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The Ice Hashira lounged out, stretching in an almost catlike fashion as light began to stream through the window. His enhanced senses told him that a servant was headed towards his room, carrying something in open hands. Leaning forward, he focused his rainbow eyes on the door, awaiting his morning tea.
He often wasn’t around to laze or wake up slowly. The demands on his time were legion, and often got in the way of the lavish lifestyle he enjoyed. Even training his new tsuguko, while it necessitated his presence at his home estate, was an unwanted drain on his time. He’d much rather be pouring over books and looking for Tanjiro.
Tanjiro. Something stirred in his chest, raw and dangerous. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, but he wanted Tanjiro as his own. He didn’t want some servant bringing him tea, or washing his clothes, or making his meals, no. Douma longed to place Tanjirou back under his control, much as he had been when the pair trained with Urokodaki, nearly two hundred years ago now. Those had been idyllic days, spent indulging in his every whim. Much better than now.
The door slid open, and broke Douma out of his reverie. He tried for a smile at the servant, but whatever he managed to produce must have missed the mark as he could see her rising fear of him. Usually, the look would have intoxicated him - drawn him into what she was feeling and the need to understand it. He might have acted unpredictably, if only to heighten the fear and bask in its effect on her, but all he could feel was a want for something he couldn’t have.
It rather spoiled his usual entertainment.
Curse him, even now ruining Douma’s fun. It was so like him to pass judgement on things he couldn’t understand. Blasted Tanjiro, who had never struggled to feel in his life, who’d always been able to wrap whoever he pleased around his little finger.
Barely looking at the maid, Douma grabbed a cup and poured himself some tea. It was perfectly stewed, as ever, and settled Douma’s raging thoughts somewhat. It, however, did nothing to soothe the dragon that had awoken in his chest, and roared every time Tanjiro’s eyes crossed his mind.
His eyes. They had been so entrancing when he was a human, but Douma could never forget how they had pinned him in place, glowing and deadly, when the Slayers had gone to confront Tanjiro after the death of Muzan. It made his spine shiver with delight to remember, especially as they had clouded with hurt when Douma had moved to attack him.
Closing his eyes, Douma made a conscious effort to stop thinking of him. It did him no good, not yet anyways. He needed his mind clear, and it most definitely wouldn’t be if he kept giving into the dragon's thoughts - he might end up doing something regrettable.
This was his twelfth Tsuguko in thirty years, having lost them all to demons. Even though, technically, Senjuro’s execution had been ordered, when the master’s servants had gone to investigate they had found a demon attack had killed the Rengoku’s before the execution could take place.
Again, Tanjiro entered his thoughts unbidden. Had he been involved in that attack? It would be so like him, to stick his nose in and prevent justice from being served.
Standing, Douma belted on his sword before stalking out of his rooms. He made his steps loud enough for the servants and staff to hear him coming, and get out of his way; best make sure he didn’t have to deal with any people while his thoughts were so clouded.
Stalking out into the courtyard, Douma began to work through the forms of his Ice Breathing in rapid succession. He could feel the air around him cool, as wave after wave of attacks formed from his fighting spirit, washing the area with unnatural coldness. The small pond started to ice over, and frost crept across the stone ground, despite the powerful sun just starting to beat down with some real strength.
The breaths were demanding to perform, forcing him to sink into a state of mental stillness. It was almost like sinking to the bottom of a pool, but even further. It needed not only the wielder to be still, sat at the bottom, but for all waves and disruptions to have stilled too. This was what made the form so hard to grasp - while his students all believed they needed to want to cause pain, that wasn’t actually what was at the core of the technique. It was a blank emptiness, with only perhaps mild curiosity, that was truly needed to master the Ice forms.
At its core, it was the desire to cause any emotion, and it couldn’t be directed outwards. The swordsman needed to focus internally, on what they wanted to feel, in order to access the high level forms. Forms six and below, you could perform adequately enough just wanting to cause pain, but anything above that?
Douma sighed, before turning and setting his eyes on his tsuguko. She had arrived several repetitions before, kneeling in the harsh gravel without complaint, even as the frost had started to build on her skin. “You may as well ask, student.”
She looked up at him, moving her eyes from their fixed position on the ground in front of his feet. “I don’t have any questions, sir.” She spoke calmly, but even her control couldn’t hide the slightest quiver of terror in her voice.
“Then you have failed the morning’s lesson.” Her heart rate spiked, though her face didn’t shift an inch. Good. She was better than the last five, easily. Maybe even as good as that Tomioka girl had been.
Douma continued. “Unless, of course, you can come up with the question I want you to ask?”
She didn’t speak right away, instead considering carefully. He could see her replaying his motions moment by moment in her mind's eye. “I couldn’t sense anything from you. No emotions, or fighting spirit. If I hadn’t seen the effects, I would have said you weren't even using your breaths.”
Douma smiled, but it was as empty as his heart. “Very good. What does that tell you about Ice Breathing?”
The answer was far more confident now. “That I need to control my emotions as I use it.”
The hit was lightning fast, and sent her crashing to the floor in a heap. Douma shifted, rolling his shoulder as she leapt back to her feet. “Wrong. Try again, Miss Kocho.”
Her face was balled up in pain, but only for a second before she schooled face back to the neutral he instead all his apprentices wear. “That I need to look past my emotions as I breathe?”
The next two blows hammered down, landing with pinpoint accuracy on her face. He could taste her frustration, and her rage as she fell back in the face of his onslaught. The emotions roiled out, only further cementing his knowledge that she would never master Ice Breathing, and was an unworthy successor.
She rose with a snarl, finally letting the calm mask drop for just a second.
Kanae was usually excellent at keeping her emotions under tightly controlled lock and key, only allowing out bland smiles to appease people. But then she failed, at times like this, and it disappointed Douma tremendously. He expected better from his chosen, even if they always failed to achieve the state needed for true Ice Breathing, in the end.
“You have failed my lesson for the day. I do hope you will apologise to your darling sister for the lack of food.” And with that, he swept away.
The Ice estate was the closest to the masters by far. It only took ten minutes for him to reach, pushing the gates open in a blatantly disrespectful manner. “Master, I’m here!”
A quiet voice to his shoulder made him turn. “The master will see you now.”
Despite his almost supernatural ability to see through people, and break them down into visions of muscle and sinew, he always found himself unable to see the descendants of the Ubuyashiki’s properly. All the descendants of Kagaya had possessed the ability, throughout the years, to sneak up on Douma effortlessly, and it made his skin scrawl every time it happened.
Ignoring the itch under his skin at the sight of the latest one of his master’s daughters, Douma followed her to a quiet, secluded tree, under which the master sat in gentle meditation. The air around him seemed alive with glittering moonlight, as did the blade that lay, unsheathed, across his knees. It was a strange effect to see in the middle of the day, made even more impressive by the utter lack of motion from Kagaya. Manifesting fighting spirit in this way usually took frenetic action and the burning of muscles to perform.
Douma knew the blade was a deliberate affectation of his master. Always having it unsheathed served to demonstrate that he would be ready, at any moment, to enact his will. His record showed that, if he did, no one would be able to stop him. His skill with Moon Breathing was so tremendous, it was supposed he would be able to take on multiple Hashira at once.
There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in Douma’s mind that he could fight them all and still win. Even he didn’t come even close to the speed and strength of Kagaya Ubuyashiki when he decided to use his considerable skills. Luckily, the master had a soft spot for the Ice Hashira, probably from when he had trained him in the difficult style of Moon Breathing himself.
It hadn’t stuck, but it was from that style that he derived his own. While Moon Breathing was powerful, and versatile, it didn’t have the kind of void Ice Breathing used to fuel its techniques. It had been close, but Douma had never excelled as high as his master had wanted. He was forgiven, however, after proving the strength of his new style against the last of Muzan’s lesser servants.
“A new Upper Moon has been spotted.” The master wasted no time offering pleasantries, and instead got straight to the point.
Douma pouted. “But I just got back from chasing wild rumours of that. What makes this so much more credible?”
Master Kagaya opened his eyes, and affixed Douma with a baleful glare, that promised swift consequences if he wasn’t obeyed. Around him, the glimers of moonlight began to move faster, cutting through the air with deadly intent. He held out a scroll, which Douma took, almost snatching the paper out of the outstretched hands. Kagaya closed his eyes again, and settled back into deep meditation within a moment.
Douma bowed, despite knowing his master's focus was too internal for him to even notice, before turning and stalking away. The old man had no concept of fun, not even after all these years spent with each other! Neither did Douma, of course, but he was sure such cold heartedness was wrong between a teacher and their beloved student.
Sighing, Douma unfurled the scroll, which directed him to some unimportant city two days' travel from here, if he ran at a reasonable pace. While he would much rather call for a carriage, and take some extra time to reach the destination, that had been what he's done chasing rumours of the new ‘Upper Two’ that had been spotted and by the time he’d arrived there had been no sign of any powerful demons in the area.
Those rumours had spoken of someone flame haired, wielding a sword and hunting demon slayers specifically. It brought certain, uncomfortable, questions about where his own flame-haired, sword wielding tsuguko had vanished off too. There had been no body, after all. Personally, he doubted that the demon was weak, little Senjurou, however. It made far more sense for it to be the elder boy, Kyoujurou, having allowed himself to be swayed and turning on his family in the aftermath.
Either way, he’d spent two weeks living out of a rundown, cesspit of an inn, eating bland, uninteresting food and being forced to drink cheap, disgusting sake. It had been nearly intolerable for the pampered man, who was used to protection details on some of the most privileged and wealthy clients around. It wasn’t just anyone who could afford to call on a Demon Slayer for personal protection, especially not a Hashira.
Storming back through the gates, he shouted for his pupil. She came around the corner, lightly perspiring from practising her breathing forms. He considered what he should do now.
If he brought her, he would have someone to entertain him, and he could continue his lesson from the morning on the nature of Ice Breathing. Perhaps he would be able to motivate her to learn total concentration constant, which meant she could come on more protection details and eventually be removed from his tutelage by the master. That could remove one of the biggest, and most hated, drains on his time.
However, if he left her behind, he wouldn’t have to deal with her presence, constantly looking for instruction, or corrections, on the most simple of basics. Or she might perish in the battle, as there was no way she was even close to the strength needed to fight any kind of Waxing Moon.
“Watch the estate for me while I’m gone. The staff already know of your punishment, and will watch out for any tricks. Don’t try that again, please.”
She bowed, and he could feel her relief echoing out in waves. Douma considered carefully - he wanted a powerful emotion to be his lasting impression of home, and the relief just didn’t quite seem strong enough to him. It didn’t have the rich texture he enjoyed remembering while suffering through boring stakeouts, or suffering through terrible dinner conversation.
“If you haven't mastered total concentration constant by the time I return, your sister will pay the price.”
Douma span, his blood red haori snapping around him like a cloak. The twined rage and terror that had blossomed out of Kanae at his words tasted as sweet as honey, and more complex than the finest wine he had ever tasted. The force of it nearly took his breath away, and he revelled in it, knowing his words had elicited exactly the emotions he had wanted in her.
Now, she would spend her days frantic and stressed, working herself to the bone to protect Shinobu from him. The betrayal would taste ever so sweet when he returned - maybe even rivalling that of Tanjiro’s on that fateful evening.
Exactly as expected, it took Douma two full days running to reach the city. Renowned for having fallen into disrepair after nearly a decade of meagre, disappointing harvests, it looked terribly run down. Dirty, deceased children ran in the streets, looking up at him with wide, fearful eyes. Especially once they saw the insignia of the Demon Slayers embroidered onto his breast, or the sword hanging on his hips.
It took a further three days to track down the demon. It attempted to run, first, but Douma was a professional with a long history of fighting demons. He cornered the snivelling, pathetic creature in minutes, ignoring the string of people he turned to try to distract him.
He would go back and destroy them once this threat had been eliminated. Douma would much rather fight this potentially powerful foe than deal with some weak, freshly turned cannon fodder.
“Please, please, you don’t have to do this, kind sir.” The creature called out, begging with its face pressed to the ground in supplication. It truly was an ugly, pitiful thing, with that enormous lump sitting like an unburst boil on top of his head.
Without pausing, or replying, Douma cut an enormous rend into the creature's back as it bowed before him. They were in the centre of a street, and he could feel people looking out at him in horror with their faces pressed up against dirty, broken windows, or looking through opened screen doors.
Suddenly, the air changed. Only Douma’s preternatural speed parried the blow as the demon nearly doubled in size to tower over Douma. On its tongue, the Ice Hashira noticed, was an inscription for Resentment, and it sliced wildly through the air, forcing him to dance backwards underneath the slices.
Douma waited, understanding the tempo of the demon's strikes, before unleashing Ice Breathing fourth form: Freezing Night Falls. The temperature went from cool to below freezing in moments, as Douma lunged forward with a series of impaling slices.
The demon screamed at the horrific damage inflicted to its body, falling backwards in agony. Douma wasted no time, continuing his momentum using Sixth Form, frozen eddy’s call, cutting forward with sweeping blows that latched and tore further gouges out of the demon. Hot, sticky blood flew out in great gouts, staining the street as he continued cutting gleefully.
Deciding he’d had enough of the fight, Douma went for the kill. His blade flashed upwards, and his muscles formed the familiar motions of Ice Breathing’s seventh form: Crystal Frostwave Rises. But rather than burning away into ash, the decapitated head grew a new form as it landed - that of a small child.
In its eyes burnt the symbol Douma had been hunting for: Waxing 1.
“This is most disappointing.” He complained, before viciously kicking the slumping body of the first decoy away. It flew, crashing through a wooden, rotting wall. Douma discarded it from his mind, before looking at the boy in front of him.
“I expected you to be one of Tanjiro’s, you know.” Continuing forward, he concentrated and saw the power emanating from the drums arrayed around his head.
The demon glared up at him. “You think I would serve that pretender to Lord Muzan’s throne?”
Douma laughed, empty and hollow. “What a joke. You're far too weak to take the place of his current Waxing One.”
The boy roared, and Douma smiled as wooden dragons burst up from the ground.
Finally, a fight he could enjoy for the thrill of it, something with real stakes for once. The only thing that would make this better would be if it was against Tanjiro or his ilk. The dragon in his chest roared out its approval, Douma smiled, preparing for the battle he knew was to come.
Flying forward, he again struck out, but this version of the demon seemed much more deadly. One of the draconic heads positioned itself above, and opened its jaws wide. Dodging at the last possible second, Douma narrowly avoided being smashed into the ground by the force of the effect.
Dancing back left, he sliced clean through the second draconic head as it shot forward to consume him. The wood, while tough, was no match for his nichirin blade, and parted like butter before a hot knife.
Pulling back, he used one of his personal favourite forms, due to the lovely confusion and pain it always caused in his enemies. Blinding reflections of noon cause the user to move forward and backward as they advanced, keeping their blade reflecting light in strange hypnotic patterns to confuse the enemy as to where the strike was aimed. When performed by a master, which Douma certainly was, it even could hide exactly where the blade and wielder were, inside a dozen slightly different reflections that all rushed forward.
It worked perfectly, allowing Douma to easily dodge the small forest of dragons heads lunging down at him. He smiled slightly, as he again unleashed the seventh form, cutting clean through the demon's head.
It didn’t stop, however. Instead, the demon's hands moved and beat a quick trio of strikes onto the drums. The dragons slid and creaked, only minutely needing to change positions as Douma realised, all too late, he had fallen into a trap. Knowing he was out of time, he pushed himself harder, and watched as the world went transparent before him. He saw how this demon wasn’t the true source of the energy, and just a figurehead to target.
The blast struck with earthshaking force. A combination of paralysing lightning, deafening noise, and raw kinetic power ploughed a leaf shaped imprint out for five hundred metres, with Douma at the centre. He felt his left arm give slightly, and pain echoed out, but other than that, when he came to a stop, all the Ice Hashira felt was glee. A familiar change took place inside Douma, as he concentrated and elevated his heart rate up past two hundred.
His mark lanced out in jagged lines of freezing blue, shining lightly in the darkness of the night, forming soft geometric snowflakes that chained together up his arms. Across his fingertips, stylized icicles grew, and on his left cheek, a delicate spider web of frost formed, enchanting in its delicate nature.
He still watched through the transparent world, as civilians screamed, or ran out into the street with broken bones. Some lay still, having been impaled by pieces of flying debris, and the wails of those whose lives had just been shattered echoed out into the night. Ahead of him, the demon set about itself with a multitude of effects, and consuming everything around him in a hatred fueled rage. Hundreds were dying, or being checked down the gullets of the wooden dragons as the Waxing One tried desperately to gather enough power to fight Douma.
Looking past that, the Ice Hashira saw the second form, spriting away as fast as it could, through the suddenly heaving streets. It slashed and cut its way through them, winding down small alleyways, and splashing through puddles in its haste to escape.
Brushing himself off, Douma breathed deep, before settling into a running style, his blade held off to his side, ready to strike. Breathing deeply, he settled himself, before speaking slowly, if only to himself. “Ice Breathing, eighth form: Absolute Zero.”
The distance was tremendous, but his feet blurred as he accelerated forwards. He blurred past onlookers without sparing them a glance, followed by a wave of ice crystals fanning out into the air to create the shapes of great ice spikes as he sprinted forward. It took him just four seconds to reach the wooden dragon, having covered the distance in a blizzard of steps. Carnage stretched out behind him, as the spikes dispersed, leaving only those who had been stuck by them in blood puddles.
He saw the monster's eyes widen at the horrific speed of his approach. To any normal being, it would seem like he had just teleported the entire distance in the blink of an eye, but the demon would have seen how Douma had moved. He would have seen the lethal intent in each step, as he closed in for the kill. The dragons shifted, and fired towards him, but Douma had finished playing games, now.
All five creatures fell like rain around him as he continued, barely changing his stride as they splintered into shards. The force of his blade sundered clean through the child's body, slicing clean through the chest and sending the two halves flying away from each other.
“Ice Breathing, eighth form: Absolute Zero.” He concentrated again, and sighted the demon as it desperately consumed yet another innocent. Douma looked deeper, past the blood staining its chest, and to where the smallest form sat, bent double and sobbing inside its host’s heart.
Again, he pushed forward, and shot forward, easily outpacing the speed of an arrow from a bow. This time, it wasn’t a clean shot straight to his target, as it had been through the devastation of the demons last attack, but he didn’t let that slow him down.
Cutting clean through all obstacles, Douma appeared directly behind the demon and repeated the same strike. Ice spikes fired out in his wake, leaving behind another trail of devastation nearly equal to the one the demon had wrought. The two halves fell apart, spraying blood out into the air as a tiny figure tumbled out.
“Ice Breathing, Seventh form: Crystal Frostwave Rises.” It was almost an afterthought, as he tore the demon's head from its shoulders in a moment.
The battle done, Douma considered carefully. He would need to remove himself from the scene quickly, but perhaps there was time for one more thing. Bending, Douma pulled out a vial, and filled it with the quickly disintegrating blood. Once the stopper of the blood was in place, he tucked it away into a pocket and smiled to himself.