Chapter Text
“Kyojuro, say something!”
The flame inside him still burned with anger, anger at every cruel word the demon had spat about his late father. He had promised himself he would endure, if he truly meant to help Akaza, he would need patience and unwavering resolve to guide him through the storm of memory.
Him helping the very demon who had been his downfall—it was unthinkable. Unbelievable. But here he was, reaching out all the same. Just as his tsuguko, Tanjiro, would have done.
But Kyojuro lacked practice, he knew why he faltered, why his temper rose—because he couldn’t untangle the man from the monster, even after glimpsing the fragments of Akaza’s memories.
It was only a moment—just a fleeting heartbeat—that Kyojuro turned away from Akaza. And in that moment, he felt it: a shift. A suffocating darkness coming from the distance.
As he moved back toward Akaza, the force struck, shoving him away. A power so vile it froze the flame within his chest. The father of all demons.
“Akaza!” Kyojuro shouted, desperation cracking his voice. But there was no response from the pink-haired demon.
He could see the darkness that enveloped Akaza. That man Muzan. His demonic aura was stronger than Kyojuro could have ever imagined—thick, rancid, suffocating, just like the awful stench he was! The weight of it pressed against his chest, he could do nothing more.
And he had been so close—so close to pulling Akaza back into reason!
“I need to get close to him again!” he mumbled. But as he pushed forward, the stench grew blacker, heavier. Then he saw it—Muzan’s form grotesquely fused to Akaza, half his body protruding from the demon’s back, one clawed hand piercing straight into his skull. Kyojuro’s blood ran cold. There was nothing he could do—
“So it was you, ex Flame Hashira”
Kyojuro faltered as the demon lord turned with a smile, his crimson eyes glinting with cruel amusement. Muzan’s voice slithered through the air as he emphasized Kyojuro’s late title with a burlesque sneer, his laughter bubbling up like poison.
“I knew from the moment you appeared that you’d be a torment to his mind!” His hand twisted deeper into Akaza’s skull, making the demon’s body jolt like a puppet under his control.
“How does it feel to fail again?!” Muzan leaned closer, his tone rising with mockery, every syllable sharpened like a blade meant to cut Kyojuro’s spirit. His laughter cracked the silence, echoing in waves that pressed down on Kyojuro’s chest.
“It’s the last time you get to meddle with my toy—now your stupid chances to humanize him are over!”
The echoes of Muzan’s laughter faded into the void, leaving only a heavy silence. Kyojuro’s chest tightened with shame—he knew this was his fault. He had left an opening, a hole for Muzan to crawl through, and the demon wasted no time in seizing it.
His heart sank as he closed his eyes in failure.
“Mother, please give me strength again” The prayer slipped out in a trembling whisper to heaven where her mother was waiting for his return.
He didn’t know what else to do. If Muzan had truly cut him off from Akaza, then perhaps there was nothing left to do, if that corruption had driven a wall between them, then perhaps there was nothing left to fight for.
And yet—he could not accept that. He would not.
Kyojuro’s life had never been his own; it had always been for others. From the moment he took up his blade, he had chosen this path— to stand where others could not, to shield the weak from the jaws of despair.
His flame was not meant to burn for himself, but to light the way for those stumbling in darkness.
To help others was his nature, as natural as breathing, as vital as fire consuming the night. Even now, even here, when his spirit was fraying and the weight of Muzan’s malice pressed against him, that truth would not die.
And someone still needed him—desperately, achingly, right now.
Kyojuro knew he was mad at the demon but honestly he couldn’t turn his back on the human, on a hurting boy—one who had lost his father, his life, and his way—could no longer ask for help, yet still deserved it all the same.
Beneath the demon’s fury, layers of hatred and endless violence was that same boy, silent and forgotten, buried under years of pain. And if no one else would reach for him, then Kyojuro would. He still deserved it all the same, he needed to star all over aga—
“He cut you out too, didn’t he kid?”
Kyojuro stiffened. Behind him stood Keizo, the man who had once trained Akaza. The old master’s presence radiated a calm, trusting spirit, warm enough to cut through the surrounding darkness. He scratched his cheek with that same easy humility, and Kyojuro’s chest tightened.
Remorse burned inside him. These were great people—good people—whose memory should have never been forgotten. And he had been so close… so close to pulling Akaza back to them. Shame pressed on his shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” Kyojuro bowed deeply, his voice breaking. “I was so close to reaching him, to getting into his head—but he couldn’t remember you completely! Please forgive me. I got impatient, I let my feelings get the best of me, I—”
“Hey kid, it’s okay, it was not your fault!” The man stepped forward quickly, his presence full of reassurance. He placed a firm, steady hand on Kyojuro’s shoulder, grounding him. “Please, raise your head. You’re a warrior—there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Kyojuro lifted his gaze slowly, and when their eyes met, the man’s smile radiated warmth.
“Yeah like that!”
The simple gesture meant more to Kyojuro than words could say. This man’s spirit was like a lantern in the darkness, filling the room with light. How could someone so good, so full of light, be forgotten?
“Actually! I’m kinda impressed you managed to make him remember his past, even a little!” Keizo said, patting him on the shoulder with fatherly pride. “For the past hundred years we’ve tried and tried, but couldn’t reach through to Hakuji. Yet you… you must be someone memorable to him! Even as a demon!”
Kyojuro blushed, that was an understatement.
Keizo let out a soft cackle, shaking his head. “Looks like even like this, our young man’s still got that stubborn head on his shoulders! Ha!”
Kyojuro laughed softly. Of course—he would know. He was just as stubborn as Akaza himself. In their clash of wills, neither had given in. In the end, they had tied.
“Hey, young man, please cheer up! We are absolutely thankful for what you did! Right Koyuki?”
We.
Kyojuro’s heart stirred at the word. Right. Not just Keizo. Akaza’s—no, Hakuji’s—family. They were here, waiting for him. If only Kyojuro could have broken through completely… if only he could have reached him.
“Please, sir”
The blonde turned at the sound of a new, tender voice.
She was a beautiful, pale young woman. Her black hair was tied neatly in a bun, her rounded pink eyes glimmered softly with white pupils shaped like flowers. She wore a circle-patterned pink kimono that faded gracefully into blue, adorned with delicate white snowflakes.
“Please, we thank you so much for helping us get our Hakuji-san back, please don’t beat yourself up over it!”
The moment she spoke, something inside Kyojuro shifted. Her voice carried the stillness of falling snow—cold yet gentle, soothing enough to quiet even the turmoil raging inside him.
A cool calm spread through him, easing his chest as if winter itself had wrapped around him.
He had not known of her existence until now. But the way her presence filled the space, the way her spirit radiated warmth and sorrow in equal measure—he knew instantly. She must have been someone deeply important to Akaza.
“My hus— well Hakuji can be pretty stubborn. Even like this, we have tried and tried to get him back. Please… help us bring our Hakuji home.”
“Hey, young man,” Keizo said, his voice steady and kind. “I know it’ll be difficult, but I can see you’re just like me. You’re a protector, someone who believes in justice. I mean—what other reason could there be for you to come this far, to fight your way here, and to try so hard to bring him back to us?” His eyes softened, studying Kyojuro with pride.
“What’s your name, son?”
“My name is Kyojuro Rengoku, sir!” The blonde screamed with pride as he straightened his back, fire burning in his eyes. “And I promise you both—I will try to bring Akaza—I mean, Hakuji—back to you, back to his family. Whatever it takes! Please stand by me for a few more minutes. I'll need you!”
“Kyojuro Rengoku…” Keizo repeated, his lips curling into a warm smile. “Ha! Look at that! You really are the ‘son of fire’—just like your hair!”
Rengoku flushed, but Keizo’s tone grew gentler, reverent almost, as he looked toward the pale girl at his side. “Kyojuro we will stand by your side just as we stayed by Hakuji's side all this time!”
That brought peace to Kyojuro's heart and brought back his spirit, now that he wasn’t alone— he never was! They will succeed!
“Oh, Rengoku… one last thing. Just as your name suggests, I know you’ll bring purification and refinement to our Hakuji. Please… help him remember.”
His voice softened, almost breaking as he glanced toward Koyuki. “Me, an old man—it doesn’t matter as much. But my Koyuki… help him remember her.”
“Kyojuro-san, I—“ It was time for Koyuki’s he grabbed one of Kyojuro's hands. “My Hakuji loved the fireworks. Please… help him remember them.”
Her plea hung in the air, tugging at Kyojuro’s heartstrings. He bowed deeply in acknowledgment, his expression solemn with respect.
Keizo stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on his daughter’s shoulder—his presence steady where hers was delicate. A proud smile tugged at his lips as he looked from Koyuki to Kyojuro.
“I know you will do it, Kyojuro… ’Cause let me tell you—in order to remember the feeling of snow, he must first remember the warmth of fire.”
Their words lingered in the air, heavy and resolute. And just as suddenly as they had appeared, both Keizo and Koyuki faded, their forms dissolving like mist.
Kyojuro’s chest tightened. Their trust was now his to carry. He knew he would have to give everything, more than he ever had before.
There was no time to hesitate.
He steadied his breath, forcing the trembling in his hands to still. Muzan’s hold was strong—terrifyingly so—but it was not flawless. That man would never be perfect!
Somewhere! Anywhere! There had to be a crack, a gap in the darkness!.
And Kyojuro would find it.
His comrades were giving everything in their final stand, pouring their hearts into the fight outside. He could do no less. He would match their resolve with his own.
It was time—time to ignite his spirit once more.
Just once more, he needed to set his heart ablaze.
Back at the fight, Akaza’s fists tore through the air with a sound like thunder. Each strike shook the ground, sending shockwaves bursting so the world recoiled from his power.
Deploy stance. Destructive death. Compass.
Make it fast. Aim for where it would produce the most damage. Destroy all the demon slayers. Don't let them get close.
Akaza recited in his mind as he fought the water Hashira, but each time they echoed, they felt less and less like his own thoughts. Was it truly his will driving him forward? Or were these orders carved into his mind by another hand?
He didn't know anymore, everything felt so scrambled.
The demon has always taken pleasure in such a vigorous fight. To him, combat was more than survival—it was revelation. He cared to know his opponents—at least the ones who proved worthy—and he loved uncovering what drove them.
What spark of madness or hope could make fragile humans dare to stand before him? What fire burned in their breakable bodies?
Was it truly the thrill of battle, like the same hunger that had always guided him? Or were they driven by revenge—by grief until nothing was left but rage?
He knew their stories from what they’ve told him. They had lost. They had suffered. They fought to fill the emptiness inside them. But it was pointless. They would never be strong enough to reach their goals—not with frail bodies bound by mortality. Not with the limits of flesh.
There was only one correct path in this life: to become strong. And in order to be strong, there was no other path but to become a demon.
And that's why he would bring up his offer, he would extend his hand, not out of mercy, but because he couldn’t fathom why anyone would throw their lives away when salvation stood right before them.
But they never accepted. Never once.
Frustration boiled in his chest. His blows grew heavier, exploding through the air with the sound of thunder. The shockwaves made the battlefield tremble. And in the roar of destruction, a voice slipped through—quiet, piercing, impossible to ignore.
“You don’t remember it, but when you were a baby… someone protected and helped you too–“
That phrase again? Were those Tanjiro’s words? He couldn't quite remember—
No. No! Don't listen to him! Finish with the boy!
Right— he couldn't bear the thought of that unpleasant brat and how he kept getting inside his head, he needed to be done with him. Right now!
Akaza turned, unleashing a devastating strike meant to obliterate Tanjiro, but before it could connect he was quickly intercepted by the water breather. Steel bit through flesh, and his arm split open again in a spray of crimson.
That felt familiar?
Why were these people always protecting that brat?!
He was sick of it— sick of the boy being protected. First this water Hashira shielding the boy at the cost of his own life. And before that… there had been someone else too. The image surfaced like fire, in his mind: a body, warmth, heat, a blinding flame. But no face. No name. Only the ache of something he had long forgotten.
Who was it? And why did it matter?
It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Strength is what matters. Finishing the job is what matters.
The voices in his head were right. He didn’t have to tear himself apart trying to remember things that didn’t matter—not here, not now. This fight was all that mattered. But he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was missing—
“We are not samurai. We do not carry a katana. But we carry swords in our hearts”
The words rang like a curse, echoing in places he didn’t want to touch. Forcing the thought through gritted teeth. Even armed with their precious blades, those sun-blessed katanas forged to destroy his kind, they were still nothing before him.
“Ha! Say… you’ve got good muscles winning without a weapon. It must feel pretty good!”
He almost laughed aloud at the thought. It did feel good. It felt amazing to crush these kinds of people—the slayers—into the dirt. Their steel clanged uselessly against the weight of his fists, the power of his body. He didn’t need a weapon; his fists were a weapon enough.
And yet—why did that voice stay with him? Why did it cut through the thrill like… a blade sharper than any katana?
In the midst of his triumph, the question returned, clawing deeper than before, sinking into the marrow of his bones.
Why? Why did they keep standing in front of him, daring to resist, as if they had even the faintest chance of victory? What drove them to throw themselves into battles they could never win?
And for the first time, the thought no longer sounded like mockery.
Why was that?
Steel cut through the air—then through flesh. Both of his arms and his torso were severed in an instant, his body torn apart in a spray of crimson.
Focus. Kill him and then go for Tanjiro. The brat can't keep escaping death.
The demon kept going, there was no stopping. For a fleeting moment, he almost pitied them—these pitiful humans who fought until their last breath, never realizing the futility of it all. They had wasted their lives chasing impossible goals, never embracing the gift that could have freed them.
Immortality was offered right in front of them, and still they clung to their fragile weakness.
How sad. How laughably tragic.
Humans accepted their fate too easily. They embraced death as if it were noble. But to Akaza, it was weakness. Weakness carved into their very bones. They died without ever touching the true height of their strength. That was their horrible, inevitable fate.
Chipped katana. Tired Hashira. Weakened fighting spirit. Not long till he runs out of energy.
Was this getting him close to his goal? He fought like he had always been fighting, his techniques, his movements and precision were the same but— without the roar of his voice, without being able to shout, laugh, or sneer, all of his joy was trapped inside his skull. His battlefield had shrunk to the walls of his own mind.
Was he really enjoying this fight?
Shut up—I am!
But the thought lingered. Something was missing. Had he truly made the right choice?
That was absurd. Of course he had—
He would always choose this path. To be a demon was to be strong. Wasn't it? Why would he ever need help? Why would he ever want to help anyone else?
“In the beginning everyone’s a baby at everything they do. You get help from those around and gradually learn. You’ll become wonderful and if you continue that for ten or twenty years, then next time you will be the one to help other people.”
Wrong. That was wrong. He would never be the one helping other people—not in ten years, not in twenty. Hell, not even in a hundred years.
He understood now why the memories clawed back at him. The silence was driving him mad. Fighting without voice, without expression—it wasn’t exhilarating anymore. It was hollow. Empty. All he could hear was the endless thunder of his own blows, ricocheting through these narrow walls like a prison of sound.
This is why Akaza loved the open night, where the wind carried his shockwaves into the void. But here, in this suffocating place, the sound pressed down on him, deafening.
And in that madness, his mind twisted.
He imagined—what if his destructive, chaotic air type technique didn’t just roar, but exploded into color? What if every strike painted the world with fire, with light, with bursts of colourful hues?
The thought made him laugh. It was insanity, pure and simple.
Enough. He had delayed this for too long. He was evolving.
It was time to regenerate his head.
There. Right there.
It was all Kyojuro needed. The turmoil inside the Upper Moon’s mind spilled into his movements—faltering, doubtful, no longer unshakable. Kyojuro’s eyes locked onto the fracture in the chaos, the single opening carved before him. His heart surged—this was the moment.
He saw his opening. But he needed a catalyst. He needed his tsuguko to wake up.
Tanjiro came back to consciousness with a desperate burst of oxygen, his lungs burning as though he had been drowning. He was certain he had blacked out many times before, but this felt different—deeper, heavier. It must have been the side effects of his new ability.
But now was not the time to dwell on it. He was back, he would deal with his body later.
The job he had left unfinished still lay before him. And what stood in front of him was no longer the same opponent—it was something worse. A monster reborn, one who had adapted, who had surpassed their own limits.
Tanjiro noticed Akaza no longer smelled like himself.
Just for a moment before right before he cut his head, in the middle of the battle he caught a familiar smell of a slayer who clang to the demon, Rengoku-san, no he was certain! That smell belonged to him, but why would it be impressed in Akaza, was his late mentor helping them out even in death?
They would need every bit of help in order to beat this new kind of… demon? But his body felt unbearably heavy, his grip slipping as his hands shook.
Kamado, my boy, I need you to keep fighting.
His breath caught. That voice. He recognized it instantly, even though it echoed only in his mind. Yes—he was certain! Rengoku-san, was out there!
Please do what you always do and let me get close to him.
Tanjiro’s chest tightened, his exhaustion giving way to determination. It was him—he was certain. His late mentor’s voice was still with him, guiding him. He would grant his wish. After all, the golden man had once told him he believed in him. Tanjiro wasn’t going to let all that trust, all that training, all that sacrifice go to waste. Not now.
Akaza caught the faint rustle against the wall and turned — Tanjiro Kamado had gotten up and was charging straight at him.
There was no time to lose. He would end his existence right here right now.
He braced for the clean cut: absorb the slash with his arm, then drive his whole fist into the boy’s solar plexus. Simple. A poetic erasure in two brutal motions. He could already taste the victory. The boy raised his katana, ready to strike — and then, suddenly, the blade slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground.
Oh, this boy was finished, Akaza thought, the hatred in his chest bright and easy.
But Akaza had misjudged him. The moment the sword fell, Tanjiro didn’t collapse in panic— he pivoted, eyes burning with something fiercer than fear. Before Akaza could close the distance or slam his fist home, Tanjiro’s shoulder drove forward and a clean, devastating fist connected with Akaza’s face.
The blow landed with bone-deep authority. That was all it took— for them to resurface.
“Oh, look at you! You really are tough!” the man said with a booming laugh. “You took a beating and still managed to wake up in less than an hour!”
The castle was gone. Instead, Akaza found himself standing at the entrance of a dojo. The air smelled of wood and dust, the faint creak of old boards echoing under his feet.
Was he here to… train? His head spun. And why the hell did his entire face hurt?!
A man with a broad, muscular frame and a rough shadow of stubble across his jaw strolled forward, his steps relaxed, his posture loose. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back neatly, though his thick eyebrows gave his face a naturally stern cast that softened under his easy smile. Dressed in a simple gi—the uniform of a dojo—its back marked with the word Soryuu, he looked like someone who hadn’t rested much lately, but carried himself lightly, almost cheerfully.
“What am I doing here, you fucking old man?!” Akaza snapped, his fists tightening.
The man flinched dramatically, scratching the back of his head. “Ow, kid—language,” he said with playful reproach, wagging his finger with a grin. “Look at you, such a young age and already such a foul mouth!” He chuckled, shoulders shaking. “And you’re here because—as I told you before—I’m gonna reform you, boy!”
Young age? Akaza’s stomach twisted. He was hundreds of years old. What the hell was going on?
He looked down at himself—and froze. Done and said, he was in the body of maybe a fifteen-year-old. His breath caught in his throat as his hands clawed at his skin. His grayish-blue flesh was gone, replaced with sun-kissed skin that felt too warm, too alive.
He tore open the worn-out tunic. Instead of the tattoos that once sprawled across his chest and back, only three simple circular lines marked each arm.
This was wrong. So wrong.
He yanked at the yukata and looked lower—yup. Wrong. All of it.
Damn it! He was not himself!
“You bastard! What did you do to me?! I need to go back to the battle!” Akaza roared, his voice cracking with fury.
Was this some kind of sick joke? What had that brat Tanjiro done to him? There was no way—no way—that miserable punch could have knocked a demon unconscious!
“Oi, kid, calm yourself!” the man said lightly, waving his hands as if to fan away Akaza’s rage. “No screaming! You’ll frighten my other student!”
Other student? Akaza blinked. This man was collecting kids? What a monster!
---
Kyojuro could see it clearly as he traveled through the fragments of Akaza’s memories. He did not remember her—perhaps she knew that too. The figure of Koyuki was there, but buried, sealed in the deepest corners of his mind. Her memory was the most locked away, the one Muzan’s darkness clung to desperately.
“My Koyuki— help him remember her"
The plea echoed in Kyojuro’s heart. He understood now why. Hakuji’s soul was bound to her memory more than anything else. To forget her was to lose himself entirely.
So Kyojuro turned to her. If Hakuji’s own strength was not enough to break free, then perhaps her voice could. Perhaps the story of their life—their stolen nights, their fragile joy, the little details no demon could ever corrupt—would become the key.
She agreed without hesitation. With a soft strength, she began to tell Kyojuro about their life together—not in grand declarations, but in quiet fragments: the nights she had coughed in bed while he stayed awake tending her; the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers beneath the blooming fireworks; the little promises they had whispered to each other when the world still seemed cruel but survivable.
And Kyojuro listened closely. Each detail was a thread, delicate and precious, and he held on to them with all his strength. They were not just memories—they were weapons against the darkness.
She told him how Hakuji had nursed her for nearly three years, until she could stand on her own again in that same dojo. How he would carry her wherever she needed, never once wearying. How he had once found beanbags in a marketplace and grown so fond of them that he taught himself to juggle, practicing with fierce determination.
Each time Koyuki napped, Hakuji sat beside her, tossing the beanbags in a steady rhythm. She would drift into sleep smiling, soothed by the sound.
She spoke again of the fireworks, of how they had been theirs—how precious it was to listen for them each year, and how magical it felt when they finally stood beneath the sky ablaze with color.
But when Kyojuro gently pressed her for more, she faltered. She always took herself aback, pulling away as if worried that speaking too much of Hakuji aloud might cause the memories to crumble. As though voicing them would mean losing them.
Kyojuro didn’t want to pry. He knew they had been special to each other, and he was certain—she had waited so long for him. It had to be locked away. The pain, the grief, the suffering… all of it buried deep. But so too were the love and the tenderness.
They, too, were locked away.
So he would try. He would make him remember—the snow.
Kyojuro heard footsteps approaching. He glanced down at himself and froze. His body looked different—smaller, slighter. Sixteen years old again. The awkward age of too many changes, when nothing felt steady. He grimaced. He would absolutely not choose to return to that period of his life.
And yet, for the sake of this plan—for Keizo’s play to work—he would endure it. He would wear this younger self, if it meant reaching Akaza.
The shoji door slid open with a soft creak. Keizo stepped inside.
“And here is my other student, Kyojuro!” Keizo announced cheerfully, gesturing with a grin. “He’s more well-behaved than you! So… try to learn something from him!”
With a casual shove, he pushed Akaza forward toward the boy seated across the tatami.
Akaza’s eyes narrowed, sizing him up. He could never get over how different this figure looked compared to his demon form—no pink hair, no jagged tattoos scarring his face.
What struck him most were the eyes: a piercing blue, bright and human, so unlike the burning yellow irises that now bore the kanji of Upper Moon Three.
Kyojuro, for his part, wasn’t much of an actor. His movements felt stiff, his smile a little too wide, but this was the role he had chosen. He only hoped it would work.
“Hi!” he said, bowing slightly, voice full of forced cheer. “My name is Kyojuro Rengoku! What’s your name?”
“Get lost, loser,” Akaza muttered under his breath, looking away.
Kyojuro kept the smile plastered on his face, though a bead of sweat ticked down his neck. Well. This was going to be harder than he thought. But he couldn’t give up. He just needed to find a way in—to reach past the sneer and into the human buried beneath the demon.
“I see! How about we spar and then you can tell me your name!” Kyojuro retorted, his tone bright and challenging.
“Please,” Akaza scoffed, crossing his arms. “You’re such a weak ass. You wouldn’t even handle a sparring match with me. I’m a hundred years old de—”
He stopped short. Right. He wasn’t a demon anymore. Just a stupid, hormonal teenager in a fragile human body. Still… strength burned in him. He wasn’t helpless.
“C’mon,” Kyojuro pressed, a grin tugging at his lips, “unless you’re afraid I’m gonna beat you!”
Akaza grumbled, glaring at him. “Tch. Let’s see you try, weak human!”
The fight was over almost as soon as it began. Kyojuro lunged, his fist driving clean into Akaza’s stomach. With a sharp grunt, Akaza crumpled and hit the tatami floor with a dull thud.
Victory.
Kyojuro stood tall, smiling down at him. This boy with flame-colored hair wasn’t weak at all—Akaza could feel it in the blow, in the sheer force behind it. For the first time, he had to admit it: the least he could do was show the other some respect.
“Ha!” Kyojuro declared triumphantly. “I won! Now please tell me your name!”
“Ugh! My name is Akaza. Why are you so interested in getting my name?” he snapped, eyes narrowing.
Kyojuro froze for a heartbeat. Akaza… Isn’t he the one who always insisted on knowing the names of his opponents? What changed here? Maybe it was this strange crossing of their personalities, this clash of wills bleeding into one another.
Still—no matter how close they got—he couldn’t recall his true name. Hakuji. The block was still there, heavy and impenetrable.
Kyojuro’s eyes softened, though he masked it with a steady nod. He already knew the truth, of course, but pressing forward carefully was the only way. “Do you have a family, Akaza?”
“No.” The word cut out sharp, but almost instantly, something twisted in his chest. He winced, clutching at it, a faint ache blooming there. Why? It had to be from the flame-haired boy’s fist earlier. That had to be it.
“I see,” Kyojuro replied, keeping his tone light though his gaze sharpened. “So you’re not very talkative! Then what about those tattoos?”
Akaza’s expression darkened, bristling. “Why are you suddenly so interested in me? Go meddle in someone else’s business!”
So Akaza couldn’t remember—neither Kyojuro, nor his family, nor even himself. Everything inside him was a blank wall. Muzan must have forged a stronger lock here, one reinforced by centuries of darkness. And yet… Kyojuro believed. If he could break through once, if he could demolish Akaza’s walls as a demon, then surely he could do it again.
But time pressed on, and Akaza only grew more restless. He grew impatient, shutting himself off, retreating deeper into himself. Keizo, Koyuki, and Kyojuro would sometimes sit together, unsure of the next step. And still, Hakuji’s eyes could not reach her.
“So what’s in that room?” Akaza asked one day, his voice edged with suspicion.
Kyojuro turned, following the line of his gaze. There, sitting quietly, was Koyuki. She wasn’t sad—not anymore. Instead, her expression carried something gentler, almost luminous. A hopeful look. She knew. Even if he could not see her, even if he didn’t remember her, she would wait. For as long as it took.
At least she could see him. At least she could stay close.
“Rengoku-san,” she whispered softly, her eyes never leaving Akaza, “I don’t mind if Hakuji-san can’t see me. I know he will remember me soon.”
---
Kyojuro spent his days training with Akaza. If there was one thing the boy still held onto, it was his will to fight. That spark was there, alive, even if everything else seemed sealed away. And in that, they grew close—sparring, clashing, pushing one another, just as with Keizo.
“Say, Akaza,” Kyojuro asked one afternoon, catching his breath, “have you heard of a fighting spirit?”
That caught his attention immediately. His eyes flicked up, sharp. “Of course I know about them! I can see them!”
“Oh?” Kyojuro leaned forward, intrigued. “You can?”
“Yes!” Akaza said quickly, before his brow furrowed. “Well… not right now. But every living thing has a fighting spirit.”
“Tell me about them,” Kyojuro pressed gently.
Akaza’s gaze grew distant, his voice carrying a rare seriousness. “It depends on your physical and mental fortitude. I’ve seen so many beautiful fighting spirits throughout my life… radiant, strong, unyielding.” He paused, and for the first time there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes.
“There’s one I do remember vividly. But… I can’t remember the slayer who wore it.”
Kyojuro’s chest tightened, though he kept his smile steady. “Say then… can you tell my fighting spirit?”
“I can’t, Kyojuro. Not like this.” Akaza’s hands gripped at his own clothes in frustration, tugging as if he could tear the weakness out of himself. “I’ve told you before! I have to get back to the castle. Maybe… maybe with my demon skin, I’ll be able to see you.”
The words stung. Kyojuro held his ground, but he didn’t press further.
The first time Akaza had met the heir of the rival dojo, his blood boiled. He hadn’t wanted a new face, hadn’t wanted to share space with anyone—least of all him. The boy reeked of arrogance but carried no strength to back it up. Vile in his words, weak in his stance, and cowardly in his eyes.
Everything about him made Akaza’s fists itch for a fight.
“Yes! Now go fuck yourself, you coward! If you want this land, you’ll have to fight me over my dead body!”
Time had changed things. Slowly, painfully, he had taken a liking to Keizo… and, in his own strange way, even to Kyojuro. A strong liking to even be willing to defend the honor and land of his master.
“Just wait scum! You’ll pay for it!” The heir spat, fists clenched tight. “Just wait till I get my hands on this land—and on her!”
Her? The thought always snagged on something he couldn’t place. He hadn’t met a single girl in this land. Here, in the dojo, there was only Keizo, Kyojuro, and himself. No one else.
And yet… why would that coward say something like that? He did not know.
As more days passed, Akaza couldn’t deny it—Kyojuro’s presence drew him in. There was something about the flame-haired boy that felt different, undeniable. Even if he couldn’t name it, he could sense it: Kyojuro must have a beautiful fighting spirit.
They lay sprawled on the mat after a long sparring match, their chests rising and falling in unison. Even bound to a human body, Akaza was terrifyingly strong—his strikes carried a raw ferocity that forced Kyojuro to give everything he had. Still, he hadn’t backed down, and for that, Akaza gave him a rare flicker of acknowledgment.
“You know, Kyojuro,” Akaza muttered one evening, voice softer than usual, “you seem to know a lot about me… but you’ve never told me about yourself.” His eyes flicked to Keizo in the distance, who was getting some water by the well, then back to Kyojuro.
“Are you close to the master? A son, maybe? I mean— everything except for the hair…you two are so alike.”
“Ha! No, we’re not related!” Kyojuro laughed between breaths, wiping the sweat from his brow. “But I could see why you’d think that!”
It was true. He and Keizo shared the same fire in their mannerisms— the same uprightness.
“But I’m not from here,” Kyojuro continued, pushing himself upright to sit cross-legged. His smile softened. “Actually, where I come from is so far away from this place.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes warming as he spoke. “My family… my father, Shinjuro, and my little brother, Senjuro—they’re like an adult and miniature version of me.” A chuckle escaped him, bright even through his exhaustion. “But in personality, we’re different. My father is passionate, with a strong sense of justice—though he has a short temper that often gets the best of him. My brother, though… Senjuro is an outstanding kid. So kind, so caring—he always brings out the best in people he meets. He’s so much like my mother.”
For a moment, his gaze lowered, his voice gentler. “She died when I was small. But I’ve always carried her words close to my heart. She taught me that it is the obligation of those born strong to defend the weak.”
Akaza tilted his head, his expression unreadable. Then, with a grunt, he asked, “Why so keen on helping the weak?”
“Well… because I was born weak!” Kyojuro answered without hesitation. “It was my mother who took care of me—and then I took care of her. We’re all weak in the beginning. But it’s what we do with our strength that define us.”
Something shifted. You could almost hear the gears grinding in Akaza’s mind, the words clawing against the walls Muzan had built inside him.
In the beginning, everyone’s a baby at everything they do. You get help from those around you and gradually learn. You’ll become wonderful, and if you continue that for ten or twenty years, then next time you will be the one to help other people.
You don’t remember it, but when you were a baby… someone protected and helped you too.
And now, layered over all of it, Kyojuro’s voice struck like fire:
It is the obligation of those born strong to defend the weak.
Akaza could feel some kind of closeness to those words.
“Kyojuro, sometimes I get the feeling I have helped someone—” What am I saying? “Sometimes I feel like I have cradled someone in my hands and nursed them…“ Stop it. “But I can’t remember who it was, and I feel weak. I don’t feel like I deserved it!”
Kyojuro listened, a gentle warm understanding bloomed into a small, hopeful smile. Akaza was learning— feeling the tug of something human again.
Could he really be close to remembering?
“Akaza, no matter how weak or unworthy you feel... you have to keep your heart burning, grit your teeth and move forward.”
Akaza blinked, the weight in his expression shifting. “You’re getting emotional on me, Kyojuro? Let’s go for another round—get up, fight me!”
Kyojuro groaned but rose to his feet, setting his stance wide again. “Would you ever take a rest?” he asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
“Resting is for the weak, Kyojuro,” Akaza shot back without hesitation, his fists tightening with fire in his eyes. “You and I will become so strong that we’ll destroy the heir of the rival dojo!”
Kyojuro laughed, the sound rich and genuine.
If only I could have met this side of him earlier…
He knew then, with absolute certainty, that they would have been good friends. Maybe even more than friends—
Akaza smirked, but there was a rare softness in his voice when he added, “You know, Kyojuro… I really wish I could fight you forever.”
Here lay a fragile truce between the two of them. For once, it wasn’t just a boast. It was a confession. And Kyojuro could feel the truth in it — that somewhere deep inside, Akaza shared the same feeling.
Then the sound of their clash filled the room again, and with every strike, with every shared breath, the lock inside Akaza’s heart creaked a little more.
---
“Hakuji! Kyojuro, come here boys!”
“How many times have I told you, old man—I’m not a boy!” Akaza barked back, his grin giving away that he didn’t mean it.
He threw a playful punch at Keizo, but the master sidestepped with practiced ease, chuckling all the while.
“You are,” Keizo teased, ruffling his hair as if to rub it in. “Look at you—you… still can’t land a punch on me!”
Akaza scowled, his fists tightening, but this time he didn’t hide the twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. Kyojuro caught it, and it warmed him— Akaza’s anger wasn’t as sharp these days. There was laughter mixed in with it now.
“So boys! Today I need you to help me paint the entrance of the dojo!”
“Of course, sir!” Kyojuro responded brightly, already moving toward the buckets of paint.
Akaza rolled his eyes. “Let’s see, old man. If getting a big ass sign would help getting people in here. That way Kyojuro won’t be your only other student.”
Keizo lips curled in pride. “That’s wrong! You two are my golden students. Come on, boys!”
So they set to work, brushes in hand, repainting the weathered wood of the dojo’s entrance. The smell of fresh paint filled the air, the strokes uneven where Kyojuro’s energy outpaced his precision. The bold characters of Soryuu slowly took shape across the front.
Mostly, it was Keizo and Kyojuro who handled the finer strokes. Akaza, restless as always, split his attention between splattering paint and throwing practice strikes, his eyes constantly flicking back to Kyojuro so he could join him, and so… every clash of fists, every grin exchanged between brushstrokes—it all felt like a memory worth treasuring.
When they were done, they sat together for a well deserved rest of water.
The quiet was comfortable, broken only by the splash of the buckets as Akaza spoke… his words stilled them all.
“I used to take water for my father too…” His voice was unsteady, as if dragged up from somewhere he didn’t want to look. “I think… I think that was whom I used to take care of. I would bring him clear water to cool his fever, and clean him. He was sick nothing but skin and bones… so I took care of him.”
His hands tightened around the bucket’s rim. “I wish I had known what became of him. But I’m afraid… in that state, he must have died.”
Keizo placed a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder, his voice warm. “It’s okay, son. I know you took care of him. You shouldn’t beat yourself over it. He would have wanted you to rebuild your life, to become someone stronger— someone better.”
Kyojuro nodded, his eyes soft. “Living a righteous life—that was what he wanted for you.”
Akaza didn’t reply, but his silence carried something fragile.
When the most waited day finally came, Kyojuro and Akaza were sitting on the engawa late at night when the sky cracked open with sound and light—explosions of color blossomed overhead, painting the night with fire.
Akaza’s eyes widened, reflecting the bursts above. “Kyojuro, what’s that?! It looks like… my technique?”
Kyojuro cackled, his laughter spilling bright into the night. “Those are fireworks, Akaza! Is this the first time you’ve seen them?”
“No,” Akaza admitted, awe softening his voice, “but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen them with so many colors.” He stood quickly, his excitement bubbling over. “Let’s get closer, Kyojuro!”
He blushed, startled by Akaza suddenly grabbing his hand and pulling him along with boyish excitement.
Akaza loved physical closeness, and while Kyojuro didn’t mind it, he couldn’t help but feel his heart leap at the sudden warmth of that grip, at the raw enthusiasm driving him forward.
They skidded onto the wooden bridge, the boards creaking under their weight, and stopped to look out over the river. The night sky erupted above them, streaks of crimson, gold, blue and violet blooming into the darkness. Kyojuro leaned against the rail, his golden eyes reflecting the bursts of light, while Akaza stood close at his side, marveling openly.
For a while, the only sound was the rhythm of their breaths and the crackling thunder of fireworks tearing the night apart. Then Akaza broke the silence.
“I would feel alone most of the time… as a demon,” he admitted quietly, his voice nearly lost to the sky’s roar. “There was not much I could do. But being around humans… it changed something in me.”
Kyojuro turned slightly, saying nothing, only giving him the space to continue.
“I had killed many people, Kyojuro.” His hands flexed unconsciously, fists trembling at his sides. “I used the same fists that once nursed, that once learned the beautiful Soryuu style from Master Keizo… and I stained them. I stained this very uniform.”
“Akaza…” Kyojuro murmured, his voice gentle, aching.
“Kyojuro… I feel like I have hurt you before. Tell me—have I?”
Kyojuro drew in a long breath, his shoulders heavy. He exhaled slowly, almost as if bracing himself.
“I knew you remembered!” Akaza’s voice rose, rough and desperate. “All this time… you’ve known me as a demon, haven’t you?! So tell me—what did I do to you?”
Kyojuro’s eyes softened, though sorrow flickered behind the flame. “Akaza… I only know pieces of your past. But yes—you did hurt me.” His tone stayed gentle, firm, steady as a blade. “Do you remember… the night at the train?”
Of course. It all came rushing back. That night. That order. Muzan’s cold voice, sending him to finish the job. The twisted wreckage of the train, no one died. Tanjiro, battered and gasping, barely clinging to breathe.
And then— a blinding flame. That radiant fighting spirit burning so brightly it seared itself into Akaza’s vision. A Hashira. Yes… a Hashira.
He remembered. He remembered every exchange, every strike traded until the horizon bled with dawn. He remembered asking for his opponent’s name.
And the answer.
Akaza’s lips trembled as he whispered it, the weight of recognition crashing down on him.
“…It was you, wasn’t it?” His voice broke. “Kyojuro Rengoku.”
Kyojuro nodded softly. He could see it—the shimmer in Akaza’s eyes. No longer the cold glint of a demon’s gaze, but something warmer, rawer. Human emotion breaking through.
“It was me, Akaza.”
Akaza’s lips trembled. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kyojuro said, steady and calm.
Akaza’s fists clenched, his voice cracking. “I took your life, Kyojuro. How can you say it’s okay?!”
Kyojuro’s flame-bright gaze did not waver. “Because you can still change, Akaza. There’s still time to make it right… you just have to remember.”
For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. And as they did, their surroundings seemed to blur, and their bodies shifted with it. Kyojuro’s form was no longer that of a boy in training but clad once again in his Flame Hashira attire. Across from him, Akaza’s skin darkened, tattoos curling across his flesh—his demon self resurfacing.
Kyojuro drew in a steady breath. “Your memories are still locked up by Muzan, Akaza. But locks can be broken.”
Muzan.
Right—that was the voice. The whisper that had haunted him, the weight that pressed down on his mind. The one making him forget.
Akaza’s body trembled as he nodded, and before him, the memories of Kyojuro began to resurface—first the blazing light of his fighting spirit, so brilliant it had left him breathless. Then the clash: the flame Hashira’s stances, the fire in his eyes. The searing pain of his left eye and ribs being crushed by the very hand he now stared at.
Then came the final posture—Kyojuro, unwavering even at the edge of death. The memory struck like a blow to the skull, shattering another lock. And beyond it, more—being led to his father, meeting Master Keizo, the clash by the fireplace, Kyojuro’s voice echoing to him hidden under memories of fire.
It was too much. His chest heaved. His stomach twisted. He felt sick, because that wasn't all. There was more buried, more waiting to come out, and it terrified him.
Kyojuro’s gaze met his, calm, steady, warm as firelight.
“Akaza—whenever you’re ready.”
Akaza’s lips parted, his voice almost a whisper, a scoff. “Will you… be by my side, Kyojuro?”
The Flame Hashira’s half-smile carried both sorrow and resolve. His golden eyes gleamed with understanding.
“I will be there… Hakuji.”
The fireworks faded, their colors bleeding back into darkness, and when Akaza opened his eyes, he was somewhere else. Back in the moment Keizo had first shown him around—after beating him half to death, the master had taken him under his wing.
The dojo was empty, no other students in sight. This was different. This wasn’t an illusion. These were his real memories.
“What I want you to do first,” Keizo said, “is to nurse my daughter.”
Akaza blinked, stunned. “You sure you want to bring a criminal like me into your home—with your daughter?” His mouth spoke, but his heart throbbed beneath the words, because even if he wasn’t in control, he felt the sincerity in them.
Keizo only laughed, brushing it aside with ease. “Yes! But I beat up that said criminal earlier, so… it’s all good!”
That smile. That infuriating, brilliant smile. Now Akaza understood—it wasn’t just Keizo’s fists that had crushed his walls, it was that smile. A smile that burned with belief in him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
And it hit him harder now: this man was just like Kyojuro. The bright grin, the bushy eyebrows, the unshakable optimism. Everything about Keizo reminded him of Kyojuro.
But there was more. Keizo’s spirit—that steady, unwavering kindness—echoed someone else too. That was Tanjiro. And now, finally, Akaza understood why the boy had felt so repulsive to him from the start. Tanjiro was a mirror, carrying the same light he had once hated and secretly longed for.
It’s because you remind me of this tiresome old story.
They entered the room. Kyojuro was already there, leaning quietly against the wall, ready to fulfill his promise—to stay with Akaza until the very end.
The space was simple, empty of students. The air felt heavy, carrying the faint sound of delicate coughs that echoed softly against the cold wooden walls.
“And this,” Keizo said gently, sliding the door open wider, “is my daughter, Koyuki.”
It struck Akaza like a gust of cool air, sharp and clean. The sensation was unmistakable—like the first snowflake settling on grass, heralding the quiet arrival of winter. His chest tightened, but for once it wasn’t from pain. It was release. Relief. For the first time in what felt like centuries, he could breathe.
Her presence was winter itself—calm, pure, and steady. The kind of cold that didn’t hurt but soothed, like cool hands on a fevered temple. Just as fire could melt ice, ice could soothe fire with equal gentleness.
Koyuki was that soft winter snowfall, reminding him of peace. Kyojuro was the blazing fire, reminding him of purpose. And between them, Hakuji felt whole again—both the warmth that drove him forward and the cold that eased his suffering.
Right here was the reason for his life.
The proof that it had never been worthless.