Chapter Text
The Flame Hashira was truly magnificent.
A warrior on the precipice of perfection. Bright flames crackled through the night air as hot steel clashed with demon flesh, red blade authentically dangerous and wielded with the highest skill and power Upper Moon Three had ever seen. Akaza had found a worthy opponent. One he would be happy to fight with, forever.
If only Kyojuro Rengoku weren’t merely a human.
The unchanging factor was saddening. The resolve and determination of the Hashira was noble, as resolute as stone, unwavering, unbreakable, admirable.
Maddening.
No matter how many times Akaza had asked, Kyojuro Rengoku rebuffed his declarations. His offers to demonhood. To power. It was frustrating enough to leech the glee from Akaza’s face as he regarded the heavily wounded slayer from across their small arena.
Again, it was admirable– remarkable that the man was still standing, weathered hands supporting his sword though the angle had wilted downwards as he panted. Bled. Succumbed to human weakness.
Akaza tutted sadly, “Don’t die yet, Kyojuro.”
Their fight was nearing its completion. As much genuine joy as it had sparked inside the Upper Moon to commence, it was clear to Akaza that the Flame Hashira was rapidly approaching the end of his strength. What a pity, when there was so much left to give.
All that beautiful potential extinguishing itself faster, the brighter it burned. Rengoku was dooming himself.
Akaza sighed with disappointment in the wake of Kyojuros continued ragged breathing, sensing the split flesh over his own chest closing without hindrance, and running fingers across the widest slit to demonstrate his superiority in action. It had been an incredible example of swordsmanship, now lost.
Akaza narrowed his eyes on his prey with a stubbornness to rival the humans’ across from him. If Kyojuro would keep saying no, then Akaza would keep trying to convince him to say yes before the crushing end. The demon could play the long game. He had all of eternity, after all.
“No matter how desperately you fight, Kyojuro, it’s all useless.” He started slowly, final edges of his own injury sealing fully under navy fingertips, erasing any signs of trauma. “That wonderful cut you made has already healed completely.”
He gestured forwards, “But what about you?” Akaza extended his internal compass, zeroing in on his opponent and swiftly cataloguing all weak points. “Your left eye is crushed. Your ribs are broken. You’re bleeding inside.” He listed each injury in succession, sombre tone to his voice. “Those are serious wounds.”
As he spoke, Kyojuros fighting spirit flickered and sparked like a starving candle, burnt to the ends of its wick by its own flames but clinging desperately to what fuel it could catch. The Hashiras power was limited. His aspirations, finite.
Why couldn’t Kyojuro see what he saw? That his life was worth preserving . That he was mastery and beauty that would be painful to lose. They’d only just met, but still, the Kizuki knew there had never been another like him. Akaza would be loath to lose something so intoxicating, so soon.
Akaza let his arm drop. The morose alternative was that Kyojuro had to die.
“If you were a demon, you would heal in the blink of an eye. To a demon, those are just scratches.” The Upper Moon continued coaxing the kindling of conversation. Kyojuros head had slowly begun to droop forward, the only signal that he hadn’t reformed into rock as his feet remained solidly planted and his spirit waited mutedly.
Akaza shook his head, “No matter how hard they struggle, humans cannot defeat demons.” The demon spewed his reality, watching on in discontent. It was his point of fact. His truth.
He waited, curiously.
And then, Kyojuros fighting spirit erupted .
In an instant, those wavering flames ignited in god-like glory, enveloping and transforming the slayer into a beacon of pure stoicism, decorating the field with a newfound , raw, power Akaza had previously believed to be unattainable for a mere mortal.
Kyojuros’ defiant grin was captivating. He took up his stance, raising his sword despite the pain, despite the devastating toll he would be enacting upon himself, “I will fulfil my duty! I won’t let anyone here die!”
The demon shivered in the wake of an utterly gorgeous display of strength. “Such fighting spirit… even with those wounds you’re full of determination and spiritual fortitude…” Akaza had never been stunned so thoroughly, his voice betraying the unadulterated awe he felt as he witnessed Kyojuro Rengoku in his finest form, an esoteric art. “Your stance has no weakness!”
His excitement was uncontainable, a feral smile splitting his expression as he too fell back into a combative position, “You really should become a demon, Kyojuro!” Akaza cried joyously, technique development thrumming through his blood and seeping into snow-flaked patterns in the dirt underneath himself. “Then you could fight with me forever!”
The slayer engaged annihilation.
The explosion of Kyojuros rage was met with equal earth-shaking force as the two collided at the peak of their forms, a cataclysmic uproar of destructive death versus the ultimatation of Flame Breathing. The bite of molten Nichirin steel hurt in a way that pleased the demon as it slid through his face and shoulder like butter, providing viciously deep wounds across his own body as his right arm simultaneously met and punctured the unprotected centre of Rengokus torso.
The human’s vital points, skewered by a fist. Akaza had claimed victory.
The weaklings who watched, screamed.
With their sudden proximity, Akaza looked into the brilliant eyes of the Hashira, and felt no satisfaction as Kyojuro visibly registered the shock and horror of his own impalement. The human held his sword above his head, seemingly frozen in time, trapped in the moment where he’d given his all. Kyojuros red-gold gaze fell empty, blank, and Akaza was distraught.
“You’re finished, Kyojuro!” The Kizuki was on the precipice of pleading, straining his voice to wake the Hashira from his stunned vacancy, from wherever his mind had gone. There was still time before Kyojuros organs would fail. He could save him. Akaza could save him.
But Kyojuro needed to agree.
“Give in! Say you’ll become a demon!” It was an outcome Akaza yearned for, his brow pinched in a rare outward display of grief. Please , he thought, just say the word.
Any other idioms Upper Moon Three might have said were thwarted by a sudden, violent blow to his throat– Kyojuro breaking through his paralysis only to instantly pass his shock and surprise onto Akaza with yet another valiant attempt to decapitate his opponent.
He can still swing a sword?!
The demon was dumbfounded, gagging in place of a gasp as the blade actually began to cut through his neck and the ugly sensation of fear palpitated in his core. Without any thought besides those of self preservation, Akaza swung his unoccupied fist for The Hashiras face, but his knuckles never met flesh.
Kyojuro had caught his arm.
It should’ve been impossible. It was an unbelievable power that drove the man, yet it held firm as Akaza pushed against it with his supernatural might. The fight had been over, but now it wasn’t, and Upper Moon Three could realistically lose his head.
As a familiar tickle brushed up his skin, Akaza realised that the fight needed to be over.
Dawn was breaking.
The injuries Rengoku had sustained would undoubtedly be the death of him. Akaza had won, and to confirm it, all he needed to do was break away to the trees. It wouldn’t be a success the Kizuki would be overly proud to claim, but a Hashira slain by his blood demon art regardless of their speed of death would remain a rewarding win.
Only, Akaza could not pull away. The instinct to hide was swelling, all senses zeroing in on the danger of the torturous sunlight that would shine upon him in meagre minutes at most, rising lights promising an agonising demise. Yet Kyojuro kept him physically restrained, red sword sinking further into his neck. A human was pinning him down. Infuriating. Impossible.
Guttural screams had torn from the throats of both fighters as the two were locked in unyielding stasis. There was panic in Akazas heart as he relied on brute strength to pull his arms out of Kyojuros grip, the battered body of his rival refusing to grant him retreat. Their feet stirred the dirt around them, the voices of the other slayers grew louder as they mustered their courage to help their Flame Hashira, the heat of daylight crept closer.
The sharpened point of a shattered rib stabbed into the desperate flesh of the Upper Moons enclosed forearm as Kyojuro clenched his abdomen. Feeling Kyojuros bones split his skin, his eyes blew wide as he discovered an opening to escape through.
The idea was low. It was despicable, even, but Akaza’s ability for rational thought had been blanketed by suffocating terror. He was out of time to try anything else.
In a moment of humiliating weakness ,
Akaza bled.
Kyojuro faltered against his will, his yell of anguished determination broke away into a startled gasp as the Flame Breather undoubtedly sensed the contaminant staining his innards and his straining muscles slackened for a mere moment.
A moment long enough for Akaza to seize. The Upper Moon secured his stance in the dirt and tore both limbs from Rengokus' hold at once, shoving away from the Slayer harshly enough to snap the flame blade in two.
There were no words exchanged between them now as Akaza stumbled backwards. No banter or sound but that of the horrifying wet squelch of Kyojuros stomach injury now rent open wide, blood striking the ground in a grotesque splatter. With the demon's arm now free from the belly of his victim, he’d gained his opening to run away.
…he hesitated.
What Akaza had just done in his desperation went starkly against his internal code that he had upheld for over a century without fail. He’d demonised somebody. Turned them against their will. He’d turned Kyojuro. Without his consent.
Don’t stop to think about it. Run! Find cover and leave him—
Leaving Kyojuro behind would secure his opponents demise, it would solidify the outcome that the human had needlessly fought for. Whether the Hashira succumbed to his injuries or slowly burned to death as he turned in the sunlight would equal Akaza’s success, and Kyojuros singular fate as a Corps member. It would erase the mistake of his turning and the whole event could surely be forgotten over time. That was the way of things.
Except… Akaza did not want to forget. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to.
And Kyojuro had proved himself as deserving of a better ending than that.
The wreckage of the Mugen Train began to gleam golden as sun rays touched its hull, but ultimately, it was the perceived look of betrayal on Kyojuro Rengokus' rapidly paling face that compelled Akazas body to move.
Reapproaching the crippled warrior with a speed like lightning, Upper Moon Three caught the Flame Hashira before he could collapse to his knees in defeat. Hastily securing his grip under the weight of his opponent's battered body, Akaza took Kyojuro, and fled.
He did not look back.
Not as the budding slayers cursed his name, and called him a coward. Not when he felt Kyojuro fall limp across his shoulders, fighting spirit reduced to the glow of embers, horribly distressed.
He kept running. Akaza had to.
Daylight's warmth licked at his heels as he flew through the woods, frantic momentum ceasing only after he slid into the naturally camouflaged mouth of an underground cave and tunnel system. The demon's own aura pulsed with stress as he reached the bottom of the slope and paused there, panting, gazing upwards at the entrance-cavity and watching as it began to illuminate warmly seconds after he’d ducked inside.
A ridiculously narrow escape.
The skin over Akazas backside flaked and split as he shrugged Kyojuro off and onto the floor, mild burns regenerating at a wretched pace and reeking of burnt filth. His energy had truly been put to the test, the drain of his power was heavy in his core.
Confident in his safety from the sun, the demon rose slowly as his spirit spiked with an icy fury that left his fists trembling. There was nothing left but his rage as the Upper Moon absorbed the reality of what had just transpired.
Failure.
Rancour spilt loudly from his lips as the itch of his frustrations overpowered his coherency and Akaza turned to punch his fist through a sturdy pillar of stalagmite. It fell to dust under him, but the satisfaction couldn’t smother his overarching turmoil.
Akaza was embarrassed. Pissed. He was humiliated to have come so close to being killed, left seething as he knew, he knew , he’d now have to be punished.
Muzan always knew of his mistakes. He’d call on him. He’d make the consequences hurt.
The weight of steel lodged in his neck became too annoying to ignore further, and in another fit of profuse temper, Akaza ripped the sword from his neck with a violence that tore through muscle and windpipe, temporarily silencing him as he then threw it against the far side of the cave. The chipped katana shattered further upon impact. Akaza paid no mind to where its shards landed.
He sank to a squat as both hands crept to grip the sides of his head, pressing and pressing and threatening to splinter his skull as he screamed his frustrations aloud. How had he let this happen? Humans could not defeat demons. They weren’t supposed to be able to.
Yet, he had just come so close to losing.
He was weak.
Or… Perhaps his opponent had simply been that special.
Akaza had never fought a Hashira so powerful and so near perfection as Kyojuro Rengoku. The Upper Moon's driving factor was to reach a domain of supremacy, it was his motivation to even exist. To have witnessed someone at the cusp of achieving it only to refuse to cross the threshold was extremely disappointing. Kyojuro was special indeed.
Cracks formed in the wall of his anger, giving way to awe and admiration that steadily leaked back into the forefront of his mind as he recalled their battle. Akaza had found a near equal in a human. There had never been such a prime example of a warrior chosen to put a demon's skills to the test— chosen to become a demon himself!
To have been able to fight him at all made the Kizukis heart thrum happily, he felt grateful to Kyojuro. Honoured to have taken him on at his peak in humanity.
To have been able to fight him only once was saddening.
Although…
The Hashira wasn’t dead yet. Nor was he dying. Akaza could sense it, his master's blood overwriting and destroying the humans’ cells excruciatingly slowly.
Kyojuro was beginning to turn.
His hands released their grip in his hair as he stood and turned to look upon the unconscious body of the Slayer. The swordsman lay partially on his side and back where Akaza had unceremoniously dropped him upon reaching shelter, Kyojuros gold and red-tinted hair obscured a fair portion of his face, while what could be seen of the rest of his body bled sluggishly into the stone floor. Even in this feeble condition, the Flame Hashira kept grip on the handle of his sword.
Akaza scoffed as he took notice, approaching the fallen hero and kneeling beside him with an air of scrutiny, watching the slight rise and fall of Rengokus chest, his lungs still stubbornly drawing air though it sounded hideously wrong.
Magenta eyelashes narrowed as he branched his senses deeper into his spiritual plane, not exactly sure what he was looking for past the reaffirmation that Kyojuros fighting spirit was still there. Although certainly infected, Akaza could perceive that the being before him remained in flux, seemingly human with an inkling of demon that was devouring its base DNA at a gruelling speed.
Kyojuro had not agreed to live on as a demon, this much Akaza knew.
He could sense the slayer was unaffected enough still that he could guarantee a painless death with a swift punch through his skull. Although Kyojuro would make an excellent demon, Akaza needed to right his wrong somehow, and prevent the full turning from taking place if he could. He curled his navy tattooed fingers into a tight fist and positioned himself over Kyojuros body, straddling his bloodied stomach.
With his free hand, he grasped Kyojuros chin and turned his head upwards to adjust his angle and aim to achieve the best killing blow. Blonde and red strands fell from Kyojuros cheekbones as he was manoeuvred and revealed the bloodied and slackened face of the man Akaza was prepped to execute.
In battle, the Kizuki had been blinded by Kyojuros spirit, enraptured by his perfect form and flames. He hadn’t looked all too closely at the artistry that was also Kyojuro Rengokus face. The length of his eyelashes. The curve of his lips. The wildfire of colour in his hair. His skin looked smooth, like fine porcelain where it hadn’t been bruised by Akazas own knuckles.
Kyojuro was…
Akaza shook himself from his stupor. Kyojuro was far too beautiful to be killed in this way.
His fist uncurled into a delicate reach, daring to caress the clammy, overheated skin under Kyojuros ruined eye. His fingertips smeared blood that smelled less appetising by the minute, reminding Akaza that the Hashira still had to die.
If his mind refused to obliterate the man's face, Akaza would bring destruction down by crushing his throat and severing his spinal column through his larynx. He trailed his fingers down the man’s face until he reached Kyojuros throat, taking hold and squeezing until oxygen was completely denied, marvelling at how easily his hand wrapped around the firm expanse of muscle and windpipe. Entranced by the red that rose to Rengokus cheeks.
A final crushing squeeze of his hand and Kyojuro would be dead.
Wait. What if Kyojuro was meant for this?
Akaza paused, simply holding Kyojuros throat, trapped in limbo once again. He growled, refusing to let up his grip but burdened with the intrusive visualisation of Kyojuro as a demon. A heavy temptation brewed inside him at the thought, teasing in a way he despised. He was helpless to his imagination and of how much more Kyojuro could be fully turned.
How would his features change? Would his skin bloom with elegant patterns? Would he adopt horns, or even talons, and would his blood demon art bring out those beautiful flames he fought with as a human?
Would his blazing eyes become inked with the kanji of their master as they grew powerful together under the light of the moon?
He let go.
You are a selfish creature, Akaza.
This would not spare either of them anything. There was no fixed outcome where Kyojuro even survived the process of the turning with how little blood he’d received and how grievously injured he’d been beforehand. By neglecting to finish him now, Akaza could be sentencing Kyojuro to a long and torturous death..
But Kyojuro was strong, with unparalleled defiance.
Akaza backed off. He refused to obstruct the transformation any further. Whether the Flame Breather lived or died, now or in the coming hours would be determined by nothing but the tides of fate.
If Kyojuro truly was one of the chosen, which Akaza thoroughly believed him to be, the Hashira would survive the transformation. The success would surely be enough to erase any remaining compassion towards humanity– to convince him to stay by Akazas side forever, fighting for eternity and obtaining evermore power together.
Kyojuro hadn’t said yes… but if he knew what it was like…
There was still a thick layer of guilt to be dealt with. Akaza had failed to gain Kyojuros consent through the use of speech, but if he could have Kyojuro see his side, feel the truth behind his words, he would certainly understand. They could forgive. They could be happy.
“Sorry Kyojuro, but I need you to see this through.”
If somehow the slayer wasn’t convinced about his destiny as a demon upon surviving his turning, Akaza would find comfort in knowing the stolen choice to this mistaken outcome would be returned then, at least partially. He would not stop Kyojuro from doing what he chooses– how he would choose to die– no matter how upsetting that would be or how painful lord Muzans wrath would feel. It would be Kyojuros choice, and that’s all that mattered now.
“Don’t die yet.”
Far more gently than when he’d initially entered the caves, Upper Moon Three lifted his new charge from the floor and began the trek of following the winding tunnels that lead further underground, away from the sun and unwelcome human guests. If Kyojuro were to survive, he’d need the safety of a secluded environment– the devout protection of a demon who was weak to only three others in existence was an added benefit.
They left nothing behind but bloodstains and the broken sword of the last known Flame Hashira.