou carried something Giyu never had, an unwavering determination forged not in victory, but in loss. The boy’s eyes, his scent, even his silence spoke of resilience. And Urokodaki had seen it too. He would take Tanjirou, mold him, sharpen him into something worthy. Perhaps into something Giyu himself had never managed to become.

The next Water Hashira.

The rightful successor.

But the thought didn’t bring comfort.

As Giyu lowered the first body into the earth, he felt only the gnawing churn of doubt.

Could Tanjirou truly carry that burden? Could anyone?

The boy had talents, yes. The keen sense of smell, the spirit that refused to break, the strange thread of fate that seemed to weave around him already. But he was young. And now burdened with a sister who walked in shadow.

Giyu pressed his hand to the soil, sealing the earth over the grave.

“Sabito… Makomo…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw. “Would you have believed in him, too?”

The wind rustled through the trees, cold and biting.

He swallowed.

The memory of his youth flickered sharply, the isolation, the ridicule, the disbelief of others when he spoke truths that seemed mad. He had lived it once before, the agony of holding fast to something no one else could see. Tanjirou’s words, his belief in Nezuko’s restraint, had sounded just as mad.

But madness was not always falsehood. Sometimes the impossible was simply the truth no one wished to face.

He stood, brushing soil from his hands. One by one, he buried each member of the Kamado family. The work stretched into the early hours, his muscles aching, fingers numb from cold. But he did not falter.

When the last grave was finished, he stood among them in silence, staring down at the neat mounds of earth. He let the shame, the sorrow, the anger settle into him, an old weight reshaped anew.

There was another demon out there. A killer who took lives not for hunger, but for cruelty.

And that meant this was no random tragedy. It was a message.

To whom, and why, he didn’t know.

But he would find out.

For Tanjirou. For Nezuko. For the family who could not speak for themselves.

And perhaps, in doing so, he might finally begin to repay the debt he owed to Sabito, to Makomo, to Urokodaki, and to himself.

The horizon lightened faintly with dawn. Giyu turned back toward Mount Sagiri, his expression unreadable beneath the fox mask that clung to the left side of his face.

Tanjirou and Urokodaki would need their time. He would give it.

But soon, he knew, their paths would converge again, drawn together by fate, by truth, by the shadow of a demon who still walked free.

And this time, Giyu vowed, he would not turn away from the impossible.

Not again.

And even as snow had begun to melt on the eaves of Urokodaki’s home, dripping steadily into the soil below. Tanjirou sat outside, his body still heavy with exhaustion, but his spirit restless. Nezuko slept in the small room Urokodaki had offered, wrapped gently in blankets, her breathing soft and steady.

Tanjirou tried to be still, tried to let himself rest, but his nose caught scents he couldn’t ignore. The mountain air was clean, rich with pine and damp moss. But lingering faintly, clinging to the boards where Giyu had stood the night before, was something far heavier.

Regret.

Shame.

Guilt.

The scent was sharp, metallic, like steel rusting in the rain. It twisted Tanjirou’s stomach, leaving him uneasy.

He turned to Urokodaki, who was tending to a pot over the fire. The older man’s fox mask tilted down as always, but Tanjirou had begun to realize that Urokodaki’s silence was rarely emptiness. It was a choice.

“Urokodaki-san,” Tanjirou began cautiously. “That man from yesterday… Giyu-san. He smelled… sad. Or maybe not just sad, he smelled like someone carrying something heavy. Like guilt. And shame. It was so strong it almost hurt to breathe.”

The ladle in Urokodaki’s hand paused for only a moment before continuing its slow stir. “You have a sharp nose, boy,” he said finally.

Tanjirou frowned. “I don’t want to be rude. But I could also tell… the way you two spoke to each other. It was… distant. Like, there was something between you. You were his teacher, weren’t you?”

Urokodaki was silent again, his back to Tanjirou. The fire crackled. The pot hissed as steam lifted from its surface.

“Yes,” Urokodaki admitted at last. “I trained him.”

“Then… why does it feel like there’s a wall between you? Like, there’s a wound that hasn’t healed?”

The older man set the ladle down with deliberate care, as if weighing each word. “That is not something you need to trouble yourself with.”

Tanjirou bit his lip. “But I can’t ignore it. If Giyu-san carries so much pain, and you, Urokodaki-san, you won’t look at him directly, won’t talk to him… then that’s something important. It feels… it feels like it matters.”

Urokodaki turned then, the red-lacquered mask hiding whatever expression lay beneath. His voice, though calm, was edged with finality.

“Giyu walks with ghosts that are his alone. I am not the one to lift them. Nor are you.”

The words were like a gate slamming shut.

Tanjirou felt his chest tighten. He wanted to press further, to insist, but the weight in Urokodaki’s tone made it clear. This was a boundary he would not cross, not now.

Yet even as he lowered his gaze, Tanjirou couldn’t shake the feeling. There was a wound between them. A wound that smelled of blood and sorrow and years of silence. Something unspoken had chained Giyu and Urokodaki apart, teacher and student divided by regret neither could face aloud.

And Tanjirou thought, not for the first time, that perhaps the deepest scars weren’t always visible.

A.N. / Alright, I have finished Chapter 22! I am so sorry if this isn’t the appropriate meeting you would’ve hoped for, but I think having Tanjirou will be nice for more of Giyu’s unraveling past. I originally didn’t plan on having Tanjirou involved in the story, but seeing as people expected and wanted him involved, I decided to incorporate it so occurs all the while the Hashira try to become close. Now I have to think if making the revelation of Tanjirou and Nezuko’s existence at that fateful Hashira Meeting a major conflict and breaking point. It definitely will be interesting to write. So the next couple of chapters will likely include some of the Hashira trying to learn about Giyu, while Giyu also goes to Urokodaki to keep an update on Tanjirou, much to his strain with Urokodaki here. I hope I made it clear that there is some form of conflict between Giyu and Urokodaki. While Tanjirou will help with that, I don’t think I’ll have Urokodaki officially break down the walls Giyu has until the final revelation scene. Anyways, expect a lot of Urokodaki and Giyu distancing, Tanjirou trying to understand while training, and the Hashira Dinner Meetings continuing. See you next chapter, everyone!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 23:

Survivor by Destiny’s Child

The journey back from Mount Kumotori felt longer than it truly was. Giyu Tomioka walked in silence, the half-warding fox mask still tied over the left side of his face, its lacquer catching what little moonlight broke through the trees. His haori,  checkered green and yellow on one side, deep red on the other,  shifted with the wind. To others, it was a garment of honor, a reminder of comrades lost. To Giyu, it was a weight. A reminder of the people he had failed, and of those who had carried him forward when he should have fallen.

He replayed the sights and smells in his mind as he traveled, not because he wanted to, but because he could not let them go. The Kamado home,  cold, broken, lifeless. Blood spattered against snow, the bodies of a family cut down in their prime. The young boy, Tanjirou, clung to his last thread of reason while his sister turned into a creature he should have despised. Yet instead of hatred, there had been love. Protection. An instinct to shield rather than destroy.

And then the scent. That was what gnawed at Giyu the most. He had buried enough bodies in his time to recognize the marks of a feeding demon. But the Kamados had not been eaten. Their corpses bore injuries that did not align with Nezuko’s teeth or claws. She may have been turned, yes, but she had not slaughtered her own family.

That meant another demon had done the work.

And that was what unsettled Giyu more than anything else.

By the time he reached the Ubuyashiki estate, night had deepened. The guards bowed low and moved aside at the sight of him, and Giyu stepped quietly across the wooden corridors toward the chamber where Kagaya Ubuyashiki resided. The head of the Demon Slayer Corps was a man both fragile and immense: his body weakened by illness, his skin pale and scarred, yet his presence filled any space he entered with a warmth that disarmed even the coldest hearts.

As Giyu slid the shoji door open and entered, Kagaya was already waiting, seated as though he had known the Water Hashira would come at this precise moment. His daughters, Hinaki and Nichika, moved silently about, arranging fresh flowers in a vase and refilling the lamp oil. They greeted Giyu with gentle bows before retreating to the shadows, leaving their father and the Hashira in quiet solitude.

“Giyu,” Kagaya said softly, his voice as gentle as flowing water. “You’ve returned. Sit. Tell me what weighs upon you.”

Giyu obeyed, kneeling across from his master, lowering his head out of respect. He did not waste words; he never did.

“I found a boy, Tanjirou Kamado. His family was slaughtered on Mount Kumotori. All but one.”

Kagaya’s blind eyes shifted slightly, the milky haze of his gaze somehow still piercing. “The girl?”

“Yes.” Giyu’s jaw tightened. “Nezuko Kamado. She was turned into a demon. But… she has not acted as one should. When I confronted them, she protected her brother from me. Even with my blood spilled before her, she did not strike.”

He paused, remembering the feel of Tanjirou’s desperation, the way the boy had lunged at him with nothing more than a hatchet, reckless but determined. He remembered Nezuko throwing herself between them, her body shielding her brother rather than attacking. It was the kind of bond that defied reason.

“I restrained them both,” Giyu continued. “And I intended to do what duty demanded. But something stayed my hand. Perhaps it was the boy’s persistence. Perhaps… it was what I saw.”

Kagaya tilted his head. “Saw?”

Giyu’s hand curled against his knee. “The family’s corpses bore wounds, yes. But they were not eaten. The demon who attacked them sought only to kill, not to feed. And the injuries did not match the sister’s claws or teeth. It was another demon. Nezuko… she was a victim as much as the others.”

Kagaya’s expression did not change, but the quiet seemed to deepen. The sound of the garden beyond the shoji, crickets, the rustle of leaves, seemed to echo louder, as though the entire world had leaned in to listen.

“You believed the boy?” Kagaya asked, not unkindly.

“I believed what I saw,” Giyu answered, his voice low. “And what I could not ignore. His nose… it reminds me of Urokodaki’s. He can read people by scent, emotions clinging to them like threads. When I stood before him, he smelled through me as though I were made of glass. He knew I carried shame. Regret.”

The words burned his throat as he said them, but they were true. Tanjirou’s presence had shaken him, not because of his anger, but because of his honesty.

“I sent them to Urokodaki,” Giyu finished, bowing his head. “If there is anyone who can shape the boy into something more, it is he. Tanjirou Kamado may yet become a Demon Slayer. Perhaps even the one to inherit the Water Hashira title when my own time ends.”

Kagaya’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “You speak as though your time is already finished, Giyu. Yet you live.”

“I live,” Giyu admitted, his shoulders tightening. “But I must start the next phase, looking for the next potential candidate who will take the Water Pillar title.”

“But Sabito does not. Makomo does not. I was not the one who should have survived Final Selection. They… they carried me here. I walk in their place. And I cannot wash the blood of that shame away.”

Silence stretched again, heavy but not cruel. Kagaya’s daughters re-entered, bowing with trays of tea, their footsteps so soft it seemed the floor itself accepted them as part of its breath. They poured the steaming liquid into cups, then withdrew once more.

Kagaya lifted his own cup, though he did not drink. His frail hands trembled slightly as he held it. “Giyu,” he said gently, “You must continue your journey, in spite of this. While I know you may think otherwise, you must understand that the decisions I make regarding who is and isn’t a Hashira are made with my utmost confidence and true intentions. You are a Water Pillar for a reason, and even if this Kamado kid shows potential quickly, he will need a lot of practicing and training from you.”

Giyu’s throat clenched. He had no answer. Not one he could voice.

Kagaya continued, his tone never rising, never accusing. “Fate is something you will have a gut feeling about. Something you will not know why you decide, and you saw a boy and a girl who defied our expectations of demons. You chose to keep your blade. That was not a weakness. That was a choice. It was yours. And it was the right one.”

The words washed over him, and for a moment, Giyu felt something tight inside his chest loosen, though not entirely.

“Still,” Giyu said, voice rough, “there is another demon. One that kills without feeding. One that left the Kamado family broken. That is what troubles me most. If such a demon exists, what purpose does it serve? Why leave corpses untouched?”

Kagaya’s face grew thoughtful. “There are many demons who follow no logic we can understand. But your instinct is rarely wrong. If this demon exists, it must be tied to Muzan. His games often serve purposes we cannot yet see. You did well to notice. I will instruct the Kakushi to investigate reports of killings near Mount Kumotori.”

Giyu bowed deeply. “Yes, Oyakata-sama.”

“And Giyu,” Kagaya added softly, “do not distance yourself from Urokodaki too long. He still sees you as his student, even if your silence convinces you otherwise. If not for him, then try to go for the boy, if you really want to take him in as the next potential for being the Water Pillar. Your intuitions are amongst the strongest, so I have a strong sense of trust in you.”

The words cut deep, yet they also warmed him, though Giyu could not admit it aloud. He bowed once more, deeper this time, the mask shifting slightly against his face as his forehead touched the tatami mat.

“Yes,” he whispered.

When he rose to leave, the weight in his chest remained, but it was different now. Not lighter, but steadier. He had made a choice, to trust in the boy, to trust in Nezuko’s strange humanity, to trust that Urokodaki would carry what he could not.

As Giyu stepped back into the night, the moonlight caught the edges of his haori once more. The green and yellow checkers, the deep red, memories of Sabito and Tsutako, the sister he had lost. He touched the fabric briefly, almost unconsciously, then let his hand fall away. His half-warded mask, the memories of Makomo tightening on his face's left side.

There was still shame. There was still regret. But somewhere in the silence of the night, with Kagaya’s words lingering in his ears, Giyu thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there could also be hope.

The afternoon sun bled gently across the engawa of the Ubuyashiki estate, casting thin streams of gold against the delicate paper walls. In this place, silence reigned like a protective shroud. The air was fragrant with the scent of camellias and incense, carefully chosen by Amane to mask the faint medicinal bitterness that lingered wherever Kagaya walked.

He sat propped on the woven mat, his pale skin catching the light like porcelain. His breathing was steady, though shallow, each inhale a measured act of discipline. He was accustomed to pain. But today, there was more than the ache of illness. Today, the words Giyu Tomioka had spoken lay heavy on his chest.

Amane, ever quiet, poured tea into two lacquered cups. She did not need to ask; she could see the weight in her husband’s eyes, in the distant way his fingers rested against the tatami. She slid the tea before him and knelt close.

“You’re thinking of them,” she murmured.

Kagaya closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the rustle of wind in the estate gardens. “The Kamado siblings,” he said softly. His voice was gentle, but behind it was the gravity of someone who measured every life with reverence. “Yes. Giyu came to me burdened, as he always does. But this time, his words carried something unusual. Something fragile.”

He lifted the cup, though he did not drink right away. Instead, he watched the steam curl into the air, dispersing like memory.

“A family slaughtered upon Mount Kumotori. Their eldest son was spared only because he was absent when the massacre struck. And the daughter…” His words faltered with a whisper, as though speaking them gave them new, solemn weight. “…turned into a demon.”

Amane folded her hands over her lap. “And yet he did not kill her.”

“No,” Kagaya said, a trace of warmth coloring his lips. “He could not. The boy, Tanjirou Kamado, threw himself before her and swore she would never harm a human. Foolish devotion, perhaps… but in Giyu’s recounting, I heard something else. He said the demon girl resisted her hunger. That she shielded her brother, even from Giyu’s own blade.”

He finally sipped his tea, the bitterness grounding him.

Amane’s eyes softened. “A demon who does not devour.”

“Precisely.” Kagaya placed the cup down. “If Giyu’s account is true, and I have little reason to doubt him, then Nezuko Kamado is… an anomaly. No, more than that. A possibility. For centuries, we have only known demons as creatures enslaved to Muzan’s curse, devourers of flesh. But if one can resist? If even one can remain tethered to their humanity?”

His gaze shifted toward the garden, where the camellias swayed gently. “Then hope may bloom in soil we had long since declared barren.”

Amane inclined her head. “And the boy?”

“Ah, the boy.” Kagaya smiled faintly, the corners of his lips tinged with melancholy. “Tanjirou Kamado. Giyu spoke of his spirit with rare admiration. He said the boy carries not only a remarkable sense of smell, akin to Urokodaki’s, but also a heart that refuses to let go. He is broken, yes. Shattered by tragedy. But in the shards of grief, there burns something resilient. Something that might endure.”

Amane’s lashes lowered, her voice a whisper. “You intend for Urokodaki to shape him.”

Kagaya inclined his head. “Yes. Giyu himself delivered the boy to his former master. He said… Tanjirou might be the student Urokodaki could claim with pride. The one who could step into the role Giyu never believed he deserved.”

The silence that followed was heavy with ghosts. Sabito. Makomo. So many names whose absence lingered in Urokodaki’s shadow.

Kagaya’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for Amane’s, her warmth steadying him. “I worry for the boy,” he confessed. “The path of a demon slayer is already cruel for those unburdened by kin turned demon. But to wield a blade knowing your own sister walks the very line you are sworn to sever… That will demand a strength few possess. Yet… I cannot help but think that perhaps that very contradiction will temper him. Steel forged in fire.”

Amane searched her husband’s face, her voice tender but unwavering. “And what of Giyu? You said he carried this tale with a weight unusual even for him.”

Kagaya’s smile faded, his eyes distant. “Yes. Giyu Tomioka walks as though every breath is borrowed. I have long seen in him a loneliness he does not voice. He does not believe he is worthy of the title Hashira. And when he spoke of the Kamados… there was a tremor, as if he feared his judgment was flawed. Yet, in choosing to spare them, he has done something remarkable: he has chosen hope. For a man who believes himself unworthy, that is a quiet act of defiance against his own despair.”

He squeezed Amane’s hand gently. “It makes me wonder if, in guiding the Kamado boy, Giyu might finally glimpse the worth he has long denied himself.”

Amane tilted her head, watching him with calm devotion. “You think the siblings will change him.”

“I think,” Kagaya said, his voice soft but certain, “that they already have.”

The late afternoon light deepened, shadows stretching long across the tatami. Kagaya leaned back, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. His illness gnawed at him like unseen rot, but his spirit, buoyed by this fragile hope, felt steadier than it had in many months.

“They are but two children against the vast darkness,” he murmured. “And yet… do we not need such fragile lights most of all?”

Amane reached to adjust the blanket over his shoulders. Her touch was light, careful, but firm in its reassurance. “If you see hope in them, my love, then that hope is already real.”

Kagaya closed his eyes, allowing her words to anchor him. The world was cruel, yes. The burden of their fight is unending. But perhaps, in the snow-stained tragedy of Mount Kumotori, a seed of something new had been sown.

Just then, a sharp flutter of wings broke the stillness. A black kasugai crow swooped into the engawa, its claws tapping against the wooden beam. Its eyes gleamed like ink drops as it cawed in a piercing voice:

“Hashira dinner meeting! Hashira dinner meeting at Iguro’s estate this evening!”

The bird’s cry echoed across the estate, sharp against the gentle hush of twilight.

Kagaya opened his eyes once more, his lips curving faintly, though his gaze remained distant. “So it begins again,” he whispered.

And the camellias swayed as though bowing to the weight of what was yet to come.

Blood/Water by Grandson

The evening started more somber than usual, a heavy air that clung to every step up the stone path leading to Iguro’s secluded estate. The last gathering lingered in everyone’s memory like smoke that refused to clear, fractures had shown, and though no one would admit it outright, they all carried the remnants of that night in their posture, in the way they now eyed each other.

Iguro’s home itself reflected him: quiet, sparse, set against the backdrop of a dark and forested ridge. The trees rose tall around the estate, blotting out most of the moonlight, leaving the paths half-shadowed, like an intrusion into sacred ground. The cicadas sang faintly in the background, their chorus oddly out of place against the weight gathering in the dining room.

The long table was set with care, but it bore none of the extravagance from last time. The food was simple, functional: rice, vegetables, grilled fish, steaming miso. Notably, there was no alcohol. Even that detail gave the dinner a restrained, deliberate atmosphere, as though they were all preparing not just to eat but to endure.

They gathered slowly. Sanemi entered first, muttering under his breath about “pointless traditions,” though he sat down without a fight. Kyojurou followed, his smile brighter than his heart tonight, though no one called him on it. Mitsuri trailed after Iguro, who kept his usual protective distance but pulled out her chair quietly before sitting. Shinobu glided in with polite calmness, the weight of unspoken thoughts hidden behind her practiced smile. Muichiro slipped in near the far end of the table, distant as always.

Giyu came last. His entrance was quiet, almost an afterthought. He took his seat without greeting, hood tilted slightly lower than usual, posture rigid but not defensive. The others noticed, of course, but none spoke of it.

Food was served. Chopsticks clicked softly. Conversation was minimal at first, each Hashira seeming unwilling to break the silence.

It was Tengen who finally leaned back with a rare seriousness, his dramatic flair still present but tempered by something weightier. He let the pause stretch until everyone’s eyes were on him.

“I’ll be honest,” he began, scanning the room. “Last time made me realize something. We don’t actually know each other, not enough. We fight together, bleed together, risk our lives in the same cause… and yet, we’re all still strangers in too many ways. Pretending we don’t see the cracks.”

Sanemi gave an audible scoff, but didn’t interrupt. Shinobu’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. Mitsuri shifted uncomfortably.

Tengen rested his elbows on the table, gaze steady. “So we’re doing something different tonight. If we’re going to keep eating together, we can’t just hide behind small talk. We need to be real with each other. The truth. Even the ugly stuff.”

Iguro’s voice cut through, low and skeptical. “Why?”

Tengen’s gaze didn’t falter. “Because if we don’t, we’ll keep making the same mistakes. Ignoring things that shouldn’t be ignored. Hurting each other without meaning to. Some of us might even leave thinking they were never welcome at all.”

A heavy silence followed. Shinobu’s glance flicked toward Giyu, who sat almost statuesque, his presence simultaneously noticeable and withdrawn. The empty space around him felt deliberate, though no one commented.

Tengen clapped his hands once, breaking the tension. “Let’s start small. Something simple. What’s one thing you hate? Something that ruins your mood, that cuts too deep. No masks tonight.”

The group hesitated. It was an unusual request, and yet, no one left.

Mitsuri’s hand fluttered nervously. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Tengen replied, but not unkindly. “We’re all carrying something. And most of us are here because of pain. If we want to actually trust each other, we have to stop pretending that pain doesn’t exist.”

The silence stretched until, at last, Kyojurou spoke. His voice was firm, steady, though his brightness dimmed slightly in the confession.

“Alcohol,” he said plainly. “It changes people. Warps them. It took my father from me and turned him into someone I barely recognize.”

There was a brief pause before Sanemi muttered, “Same.” His voice was rough, the words clipped, but there was no mistaking the bitterness.

Muichiro’s tone was far softer, almost childlike. “Abandonment. When people leave and don’t come back. When they make promises they don’t keep.”

Iguro’s voice followed, quiet but edged with steel. “Lies. Being watched. People who ask questions they don’t really want the answers to.”

Mitsuri looked down at her hands, then inhaled deeply. “When people call me strange. Or act like I’m… too much. Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

Her words carried a vulnerability that softened even Sanemi’s scowl. Iguro’s gaze flickered toward her briefly, protective as always.

Shinobu’s smile didn’t falter, but her words cut clean. “Cruelty disguised as kindness. People who smile while they wound.”

Tengen shrugged, leaning back. “People pretending to be fine when they’re not. Especially when I know they’re not.” His gaze shifted, almost pointedly, across the table.

At last, the silence settled on the one who had not spoken.

Giyu.

He sat motionless for a long moment, the weight of expectation pressing against him. His bowl of miso soup sat empty, but much of his food remained untouched. His eyes lowered slightly, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“…The cold.”

The words fell into the room with an unexpected heaviness. At first, it seemed mundane, almost trivial. But the tone was unmistakable. It wasn’t just discomfort he spoke of, but hatred. Deep, rooted hatred.

The silence stretched. Mitsuri tilted her head, puzzled but sympathetic. Sanemi frowned, as if sensing more beneath the surface but unwilling to pry.

Shinobu, however, lingered on him longer than the rest. Her eyes softened with recognition, connecting dots she had long suspected since that night in the snow.

To Giyu, the cold was not merely weather. It was a memory. A grave. A reminder of loss so sharp it had carved his entire existence.

He offered nothing further. No explanation, no elaboration. Just those two words.

And yet, from him, it was enough.

For the first time, the Hashira truly heard a fragment of Giyu’s heart. And though no one pressed him further, the silence that followed carried something unspoken, a fragile acknowledgment that they were seeing him, not as the stoic Water Hashira, but as a man still haunted by winter’s chill.

The dinner continued, conversation resuming in fragments. The confessions didn’t erase the tension, but they shifted it, reshaping it into something quieter, more intimate. A shared understanding.

And though no one said it aloud, each of them carried Giyu’s words in the back of their minds.

Because if even he, silent and impenetrable, was willing to let slip even the smallest truth, then perhaps there was hope for the rest of them.

He was trying.

And that alone made the night different from all the rest.

The atmosphere remains fragile, but Mitsuri’s voice, soft yet unwavering, breaks the silence like the first drop of rain before a storm.

She offers a small smile, though her eyes glisten at the edges. “I know I already said a lot before. But… I guess I’ll say it again.”

Her hands fidget in her lap, fingers curling into the fabric of her uniform. She glances at the others, Iguro, Shinobu, Tengen, Kyojurou, Sanemi, Muichirou, and finally Giyu, though his gaze is fixed firmly on the table, and then lowers her eyes again.

“I joined the Demon Slayer Corps because I didn’t fit anywhere else. I always felt like I was too much, too strong, too hungry, too emotional, too weird… I tried to hide who I was to get married once, and it felt awful pretending every day. But then I came here, and I thought, maybe here… being strong and different was okay. That maybe I didn’t have to hide anymore.”

Her voice quivers slightly, but she catches it, steadying her breath. “I still struggle with that. Feeling like a burden. Like, I take up too much space. That one day people’ll see me for what I really am and decide I don’t belong after all.”

The words fall into the stillness, rippling out like stones into water.

Sanemi shifts in his seat, restless, but doesn’t interrupt. Shinobu’s lips press together in thought, her hands folded neatly around her teacup. Tengen, who had been leaning lazily against the table, now sits straighter, watching Mitsuri with a rare seriousness. Even Muichirou, usually so far away in his own head, seems closer somehow, his gaze resting on her with unusual focus.

And Iguro… Iguro doesn’t move at all. His arms are folded across his chest, his mismatched eyes locked onto her like she’s the only person in the room.

Mitsuri lets out a breathy laugh, the kind that comes when silence feels unbearable. “Sorry. That was a lot.”

“No,” Kyojurou says, his voice carrying warmth and certainty. “It was honest. And brave.”

Tengen nods, his usual grin absent, but his tone resolute. “You’re not a burden, Kanroji. You’ve done more for this Corps than most people ever will. If anyone here thinks you’re ‘too much,’ then they’re the problem, not you.”

Mitsuri’s cheeks flush faintly. She ducks her head but doesn’t hide her smile.

Shinobu tilts her head, voice gentler than usual. “It’s not about being ‘ladylike.’ It’s about being true to yourself. And I think you’ve done that more honestly than most people I’ve met.”

That draws another quiet laugh from Mitsuri, softer this time, tinged with something fragile. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Really.”

The others shift slightly, the tension loosening.

Only Giyu remains still, his bowl of miso soup long since emptied, his chopsticks laid neatly beside it. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t raise his eyes, but there’s something in the slight lowering of his shoulders, the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth, barely visible, but there.

Because her story… isn’t as different from his as it seems.

The room falls still as Shinobu’s voice threads through the quiet like a faint wisp of incense.

It is not her usual sharpness, not the playful, cutting remarks she wields like a scalpel when she wishes to disarm someone. Tonight, her words are different, low, steady, vulnerable in a way that feels strange coming from her.

“…I think I’ve always envied you, Mitsuri,” she admits, eyes lowered, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Mitsuri blinks, surprised, almost tilting her head like a child not sure she heard correctly. Envy? From Shinobu of all people? She stays still, lips parting but no words escaping.

Shinobu continues, a humorless smile tugging at her lips. “You’re strong. You have a body that lets you fight demons head-on. You’re warm, kind, and people are drawn to you without even trying. Even your hair shines, bright, almost unreal, like something out of a storybook.”

Mitsuri’s brows pinch. She doesn’t understand. She always thought Shinobu never noticed her at all, except maybe to tease.

But Shinobu keeps going. “Meanwhile, I’m small. Fragile. My arms could never swing a sword hard enough to behead a demon. I had to… cheat. To study poisons and lace my blade with them just to even stand a chance. Every strike I make is desperation. Every fight is survival. I can’t overpower them. All I can do is outthink them, and pray I’m fast enough.”

There’s no venom in her words, no bitterness, just tired truth.

“I move quickly and stab where it counts, but even so…” Her hands fold neatly in her lap, shoulders relaxed, but her tone frays, thin at the edges. “…it wasn’t enough to save everyone. It wasn’t enough to save Kanae.”

The name drops like a stone into still water. Kanae, the sister most of them had heard about but never met. A former Flower Hashira. Beautiful, kind, and gone too young.

The silence that follows is heavier than before, thick as fog. Mitsuri’s lips part, but she can’t speak.

“I know I act sharp. Sarcastic. Cold, even,” Shinobu says, tone dipping softer still. “But it’s not because I enjoy it. It’s because I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a long time.”

Her gaze flickers briefly to Gyomei, who has not moved nor spoken since the dinner began, hands resting on his lap in silent prayer. It was he who saved her, who pulled her and Kanae from the brink after their parents were torn apart by demons. A bond of gratitude she’s never forgotten.

“After that night, the Corps became our only life. Kanae… she still saw the beauty in things. She wanted to see demons as tragic, not monsters. She dreamed of a world where even they could change.” Shinobu’s mouth curves in the faintest smile, then trembles. “I tried to see it too. I tried to believe. But when Kanae was killed…”

She stops. The rest doesn’t need saying.

Everyone at the table knows what unspoken weight lingers in the room.

Shinobu exhales softly, gathering the fragments of her thoughts. “I love medicine. I love flowers. I love making people better. But after Kanae died, all of that… it twisted. The skills that were meant to heal became tools to kill. I’ve turned wisteria from something beautiful into something poisonous. It’s the opposite of what Kanae would have wanted.”

Her hands tighten briefly, knuckles pale, though her expression remains calm. “But it’s all I could do.”

The table is silent. No one dares interrupt.

Mitsuri’s throat aches. She leans forward without thinking, her hand sliding across the polished wood, resting lightly over Shinobu’s much smaller one. Her warmth is trembling but real.

“You’re not weak, Shinobu,” Mitsuri says, voice fragile yet certain. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. Not just against demons. With people. You keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels impossible. That’s strength too. Kanae would be proud of you.”

For once, Shinobu doesn’t retort, doesn’t deflect. Her eyes flicker with something raw, unguarded, before she lowers her lashes and inclines her head in the smallest of nods. A silent thank you.

The air remains hushed, reverent. Even Tengen, usually the loudest presence in any room, stays quiet, elbows propped on the table, but his grin subdued, almost absent. Kyojurou’s bright energy dims, his gaze lowered in solemn respect. Sanemi fidgets, arms crossed, jaw tight, not scoffing, not sneering, but visibly restraining whatever sharp thing he wanted to spit out.

And Giyu.

Giyu hasn’t moved since Shinobu began speaking. His chopsticks rest untouched by his bowl, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hood shadowing part of his face. He watches her, silent, unblinking.

Shinobu doesn’t look at him. She never does, not when she lets herself crack open like this. But still, something passes between them in that quiet.

He understands.

Not fully, how could he? Their griefs are shaped differently, carved by different nights of blood and fire. But he recognizes the exhaustion. The way sorrow becomes armor, sharpened into a mask just to keep breathing.

For just a moment, he feels the faintest kinship, a thread woven through the silence.

The others don’t see it. But he does.

The table breathes again when Tengen finally shifts, drawing in a slow, heavy breath. “See? That’s what I meant.” His voice is softer than usual, the edge of performance stripped away. “That’s the kind of thing we never say out loud. But it’s real. And it matters.”

He looks around, eye to eye, daring any of them to disagree. None do.

Kyojurou straightens slowly, his face unusually grave. “Kocho,” he says, voice warm but tempered, “your honesty honors both Kanae’s memory and your own strength. Carrying on after loss is a fire that burns differently, but it is still fire.”

Shinobu inclines her head politely, but doesn’t reply.

Sanemi snorts, but it lacks venom. “Tch. Calling yourself weak doesn’t suit you. You’re still here, aren’t you? Still cutting down demons while half the Corps can’t even make it through a year.” His tone is gruff, but underneath, begrudging respect thrums.

Mitsuri beams faintly at that, squeezing Shinobu’s hand once more before drawing back.

Gyomei, ever silent, finally shifts his great hands together in prayer. “To endure grief is the heaviest burden. To transform it into resolve… is a strength few possess.” His deep voice resonates like a temple bell.

The weight of his words lingers.

Muichirou, who had been quiet as a shadow at the far end of the table, tilts his head, voice soft, nearly detached. “…Kanae. She must have been kind.”

Shinobu looks at him, expression unreadable, and simply nods once.

Iguro hasn’t spoken either, his eyes lowered, watching Mitsuri more than Shinobu. But when he does speak, it’s low, soft. “Poison or not, what you’ve made saves lives. Even if it hurts you to use it, it’s not meaningless.”

The acknowledgment is quiet, but sincere.

The air feels different now, still heavy, but warmer somehow.

For all their scars, all their solitude, something about Shinobu’s honesty cracks the walls between them. Even if only for tonight.

And in the corner of that fragile moment, Giyu exhales soundlessly, his gaze lowering to the empty bowl before him. He doesn’t speak, not yet. But a quiet thought drifts across his mind, bitter and familiar.

She envies Mitsuri. But in truth, he envies Shinobu.

Because at least she can speak her grief out loud.

A.N. / I don’t really have much to add about this Chapter or what else. The next couple of chapters will have a lot of unravel. Both from a mix of Tanjirou and Urokodaki, because Giyu will be going to see them more, and from the Hashira as they find out more about Giyu. I was thinking about the fact that over the 2 years, Giyu would sometimes go to Urokodaki’s cabin, or even bring Tanjirou to the general Hashira estate, including Giyu’s own, and even the Butterfly Estate. I kind of want to progress a little arc between Giyu and Shinobu. It’s not romantic, but it would create a nice cascade for Shinobu to learn more about Giyu indirectly. Let me know before tomorrow, when I’ll likely have already made up my mind and have already started writing it. See you!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 24:

Romantic Homicide by d4vd

The room in Iguro’s estate held a stillness that was heavier than silence. The faint crackle of the fire in the corner seemed to echo too loudly, and the faint clink of teacups now felt like a disturbance to something raw and fragile.

The Hashira rarely gathered like this outside of missions or Kagaya’s summons. Yet, these dinners had become… something else. Not tradition, exactly, but an experiment. A fragile thread between people who were more accustomed to standing alone than to breaking bread together.

Tengen leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, and sighed. It wasn’t his usual flamboyant sigh, the kind that rattled the room and demanded attention. This one was heavier, quieter. His eyes were firmly scanning the faces around the table.

“Look,” he began, his voice unusually grounded, “I know this isn’t easy. I know it’s uncomfortable. But if we’re gonna keep doing these dinners, keep fighting side by side, we need to know the worst of each other. Not just the flashy surface.”

He paused, letting his words settle. The memory of the last dinner lingered, his poor judgment, the alcohol, the sting of old wounds he had ripped open too recklessly. His jaw clenched. “I already made the mistake once. Won’t happen again. But I can’t keep walking blind into these things, either. None of us can.”

His gaze shifted across the room, landing on Kyojurou and Sanemi. “I know talking about your fathers is rough. But we’ve seen how much of an impact it has on us, on how we fight, how we carry ourselves. Even Muichiro remembered something when it snowed.”

Muichiro blinked faintly at the mention, his expression unreadable, though the silence that followed told them all that Tengen wasn’t wrong. Memories, no matter how painful, mattered.

Finally, it was Kyojurou who broke the quiet. His usual blazing presence, so full of life and conviction, seemed subdued now. Still, his back was straight, his voice steady, though there was a dimness beneath the fire.

“…My father,” Kyojurou began, his tone deliberate, “was once a proud Flame Hashira. He was strong. Kind. The sort of man who filled the room with his presence, who carried himself with honor. He was my hero when I was small.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking down to his knees, fists tightening atop them. “But when my mother passed away, something inside him broke. It was like the flame went out all at once. He… he lost himself. Turned to alcohol. And he never came back.”

The words, though steady, trembled with the ache of memory. “He became a storm, angry, cold, impossible to reason with. Every word he spoke was filled with bitterness. I had to take care of Senjurou. I had to cook, train, and keep him safe. I became the one who had to carry the weight my father should have shouldered. I trained without guidance. Fought without encouragement. And still… he told me I was wasting my time, that the Flame Breathing style meant nothing. That I meant nothing.”

The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of his honesty. Kyojurou’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself onward. “But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going. Because if I gave up, then Senjurou would have had no one left.”

Across from him, Mitsuri pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes glistening with quiet empathy. Even Iguro, who rarely let his expression slip, inclined his head slightly in respect for what had been shared.

Then Sanemi’s voice cut into the silence, low and hard-edged. “My old man was never worth shit.”

The bluntness startled no one; his fury was always close to the surface. But the way his eyes stayed pinned to the floor, unflinching, made it different this time.

“He was a drunk,” Sanemi went on, his tone cold, like he’d already burned through every ounce of grief long ago. “Violent. I don’t remember a single day when he wasn’t yelling or hitting someone. My mother. My siblings. Me. Didn’t matter. He found a way to hurt whoever was closest.”

His fists curled tight, veins pressing against scarred skin. “One night, he died outside some bar. Stabbed. Left to bleed out. Nobody helped him. Nobody missed him.”

There was no sorrow in his voice, only contempt. “When he was gone, we thought maybe… maybe things would finally get better. But then my mom, ” His jaw locked for a moment, as if forcing the words through his teeth. “She turned. Into a demon.”

The fire popped faintly, filling the pause. Sanemi’s voice lowered, gritted with pain. “By the time I got home, she’d already slaughtered the rest of my siblings. All of them. I had to be the one to kill her.”

His chest rose and fell sharply, but his words kept coming, relentless. “Only Genya survived. And he blames me for it. Still does. I couldn’t protect them. I couldn’t protect him. And he’ll never forgive me for it. Not just Genya, everyone saw me as a murderer, and I had to run before they caught me.”

The weight of his words sank deep. Even Iguro’s snake, usually restless, had gone utterly still, as though the air itself refused to stir.

Then Muichiro spoke, his voice softer, his young features shadowed by something far older than him. “…I think I understand that,” he said quietly. His gaze flicked between Sanemi and Kyojurou, though for a moment it seemed to rest on Giyu, who sat in silence as if frozen in time.

“Losing people. Being forced to grow up too fast. That’s… something I know.”

The young Mist Hashira’s voice carried no embellishment, no exaggeration, just the simple weight of truth. And in that truth, there was a fragile connection.

Across the table, Shinobu’s eyes lingered on Giyu. He hadn’t spoken a word since the night began, but his stillness spoke volumes. His silence was its own confession, unspoken yet deafening.

Tengen finally exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as though releasing the heaviness pressing against him. “This,” he said, gesturing faintly around the room, “is exactly why I brought it up. We keep pretending we’re just elite warriors, perfect Hashira, untouchable and proud. But that’s not who we are.”

His voice dropped lower, rawer. “We’re really just a bunch of broken people. People carrying scars deeper than the ones on our skin. Fighting tooth and nail for scraps of peace, because it’s all we’ve got left.”

There was no bravado in his tone. No flamboyant grin. Just the honesty of a man who had seen too much loss to keep lying to himself.

Reaching for the teapot, Tengen poured himself a cup. This time, there was no alcohol, no flash of indulgence. Just tea, quiet, grounding. He lifted it slightly, a subtle toast.

“To survive,” he said, his single eye sweeping across the table. “And maybe, finally, understanding each other.”

The fire’s glow flickered across their faces. None of them smiled, not fully, but there was something in their expressions. A quiet acceptance. A fragile bond is being woven, thread by thread.

Mitsuri’s hand stayed gently over her heart. Kyojurou’s jaw softened, if only a fraction. Sanemi’s fists loosened, though just barely. Muichiro sat straighter, his gaze lingering on the flames. Shinobu’s lips pressed thin, eyes thoughtful. Iguro’s serpent coiled slowly again, as though acknowledging the moment.

And Giyu… Giyu still said nothing. But for a fleeting moment, his face lifted, glinting faintly in the firelight. As if he, too, had heard the unspoken vow around the table.

For all their pain, for all their fractured pasts, they were here. Together. And maybe that was enough.

The fire in Iguro’s estate burns low, casting soft orange shadows along the walls. The kettle atop the coals whistles faintly, steam rising in tendrils that drift lazily before vanishing into the air. Around the table, the Hashira sit in various postures, some upright, some leaning, some with arms folded in silence. The weight of their earlier words still lingers, heavy, shaping the atmosphere into something rawer than battlefields, rawer than blood.

No one speaks for a long time. It is Gyomei who finally breaks the silence, his voice deep and steady like the earth itself.

“…Sanemi,” he says, tone measured but carrying undeniable gravity, “you are not the only one who has been punished for surviving.”

The Wind Hashira glances toward him, confusion and irritation flickering across his scarred face. He is used to being challenged, used to people snapping back, not leaning forward with calm conviction. But Gyomei’s words cut differently: they do not accuse, they invite.

Hands still clasped loosely in prayer, Gyomei tilts his head slightly downward, his blind eyes unblinking as he recalls what must be memory burned into marrow.

“Years ago,” he begins, each syllable resonant with sorrow, “the children I looked after were attacked by a demon. I had no blade, no training beyond faith. Only my prayer beads. Only a broken axe. Yet I fought with all I had. I struck, and struck, and struck, holding it at bay until sunrise.”

The room grows quieter still, if that were even possible.

“I did all I could,” he continues softly. “But only one of the orphans lived. Just one. All the rest…” He swallows. “…gone.”

Even Shinobu, composed and reserved, feels her fingers tense where they rest on her lap. Mitsuri’s hand has instinctively drifted to her lips, eyes shimmering with tears.

Gyomei’s expression doesn’t shift; his life has taught him composure beyond ordinary limits, but his words sharpen. “And yet the authorities blamed me. Said I was the murderer of the children. Blind or not, monk or not, they were ready to discard me as a killer.”

The silence stretches.

“If it weren’t for Kagaya-sama’s faith,” Gyomei finishes, his voice lowering with reverence, “I would not be here today. I would not have the chance to fight in their names.”

The tale settles across the table like a mountain pressing down. Sanemi exhales sharply through his nose, his body taut. He stares at the floor as if searching for something in the cracks of the wood.

“…And still you fight,” Sanemi mutters at last, not looking up.

“I fight because the weak deserve to be protected,” Gyomei answers, the calm returning to his tone like a tide. “Even if the world calls us guilty. Even if our scars are seen not as survival, but as proof of fault. We endure.”

Sanemi doesn’t respond at first. His jaw shifts, and for a moment, he looks like he might spit back; anger is the armor he wears best. But then something else flickers in his eyes. Recognition. The quiet, bitter recognition of one survivor to another. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just truth, acknowledged.

The fire crackles once. Even Iguro’s snake has stilled, coiled neatly, as though listening too.

It is Muichiro who speaks next. His voice is soft, detached in that strange way of his, but tinged with something new. His pale eyes are unfocused, his posture small, but his words tremble with memory.

“…I think I’ve killed a demon before, too.”

Every head shifts toward him.

He frowns faintly, as though reaching into fog. “I don’t remember clearly. But… there was blood. A collapsed house. Someone close to me. They didn’t have their left arm anymore. They were bleeding badly. And then,” His hand curls near his chest. “I killed it. I must have. The demon. It was dead. I remember standing there. My hands are shaking. My body is heavy. The house is crumbling around me.”

He presses his lips together. “I don’t remember who they were. Or why they were hurt. Just… that I was angry. Terrified. And afterward… it snowed.”

A hush again. Mitsuri’s brows knit, her hand pressing over her heart. Shinobu tilts her head subtly, watching him with quiet concern.

But it’s Giyu who reacts most sharply. A flicker in his eye. Barely visible, but there. Snow again. The word that strikes him like a blade.

Tengen notices. He leans back slightly, his flamboyance stripped away. “You said you hate the cold, Giyu,” he says carefully. “You wanna tell us why?”

All eyes shift to the Water Hashira.

But Giyu does not answer.

He sits perfectly still, gaze lowered, jaw tight. The silence he holds is louder than words.

Shinobu doesn’t press, though her dark eyes linger on him with something almost unfamiliar: not teasing, not cutting, but concern. Quiet, patient concern, like a candle burning low.

“…You don’t have to tell us today,” Mitsuri says gently, her voice the softest thread in the room. “But… you’re not alone, Giyu-san. Even if you think you are.”

Giyu’s fingers twitch faintly against his knee. His head bows ever so slightly, not in agreement, but not in dismissal either. Somewhere in between.

The group falls into another hush, but it is different now. Not oppressive. Not suffocating. It is a silence of acknowledgment. Their words hang together like threads of grief and memory, weaving a tapestry that none of them can fully see, but all of them feel.

Tengen exhales slowly, rubbing at his temples with a theatrical sigh that, for once, is not exaggerated. “This. This is exactly why I pushed for these dinners.” He gestures vaguely at the low table, the tea cups, the fire. “We keep pretending we’re just Hashira. Elite warriors. Perfect pillars of strength. But the truth is, we’re a mess. All of us. A bunch of broken people trying to carve out scraps of peace.”

He picks up the teapot, pours carefully into his own cup. For the first time in a long time, there is no alcohol anywhere near him. Just tea. Steam curls upward, wrapping around his words.

He lifts the cup slightly, holding it at shoulder height. “To survive,” he says softly. “And maybe… finally, to understand each other.”

For a moment, no one moves. Then Mitsuri reaches for her cup, cheeks pink but eyes shining. “To survive,” she echoes.

Kyojurou nods firmly, though the shadows in his eyes remain. “To understanding,” he adds.

Sanemi hesitates. His scarred knuckles flex once, twice. Then he grabs his cup roughly, muttering, “Yeah. To that.”

Shinobu lifts hers with quiet poise. Iguro, after a long pause, does the same. Even Muichiro, distant though he seems, mirrors the gesture, his pale fingers curling delicately around the rim of his cup.

At last, Gyomei raises his hands in prayer over the cup before him, voice low and solemn. “To the living. To the fallen. To the bond we carry.”

They drink.

The warmth of the tea spreads through the room, softening the edge of the night. The fire snaps, shadows shifting across their tired faces.

They are not healed. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, the Hashira sit not only as comrades, not only as swords raised against the dark, but as people.

People who have suffered. People who have lost. People who endure.

And people are still searching for strength, even when it feels far away.

Daylight by David Kushner

The late afternoon sun dipped low, painting the rooftops in muted gold. The air was quiet, save for the steady beating of wings.

Kanzaburō, the black crow with sharp, gleaming eyes, circled once before descending upon the weathered wooden railing outside Giyu Tomioka’s quarters. The bird ruffled its feathers impatiently before delivering a crisp, clear message in Amane’s soft but deliberate tone.

“From Master Kagaya and Lady Amane,” Kanzaburō croaked. “They ask this of you: visit Urokodaki more often. The old master wishes for you to play a role in guiding Kamado Tanjirou’s path. If Tanjirou is to bear the water’s weight, you must shape him. As Urokodaki once shaped you.”

Giyu froze where he sat, half-folding the cloth he’d been cleaning his sword with. His breath caught, not sharply, but like a slow stone lodged in his chest. The words lingered long after the crow fell silent.

Urokodaki. Tanjirou. A role in training.

The thought pressed on him with suffocating weight.

“…A role?” he murmured aloud, though no one was there to answer. Kanzaburō only tilted his head, unblinking.

Giyu looked down at his hand. Pale, calloused fingers against the faint gleam of the blade. He remembered when his own hands had been clumsy, guided by Urokodaki’s firm corrections, the old man’s patience layered over unyielding expectations. Every swing of the sword, every breath, was life or death.

To think of himself now, in Urokodaki’s place, felt unearned. Heavy. Wrong.

He remembered the first time he saw Tanjirou after that snowy mountain encounter. The boy still knelt in the snow of his memory, pleading, broken, desperate to protect his demon sister. Yet there was fire there, too. The kind that refused to die even when battered by storm after storm.

Urokodaki had chosen to train him, just as he once chose Giyu.

If the Kamado boy was meant to bear that legacy, then Kagaya-sama was right. Someone needed to prepare him on how someone who is getting the title should be trained.

The crow broke into his thoughts again. “Tsuguko,” Kanzaburō cawed firmly. “If you are to train a successor, treat Kamado Tanjirou as tsuguko. Like Shinobu and her girl Kanao. Prepare him.”

The word burned sharper than the rest. Tsuguko. A direct successor.

His throat tightened at the thought.

He had never considered himself capable of training another Hashira. What could he possibly pass on, except silence and hesitation? Shinobu carried her will into Kanao, soft discipline, carefully honed observation, and quiet strength that grew with every day. Giyu could see it when the girl fought. He could feel Shinobu’s presence in every step of her student.

But him? He could barely shoulder his own existence without doubting its worth.

And yet, Kagaya’s request was not one to ignore. Nor Urokodaki’s wish.

Giyu rose slowly, sheathing his blade with deliberate care. Kanzaburō hopped along the railing, satisfied. The decision weighed on him like a tide he couldn’t resist.

If he were to do this, if he were to even attempt to train Tanjirou, then he would need more than words. He would need structure. Tools. Something to mold the boy properly.

And for that, there was only one place he could think to go.

The Butterfly Estate.

The moment Giyu approached, the scent met him first. Clean yet sharp, laced with herbs, antiseptics, and faint traces of flowers that clung stubbornly to every breeze. The smell seeped into him in a way that tightened his chest. Hospitals, bandages, blood under perfume, it was too close to memories he didn’t want stirred.

But he forced his steps forward, boots soft on the stone walkway.

Inside, the Estate carried its usual quiet hum. Attendants passed lightly through the halls, carrying trays of medicine or clean cloths. Laughter of young apprentices echoed faintly from a courtyard where they trained under Aoi’s stern instruction. The place thrived as both sanctuary and crucible, a blend of healing and discipline.

For Giyu, it was suffocating.

The scent clung to him like a second skin, but he pressed onward. He had come with a purpose.

“Ah,” a voice called lightly, cutting through his unease. “Tomioka-san, what a surprise.”

Shinobu Kocho emerged from the corridor ahead, her usual smile folded across her face like silk hiding steel. She held a tray of tinctures in one hand, the faint clink of glass vials ringing as she tilted her head at him.

“You don’t usually come here unless someone drags you,” she teased. “Are you injured? Or perhaps just lost?”

“…Neither,” Giyu answered flatly, though he knew the stiffness in his voice betrayed his discomfort.

Shinobu’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes sharpened. She set the tray aside on a nearby shelf. “Then why are you here?”

He hesitated. The words felt strange to speak aloud. “…Training. Materials for training. For… an upcoming demon slayer.”

That surprised her. For a moment, the playfulness slipped from her expression, replaced by quiet curiosity. “Training a demon slayer?” she repeated.

“Kagaya-sama asked it. Urokodaki wishes it. If they’re to succeed… they must be trained properly. As a tsuguko.” Giyu explained.

Shinobu tilted her head again, this time slower, more deliberate. Her eyes lingered on him as though trying to read what lay beneath his rigid tone. “So you came here. To me.”

“…You’ve trained tsuguko before,” he said. “You would know what they need.”

Her gaze softened. Just slightly. “I see. Well then, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s walk.”

And just like that, Shinobu knew from Giyu himself that he knew Urokodaki. She had a good idea that Giyu was a student of the former Water Hashira, but now she was confident of that assumption, even if it had strong evidence.

She led him through the Estate, past rooms filled with neatly arranged gourds of varying sizes, stacked training tools, and shelves lined with herbs.

“These,” she said, gesturing to the gourds, “are for breathing training. Students practice expanding their lungs until they can break the gourd with a single exhale. It builds stamina. Control. Without it, no technique can last long.”

Giyu stepped closer, running a hand over the smooth surface of one particularly large gourd. His reflection curved faintly across it.

“They seem… excessive,” he murmured. Not necessarily for him or a Hashira, but for a new demon slayer who was just beginning to.

“Necessary,” Shinobu corrected. “Kanao broke her first small gourd within weeks. She now trains with the largest ones.” A quiet pride touched her voice, fleeting but genuine.

She moved on, pointing to racks of weighted practice swords, ropes for balance training, and jars of salves for injuries. “If you mean to treat this demon slayer as a tsuguko, you’ll need more than swordsmanship. You’ll need to sharpen his body, his breathing, and his mind.”

Her words carried a weight beyond instruction. They were a reminder and a warning, both.

Giyu followed, silent, absorbing every detail. His eye trailed briefly to the courtyard where Kanao herself now stood, silent as the petals drifting around her. She balanced on a thin post, blindfolded, striking in precise rhythms with a wooden blade.

Her form was perfect. Discipline radiated from her every movement.

Shinobu noticed his glance. “She grew because I demanded it. Well, after she began watching Kanae and me. But after, I believed she could bear the weight of my path.” She looked at him pointedly. “The question is, Tomioka-san… do you believe the same of this demon slayer?”

The words caught in his chest. He didn’t answer at once. He knew she was asking him because she had lost plenty of tsugukos to demons prior.

Did he believe?

He remembered Tanjirou’s determination, his unyielding compassion even toward a sister turned demon. The way he rose again after every fall, breathing ragged but unwilling to yield.

Yes. The boy could bear it.

“…I do,” he said quietly.

For the first time that day, Shinobu’s smile softened into something genuine.

“Then you already have the first thing they need,” she said. “A teacher who believes.”

“Ah! Shinobu! Someone requests your immediate attention! Demon slayer with Code Blue.” Aoi had run, panting to inform Shinobu, who immediately nodded.

“Well, seems you’ve got what you needed, Giyu. Hope your tsuguko does great things!” Shinobu smiled before she left, and before Giyu could even utter that he didn’t have a tsuguko.

She excused herself quickly, heading down the hall toward the medical ward where an injured slayer had just been carried in.

Giyu’s eye followed her, his body unmoving. That gnawing feeling in his chest, the one that often came when snow began to fall, pressed harder.

The Butterfly Estate bustled with the subdued rhythm it always carried, quiet footsteps of attendants, the faint rustle of medicinal herbs being sorted, the almost-constant scent of disinfectants and crushed petals. Yet Shinobu walked among it like a ghost wearing the form of her usual self. Polite smiles, words as sharp as ever, but her steps dragged. Her wrists, always slim, seemed almost fragile now, thinner than he remembered.

He turned instead, silently making his way deeper into the estate.

Giyu was quiet, but his mind was not. He noticed things. Just because he was quiet didn’t mean he did not care. He noticed Shinobu’s breath hitching slightly when she thought no one was near. He noticed the way her hands trembled, not from nerves but weakness, when she reached for a tray. He noticed how her sisters and attendants seemed to watch her a little too closely, as if keeping a secret they couldn’t quite share.

It reminded him of Sanemi’s anger. Kyojurou’s steady flame dimmed when speaking of his father. Of Gyomei’s words about being punished for surviving. But Shinobu’s was different. She clearly hid something. She wanted to explain more about her own insecurities, but hid them behind that smile.

He reminds himself back to that mission, where he told Shinobu never to do anything reckless because of how many demon slayers relied on her for their survival. Every demon slayer, even the Hashira.

That unsettled him more than the open scars of the others.

The hallway toward her laboratory smelled stronger. Sharp. The sterile tang of alcohol mixed with herbs and faintly bitter chemicals. The scent dragged him backward in time, whether he wished it or not.

The black walls of his uncle’s home. The echo of voices, calm, clipped, professional. White robes moving in and out, their hands stained with things he couldn’t name at the time. His uncle’s assistants with their glass vials and their sharp needles, pricking his skin again and again while he screamed and couldn’t stop screaming.

The memories pressed against him like ice, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck.

But still, he stepped inside.

Her workspace was neat, as expected. Shelves lined with carefully labeled jars, bundles of dried plants hanging in orderly rows. Beakers, glass tubes, and intricate instruments lay arranged on the long counter. Giyu’s gaze moved across them quietly, cataloguing. Most of it looked exactly as it should: the tools of a healer and poisoner both, meant to keep demon slayers alive, or demons dead.

But then, something caught him.

A tray, pushed slightly aside but not hidden. Small glass vials of clear liquid tinged faintly purple, stoppered tightly. Beside them, needles.

The needles were barely filled and were clearly used recently.

Not pipettes, not droppers for applying poison to blades or mixing into brews. Needles, the kind used to pierce flesh and deliver what they carried into the blood.

Giyu froze.

His mind ticked over the possibilities with quiet precision. Needles like these could not be used against demons, not practically. A demon’s skin resisted puncture; wisteria had to be weaponized differently: through smoke, liquid coating, traps, or concentrated pole thrusts, which was what Shinobu used. A needle was useless unless the target was human.

Unless… unless the target was oneself.

The thought struck him hard, sending his stomach sinking.

He remembered Shinobu’s pallor. The weakness in her steps. The way she left Iguro’s estate was almost dazed. Her faint tremors.

And now, wisteria in vials meant for injection.

Giyu’s breath slowed, controlled, though his chest constricted. His hands clenched slightly at his sides as the thought assembled itself into something undeniable.

If Shinobu was taking wisteria herself…

He shut his eyes. Memories surged again, the sickness in his body when Urokodaki, Makomo, and Sabito all had first pulled him out of the snow and into warmth. The nausea, the dizziness, the relentless vomiting as his body purged the poisons it had been forced to ingest. He had been a child then, but the weakness had been absolute. It felt like his veins were on fire, his muscles collapsing into water.

It was the same. Almost identical.

Her body wasn’t merely exhausted; it was fighting something inside her. Either rejecting the wisteria coursing through her veins, or suffering when she tried to stop taking it.

Withdrawal. Dependence. Addiction.

His stomach twisted.

Why? Why would Shinobu do this?

He opened his eyes, staring down at the vials again. The glass reflected faintly in the lamplight, the liquid inside shimmering like something deceptively harmless. But he knew better.

Shinobu had always been pragmatic. Brilliant. Sharp beyond measure. She had crafted poisons capable of killing demons, found methods others would never even attempt. But this… this was something different.

It wasn’t research. It wasn’t preparation.

It was a choice. A burden she had decided to carry without telling anyone.

Giyu’s mind flickered to the Hashira meeting again. How Sanemi had spoken of killing his own mother. How Gyomei carried the guilt of the children lost. How Muichiro’s fragmented memories haunted him.

And Shinobu, she had smiled through it all, deflecting, never once sharing her own pain, besides what everyone already knew. No, she was hiding something from everyone, something that was impacting her health.

Now he saw it clearly. Her pain wasn’t in words. It was in her body, breaking down, in her secret, hidden among shelves of glass.

For the first time in a long while, something like anger stirred in him. Not at her, but at the thought of her alone in this. Carrying it until it killed her.

He stayed there longer than he meant to, standing before the vials in silence. The smell of medicine pressed heavier around him, mixing with the old echoes of memory, black walls, white robes, needles, and his uncle’s voice. He forced the memories back, focusing only on the present.

Shinobu was not his uncle. She was not experimenting with cruelty. But she was harming herself nonetheless.

The thought clawed at him. He wanted to confront her immediately, demand an explanation, stop this madness before it hollowed her out entirely. But he knew her well enough to understand what would happen. She would smile. She would deflect. She would turn his questions into nothing, make light of her suffering until he dropped it.

And maybe, maybe she would never forgive him for prying.

His hand hovered above one of the vials, but did not touch. He wasn’t sure if he could.

The Butterfly Estate had always felt foreign to Giyu. Too clean. Too sharp. Too alive in ways he couldn’t touch.

The medicinal scent clung to his skin even when he lingered at the threshold. Alcohol. Herbs. That faint, bitter tang of crushed wisteria. He’d avoided places like this all his life, even when wounded. He would rather drag himself to Urokodaki’s quiet cabin, to a stream, to the mountains themselves. The estate’s air pressed on his lungs, reminding him of black walls, sterile rooms, the white robes of his uncle and his assistants. Of screams muffled by doors. Of his own body, frail, sickly, trembling, as they forced bitter remedies down his throat.

He had sworn, back then, never to return to a place like this.

And yet here he was.

Shinobu had brushed past him earlier, her steps lighter than air as always, but her face, her face wasn’t right. Too pale. Her lips pressed thin, as though she were holding something inside. She had left the Hashira dinner days ago, dazed and unfocused, and Giyu hadn’t forgotten. He didn’t forget things like that. People assumed he was detached, unfeeling, but the truth was that he noticed everything. Every tremor. Every shadow. Every piece that didn’t fit.

And Shinobu didn’t fit right now.

He leaned against the wooden beam outside her study, arms crossed loosely as if to disguise the tension in his frame. His crow, Kanzaburō, was silent for once, perched higher up in the rafters, as if sensing his master’s mood. The night pressed in, cicadas humming, but the Estate itself was restless. Slayers groaned in the infirmary, attendants hurried from room to room, and beyond it all, Giyu felt Shinobu’s presence, thin, fraying, yet stubbornly moving through her duties.

Every instinct told him to leave. To push away from the scent, from the memories, from the rising unease clawing through his chest. But his legs didn’t move. He stayed.

He stayed because something was wrong with her.

Hours passed before her footsteps returned. They were light as ever, graceful, but slower. A fraction slower. The door slid open, spilling dim lantern light into the hall. She froze when she saw him.

“…Tomioka-san,” she said, her voice controlled, polite as always, but quieter. “You’re still here?”

Giyu inclined his head, his usual silence filling the space between them.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “You’re hovering. That’s unlike you.”

He should’ve left it there. Should’ve turned, muttered an excuse, let her go on pretending nothing was wrong. But the image of her pale face, her trembling hand when she thought no one saw, burned in him. His intuition had never lied to him, not when Sabito’s laughter had masked sorrow, not when Makomo’s soft eyes had carried grief. And it wasn’t lying now.

“You’re unwell,” he said finally.

Shinobu blinked, then smiled faintly, the kind of smile that was meant to disarm. “Am I? Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I’m…”

“You’re lying.”

The words left him sharper than intended. Shinobu’s eyes widened a fraction before narrowing again, her smile tightening into something brittle.

“…You’ve gotten bolder,” she murmured, folding her hands inside her sleeves. “Usually, you’d just stand there until the silence answered for you.”

He didn’t respond. He simply looked at her, really looked at her. The pallor in her cheeks. The faint tremor in her wrist. The way she leaned, barely perceptible, against the doorframe. He saw too much. Always too much.

“…Tomioka-san,” she said again, more softly this time, almost weary. “You should rest. I don’t know why you’ve waited here for me for so long. You don’t belong here.”

Maybe she meant the Estate. Maybe she meant among people. He didn’t know. But he didn’t move.

When she finally brushed past him, her sleeve grazing his arm, something in him snapped.

“Are you injecting yourself with wisteria?”

The words were firm, but they struck like steel in the stillness of the hall.

Shinobu froze mid-step.

She turned back to him, lantern light catching on the edge of her hair, her shadow stretching long across the polished floor. For once, the ever-smiling, ever-teasing Shinobu did not reply with banter or a cutting remark. She simply stood there, motionless, as though the air itself had turned to stone.

And Giyu waited, his heart heavy, his fear sharp, but his gaze unflinching.

A.N. / Bet you did not expect that development did you? Haha, yep! We are getting right into that area of concern and conflict between Giyu and Shinobu! From what I know, Shinobu only began to consume wisteria heavily within a year before fighting Douma; however, I totally believe Shinobu was experimenting with consuming Wisteria for a LOT longer. Therefore, I decided to bring this up, as I have a plan for this. Basically, this will lead to Shinobu unironically finding out more about Giyu. It will be interesting. But this will transition smoothly into not only Giyu properly having more of a say in Tanjirou’s training, which also brings up his strained relationship with Urokodaki, but also continue the everlasting mystery that Giyu is, which the Hashira want to figure out. But in the meantime, that’s the idea with this chapter, I always wanted to have Giyu confront Shinobu on this, and don’t worry, I ultimately do have a decision made up regarding Douma’s fight, hehe.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 25:

Princess Cuts Mah Wrist by Black Kray

The silence stretched. Long, taut, and unyielding.

Giyu’s words hung between them, heavier than steel, heavier than the mountains themselves. Shinobu’s back remained turned, her small frame framed by the lantern glow, still as a painted figure. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer at all.

Then came her laugh.

It was soft, lilting, almost airy, the same sound she used to mask her venom at Hashira meetings, the same laugh that set others off guard.

“Oh, Tomioka-san,” she said, finally turning her head enough that her profile caught the light. Her smile was there, delicate and sharp. “That’s a very strange question. You almost sound like you’re concerned for me.”

Her tone danced with amusement, but Giyu’s eyes narrowed. The scent was there, wisteria, faint and clinging. He stepped forward, slow but deliberate.

“You’ve been using it.”

Shinobu’s brows arched. “You think so? How curious. And what makes you such an expert, Tomioka-san? Last I checked, medicine wasn’t your specialty. In fact, isn’t it true you hate even setting foot in here?” She gestured gracefully to the hall around them, her tone teasing. “Why, even the Kakushi whisper about how you fight them off when they try to treat you. Imagine my surprise that you suddenly know so much about my work.”

She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Or are you just guessing?”

Giyu said nothing at first. Instead, he reached into his sleeve. His fingers closed around the cool glass he’d taken earlier, one of the vials in her lab, tiny, unassuming, yet heavy in its implication. He held it up between them, its contents catching the lantern glow.

“I found this,” he said simply.

Her eyes flickered, just for a moment. Too fast for most to catch. But Giyu caught it. He always did.

Shinobu chuckled again, softer this time. “Ah. So you’ve been snooping, then? That doesn’t seem very polite.”

“You keep vials of wisteria,” Giyu continued, ignoring her attempt to redirect. “But you use them with needles. Not pipettes. Not for mixing. For injections.”

Shinobu’s smile faltered, barely, but it did. Her fingers twitched in the sleeves of her haori.

“You’d use pipettes for demons,” Giyu said. His voice was calm, quiet, but relentless. “Diluting poison. Coating blades. Preparing medicine. A needle has one use. For the body.”

“And?” Shinobu asked smoothly, though her voice was a fraction tighter.

Giyu stepped closer. “Show me your arms.”

The words landed like a blow.

Shinobu’s smile sharpened, almost too sharp now, as if to cover her unease. “My arms? Whatever for?”

“I want to see the marks,” Giyu said. “If you’ve been injecting it, the scars will be there.”

She blinked, and for the first time, her mask cracked. Just a little. Her lips parted in surprise, her composure caught off guard, not by the accusation itself, but by the specificity. By how much he seemed to know.

“…How do you know that?” she asked softly, her smile fading into something searching. “You don’t have any records. You refuse treatment. You act like you’d rather bleed out on the dirt than step inside a clinic. The Kakushi complain about you constantly. You don’t let anyone near you. And yet,” her voice dipped, genuine bewilderment seeping through, “you know the difference between pipettes and needles? You know what to look for?”

Giyu’s jaw tightened. The memories pressed in unbidden: the sting of needles, the choking bitterness of medicine forced into him, his uncle’s sharp voice, assistants in white robes looming above a frail, coughing boy. His stomach turned, the walls seemed to darken, but he pushed it down.

“Don’t change the topic,” he said flatly.

Shinobu studied him, her eyes narrowing. For once, her amusement was gone. In its place was calculation, wariness. She understood now that he wasn’t simply guessing.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said finally, her tone quieter, heavier.

“I do,” he answered, stepping closer still. The vial between his fingers caught the light, a tangible accusation. “You’re poisoning yourself.”

Shinobu’s hands clenched within her sleeves. “I’m… experimenting,” she said at last, her voice firm. “You wouldn’t understand. This is for the sake of progress, Tomioka-san. For the sake of fighting demons. We need weapons. New methods. If that means testing things on myself first, then so be it.”

“You’re lying,” Giyu said immediately.

Her eyes snapped to his, startled.

“You’re pale. Weaker than usual. Your hands shake when you think no one sees. You left the last meeting dizzy. And you smell of it, wisteria, clinging to your skin. You’re not experimenting on weapons. You’re experimenting on yourself.”

The silence after his words was suffocating.

For the first time in years, Shinobu was speechless. Her lips parted, but no words came. She was Shinobu Kocho, the Butterfly Hashira, mistress of poisons and sly words, the one who could cut anyone down with a smile, and yet, under Giyu’s quiet, piercing stare, her mask wavered.

“…Even if that were true,” she said at last, softer, “why does it matter to you?”

Giyu didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how to. He only knew what he saw: the same dangerous stubbornness Sabito once carried, the same self-destruction Makomo tried to hide. The same weight he carried in himself.

“You’ll die,” he said simply.

Shinobu’s eyes softened, unexpectedly, painfully. And then she smiled again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was tired. Wounded.

“…Isn’t that what we’re all headed toward, Tomioka-san?” she asked quietly. “Everyone of us? At least this way, I get to choose how I use my life. If my body can endure wisteria, then perhaps I can create something demons can’t fight. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

“It’s not the same,” Giyu said, his voice low, strained. “Fighting is one thing. This,” he held up the vial, “this is different. You’re killing yourself before they ever touch you.”

Shinobu’s smile faltered again. Her eyes glistened faintly, though her voice remained even. “…You really don’t understand, do you?”

She turned slightly, her sleeve shifting as if to hide her arms more. “Please, Tomioka-san. Drop this.”

But Giyu didn’t move.

“Show me your arms,” he said again, firmer this time.

Shinobu’s breath caught. For the first time, true anger flickered across her features, sharp, defensive, like a cornered blade.

“No,” she said flatly.

Their eyes locked, his steady, unwavering; hers guarded, glittering with a storm of emotions she refused to voice.

And in that fragile, perilous silence, the weight of unspoken truths pressed between them: his knowledge he shouldn’t have, her secrets she couldn’t share, the ghosts of their pasts clawing at the edges of the present.

The lantern flame wavered, shadows crawling across the papered walls of the Butterfly Estate. Giyu stood unyielding, the vial still between his fingers. Shinobu’s smile had returned, brittle and cutting, her arms folded lightly in front of her chest as though she were the one interrogating him.

“Tell me, Tomioka-san,” she said sweetly, “since you seem to have appointed yourself my physician now, do you even know what happens when a human takes in too much wisteria?”

Her tone was mocking, laced with a lilting, airy sarcasm.

Giyu’s eyes narrowed. His words were blunt, heavy, leaving no space for her laughter to dance around.

“Yes. They die.”

For just a breath, Shinobu stilled. Her lashes fluttered, her expression caught between amusement and irritation.

“Well done,” she said, with a sarcastic clap of her hands. “Gold star for Tomioka-san. Yes, yes, wisteria is toxic to demons. To humans, it’s… complicated. Small doses can be tolerated. Too much, and the body begins to fail. But don’t worry, ” she tilted her head, her smile tightening, “I’ve been very careful.”

Her words were sugar, but the undertone was steel.

“Careful?” Giyu repeated. His voice sharpened, slicing through her mask. “You’re reckless. You’re killing yourself slowly, and you expect me to believe that’s careful?”

Her eyes flashed, but before she could speak, he pressed on.

“And worse, you’re setting a precedent.” His tone grew heavier with each word. “Kanao watches you. Aoi watches you. The girls you raise here, they all watch you. What happens when they think it’s acceptable to poison themselves too? What happens when they think this is what a Hashira should do, throw themselves away before the demons ever touch them?”

Shinobu’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn’t let her.

“You’re not only destroying yourself,” he said, voice low but unrelenting. “You’re showing them it’s an option. That recklessness is acceptable. That sacrifice means more than survival. You’re dragging them with you.”

Her smile faltered, the cracks spreading deeper.

“…Why?” he asked then, his tone quiet but insistent. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because…”

“No,” he cut in, stepping closer, his gaze sharp. “Not some excuse about experiments. Not some joke. I want an explanation.”

“Tomioka-san…”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “Answer me. Why?”

Shinobu’s breath hitched, but she covered it with a scoff. “My, my. You’re rather demanding tonight. Usually, I have to beg you to say three words to me, and now you won’t stop.”

He didn’t blink. “Answer.”

She tried to laugh it off, her voice lilting with false sweetness. “You almost sound like me, Tomioka-san. Poking and prodding, never letting go until I say what you want to hear. Isn’t that my trick?”

But his silence, his piercing stare, pressed against her like a weight she couldn’t squirm out of. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t look away. He just kept standing there, waiting, demanding, not loudly, not cruelly, but with a steadiness that was harder to endure than shouting.

“Stop,” she said finally, her smile stiffening.

“Answer me.”

“I said stop.”

“Why are you doing this, Shinobu?”

Her jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Enough.”

But he didn’t move. His voice dropped even lower, softer, almost breaking with the weight of it.

“…Why are you trying so hard to die?”

That did it.

Her mask cracked. Her laughter, her sharp little smiles, her airy dismissals, they all shattered. Shinobu’s eyes widened, then narrowed, her chest heaving as the words ripped themselves from her throat, raw and furious.

“Because of him!” she screamed.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her own voice seemed to echo back at her, bouncing off the walls. Her breaths came ragged, sharp, as if the force of the admission had stolen the air from her lungs.

“…Him?” Giyu asked quietly.

Shinobu’s body shook. She pressed her trembling hands against her sides, nails digging through the fabric of her haori. Her lips twisted into a bitter, trembling smile.

“Dōma,” she spat. The name dripped like venom. “Upper Rank Two. He killed her. He killed Kanae.”

Her voice broke. She turned away, shoulders quaking, though her laugh, thin and strained, still forced its way out.

“My sister… she was everything. She was gentle, kind, strong… and he devoured her. Do you understand, Tomioka-san? He devoured her. And I couldn’t do a thing. I wasn’t strong enough to save her.”

Giyu stood silent, his throat tight, watching her crumble and laugh all at once.

“So I will kill him,” Shinobu continued, her words trembling with fury. “I will kill him, no matter the cost. If my body can withstand the poison, then I can become his poison. I can turn myself into a weapon he can’t consume without choking on it.”

Her hands shook harder. She gripped her sleeves to still them.

“I’ve been testing it, calculating. How much wisteria can a human body endure before it breaks? The limits. The thresholds. I inject myself once every other week, recording the results, the symptoms, the tolerances. I measure the doses by body weight, by time, by consistency. If I can train my body to withstand it, then I can carry it within me. So that when I face him, when he swallows me, he swallows death.”

Her voice cracked. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, though her smile remained, twisted and trembling.

“That’s why, Tomioka-san. That’s why I do it. Not for experiments. Not for anyone else. For Kanae. For revenge. For the only thing that matters.”

The words hung in the air, searing.

Giyu’s chest tightened. He could almost see Kanae’s smile in Shinobu’s face, could almost hear Sabito’s voice in her reckless determination. The sharp ache of loss burned behind his ribs.

“You’re killing yourself,” he whispered, but softer this time, pained.

“I know,” Shinobu snapped, her smile breaking into raw grief. “I know, Tomioka-san! Do you think I don’t? Do you think I haven’t felt my hands tremble, my breath shorten, my body weaken? Of course I know. But if it means killing him, if it means avenging her, then it’s worth it!”

Her voice broke entirely now, and she pressed her hands over her face, laughing through tears that finally spilled free.

“I have nothing else,” she whispered. “Nothing. Don’t you see? If I can’t do this, then what am I? I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t protect her. At least this way, I can make my life mean something. At least this way, I can take him down with me.”

The room was heavy with her confession, the raw edges of it slicing through the air. Giyu stood frozen, torn between fury and grief, his own silence suffocating him.

Slowly, he lowered the vial.

“…Shinobu,” he said, his voice low, strained, almost breaking. “You’re not nothing.”

She froze, her hands trembling against her face.

But Giyu said no more. His words lingered, fragile, unpolished, heavy with meaning he couldn’t shape.

And for once, Shinobu had no retort. No laughter. No smile. Only the raw wound she had exposed, bleeding into the silence.

The halls of the Butterfly Estate were unusually quiet, muted except for the muffled sounds of shuffling Kakushi somewhere in the distance. Giyu Tomioka stood in the central courtyard, hands folded behind his back, body taut in the stillness. His crow, Kanzaburō, perched silently above him on the wooden beam of the roof. Even the bird seemed to sense the tension.

Shinobu had just left her laboratory after their last argument, her face carefully composed but her eyes too sharp, too weary. Giyu hadn’t let her brush him off this time. He had pushed, poked, and demanded answers until she snapped. She confessed to what he suspected: wisteria experiments, self-injections, testing limits that no human should test.

And now, the words still echoed in his head. I want revenge. I want to know how much I can endure. I want to kill him with my own hands.

For once, Giyu wasn’t going to back away. Not from this.

He turned as the sliding doors opened. Shinobu walked out again, her haori brushing against the polished floor. She looked calm, even pleasant, the same careful mask she wore before everyone else. But he noticed her pallor, the faint drag in her steps, the way her breath caught too subtly to notice unless you were watching. And Giyu was watching.

“Shinobu,” he said flatly, voice carrying enough weight that she paused mid-stride.

She tilted her head, forcing a smile. “Back again? You’re persistent today, Tomioka-san.”

“You’re killing yourself.”

The smile wavered, but she held it in place. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” he replied, tone like cold stone. He stepped closer, blue eyes unyielding. “You admitted it yourself. Injecting wisteria. You think you can measure how much a body can handle, but what you’re really doing is poisoning yourself slowly.”

Shinobu’s lips tightened. “I’m not a fool. I regulate it. Only once every other week.”

“That doesn’t make it safe. It just makes it slower.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy. Finally, Shinobu exhaled and tried to step past him. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m not asking for your approval…”

But his hand shot out, firm but not rough, catching her sleeve before she could go. His voice rose for the first time, breaking past his usual reserve.

“Why are you doing this?”

Shinobu’s eyes flickered, irritation flashing. “I told you…”

“No,” he cut in, louder now, rawer than she’d ever heard him. “Not the excuse about experiments. Not the lie about regulation. Why? Why would someone like you, who tells others to live carefully, who scolds slayers for being reckless, do this? Why are you setting a precedent that tells Kanao, Aoi, and those little girls that recklessness is acceptable if it’s for revenge?”

Her expression faltered. His words landed too close to home.

Giyu pressed forward, relentless now that he’d broken past his hesitation. “Do you know what they’ll think if they find out? This is the only way forward? That to honor their dead, they must throw their lives away just like you? You would teach them despair disguised as devotion.”

Her fists curled at her sides. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch your sister…”

“I do!” The words tore out of him, harsh and thunderous, echoing in the wooden hall. Shinobu startled; Giyu almost never raised his voice. But now his shoulders trembled with the force of it. “I do understand what it’s like to watch someone die in front of you! To be powerless. To carry their ghost every day! Don’t think you’re the only one who knows that pain.”

She stared at him, lips parted in shock. For a moment, she glimpsed something raw in him, unguarded, the boy who lost his sister to a demon, the man who buried his best friend after Final Selection.

His voice dropped again, quiet but burning. “You are not the only one who wants revenge. But unlike you, I’m not willing to let revenge make me destroy myself. If you keep going like this, Shinobu, you’re not just betraying yourself, you’re betraying everyone who believes in you.”

Shinobu’s throat tightened. She wanted to retort, to push back with sharp words and cutting wit like she always did. But this time… nothing came.

Instead, he pressed further, his gaze locking onto hers, unwavering. “Tell me, then. If you’re so certain of this path… why do you still come to the Hashira dinners? Why do you linger, laughing with Kanroji, needling Sanemi, watching over us all? Why do you keep visiting the training grounds, standing with Kanao and Aoi, smiling with those girls? If you’ve already chosen death, why cling to life so stubbornly in every other way?”

She flinched. His words pierced too deeply.

“You want to live,” Giyu said softly, but firmly. “No matter what you say, no matter how you act. You want to live. And if you keep this up, all you’ll do is hurt us more, hurt them more, when they realize you’ve been planning your death behind their backs.”

Shinobu’s eyes stung. She hated the way his words resonated, the way they unlatched the carefully built armor of sarcasm and detachment.

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice trembling against her will. “Stop talking like that.”

But he didn’t. He stepped closer, so close she couldn’t look away from him. His voice was quiet but unrelenting. “If you care about them… if you care about anyone… then stop this. Live. That’s the only revenge worth anything. Living when the demons want us gone. Protecting others so they don’t feel what we felt.”

Shinobu’s body trembled, caught between defiance and the undeniable truth in his words. Finally, her shoulders sagged, her breath shuddering out.

“…I…” She clenched her fists, unable to look at him. “…I can’t let Kanae’s death go.”

“You don’t have to,” Giyu said firmly. “But you also don’t have to kill yourself trying. Kanae wouldn’t want that. None of us wants that.”

For a long moment, the silence stretched between them again. Shinobu’s eyes glistened, but she refused to let tears fall.

Finally, she nodded, so faintly it was almost imperceptible. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll stop. For now.”

“Not for now. You will stop, period.” Giyu spoke sternly, his one visible eye staring down at Shinobu with intense anger. But when Shinobu refused, Giyu slapped her on her cheek.

“Once again! You don’t get it! You want to live! You always hang out with everyone, smile, and outright listen to them all! You train and bond with Kanao, Aoi, and the children living in your mansion! You want to live! If you wanted to die, you would’ve isolated yourself by now! Kanae would want you to continue on her ideals! That is what she left you with, and you think killing yourself is how you should?!” Giyu yelled at Shinobu, “You want to slowly poison yourself and watch everyone who cares about you worry over you? You want to hear the screams of those you raised just like you did when Kanae was lying out dying?! Huh?!”

Once Giyu noticed how Shinobu was staring up at him, her hand raised to her cheek as if feeling the strike hit her personally, he calmed down.

Giyu exhaled, tension easing from his rigid frame. It wasn’t perfect, not permanent, but it was something.

He reached out, carefully this time, setting the needle he’d taken earlier on the table between them. His voice was steady. “Rest. Eat properly. For the next few days, your body may fight you. Withdrawal, weakness, worse. Don’t underestimate it.”

Shinobu’s gaze flickered to the needle, then back to him, speaking quieter. “You sound like you’ve experienced it before.”

He didn’t answer, his eyes hardening in that way that told her the subject was closed.

Instead, he turned toward the door, his haori swaying as he stepped away. At the threshold, he paused and looked back at her once more.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you,” he said quietly. “Because I will not let you destroy yourself.”

And then he was gone, leaving Shinobu in the stillness of the Butterfly Estate, her chest aching with something she couldn’t name.

For the first time in years, the silence around her didn’t feel safe. It felt heavy, with the weight of his words, and the truth she could no longer ignore.

Headlock by Imogen Heap

The forest smelled of pine and frost, and the mist clung to the earth as Giyu Tomioka stepped carefully along the mountain path. The woven bundle strapped across his back rattled softly with each step inside were gourds of varying sizes, weighted stones, coils of rope, and other tools that would push a trainee’s body past its limits.

The path itself was achingly familiar. He had walked it countless times in silence, following in Urokodaki Sakonji’s steady footsteps during his own training. But today, the weight on his shoulders was different. Not from the gourds, but from the silence that awaited him when he reached the cabin.

When the small wooden house came into view, smoke curling gently from the chimney, Giyu stopped for a moment at the edge of the clearing. The door slid open, and Tanjirou Kamado stepped out, a bundle of firewood balanced in his arms.

“Giyu-san!” Tanjirou’s face lit up, his tired eyes brightening as he set the wood down. “You came all the way up here?”

Giyu inclined his head, approaching without hurry. “I brought these.” He set the bundle down, untying the ropes to reveal the gourds, gleaming faintly in the morning light.

Tanjirou crouched beside them, curiosity flashing across his face. “What are these for?”

“For training your lungs and concentration,” Giyu explained quietly. “Breath control. You’ll learn to use them as you progress. Break the gourd by blowing into it, without touching it.”

Tanjirou blinked, incredulous. “Break it… just by blowing?”

“It won’t be easy,” Giyu said simply. “But it will be necessary.”

From the doorway, Urokodaki emerged, his carved tengu mask hiding his expression. His movements were deliberate, calm, yet even through the mask, Giyu could sense the shift in his presence when their eyes met.

“Giyu,” Urokodaki said, his voice level but firm. “I didn’t expect you.”

“I came to see his progress,” Giyu answered. His gaze slid briefly to Tanjirou, then back. “And to bring him tools.”

Urokodaki regarded him for a long moment before stepping aside, gesturing for them to enter. “Very well. Come inside.”

The cabin was warm, lit by the crackling fire. Tanjirou busied himself setting tea on the table, moving with practiced hands, already adapting to the rhythms of mountain life. He looked between his teacher and his unexpected guest, the faint wrinkle of his brow betraying what his nose already told him.

They smell… different when they’re together.

He had noticed it before, when Giyu first visited after delivering Nezuko into Urokodaki’s care. The air between them was heavier, the scents sharper, one carrying quiet guilt, the other guarded disappointment. Tanjirou didn’t have the words for it, but the dissonance unsettled him.

Giyu sat stiffly at the table, silent as Tanjirou poured his tea. Urokodaki remained standing for a moment longer, then settled opposite Giyu, folding his arms.

“How has your training been?” Giyu asked Tanjirou at last.

Tanjirou brightened, grateful for the question. “Hard, but good! Urokodaki-sensei has been teaching me breathing techniques. My body aches every night, but… I can feel myself getting stronger.” He smiled, earnest and proud.

“That’s good,” Giyu said. His tone was flat, but there was something softer in his eyes. “Keep pushing yourself. You’ll need it.”

Tanjirou nodded vigorously.

But the silence that followed pressed down again. Tanjirou shifted uneasily, glancing between the two older men. Finally, his curiosity won out.

“Um… Giyu-san?” he asked tentatively. “What about you? Did you train here, too? With Urokodaki-sensei?”

Giyu froze. His hand, halfway to his teacup, stilled in the air. His eyes flicked to Urokodaki, then back down, lashes lowering to shadow his gaze. “…Yes.”

Tanjirou tilted his head. “Then… are you his student too? Like me?”

“Yes,” Giyu murmured.

The boy’s smile widened. “Then we’re kind of like brothers, aren’t we?”

Something flickered across Urokodaki’s masked face. Giyu, however, only lowered his gaze further, the corner of his mouth tightening. He didn’t answer.

Tanjirou’s nose wrinkled slightly. That scent again, something like regret, sharp and bitter, coiling between them.

He pressed on anyway, his curiosity earnest. “Then… what is Urokodaki-sensei like to you, Giyu-san?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Giyu’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, fingers curling faintly against his thigh. His voice, when it finally came, was barely audible.

“…Strict.”

Tanjirou blinked. “Strict? Well, he is very strict! But also kind. And patient. I owe him so much already.”

Giyu said nothing.

Urokodaki finally broke the silence, his voice steady. “Enough questions, Tanjirou. Focus on your training.”

Tanjirou bit his lip, sensing he had crossed into something fragile. “Ah, sorry, Sensei.”

That evening, after dinner, Tanjirou went outside to fetch water from the stream. The forest was quiet except for the distant rustle of leaves. Inside the cabin, the air between Giyu and Urokodaki thickened in his absence.

“You shouldn’t come here,” Urokodaki said at last. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay iron.

“I needed to see him,” Giyu replied. His tone was equally even, but a thread of defiance ran through it. “He’s different. He… he reminds me of…”

“Don’t say it,” Urokodaki cut him off, his masked gaze sharp. “Don’t compare him to Sabito or Makomo.”

The name hung in the air like a blade.

Giyu’s fists clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms. “…I wasn’t going to.”

“You were,” Urokodaki said firmly. “You carry that guilt every time you look at him. I can smell it on you.”

Giyu’s breath hitched, just slightly. He said nothing.

“Do not burden him with your ghosts,” Urokodaki continued. “He has enough of his own.”

At that, Giyu finally looked up, eyes hard. “I’m not trying to burden him. I want to help him. He has potential. More than most.”

“Then let me train him without interference.”

The silence stretched taut between them, both unyielding in their own way.

“No… I must contribute, so he can be the next Water Hashira.” Giyu said at last.

Outside, Tanjirou paused with the water buckets, his nose twitching. That smell again, conflict, quiet but sharp, like the edge of steel barely sheathed.

He frowned, confusion tugging at him. He didn’t understand what history lay between his teacher and Giyu, but he knew it ran deep.

When he re-entered, the two men had fallen into silence once more. Giyu sat rigid, Urokodaki unmoving, the air between them thick as smoke.

Tanjirou placed the buckets down carefully, forcing a small smile. “I’m back.”

Neither of them moved.

He glanced between them again, his chest tight with the unease of being caught between two people he respected deeply, people whose unspoken history lingered like a shadow he couldn’t name.

And though he wanted to ask, he bit his tongue. For now, all he could do was train.

That night, when Tanjirou finally drifted into sleep, Giyu sat outside beneath the stars, his breath fogging in the mountain air. Urokodaki joined him after a long while, standing at a distance. Neither spoke for a time.

Finally, Giyu said quietly, “He’ll survive Final Selection.”

Urokodaki’s voice was unreadable beneath the mask. “If he doesn’t, it will not be because you brought him gourds.”

Giyu’s gaze lingered on the cabin, where Tanjirou and Nezuko slept inside. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.

“…I won’t let him die.”

Urokodaki studied him in silence, then turned back toward the cabin. His words, when they came, were quiet but sharp. Full of carefulness

“See that your determination doesn’t blind you the way it did before.”

Giyu turned back before he then responded, taking it the wrong way, “Like how it blinded you from the monster who used us like pawns?”

And with that, he left Giyu alone under the stars, the weight of his past pressing heavier than the bundle he had carried up the mountain.

Tanjirou sat outside the cabin as the night settled over Mount Sagiri, the thin air carrying the smell of pine and earth. His body ached from the day’s training, lungs raw from blowing into the gourd, arms sore from endless sword swings, and legs trembling from running up and down the steep trails until his balance broke apart. Yet, what weighed on him most wasn’t the fatigue in his muscles.

It was the heaviness that always seemed to enter the room when Urokodaki-sensei and Giyu-san were in the same space.

At first, Tanjirou thought he had imagined it. But as the days went on, the feeling only grew sharper, undeniable. It wasn’t something they said aloud; both men were reserved, speaking only what was necessary. But Tanjirou’s nose caught things words could never hide.

When Urokodaki looked at Giyu, there was the scent of regret, like damp stone left after rainfall, heavy and unmoving. When Giyu glanced toward Urokodaki, there was guilt, sharper, almost metallic, like the tang of blood. Both emotions clung to them, coiling together like roots in the soil.

And Tanjirou couldn’t help but notice that those feelings weren’t aimed inward. They weren’t simply regrets carried for themselves. No, they bent toward one another, as though Urokodaki and Giyu each carried some invisible burden for the other.

Tanjirou clenched his hands into fists.

Why?

Why would two people who cared so deeply, who had saved him, saved Nezuko, and given them a chance at life, feel such painful things whenever they were near one another?

When Urokodaki corrected his form, his voice was calm, patient, but beneath it lingered that weight of sadness. When Giyu silently handed him one of the smaller gourds today, his gaze briefly flickered toward Urokodaki, as if testing unspoken ground.

Tanjirou thought back to what Giyu had said, months ago now, when Nezuko’s life had first been spared. Giyu had spoken of Urokodaki with respect, entrusted Nezuko and him to his care. And yet… here, in the quiet of the cabin, the air between them often seemed colder than the night winds.

The young boy drew his knees close to his chest, pressing his forehead against them. He hated this feeling. He hated watching two people he admired, two people who were supposed to be connected through teaching and trust, stand like strangers. No, worse than strangers. Like a family fractured by something unsaid.

He thought of his own family then, of moments when small arguments would pass through the household. Even when his siblings fought, there was always laughter afterward, always apologies, always warmth that stitched the rift back together. But here… the silence was left to grow.

Tanjirou lifted his head, looking through the darkened doorway. Urokodaki was tending the fire inside, quiet as ever. Giyu had stepped out not long ago, leaning against the trees a little ways down the slope, his crow perched near him.

Neither man looked at the other. Neither man seemed willing to speak of what pressed so heavily on their chests.

Tanjirou’s throat tightened. He wanted to ask. He wanted to cry out: What happened between you two? Why do you hurt when you see each other? But he bit the words back. It wasn’t his place. Not yet. He was still learning, still proving himself. Still a child compared to the years they carried.

And yet, the thought still came unbidden, stubborn as ever: If I can smell it, if I can feel it… Then they must feel it too. Even if they never say it.

His heart ached. Because regret and guilt aimed outward… that meant both of them were blaming themselves for the other’s suffering. And if neither spoke it aloud, then neither would ever know how much the other was carrying.

Tanjirou rested his chin on his knees, the stars above hazy through the mist that clung to the mountain.

“…I don’t want them to keep hurting like this,” he whispered to himself, the words stolen away by the night air.

For now, he would endure. He would train. He would grow strong enough to earn their trust, both of them. Maybe then, someday, he’d be able to speak. To bridge the silence.

Until then, all he could do was watch… and listen… and carry that quiet resolve in his heart.

A.N. / Phew, two major conflicts! Shinobu and Giyu regarding the fact that Shinobu is consuming Wisteria, and then Giyu and Urokodaki! We see a bit more of Tanjirou, especially with him detailing and seeing stuff regarding Urokodaki and Giyu’s conversation and tension. With that being said, Urokodaki and Giyu do not hate each other. Both feel intense regret for everything, but both are unable to confront it, knowing how each of them would react. It’s basically a, there’s no point in trying if they’ll be like this, moment. Hopefully, Tanjirou can handle it and manage to bring them together. As for Shinobu and her Wisteria poison, this will ultimately lead to a cascade of events that allow her to find out some stuff about Giyu. Hopefully, it’s not going too quickly for you all. Glad you all have been enjoying this, and I’ll keep up with you all soon.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 26:

Space Song by Beach House

Shinobu had always prided herself on her tolerance. Her sister used to tease her for it: “Shinobu can put on a smile even when her stomach is tied in knots. Even when her lungs ache.” It was true. She had trained herself to move as though pain never touched her, to laugh lightly even when the shadows in her chest grew too heavy. But now…

Now she lay in bed at the Butterfly Estate, skin clammy, stomach rolling, throat raw. The withdrawal left her weak, her hands trembling even when she simply tried to lift a cup of tea. Her vision swam at the edges, her heart raced unevenly. Every bone in her body screamed, every nerve burned with that hollow ache that told her she had pushed her limits too far.

And worse than the pain was the echo of his voice.

“Do you even know what too much wisteria does to you?”

She had laughed when he asked. Mocked him, even. Because it had seemed absurd,  Giyu Tomioka, the man who avoided her estate like it carried plague, who argued with Kakushi who tried to treat his wounds, who vanished whenever he bled, who never allowed anyone to keep his medical charts… he had looked at her with eyes sharpened by knowledge. He had spoken of doses and tolerance, of the dangers of compounds she thought only she herself understood. He had demanded to see her arms. He had recognized her syringes and pipettes at a glance.

It gnawed at her now.

Between bouts of nausea and sweats, between moments where her lips cracked from dryness, she kept replaying the scene. The way he had stood over her,  stubborn, angry, unshakable. The way his voice had broken when he warned her she was setting an example for Kanao, for Aoi, for the girls. The way his eyes carried a fear that almost looked like grief.

She pressed her sleeve against her lips, muffling a cough.

She hated that he had gotten through to her. Hated that he had stripped her arguments bare, leaving her without ground to stand on. And yet… more than that, she hated the unanswered question that burned in her head.

How did Tomioka Giyu know so much?

He had no records; she had checked before, when he was injured after missions. The Kakushi muttered that he wouldn’t let them keep notes. His medical pages were blank slates, shredded or wiped from the Estate’s archives. He slipped through her nets every time, never on a bed long enough for her to so much as listen to his breathing. And yet he had spoken to her, not vaguely, not guessing, but with the familiarity of someone who knew medicine intimately.

Her fevered mind rolled the memory of Rengoku Kyojurou’s careless laugh into focus. She had been sitting with him, once, talking over dinner about different herbs and treatments, and he had said. And then the specific letter she had gotten from Shinjirou had given her more information about Giyu. Right now, the only thing she knew about Giyu was that he had trained with the former Water Pillar, Sakonji Urokodaki. As for the current relationship between Urokodaki and Giyu, she was not aware of that.

At the time, she had laughed along, shaking her head. Tomioka and medicine, the image was so ridiculous that he hadn’t considered it. But now…

Now, sick and shivering under her sheets, it didn’t feel ridiculous at all.

When the sickness began to loosen its grip days later, when she could finally walk without clutching the wall, Shinobu resolved to search. She wrapped herself in her haori, though the air was still warm, and slipped out of her room. The girls asked if she was all right, if she should be moving, but she only smiled, soft and practiced, and told them not to worry. She made her way instead to the archives.

The Butterfly Estate’s library wasn’t vast, but it was organized, every book they could acquire on herbs, anatomy, poison, and antidotes carefully catalogued. She had read most of them in her youth, learning under Kanae’s hand. But this time she searched not for medicine itself, but for names. For histories.

She pored through scrolls, traced faded ink, hunted through family records.

Nothing.

No Tomioka. No mention of physicians, apothecaries, or scholars bearing his clan’s mark. There were pages on the Kocho line, the Rengoku line, even obscure families who had once been doctors to feudal lords. But Tomioka? The name was absent.

Shinobu chewed her lip, a rare break in her composure. Maybe Rengoku’s memory had been faulty. Maybe he had misread a name in his excitement. Or maybe, just maybe, someone had gone out of their way to erase it.

The thought burrowed deep, needling her with the same persistence that had driven her to experiment on herself. Giyu had erased his own medical records, she was sure of it. But what kind of man erased his family’s history?

She closed the book with more force than she meant, the sound echoing in the quiet archives.

“Damn it…” she whispered, fingers trembling against the paper.

Her sickness still lingered, her body weak from withdrawal, her heart unsteady, but frustration burned hotter than fever in her veins. She hated unanswered questions. She hated mysteries that slipped from her grasp. And more than anything, she hated that Tomioka Giyu, the one person who resisted her at every turn, the one person she could never quite provoke into unraveling, had left her with yet another wall she couldn’t scale.

Leaning back, Shinobu closed her eyes. She could still see his face in her memory: pale in the firelight, lips pressed thin, voice tight when he demanded she stop. He had looked at her like she was someone worth saving, and she couldn’t decide if that angered her or… something else.

But whatever lay behind those guarded eyes of his, it was hidden well. And for now, no matter how she searched, the Tomioka name remained nothing more than an echo in her mind.

Shinobu stood, her knees briefly buckling before she steadied herself against the shelf. She pulled her haori tighter and began the slow walk back toward her room, the unanswered question gnawing at her ribs.

“Next time, Tomioka,” she murmured, her voice so soft the library itself seemed to swallow it. “Next time, I’ll drag it out of you.”

But tonight, she admitted defeat. Tonight, she would rest, and dream of pages left blank, and of a man who seemed to have erased himself from every history but her own.

The paper beneath Shinobu’s hands blurred. She rubbed her temples, forcing her eyes to track the line of text again, though her vision kept slipping from exhaustion. Stacks of tomes leaned precariously around her on the low table, each one pulled down from shelves and rifled through only to reveal… nothing.

Medical scrolls on anatomy. Treatises on herbal remedies. Clan records that detailed lineages of healers from centuries past. And yet, not a single entry bearing the Tomioka name.

Her breath left her in a sharp exhale, frustration prickling under her skin.

“Why is there nothing?” she whispered. She turned a page, more roughly than she should have. The delicate paper crinkled beneath her hand.

She’d been at this for hours, too many hours for a body still recovering from wisteria withdrawal. Her pulse thudded irregularly in her throat, her skin pale and damp, but her mind refused to release the problem. Giyu’s words haunted her too heavily. His strange, precise knowledge pressed against the edges of her thoughts like a riddle she couldn’t solve.

She didn’t even hear the footsteps at first, the bright, confident cadence of Rengoku, the lighter spring of Kanroji, the almost inaudible glide of Iguro. Their shadows reached her before their voices did, and when she looked up from her fortress of open books, the three of them stood framed in the doorway.

“Shinobu!” Rengoku boomed, smile blazing as ever. “There you are! We were told you’d taken ill, I feared we would not find you upright again so soon!”

Shinobu forced her lips into their usual crescent smile, though it felt brittle. “Kyojurou-san. Mitsuri-san. Iguro-san. Forgive me, I didn’t hear you arrive.”

Mitsuri stepped forward first, her pink-green hair bouncing with the motion. She leaned over the table, eyes wide at the sea of books. “Whoa… Shinobu-chan, this is so many at once! Are you researching a new antidote? Or, oh no, are you trying to cure something really dangerous?”

Her voice carried genuine worry. Shinobu shook her head lightly, setting her sleeve down to hide the faint tremor in her fingers. “No… nothing of the sort.”

Iguro’s mismatched eyes narrowed, flicking from her to the books, then back again. His voice, muffled beneath his ever-present cloth, was sharper. “Then what are you doing?”

Before Shinobu could decide how to answer, Rengoku clapped a hand to his belt and leaned forward with his usual forceful cheer. “If I may guess! You are still searching for what we spoke of, are you not? The Tomioka name in the old records?”

Shinobu stilled. Her eyes flicked to him, sharp but betraying the truth. “…Yes. I’ve been trying. But there is nothing. Nothing at all.”

Mitsuri tilted her head, confused. “Wait, Tomioka-san? Why would you… Oh!” Her hands flew to her cheeks, fluster painting her expression. “Shinobu-chan, isn’t that kind of… well… private? I mean, searching through all these family records just to learn about him?”

Iguro’s gaze hardened. “Exactly. Tomioka has never shared anything of himself with anyone. He prefers it that way. So why pry?”

The air grew tight, the silence between their voices stretching like a drawn thread. Shinobu closed the book before her, folding her hands neatly on its cover. Her smile, though thin, did not falter.

“Iguro-san, Mitsuri-san… if it were merely idle curiosity, I would agree. But it is not.” Her tone sharpened, the honey of her usual voice hardening into steel. “Tomioka-san knew things he should not have known. About me. About my practices. About medicine that no swordsman should speak of so readily. And yet, he did. He corrected me, as though he had walked the same halls I have. That is no coincidence.”

Mitsuri’s brows drew together. “…But maybe he was just, just guessing?”

Shinobu shook her head. “No. It was not a guess. It was knowledge. Precise, practiced knowledge. And when someone hides their own records, refuses treatment, erases their history, that knowledge becomes dangerous. Not only to himself, but to those around him.”

For a moment, the room was still.

Iguro’s eyes narrowed further. “You speak as though he is a threat.”

“Perhaps he is,” Shinobu said softly. “Or perhaps he is something else entirely. I don’t know. And that not-knowing gnaws at me. If Tomioka-san is keeping something from us, something that may one day matter to the corps, is it not my duty to uncover it?”

Mitsuri shifted uncomfortably, her lips pressing together. Iguro said nothing, though his serpent coiled tighter around his shoulders.

It was Rengoku who finally broke the silence, his booming voice cutting through with its usual warmth. “Shinobu! Your determination is admirable, though I fear it may be a heavy burden on you, especially in your current state.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but his voice only grew firmer.

“Yet perhaps your search is too narrow. If you cannot find Tomioka’s name among the physicians, the healers, the herbalists… perhaps you should look elsewhere.” His golden eyes gleamed, catching the light like fire. “When I first saw the Tomioka name, it was not among the remedies or poisons. It was in a chapter about the mind. About disorders of thought, of memory, of… control.”

Shinobu froze.

Her pulse stuttered in her throat. “The… mind?” she repeated.

Rengoku nodded, his expression solemn for once. “Yes. An older text, one I stumbled across while researching the history of madness in swordfighters. The Tomioka clan was mentioned briefly, but it was there. Not just as healers of the body… but as researchers of the mind.”

The words lodged in Shinobu’s chest like a thorn. She felt them settle, dangerous and heavy, into the pit of her stomach. The mind.

Her eyes dropped back to the books before her, all stacked high with anatomy and herbology and blood. She had been searching the wrong shelves. The wrong archives entirely.

Slowly, she closed her hands around the book, knuckles whitening. “…I see.”

Mitsuri leaned forward again, her voice hesitant. “Shinobu-chan… are you sure you want to keep digging into this? It seems like it’s hurting you already…”

But Shinobu only smiled, that same delicate, practiced smile that revealed nothing.

“On the contrary, Mitsuri-san. I think I’ve only just found where I need to begin.”

For once, Shinobu didn’t answer with sarcasm. She turned, following his gesture toward the far shelf. A shelf rarely touched, where heavy leather-bound tomes sagged under their own age. Dust coated their spines like a second skin.

Something in her chest stirred.

Quietly, the four Hashira crossed the room together. Mitsuri ran a gentle finger across faded lettering; Obanai adjusted his grip on the candle so they could see; Kyojurou reached for the largest volume. But it was Shinobu’s hand that stopped, fingers brushing against a title that made her breath hitch.

The Storms Within: A Treatise on the Mind and Soul, by T. Tomioka. Meiji Era.

“Tomioka…?” Mitsuri breathed, peering closely. “Like… Giyu-kun?”

Shinobu’s pulse quickened. Her hand lingered on the rough leather. “Yes,” she whispered. “It must be. An ancestor, perhaps. A scholar. Or a physician. This is 150 years ago…”

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free. The cover groaned with age, and the smell of old paper and ink filled the room. She set it on the desk, the others circling around her as though drawn by gravity.

The first page was handwritten. Slanted brushstrokes, elegant but weary. And beneath the introduction, chapter titles that made Shinobu’s chest tighten.

Melancholy Madness (Depression).
Hollow Rage (Manic Outburst).
Fractured Selves (Dissociation).
Shifting Realities (Hallucinations, Delusions).
Masking Grief (Emotional Detachment).
Inherited Shadows (Intergenerational Trauma).

Her breath caught. She turned another page, eyes darting across notes, sketches of the brain, observations from case studies long forgotten.

“This…” she murmured. “This is… remarkable.”

Mitsuri leaned in, her eyes wide. “It’s like he wrote about all of us…”

Shinobu’s fingers clenched the edge of the book. “Sanemi. His rage, here, it’s described as not just anger but… a coping mechanism. Survival in the face of endless threat.”

Her eyes shifted down the page, trembling as she read on. “Muichiro’s amnesia, it’s listed here as the mind protecting itself from grief too vast to bear.”

Her lips pressed tight. “Even myself… after Kanae… masking grief. A smile as armor.”

Her voice faltered, soft as a fraying thread.

Kyojurou’s broad, steady hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “You wear a smile, Shinobu. Iguro wears his scarf. Each of us has our armor.”

Iguro’s eyes narrowed, his voice low but steady. “And Tomioka? His armor is silence. Masks. The fox mask. The dead stare. The flat tone. Each one hiding something he can’t, or won’t, name.”

Shinobu turned another page, her vision swimming with the weight of realization. Diagrams described hallucinations, numbness, and sudden shifts between cold detachment and searing emotion. Words bled together, resonating with everything she had seen in Giyu, the way he stood apart, the way he never argued unless pushed beyond breaking, the way his eyes sometimes looked like they were staring at ghosts no one else could see.

“If this book is correct…” she whispered, “then Tomioka’s silence may not just be personality. His mind… it may be turning against itself in moments. A fractured response to pain so great, he cannot distinguish what is real from what is memory.”

Mitsuri’s eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling. “He’s hurting all alone… and he still fought to protect us.”

Iguro lowered his gaze, Kaburamaru shifting on his shoulder. “He always did. Even if it annoys me how out of touch he is with what people think about him.”

Kyojurou straightened, his eyes fierce as he looked toward the open window, where night stretched endlessly beyond the paper screens. “Then we must not mistake his silence for distance. We must not assume. We must… understand.”

The room fell into stillness, the candle crackling faintly, the old tome breathing its truths into the quiet air.

Shinobu’s hands closed the book slowly, its leather creaking beneath her touch. Her chest felt heavy, but for the first time in days, her mind was clear.

“We don’t need to force him to speak,” she said softly. “But now, we know where to begin. Not with bandages. Not with accusations. With listening. With giving him space… until he can come back to us.”

The four sat in silence around the ancient book, each of them carrying unspoken wounds, each of them recognizing pieces of themselves in its pages.

But more than that, they carried with them something none of them had expected to find tonight.

A path forward.

Control by Halsey

The mountain air was sharp and thin, each breath tasting of pine and frost. Every morning began the same, Urokodaki’s voice carrying like a steady drumbeat through the mist.

“Again.”

Tanjirou’s lungs burned as he filled them with air, his chest expanding until it trembled. His lips sealed tight, his diaphragm flexed, and with all the force he could muster, he exhaled into the gourd. The hollow vessel vibrated beneath his breath, the thin walls quivering as though taunting him. His vision blurred, stars dancing at the edge of his eyes, until finally his breath gave way, and the gourd remained intact, mocking, unbroken.

He fell forward, bracing himself with his palms against the damp earth. His body heaved as he tried to reclaim air that would not come. Sweat slicked his forehead, mixing with the grime of exertion. His ribs screamed. His throat was raw.

Still, Urokodaki only said:

“Again.”

And so, Tanjirou obeyed.

The smaller gourds gave first. Weeks passed before Tanjirou cracked one with a thunderous pop, its edges crumbling like dried bark. He gasped, half-collapsed on the training mat, but Urokodaki merely replaced it with another, slightly larger. His mask revealed nothing, whether he was pleased or disappointed, whether this progress meant something or not.

Tanjirou, however, could not let the silence stay unchallenged forever.

That night, as he sat across from Urokodaki by the fire, nursing his sore muscles with steaming rice, he finally spoke.

“Urokodaki-san…”

The old man did not look up from his bowl.

“Yes?”

“Giyu-san… he… he brought me here.”

A pause. A faint clink of chopsticks against porcelain.

“…Yes.”

Tanjirou’s chest tightened, and he continued. “He… he saved me. From myself. From Nezuko. I know he doesn’t… talk much, but…”

“Tanjirou.” Urokodaki’s voice was low, firm, and final. “Eat. You’ll need strength for tomorrow.”

The fire popped between them. Conversation died.

It became a ritual.

Every evening, after his training, once his body was too exhausted to protest, Tanjirou would try again.

“Urokodaki-san, what was Giyu-san like when he was training under you?”

“Focus on your breathing, not on questions.”

“Did he always seem… so far away from people?”

“You’re letting curiosity distract you from progress.”

“Does he… hate himself?”

That time, Urokodaki’s hands stilled. He did not answer.

Days became weeks. The gourds grew larger. Tanjirou’s chest ached constantly, his diaphragm stretched and torn until it rebuilt itself stronger. His stamina grew with it, each inhale like drawing in the mountain itself, each exhale like trying to push the wind away.

But no matter how many gourds cracked beneath his efforts, Urokodaki remained unyielding.

And yet, Tanjirou pressed on.

Because he couldn’t ignore the weight that clung to Giyu like a second haori, the silence, the distance, the sadness that smelled of damp earth and empty graves.

Tanjirou remembered the day his family died. He remembered the snow, the blood, the terrible hollow in his chest that refused to heal. He remembered Nezuko’s tears, her hunger, her monstrous transformation, and Giyu, standing there, blade ready, eyes colder than winter.

But then Giyu had stayed his hand.

Had trusted him.

Had given him hope.

That man wasn’t heartless. That man wasn’t empty.

Tanjirou had to know why Urokodaki refused to speak of him.

By the third week, Tanjirou could break gourds larger than his head. His throat burned constantly, his voice cracked when he tried to speak, but his spirit refused to falter.

And so, one night, as the firelight danced, he tried again.

“Urokodaki-san…” His voice rasped, thin, but earnest. “Why won’t you tell me about Giyu-san?”

The masked man exhaled slowly through his nose. His hands moved to pour tea, steady and deliberate.

“Because,” he said at last, “you do not need to carry his burdens to carry your own.”

Tanjirou’s fists clenched. “But I want to understand him. He saved Nezuko. He saved me. Doesn’t that matter? Doesn’t he matter?”

The fire hissed. Outside, the wind swept through the pines, whistling low and mournful.

Urokodaki did not answer.

By the fifth week, Tanjirou’s persistence became a test of wills.

Every day after training, bruised and battered, he returned to the same battle, his words against Urokodaki’s silence.

He spoke of gratitude. He spoke of admiration. He spoke of the way Giyu’s silence frightened him, yes, but also inspired him. Because beneath that silence was something unshakable, like a stone buried deep in a riverbed, refusing to move even as the current tore at it.

Still, Urokodaki remained unmoved.

“Your compassion will serve you against demons,” he said once, “but it will also destroy you if you spend it carelessly.”

Tanjirou met his gaze, stubborn. “It’s not careless if it’s for someone who saved me.”

The mask stared back at him, unreadable.

By the sixth week, Tanjirou’s patience frayed.

He staggered through training, his muscles raw, his breath like fire in his chest. The gourd he now faced was the size of a barrel, its shell impossibly thick. He inhaled until his ribs creaked, his veins bulging with effort. His exhale roared, a torrent of air that rattled the vessel, made it tremble, but it held. Again and again, he tried, until he collapsed in the dirt, vision swimming.

Urokodaki watched from the shade of the trees, silent as ever.

That night, Tanjirou sat across from him, fists shaking, determination flashing in his eyes.

“Why won’t you tell me?” His voice broke. “What happened between you and Giyu-san? Why can’t you even say his name without silence?”

The old man froze. The kettle hissed where it sat over the fire. The air between them grew taut, stretched like a string on the verge of snapping.

And still, Urokodaki said nothing.

The days bled into one another. Six weeks became a single blur of breath, sweat, silence, and unanswered questions.

Tanjirou’s body changed. His stamina grew. His will hardened. But his heart remained restless.

Every morning, he broke himself against the gourds. Every night, he broke himself against Urokodaki’s walls.

And though neither yielded, the strain between them deepened, a quiet tension neither could dispel.

For Tanjirou could not forget the scent he caught sometimes when Urokodaki’s gaze wandered, when Giyu’s name slipped unspoken into the silence.

Regret.

Regret so sharp it cut the air itself.

On the forty-second day, Tanjirou dragged himself up the mountain steps at dawn, his chest aching with every breath. Snow clung to the edges of the trail. The gourds awaited him, silent, patient, as though daring him to try again.

But this time, when Urokodaki’s voice carried through the mist, it did not sound the same.

“Again,” he said softly.

And for the first time in weeks, there was something in his tone, a crack in the stone, a thread of sorrow laced within iron.

Tanjirou closed his eyes, inhaled, and obeyed.

The seventh week began like all the others.

The mountain was veiled in mist, the air sharp and wet. Tanjirou’s body moved on instinct now, no longer questioning the grueling routine that Urokodaki laid before him. His lungs burned each morning as he inhaled until his chest nearly cracked, only to push air into gourds that mocked him with their stubborn strength. His muscles ached, his ribs protested, but he endured.

But inside, another strain weighed on him heavier than his training: Urokodaki’s silence.

No matter how hard he tried, the old man refused to speak of Giyu. Six weeks of questions, persistence, and determination, and still, he met only walls of stone. Yet Tanjirou was not one to give up, not when it came to understanding someone’s pain.

That evening, as the fire warmed their small home, Tanjirou finally broke. His voice carried a rawness that matched the bruises across his chest.

“Urokodaki-san,” he said, staring into the flames, “I don’t understand you.”

The masked man paused, chopsticks hovering in his hands.

Tanjirou swallowed, his throat dry, but pressed on. “You’ve carried so much. I can smell it… It clings to you, that sorrow. And Giyu-san… he carries it too. Whatever burdens you both hold, shouldn’t you be standing together? Not apart?”

The fire popped, sparks rising and fading. Urokodaki did not answer.

But Tanjirou wasn’t finished. His fists tightened around his bowl. “I lost my family. I know what grief feels like. I know what it’s like to carry it, and to try and bear it alone. But… blaming each other? Pushing each other away? That only makes the pain heavier.”

At last, Urokodaki set his food down. His back was straight, but his shoulders seemed to sag beneath invisible weight.

“…You speak like a child who has seen too much.”

Tanjirou looked down, his voice trembling. “Maybe I have. But that’s why I can’t ignore it when I see someone else being crushed under their grief. Especially when it’s someone who saved me, who trusted me, who trusted Nezuko. Giyu-san deserves better than silence. You both do.”

The words hung in the air.

For a long time, the only sound was the wind outside, sweeping through the pines like a sigh. Urokodaki sat motionless, the mask’s carved expression betraying nothing.

Then, slowly, his hands curled into fists.

“You are… perceptive,” he said at last, voice low, strained. “And far too stubborn for your own good.”

Tanjirou lifted his gaze, hope flickering in his tired eyes.

Urokodaki inhaled deeply, the sound heavy, deliberate. When he spoke again, the weight of years clung to his every word.

“I blamed him.”

The admission was quiet, almost lost to the crackle of the fire.

Tanjirou blinked. “…What?”

Urokodaki’s hands trembled as they rested on his knees. “I blamed Giyu. For something he should never have carried. For something that was mine alone.”

The mask tilted downward, as though even carved wood could not bear to meet Tanjirou’s gaze.

“When Sabito and Makomo died during Final Selection… I told myself it was my failure as their master. My weakness was what sent them to their deaths. But in my grief, I… I pushed part of that weight onto Giyu.” Urokodaki sighed in his own mind, remembering everything regarding that entire scene. How he had blamed Giyu, and ultimately contributed to Giyu’s suffering, especially when he had already suffered so much.

The name lingered on his tongue like ash.

“Giyu has survived. He lived when others did not. And instead of giving him comfort, instead of easing his pain, I…” Urokodaki’s voice cracked, raw and fraying. “…I treated him as though his survival was a wound to my pride. I let him believe he was lesser, unwanted. I placed my burden upon his shoulders.”

Silence filled the room. Tanjirou’s chest ached at the image of young Giyu, silent and alone, bearing not only his own grief but the disappointment of the man he had looked up to.

Urokodaki bowed his head. “It was selfish. Cowardly. I had no right to cast my guilt upon him. And yet I did. That is why I do not speak of him. That is why I do not want him to do the same to you, or to anyone. No one should inherit the weight of another’s sins.”

The firelight flickered across the mask’s surface, making the carved lines seem deeper, older.

Tanjirou’s hands shook as he set aside his bowl. His heart swelled with a mixture of sorrow and determination.

“Urokodaki-san…” His voice was soft, but firm. “You’ve carried this for so long, haven’t you?”

The old man gave no answer.

Tanjirou leaned forward, his eyes burning with that fierce, unyielding compassion that defined him. “But that’s not fair. Not to you, and not to Giyu-san. Burdens like these… they’re meant to be shared, not hidden. If you don’t forgive yourself, how can he ever forgive himself?”

The mask turned slightly, as though Urokodaki were testing the truth of those words.

Tanjirou pressed on, voice trembling with conviction. “You told me compassion can be dangerous if it’s careless. But isn’t it just as dangerous to deny it? You and Giyu-san both… you’ve carried enough. Please. Don’t keep pushing each other away.”

The fire hissed. Outside, the wind quieted, leaving only the sound of two hearts beating, burdened by the past.

Urokodaki exhaled shakily, shoulders rising and falling. His voice came out hoarse, heavy with unspoken grief.

“…I failed him. And I fear it is too late to mend what was broken.”

Tanjirou shook his head, his eyes blazing. “It’s never too late. Not as long as you’re both still here. Not as long as you can still speak.”

For a long moment, the masked man was silent. His hands tightened, then loosened, then tightened again, as though wrestling with demons no blade could cut down.

At last, his voice broke the quiet.

“…You are far stronger than you realize, Tanjirou. To speak such words, after all you’ve endured…”

The boy flushed, but did not look away. “I just know what it feels like to lose everything. And I don’t want either of you to lose each other, too.”

The mask tilted upward, firelight catching its painted features. Though Tanjirou could not see Urokodaki’s face, he could feel the sorrow lifting, if only slightly.

“…Perhaps,” Urokodaki murmured, “you are right.”

The flames crackled on.

That night, neither spoke further. But the silence was different now, not heavy with avoidance, but tentative, fragile, as though something broken had finally begun to mend.

And for the first time since Tanjirou had arrived on the mountain, Urokodaki allowed himself a breath that felt… lighter.

Tanjirou, too, felt the change. He lay awake long after the fire had burned low, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with both relief and worry. He didn’t know if Urokodaki would ever face Giyu again. He didn’t know if the rift between them could be healed.

But he knew this: neither man deserved to carry such burdens alone.

And if it meant pushing, asking, and enduring silence for as long as it took, then Tanjirou would do it.

Because that was what it meant to care.

A.N. / Chapter 26, done! We’re finding a bit more out about Giyu’s family history, going way back, perhaps a trajectory none of you really expected. And then we have Urokodaki somewhat opening up to Tanjirou. We don’t exactly get to hear what Urokodaki necessarily did to Giyu, as of course, introducing Sabito and Makomo to Tanjirou will occur first. This will take some time, but I think I will make it so that Giyu will sometimes take Tanjirou to missions, as a preview or something. But this will likely escalate when Tanjirou completes the Final Selection, or when the next New Year's occurs. This will be a bit more complicated for me to time properly, but I think with time, everything will work out. Now that this is done, I’ll see you all in Chapter 27.

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 27:

No One Noticed by The Marias

The Butterfly Estate was quiet, the long corridors hushed save for the occasional creak of wood underfoot. Shinobu had once again retreated into her research room, dragging Kyojurou, Mitsuri, and Obanai with her. Stacks of texts had grown into mountains now, some so old their bindings had to be reinforced with silk threads to keep them from falling apart. The air smelled of dust, dried ink, and faint traces of pressed herbs.

Mitsuri shifted uneasily, her pink and green hair falling in front of her face as she leaned over the massive book Shinobu had just placed on the desk. “This one… It’s even older than the last, isn’t it?”

Shinobu nodded, her eyes glittering strangely in the lamplight. “Yes. Nearly a thousand years old, if the dating marks on the parchment are correct.”

The cover was worn, more leather than cloth, with a sigil embossed faintly into it, a fox mask etched above kanji that spelled out Tomioka. The others drew closer, silent as Shinobu carefully opened the ancient volume. The pages gave off a brittle hiss, as though protesting being disturbed after so long.

At first it seemed like any other medical text of its time: diagrams of organs, crude sketches of bone structures, notes on remedies involving roots and minerals. But then the language shifted. The words grew darker, less about illness and injury, more about something else.

Specimens beyond human. Flesh that closes upon itself when cut. Blood that alters the mind and body. Their souls unmoored, their thoughts erratic, primal yet brilliant in survival instinct.

Kyojurou’s brows furrowed. “Specimens? That… That sounds like…”

“Demons,” Shinobu finished, her voice thin. She turned another page, where a detailed sketch of a humanoid form stretched across the parchment, eyes wide, fangs bared, wounds sketched open but already drawn closed again with notes in the margins: Regeneration observed within minutes. Tissue stronger than human.

Obanai leaned closer, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “This is dated… nine hundred years ago. Which means it was written perhaps a century after the first demons appeared in history.”

“That early?” Mitsuri whispered. “Then… the Tomioka family knew about demons before most did?”

Shinobu’s hands tightened slightly on the page. “Not just knew of them. They studied them.”

Another page. Another passage:

The erraticism of their minds is as valuable as their flesh. Delusions, fractured reasoning, animalistic impulses, yet bound together by hunger. To understand their madness may allow us to understand our own. To harness their regenerative blood is to grant mankind its edge over extinction.

The room seemed to grow colder. The candle flame flickered violently, as though the air itself recoiled from the words.

Kyojurou was the first to break the silence, his booming voice muted now, heavy with disquiet. “So the Tomioka family… they were not only healers. They were… observers of demons. Experimenters.”

“Hunters too, it seems,” Shinobu murmured, scanning a side note etched in hurried brushstrokes. Specimen retrieved after three nights’ pursuit. Contained beneath the shrine. Disposed of after dissection.

Mitsuri covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide and glistening. “That’s… horrible…”

Obanai’s tone, however, was harder. “Horrible, yes. But effective. To learn so much so early… it means they may have contributed knowledge that the Corps itself relied upon. And yet…” He glanced around the room, at the heaps of scrolls and records. “…there’s nothing of them in our history. Not a word of the Tomioka family in official Corps records.”

“That’s exactly it,” Shinobu whispered, sitting back. “Why?”

She closed the book slowly, her fingers lingering on the embossed fox mask.

“The Rengoku family is mentioned in almost every generation of the Corps,” Shinobu continued, turning to Kyojurou. “You carry a lineage of flame and honor, your father before you, and his before him. The Ubuyashiki family, too, stretches far back. But the Tomioka…?”

Kyojurou’s jaw tightened. He straightened, shoulders broad and proud even in confusion. “If they fought demons, if they gave their lives to study them for mankind’s sake… they should be remembered with honor.”

“They aren’t,” Shinobu said flatly. “Which suggests their work… their methods… may have been considered unacceptable. Or dangerous.”

Mitsuri looked down at her hands. “But if their research helped humans fight demons, isn’t that good? Why hide it?”

Obanai’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “Because they weren’t only studying demons as enemies. They wanted to use them. Harness their abilities. That kind of pursuit… it blurs the line between healer and heretic. Between savior and monster.”

Silence again. The weight of Obanai’s words hung like a blade over all of them.

Shinobu’s mind raced. She thought back to Giyu, the way he avoided the medical wings, how he bristled at even the mention of treatment, the way his eyes grew distant when people spoke of doctors or medicine. She thought of his refusal to let anyone examine him, his silence that seemed carved into his bones.

He knew.

Or at least, he sensed.

Maybe not the specifics. But something had been passed down through him, not knowledge, perhaps, but a wound. An inheritance of silence.

“Why would he hate it so much?” Shinou finally whispered. Her green eyes shimmered with sorrow. “If his family was so important, if they were doctors… shouldn’t he be proud?”

Obanai closed his eyes, seemingly for once, mellow in his tone. “Pride is not what lingers when history buries you. Shame is.”

Shinobu nodded grimly. “If their methods were deemed abominable, the Corps may have erased them deliberately. To sever ties. To prevent others from following their path.”

“And now,” Kyojurou said slowly, his hand clenching into a fist, “the last Tomioka we know carries that silence alone. Without family, without recognition. No wonder he resents medicine. To him, it is not healing; it is a curse.”

Mitsuri sniffled quietly, brushing her sleeve across her eyes. “But that’s not fair. He didn’t do anything wrong. Why does he have to carry it?”

Shinobu touched the old book again, fingertips resting on the faint fox sigil. “Because some burdens don’t disappear, even if the world forgets. They pass down. In blood. In silence. In eyes that avert when the word doctor is spoken.”

The lamps within the Butterfly Estate burned low, their warm light flickering against the shelves of stacked texts Shinobu had unearthed over the past weeks. The air was tinged with the smell of ink, aged parchment, and faint medicinal herbs drifting from the adjacent rooms. For days, she had secluded herself in study, diving through every tome that bore even the faintest trace of the Tomioka name.

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was not alone.

Kyojurou Rengoku sat cross-legged by the low table, his expression attentive though his flame-bright eyes carried their usual intensity. Mitsuri Kanroji leaned forward, chin in her palms, listening intently, while Obanai Iguro sat a little apart, coiled like his serpent around his shoulders, gaze sharp and skeptical.

Before them lay a single book, heavy, leather-bound, and frayed at the edges. Shinobu’s fingers rested delicately on its spine as though she feared the whole thing might crumble at her touch.

“This one…” she began, voice quieter than usual, “…was nearly lost in the stacks. But I think it might be the clearest record we’ve found yet about the Tomioka family.”

Mitsuri tilted her head. “Another medical text?”

Shinobu shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s more than that. It’s… a chronicle. Half medical, half historical. And… personal.”

Kyojurou’s eyes sharpened. “Read it aloud, Shinobu. Let us hear.”

So she opened the fragile book, pages whispering against each other, and began.

“The Tomioka line has long been entrusted with the study of the mind. When others tended to bones and wounds, we peered deeper, into what cannot be seen, but governs all action. Madness, grief, delusion, rage: these are storms more dangerous than the sharpest blade, for they cut within, unseen. We sought to map these storms.”

Shinobu paused, letting the words hang before continuing.

“And then came the scourge. Whispers of demons, monstrous beings who devoured humans and healed faster than nature should allow. The world scoffed. To most, these were nothing but ghost stories. Yet some among us saw opportunity: their anatomy so close to ours, their regenerative powers astounding. If we could understand them, perhaps even take from them, then mankind could rise, not fall, before such threats. To conquer the demon by learning from it.”

Kyojurou exhaled softly, his expression darkening. Mitsuri’s hands clasped tightly at her chest. Obanai’s gaze narrowed further, though he remained silent.

Shinobu turned another page.

“But such ideas brought ridicule. Our kin and colleagues began to split. Many of the Tomioka name, fearing mockery, fearing exile, declared that demons were figments, illusions born of fevered minds. They claimed to treat ‘demon sickness’ as a mental affliction. The world welcomed this explanation. Easier to believe that demons were madness than flesh. And so half of us gained prestige as healers of the insane.”

She lifted her gaze briefly to the others. “It explains the divergence we’ve been seeing, why psychology and demonology are both tied to their legacy.”

Then, softly, she continued.

“Yet others of us knew demons were real. We hunted them. We dissected them. We recorded their peculiar minds, their fits of hunger, their erratic violence. We noted how their regenerative bodies might one day gift mankind a weapon, how perhaps, by studying their secrets, we could prolong life, heal mortal wounds. These ideas were dangerous. Dangerous enough that our family fractured. Dangerous enough that demons themselves began hunting us down.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Even Mitsuri’s usual softness was stilled.

She set the book down, though her fingers lingered on its edge.

“This explains much,” she said, tone deliberate, careful. “The Rengoku family has always been intertwined with the Corps. Their loyalty protected them across centuries. But the Tomioka line… they had no such shield. And because they turned demons into subjects of study, they became enemies both to their peers and to demons themselves.”

Kyojurou frowned, his voice a low rumble. “That explains why history has erased them. If they sought to weaponize knowledge of demons, it would draw Muzan’s wrath without the Corps’ protection. They would have been… hunted, as you said.”

Mitsuri tilted her head, troubled. “But… Shinobu, that doesn’t explain Giyu-kun. If his family was once so respected for their knowledge, and even feared by demons… why does he avoid all mention of them? Why the hatred?”

Shinobu hesitated, then opened the tome to a later section filled with notes scrawled in a tighter hand, ink smudged by what looked like rain. She read again:

“We are divided. Those who hunt, those who deny. Blood against blood. If this continues, the Tomioka name will wither, its branches cut away by our own hands as much as by demon claws. Perhaps it is better some of us fade. Better some names vanish than carry this cursed burden onward.”

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed. “…The family itself anticipated their own erasure. Perhaps that’s why Giyu despises it. He may have inherited not just their legacy… but their shame.”

Obanai finally spoke, voice quiet, as if understanding the burden of caring for such a familial burden. “Or perhaps he was raised to believe that delving too deeply into demons, or into the mind, only leads to ruin. If his family taught him that… then of course he would reject medicine, psychology, all of it.”

Shinobu nodded slowly. “It’s possible.”

She turned again to another passage, voice steady as she read aloud.

“When the world calls demons madness, who are we to argue? Yet when one of our hunters brings back proof, torn flesh that writhes even after death, we are forced to reconcile: are we scholars, or are we liars? The split grows wider. My own brother calls me delusional. My cousins call me a genius. In truth, I am neither. I am only afraid. Afraid of what happens if mankind ignores what stalks it in the dark.”

Shinobu’s voice lowered. “This is nearly nine hundred years ago. One hundred years after demons first emerged. And already, they were being dismissed by society.”

Mitsuri frowned deeply. “That must have been so hard… to know the truth, but be told you’re crazy for believing it.”

“Exactly.” Shinobu’s eyes lingered on the page. “And imagine what that did to generations of Tomioka children, half raised to be seekers of truth, half raised to deny it entirely. That kind of division…” She trailed off, brows furrowing. “It breeds silence. It breeds secrecy.”

Kyojurou’s voice was thoughtful now. “So that is the burden Giyu carries. Not only his own grief, but centuries of fractured legacy. A family split between mind and body, science and denial. Hunters and healers. And now… he stands alone.”

Shinobu closed the book gently, resting her hand atop it.

“But here is the problem,” she said softly. “Nowhere does it mention the exact branch of the Tomioka lineages that survived. The records splinter and then vanish. Some descendants vanished into obscurity, some adhered to society and denied demons, and some into graves marked by no names. Which line does Giyu descend from? The hunters? The deniers? Or a branch that tried to cut itself off altogether?”

The others were silent. The ambiguity weighed heavily than the revelation itself.

Obanai finally muttered, “Perhaps the point is that we cannot know. Not unless Giyu himself chooses to tell us.”

Shinobu’s lips curved faintly wry, tired. “And we both know how unlikely that is.”

Mitsuri sighed, hugging her knees. “So it’s ambiguous on purpose. Maybe… maybe the Tomiokas wanted it that way. To protect the ones who survived.”

“Or to hide their shame,” Obanai countered.

Kyojurou sat upright, his voice firm. “Either way, what matters is not the ghosts of his family, but Giyu himself. He is not bound to their choices. He is a Demon Slayer. Our comrade.”

Shinobu regarded him thoughtfully, then gave a small nod. “Yes. But if we are to understand him better… perhaps this is the closest we will ever come. Knowing the legacy he refuses to speak of.”

The room grew quiet again. The lamp sputtered, casting shadows across their faces. Shinobu looked down at the tome one final time, her fingers brushing over its weathered cover.

“History is cruel,” she murmured. “It remembers who it wants, and erases the rest. The Rengoku’s flame has been preserved because it burned so brightly beside the Corps. But the Tomioka’s storm was hidden. Half claimed demons were delusions. Half hunted them in shadows. And now, only fragments remain.”

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of her own memories stir, Kanae’s smile, the endless burden of her own mask. Then she looked up at the three before her.

“Whatever Giyu’s truth is, we cannot force it from him. All we can do is recognize that his silence… is not emptiness. It is an inheritance. And perhaps, pain too old for words.”

Mitsuri sniffled softly, brushing her sleeve against her eyes. Kyojurou’s hands folded firmly on his knees, as though anchoring himself. Obanai remained stoic, though the serpent coiled tighter around his neck as if sensing its master’s unease.

And together, in the dim quiet of the Butterfly Estate, they sat with the weight of the Tomioka legacy, centuries of fractured knowledge, shame, and silence. Not answers, not closure. But understanding.

For now, that was enough.

Obanai’s gaze flicked toward her. “So what do we do with this knowledge?”

Shinobu drew in a breath. For once, she didn’t have a sharp answer ready. She looked at each of them, the warmth in Mitsuri’s sorrow, the steady fire in Kyojurou’s gaze, the sharpness in Obanai’s restraint.

“We don’t tell him,” Shinobu said finally.

Kyojurou frowned. “We don’t?”

“No,” Shinobu said. “Not unless he asks. This… this isn’t ours to confront him with. He already carries enough. To throw the weight of his family’s history onto him would be cruel. What we can do… is be here. Not with questions. Not with records. But with presence. So if he chooses to break his silence, he’ll know we won’t run.”

Mitsuri nodded quickly, relief in her tearful smile. “Yes! We can be there for him. That’s the best thing we can do.”

Obanai leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. But he didn’t disagree.

Kyojurou, however, let out a long breath; his fire dimmed but steady. “Very well. Then let us bear this knowledge quietly. For him. Until the day he chooses to face it, or never does. Either way, we’ll remain his comrades.”

Shinobu closed the book fully now, sliding it back across the desk. “A thousand years of silence. And one man left to shoulder it. No wonder he hides behind stillness.”

Her hands lingered on the leather for a long moment before she pushed it away and stood. “We will not become his burden. We’ll become his shelter.”

The others nodded, and together, the four Hashira let the room fall silent again.

But even as the candle guttered and the old text lay closed once more, each of them carried the same thought unspoken:

The Tomioka family had been erased from history.

And perhaps, Giyu wished the same fate for himself.

Yellow by Coldplay

The mist hung low, pale and silvery, across the mountainside. It clung to the branches, curling around stones slick with dew. The forest was never truly quiet; the rustle of unseen creatures, the steady drip of water, and the endless whistle of wind through pines echoed like faint voices just beyond reach.

And in that fog stood Tanjirou Kamado, chest heaving, his sword trembling at his side. Sweat had plastered his hair to his brow, and his lungs burned as though filled with smoke.

“You’re still too slow,” Sabito’s voice cut, sharp as his blade, sharp as the mask that concealed everything except his merciless eyes.

The white warding fox mask gleamed faintly in the dim light. Unlike Giyu’s half-mask, Sabito’s covered his whole face, its pointed teeth permanently curled in a grin that made every word sting. His sword rested against his shoulder, casual and taunting.

“Your stance breaks. Your swing falters. You hesitate. You’ll never cut through a demon like that, much less survive Final Selection.”

Each word was a blow. Tanjirou gritted his teeth, forcing his aching arms back into position.

Makomo’s soft voice floated through the mist like balm against a wound. “That’s enough, Sabito. He’s giving his all.”

Sabito scoffed, stepping forward, the weight of his presence pressing like a storm. “Demons won’t spare him because he’s trying. They won’t pat his back and tell him it’s enough. They’ll kill him. If he keeps this up, they’ll kill Nezuko too.”

Tanjirou froze, the breath stalling in his throat.

Makomo shot her companion a sharp glance, but Sabito only tilted his head and sneered beneath the mask.

Nezuko… She hadn’t stirred for days now. Weeks, maybe. She lay motionless in the wooden box during daylight and in Urokodaki’s spare futon at night. Her breathing was steady, her face calm, but her eyes had yet to open. Every morning, Tanjirou sat by her side and begged her softly to wake up. And every morning, silence was his only answer.

He clenched his fists on his sword, the tremble in his arms no longer just from exhaustion. “Don’t you dare… bring Nezuko into this.”

Sabito’s mask turned toward him, unyielding. “If she matters so much, then fight as if she does. Stop swinging like a boy and start swinging like a demon slayer.”

Tanjirou shouted and charged. Their swords collided, the shock reverberating up his bones, rattling through his jaw. Sabito parried, turned, and in an instant, Tanjirou’s weapon was knocked clean out of his hand.

The clang echoed as his blade fell to the stones.

“You’re pathetic.” Sabito’s tone was final, merciless.

Tanjirou’s knees hit the ground. His breath came ragged, harsh. He couldn’t look up.

But then, cool hands touched his shoulders, Makomo kneeling beside him, her small frame like a lantern of gentleness in the fog. Her fox mask, painted with faint flower patterns, tilted toward him.

“You’re trying too hard to match Sabito’s power,” she murmured. “But strength isn’t the only path. Breath is the key. Focus on your breathing, Tanjirou. It’s your life force. Every inhale fills you with strength. Every exhale shapes your strike.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You’ve carried firewood on your back since you were small, haven’t you? That same rhythm. Inhale, lift. Exhale, carry. Trust your body. You’re stronger than you know.”

Tanjirou swallowed. His eyes burned, tears he refused to let fall. He nodded, gripping his sword once more.

Sabito watched silently, arms crossed. The fog swirled around him, his expression hidden but his presence heavy, expectant.

Hours bled into days. The sun rose and fell over the mountains, but the mist never lifted. Each day, Tanjirou trained until his body screamed, until his legs shook so violently he could barely stand.

Makomo was patient, guiding his hands, correcting his form, murmuring reminders: Lower your shoulders. Don’t grip so tight. Breath first, swing second.

Sabito never spared him. Every spar ended with Tanjirou cut down, bruised, battered, his pride cracked to pieces. But still, he rose again.

At night, when Urokodaki’s house glowed faintly in the distance, Tanjirou sat beside Nezuko. He told her everything, how he failed again, how Sabito mocked him, how Makomo encouraged him. He spoke as if she listened, as if she could hear every word through her long slumber.

“Nezuko… please wake up soon. I’m scared. I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

Her silence pressed heavier each night.

One evening, his sword slipped from his blistered hands, clattering to the ground. He staggered to his knees, coughing, body wracked with exhaustion.

Sabito loomed above him, voice like ice. “Pathetic. If this were a demon, you’d already be dead. Again. And again. And again. You’re not ready.”

The words cracked something deep inside Tanjirou. He slammed his fists to the ground, tears spilling freely. “Then what do I have to do?! I’ve given everything! I can’t breathe, I can’t stand, I…”

He broke off, choking. His chest heaved. “Nezuko’s still asleep. I don’t even know if she’ll ever wake up. And you,” he glared up at Sabito, eyes blazing, “you’re wearing the same mask as Giyu. Why?! Why does it look just like his?!”

For the first time, silence.

Sabito froze. His grip on his sword tightened. The mist curled thicker around him, almost as if to shield him. Makomo’s head lowered, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

“You… don’t understand,” Sabito said at last, his voice low, almost trembling beneath the mask’s painted grin. “You can’t.”

Makomo rose and placed a hand gently on Tanjirou’s back. “Don’t ask him that, Tanjirou. Not yet.”

“But…”

“Focus on your training.” Her tone was soft but firm. “The rest will come when it’s meant to.”

That night, as Tanjirou staggered home, he glanced over his shoulder. Sabito still stood in the mist, silent, unmoving.

And behind him, faint shapes, faint outlines. Children. A dozen of them. Their fox masks gleamed like pale moons in the fog.

Tanjirou rubbed his eyes, blinked, and they were gone.

The weeks blurred together. He cut gourds, split boulders, sparred until he collapsed. His body toughened, his breathing steadied, his resolve hardened.

But Nezuko did not wake.

And Sabito never softened.

On the forty-seventh day of training, when Tanjirou fell once more to the ground, Sabito pointed his sword at him and said:

“You’ll never defeat me.”

But Tanjirou, bloody-lipped, grinning through tears, whispered back:

“Not yet.”

The mist carried his words far, echoing faintly against the stones.

Makomo smiled faintly behind her mask. Sabito’s hands trembled just slightly on his hilt.

And somewhere, beyond the veil of the living and the dead, the children of the mountain watched in silence, their fox masks catching the pale glow of the moon.

The mist that clung to Sagiri Mountain never seemed to lift. It hung heavy between the cedar trunks, veiling every path in the same pale grey. By now, Tanjirou Kamado had grown used to the way it muffled sound, how even his own footsteps felt muted, as if the forest swallowed them whole.

He had just finished sparring with Sabito again. Or rather, Sabito had just finished cutting him down again. His palms stung with blisters beneath the wrapping cloth, his arms trembled with fatigue, and sweat stung his eyes. The sword across his lap was chipped at the edge, a mark of his clumsy deflection.

Sabito had said nothing after disarming him, only turning and vanishing into the curtain of fog. Makomo had offered him a faint smile, helped correct his stance one last time, then followed after. They never lingered long. They never explained why.

Now, sitting alone at the base of the training boulder, Tanjirou rubbed his aching shoulder and whispered, “Nezuko… please wake up soon. I don’t know how much longer I can…”

The sound of feet on gravel made him stop.

Not Sabito’s quick, sharp steps. Not Makomo’s light, almost floating tread.

He looked up.

A tall figure approached, stepping through the mist like it parted just for him. He wore the uniform of the Demon Slayer Corps, dark as ink. His haori trailed softly in the mountain breeze, patterned, two halves of different colors. But what caught Tanjirou’s gaze, what froze him utterly, was the mask.

On the left side of his face, strapped in place, was a half fox mask. A warding fox mask, the kind Urokodaki had carved for his students. Its white surface gleamed against the gloom, its red accents curling like painted flames. Only half. Only the left.

Tanjirou’s heart skipped a beat.

His mind flashed through memory: Makomo, always without a mask, her face open and kind. Sabito, his whole face hidden behind a snarling fox grin. Urokodaki, with his ever-present tengu mask, hides every trace of the man beneath.

And now this swordsman, wearing half.

Why half? Why only the left side?

“…Giyu-san.” Tanjirou’s voice came hoarse, almost caught in his throat.

The man paused a few steps away. His exposed right eye regarded Tanjirou, unreadable as still water. He inclined his head, just enough to acknowledge him.

Urokodaki had spoken of him, the Water Hashira, Tomioka Giyu. The same one who had spared Nezuko’s life on that blood-soaked day, when everything had fallen apart. The same one who had struck Tanjirou down to the dirt, yet left him and Nezuko with the faintest, most fragile hope.

Giyu said nothing at first. He scanned the training ground, the scuffed earth, the sword marks in the bark, the gouges in the boulder. His gaze lingered on Tanjirou’s raw hands, his split lip, the exhaustion in his shoulders. Finally, he said quietly, “You’ve been training.”

Tanjirou nodded, swallowing hard.

The silence pressed heavily, broken only by the wind moving through pine needles.

Then Giyu’s eyes shifted. Past Tanjirou. Toward Urokodaki’s house below.

Tanjirou knew immediately what he was searching for. He rose to his feet despite the ache in his legs. “Nezuko… she’s inside. She hasn’t woken up.”

A faint twitch at the corner of Giyu’s mouth, not surprise, not exactly, but something restrained. He moved past Tanjirou without another word, his steps deliberate, sure.

Tanjirou followed.

Inside the house, the air smelled faintly of pine smoke and damp wood. Nezuko lay upon a futon, her chest rising and falling in the same steady rhythm it had for weeks. Her skin was pale, her features calm, as though only asleep. But she had not stirred once. Not even when he spoke to her, begged her, touched her hand.

Giyu stopped at the threshold, gaze fixed on her. His visible eye softened, though his face itself betrayed nothing. The half mask caught the flicker of lantern light, splitting his features between human and fox.

“She lives,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Tanjirou whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. “She’s alive… but she won’t wake. Not once since that day.”

The weight of those words hung between them.

Unusual. That was the only word Tanjirou could find. For a demon to sleep this long. For her to remain so still, so peaceful. For her not to hunger. For her not to hurt him.

Urokodaki had told him this state was strange, something no records described. Yet Kagaya Ubuyashiki, head of the Corps, had insisted Giyu come to see.

Tanjirou lifted Nezuko’s hand, cradling it carefully. “I know she’s still in there. I can feel it. That’s why… that’s why I have to keep going. I have to get strong enough for both of us.”

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out anyway. “I’ll protect her. I swear it.”

Giyu stood silent, the mask concealing half his expression, leaving only the faintest glimmer of something unspoken in his uncovered eye.

Tanjirou looked at him then, really looked. At the scar that disappeared beneath the mask’s edge. At the line, it cut across his face. At the strange echo between this half-mask and Sabito’s full one.

The question almost slipped free. Did you know them? Makomo? Sabito? The others?

But the moment Tanjirou’s lips parted, Giyu’s gaze sharpened, warning. A silence heavy as stone filled the room.

No. He would not answer. He would not speak of them.

Tanjirou closed his mouth, swallowing the question like a stone down his throat.

Instead, he bowed his head. “…Thank you. For coming here. For sparing Nezuko before. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t…” His voice cracked. “…I wouldn’t have anyone left.”

For a long while, there was no reply.

Then, softly: “Keep training.”

The words were plain, almost cold. But they carried weight, a firmness that struck deeper than Sabito’s scorn or Makomo’s kindness. It was not encouragement, not comfort. It was a demand.

And somehow, Tanjirou understood.

He straightened, wiping his face. His grip tightened on his sword. “I will.”

Giyu lingered one last moment, watching Nezuko’s still form. Then he turned, stepping back into the mist beyond the doorway. The lantern light caught on the painted grin of the half mask before it vanished into shadow.

Tanjirou remained kneeling beside his sister, her hand clasped in his, the silence of the house settling once more.

Outside, the mountain wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest whisper of voices Tanjirou could almost recognize, children’s laughter, distant, fleeting, gone in an instant.

He pressed his forehead against Nezuko’s hand. “I’ll keep going,” he murmured, a vow for her, for himself, for all those unseen.

A.N. / I decided ultimately, to move passed the introduction of Sabito and Makomo towards  Tanjirou, because it would’ve added nothing new. It was basically the same, and I really wasn’t sure what I could make differently. So instead, I decided to focus more on a mix of Giyu’s own family, and then with more of Urokodaki and Giyu. For the time being, we’re going to keep the pace up, focusing on the Hashira all the while Tanjirou trains. This will be quite the double scenes for the next couple of chapters, unless I decide to focus on it for a time. Rather than that, I am currently focusing on that, so we will see how it all works out. School is also approaching, as I am going into my Master’s Program, so uploads may slow from daily to like one every other day. So, I apologize in advance!

Chapter Text

The “Fox” Behind That Mask

Chapter 28:

Sonne by Rammstein

Shinobu’s fingers trembled slightly as she placed the latest journal on the table.
The wood beneath it seemed to groan under the weight, though the book itself was deceptively thin. Perhaps it wasn’t the paper that was heavy, but the words it contained.

Kyojurou, Mitsuri, and Iguro leaned in as she turned it toward them, showing two separate titles, two radically different directions taken by the Tomioka family, both recent, both unsettling.

The first was dated 30 years ago, a worn leather-bound log with faded ink. The title etched across the cover: “Wisteria: Biological Weapon or Medicinal Gift?”

Shinobu read aloud, her voice cautious, as though she feared the syllables themselves might spark ghosts from the past.

“Wisteria, in trace amounts, can ease symptoms of several cognitive disorders. Early trials suggest reduced anxiety, suppressed psychosis, and elevated neural clarity. But prolonged exposure leads to cellular damage, shortening human life expectancy. In demons, however… the compound binds instantly to muscle and neuron tissue. Their regenerative properties cause it to multiply uncontrollably, leading to paralysis or death.”

Her eyes swept down the page, then she lowered the book slightly, her voice quieter. “This… This is the very foundation of my poisons. My work. Everything I’ve done to fight demons…”

Mitsuri blinked, her lashes fluttering. “So, a Tomioka figured it out?”

“Yes.” Shinobu’s voice was soft, the word bitter on her tongue. “Thirty years ago, a Tomioka pioneered the very research I continued. I never knew… until now.”

But Iguro’s gaze had already drifted to the second book. It was thinner. Newer. Its edges are sharp, its cover untouched by dust, as though it hadn’t sat waiting in the archives for long. The front read:

“The Psychogenic Mind: Demonology as Delusion.” Authored: 20 years ago.

Shinobu hesitated, then opened the first page, scanning quickly, her lips pressed tight before she forced herself to voice it aloud.

“Demons, as depicted in folklore, are often the result of delusional trauma responses. Those who suffer from guilt, paranoia, or grief may construct external threats as a defense mechanism. These projections, these ‘demons, ’are expressions of a fractured mind, and should be treated accordingly.”

She shut the book with a grim expression. The snap echoed in the Butterfly Estate’s silent library like a blade sliding into a sheath.

“This is the other branch,” Shinobu said. Her voice was sharp now, no longer tremoring, her anger barely restrained. “The side that clung to the public’s narrative. The ones who denounced demons as myth… and sought treatment instead of truth.”

Kyojurou crossed his arms, his usually exuberant face heavy with thought. “These books are only ten years apart. One sought to fight demons with chemistry. The other denied demons entirely.”

Iguro muttered, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing. “And both bear the Tomioka name.”

Shinobu’s jaw tightened. “Which begs the question: Where does Giyu fall in this?”

Mitsuri’s hopeful voice cut through the tension. “Could he come from the family who made that wisteria discovery? That would mean… he comes from people who wanted to save lives!”

“Then why does he avoid medicine?” Iguro countered, his tone sharp but not cruel, merely pragmatic. “If he was raised by researchers like Shinobu’s family, he’d at least show signs of understanding. But he avoids medical care… even basic treatment.”

Kyojurou spoke slowly, each word carefully weighed. “What if… he’s from neither branch? What if his parents were caught between the two?”

The suggestion landed heavily in the silence that followed.

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed, her fingers twitching on the edge of the journal as she considered it. “…That would explain everything. If he came from a household torn by the divide, one parent believing demons were science, the other believing they were delusions, it would have created tension. Confusion. Maybe even trauma.”

“Enough to make a child hate medicine,” Iguro added. “Enough to reject both sides completely.”

Mitsuri looked down sadly, her curls shadowing her face. “Do we… even know if Giyu knew his parents?”

Shinobu paused, exhaling through her nose. “…No. That’s the thing. We don’t. He’s never spoken of them. And there are no records, not even Amane-sama had them.”

Kyojurou’s fists clenched. “That means… he’s been carrying this burden alone. Without name, without guidance.”

Shinobu stood slowly, gathering the journals with care, as though they were fragile relics of lives already extinguished. Her voice was heavy.

“The more we learn, the less we understand. The Tomioka line is too fractured, too splintered. Some were scientists. Some were skeptics. And some… were erased completely.”

Kyojurou gave a solemn nod. “Giyu may not even know where he comes from.”

“Exactly,” Shinobu said. “For all we know, his guardians may have hidden his legacy from him. To protect him from the truth. Or worse… to break the cycle entirely.”

Iguro’s voice was quiet, unusually so. “But the cycle’s not broken. He still suffers.”

The words lingered, heavier than the books.

Shinobu looked down at the two journals again, two ghosts of a legacy Giyu never asked for.

And still… no answer.

Only possibilities.

Maybe his family abandoned their past and never told him.

Maybe they died before he could learn.

Maybe they forced him to reject medicine.

Or maybe… Giyu saw something so terrible, he chose to forget it all.

Whatever the case, the truth remained elusive.

And the weight of a fractured legacy still lingered on Giyu’s shoulders, unseen, unspoken, and unresolved.

But Shinobu wasn’t satisfied with ambiguity. Her hand trembled again as she reopened the first journal, skimming further down the faded pages. The writing shifted, less clinical, more frantic, as though the author had grown desperate.

“Listen to this,” she murmured.

“We are running out of protection. We have no protection. Not from the government, not from the public, nobody. Our work on a specimen that many do not even believe in, but one we have complete evidence over, has been completely tainted. Parts of our own blood, looked down upon, all the while our name gets hunted down by the very wolf we always try to call. They may try to deny them, but to them, our name is enough of a reason for them to hunt us.”

Her throat tightened. “…This Tomioka was hunted. Likely killed for their research.”

Mitsuri’s hands clasped tightly in her lap. “That’s awful…! To be punished for trying to help!”

Iguro’s jaw flexed. “It makes sense, though. If Muzan viewed them as a threat, he’d wipe them out. Just as he tried to wipe out the Corps.”

Kyojurou’s flame-colored eyes burned with quiet fury. “Then Giyu carries not just personal loss, but the remnants of a family hunted by both humans and demons.”

Shinobu shut the book again, pressing it close to her chest.

And in that moment, Mitsuri spoke softly, almost to herself: “No wonder he’s so quiet. No wonder he doesn’t let anyone in.”

Hours slipped by as they combed through more archives. Some documents were missing, torn out, or burned. Others were so fragmented they offered only riddles: a letter mentioning “regeneration trials,” a torn ledger listing strange expenses for medical equipment, a half-written note about “patients seeing shadows in the night.”

Each scrap deepened the mystery but never completed it.

Finally, Shinobu slumped into her chair, exhaustion creeping into her bones. “We may never have the full truth. His lineage is too fractured. It’s been buried, deliberately, perhaps.”

Iguro crossed his arms, his voice steady. “Then perhaps the question is not what branch he came from… but why it matters. Would Giyu himself even want to know?”

Kyojurou’s gaze softened. “…Sometimes knowledge heals. Sometimes it deepens wounds. If Giyu has been denied this truth his entire life, revealing it may do more harm than good.”

Mitsuri frowned. “But isn’t it cruel for him to suffer without knowing? To carry shame or fear that isn’t his fault?”

Shinobu looked at the journals again. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Cruel, yes… But what if learning the truth only gives him more to regret?”

The silence stretched. Each of them saw Giyu’s face in their minds, his stoic expression, his clipped words, his solitude. Each of them wondered what kind of boy had grown into that man, what he had endured to survive.

And none of them had an answer.

Only the knowledge that, in some way, they were holding pieces of him he himself might never see.

When the candles burned low and the night pressed in around the Butterfly Estate, Shinobu finally closed the journals and tucked them back into their shelves.

“Enough for tonight,” she said quietly. “We’ll resume when something else pops up. Perhaps there’s more hidden in the archives.”

But as the others rose to leave, Mitsuri lingered, her soft voice carrying into the silence.

“…Do you think Giyu would be angry if he knew we were digging into this?”

Shinobu froze at the doorway, her back to them. “…Yes. I think he would.”

She let the words hang there before adding, softer still: “But sometimes… people hide truths not because they are unimportant, but because they are unbearable.”

And with that, she left.

The others followed, each haunted by the same thought:

That the mystery of Giyu Tomioka was not one of strength, but of survival.
And that survival came at the cost of a fractured, forgotten past.

A past that even now refused to let him go.

Doubt by Twenty One Pilots

The night air at Tengen Uzui’s estate shimmered with lantern light, glinting off polished wood and lacquered trays. The Sound Hashira, ever the extravagant host, had once more laid out a table that seemed more like a banquet hall than a dinner gathering. Wide platters of steaming rice, grilled river fish, pickled vegetables, and sake pitchers were spread across the length of the low table. Tatami mats cushioned their knees, while the faint perfume of garden flowers drifted in from the open sliding doors.

“Eat well, my flamboyant comrades!” Tengen declared, clapping his hands with a flourish that sent his jewel-studded rings gleaming. “No point training on an empty stomach. Tonight, we feast!”

“Stop being so loud,” Sanemi grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement despite himself. He downed his first tea cup like water.

Across from him, Mitsuri Kanroji was already sampling bites of everything at once, cheeks full as she tried to speak through her food. “It’s soooo good, Tengen! You really outdid yourself!”

Kyojurou Rengoku let out his booming laugh, the sound nearly rivaling Tengen’s volume. “HAH! Truly a worthy spread! Excellent work, Tengen-dono!”

Iguro Obanai sat stiffly beside Mitsuri, quietly eating with small, measured movements. His pale eyes flicked often toward her, then back to his bowl, silently guarding, silently worrying.

Beside him, Shinobu Kocho rested her chin in her hand, eyes sharp but faintly weary. Her smile was polite, but there was something edgy underneath it. She, more than anyone, looked out of place in such a raucous setting.

Muichiro Tokito, the youngest, ate slowly and quietly, his gaze sometimes distant as if following thoughts only he could see.

And then there was Giyu Tomioka, seated slightly apart, as if habitually distancing himself even in a circle meant for unity. He ate little, drank less, and said almost nothing. The lantern light caught only half his face, his expression unreadable, though the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed a tiredness deeper than physical.

Finally, at the end of the table, Gyomei Himejima sat in silence. His enormous frame was folded respectfully on the tatami, prayer beads shifting gently through his fingers. Blind though he was, his presence alone was grounding, like a mountain anchoring them all.

It was Mitsuri who suggested the game.

“Tengen-san,” she said suddenly, “this is such a nice dinner! But it’s a little… too normal.” Her pink-and-green hair shimmered as she leaned forward with a bright grin. “We should do something fun! Like a game!”

Tengen’s eyes sparkled with mischief immediately. “A flamboyant idea! A game it is! But not something boring. Not Go, not shogi, not even sparring.” He leaned in, his grin wide. “Let’s play something… darker.”

The others glanced up from their meals. Sanemi arched a brow, interested despite himself. Shinobu’s smile curved slightly higher, curious.

Tengen snapped his fingers, and one of his wives quickly brought out a deck of blank cards and a small lacquered hat.

“Here’s how it works,” Tengen explained. “Each of us writes down our greatest regret. Something we carry, something we’d never say aloud. We toss them into the hat. Then, one by one, we’ll draw and read them out. The reader must guess whose regret it is.”

Mitsuri gasped. “That’s… that’s so sad!”

“Sad, yes,” Tengen said, eyes gleaming. “But revealing. Entertaining. And perhaps… enlightening. Who knows what shadows hide in each of us?”

Shinobu’s tone was light, but her gaze was sharp. “My, what a cruel little diversion.”

Gyomei spoke softly, his deep voice like a prayer chime. “I will refrain. My blindness makes guessing meaningless.”

“Fair enough,” Tengen said, bowing his head respectfully. “Then eight of us it will be.”

One by one, the Hashira took up the blank cards. The sound of brushes scratching ink against paper filled the quiet, broken only by the occasional cough or shuffle. Even the most boastful among them had grown solemn with the weight of the task.

When all cards were dropped into the lacquered hat, Tengen shook it flamboyantly. “Let the shadows speak.”

Tengen’s Turn.

He plucked a card, cleared his throat dramatically, and read aloud: “I wish I didn’t forget my brother’s face.”

A hush fell over the table. The words were fragile, sorrowful.

Tengen’s gaze flicked to Muichiro immediately. “This reeks of you, little one. Cold but true.”

Muichiro blinked, then gave the faintest nod. “Yes.” His voice was soft. “I can’t remember him. No matter how hard I try.”

For a moment, silence pressed down on them. Even Sanemi’s jaw tightened, and Mitsuri’s eyes brimmed. Tengen’s flamboyance faded into something almost gentle.

Muichiro’s Turn.

He picked one with steady fingers, reading in a flat voice: “I wish I had never met my ex-boyfriend. He was possessive, and then he cheated on me.”

Muichiro blinked, tilted his head, then looked directly at Mitsuri. “This one’s obvious.”

Mitsuri’s face flushed pink to match her hair. “Whaaat! No fair! That’s definitely mine…” She pouted, cheeks puffing, but she smiled faintly too; the heaviness eased by her own confession.

Obanai’s hands clenched beneath the table, hidden. His pale eyes burned briefly, though he said nothing. The feeling of betrayal and hurt from people who are supposed to love you, it annoyed him that someone would hurt Mitsuri like that.

Sanemi’s Turn.

He pulled a card, grunting as he read: “I wish I had trained my younger brother better in demon slayer.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he smirked. “Kyojurou. It’s you, right? You and your little brother.”

Kyojurou’s grin faltered just slightly. “Yes… It is me.” His voice remained steady, but the truth lingered heavier in his tone. “I wish I had done more for Senjurou.”

Sanemi nodded slowly, almost respectfully, his own thoughts drifting toward Genya. For once, he didn’t snap or scoff.

Mitsuri’s Turn.

She drew one and frowned at the ink: “I wish I hadn’t been born in the family I was given, and that my blood wasn’t tainted.”

Her lips pressed together. “This… this sounds like Giyu.” She looked at him with worried eyes. “Is this you?”

Giyu shook his head, quiet but firm. “No.”

Everyone turned to look around. Then, after a long pause, Obanai said nothing, just looked down at his untouched sake. His silence was answer enough.

Mitsuri’s heart pinched, and she wanted to reach out to him, but Obanai shifted away ever so slightly.

Giyu’s Turn.

He drew a card, expression unchanged as he read: “I wish I knew more about my family.”

He hesitated, then looked at Shinobu. “This must be yours.”

Shinobu’s smile was faint and enigmatic. “No, not this time.”

The others looked around until Tengen lifted a hand casually. “Mine.”

Everyone blinked at him. Tengen smirked, though his eyes carried a strange shadow. “I may have three wives, but I know little of the roots I came from. My family, my blood… all drowned long ago.”

Giyu lowered his gaze. For a fleeting second, he almost looked… pained.

Kyojurou’s Turn.

He drew one and read, voice booming though his expression was grave: “I wish I hadn’t hunted demons as a child to prove something.”

Kyojurou’s brows furrowed. “This is Sanemi! Surely!”

But Sanemi barked a laugh, bitter. “Not me this time.”

All eyes turned toward others, as if confused. They were trying to figure out who wrote that. But no one spoke up. Giyu didn’t speak, only stayed very still. But the silence itself was confirmation, something no other Hashira saw.

Giyu wished he didn’t have to write anything, but alas, he did.

Shinobu’s Turn.

The last card. She picked it up delicately, reading aloud with a faint smirk: “My biggest regret is doing this.”

Her eyes sparkled as she scanned the table. “Now this… this sounds like Sanemi.”

Sanemi’s grunt was confirmation. “Yeah. Tch. This whole thing was stupid.”

“Stupid,” Shinobu echoed with her sweet venom. “But telling.”

The game ended, but the air was no longer light. Regrets hung over them like ghosts, crowding the table, wrapping around their shoulders.

Some ate again to break the silence, Kyojurou loudly, Mitsuri with small, hesitant bites. Sanemi poured more sake.

Tengen leaned back with a sigh, though his grin returned faintly. “Well, comrades, if nothing else, it seems we are more alike than we thought. Our flamboyant masks hide heavy truths.”

But Giyu remained silent, his half-shadowed face unreadable, his regret left hanging in the air like a secret too raw to name.

Gyomei’s prayer beads clicked softly. “Confession is a burden shared,” he murmured. “But not all burdens can be lifted tonight.”

The others did not disagree.

And the night pressed on, heavy with words unspoken.

Mind Over Matter by Young the Giant

The mountain air was cold, crisp enough to sting the lungs, but Tanjirou barely noticed anymore. His palms were torn raw, his breath uneven, and sweat ran down his back in rivulets as he swung his blade through the air again and again. Each arc of steel cut through silence and left a faint whistle in its wake, yet no matter how sharp, how precise, how deliberate, it never felt enough.

Not with the boulder standing in front of him.

It loomed impossibly large, almost mocking in its stillness. Twice the size of a man, more than double what Giyu, Sabito, or Makomo had once faced. Urokodaki had chosen it with quiet finality, his voice gentle but firm: “If you can cut this, you may stand a chance. If you cannot… You are not ready.”

That was three months ago.

Three months had passed since Nezuko had closed her eyes and drifted into her unbroken sleep, leaving Tanjirou to carry the silence of their small cabin. He had tried at first to talk to her, to coax her awake with stories of their family, their mother’s cooking, even silly memories about Takeo chasing chickens in the yard. But days passed into weeks, and her chest only rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. A slumber untouched by time.

The loneliness weighed on him.

Yet one other presence began to linger more and more in the background, Giyu Tomioka.

The Water Hashira had appeared one evening without warning, stepping out of the mist like a shadow pulled from the mountain itself. He hadn’t explained his arrival, only exchanged a few low words with Urokodaki before retreating to the porch, where he sat watching Nezuko’s still form. His expression, unreadable as ever, was tinged with something Tanjirou could never name, something heavier than stone.

Since then, Giyu had remained. Not constantly, but often enough. Sometimes he disappeared for a week, sometimes only a day. Yet he always returned, blade in hand, offering no explanation.

And each time, he would train with Tanjirou.

“Again,” Giyu said, his tone flat, his eyes half-lidded but focused.

Tanjirou, drenched in sweat, swung downward, steel slicing against the chill of evening air. His muscles screamed, but he forced his body forward, breathing steadily.