Chapter Text
The Hashiras kneel in the vast field of the Ubuyashiki’s Estate, waiting. It is the beginning of summer, not long since the Corp’s recruitment test finished at Mt. Fujikasane, a tradition held steadfastly each spring, when the fragrance of the wisteria hangs heavy in the humid air. The blooming falls of the petaled amethyst, sweet and potent, hinders demons and provides reprieve for those undergoing the trial.
Sanemi scoff at such soft preventative measures. They even have squads of kanoes supervising the participants from the shadows, a tiresome duty he once had to partake in to progress to Tsuchinoto. But not the Stone Pillar, Gyomei Himejima —the behemoth man behind him— as he had swiftly advanced in ranks when those rules were implemented.
Their lord is a careful, smart individual. Unlike the previous heads of the Ubuyashiki, he made some reforms to streamline internal operations and earned the reputation for efficiency and foresight. Therefore, when he convened them all in an assembly like this rather than feeding his reports to regular channels of the kasugai, Sanemi expected that something significant must be afoot.
The older pale man, despite his ailment, always maintains a dignified compartment. He steps out from under the eaves of the roof. Comfortably veiled in the golden spades of the evening sun, he greets them, “My dear children.” Though his voice is gentle, it is laden with great weight.
The Wind Hashira lowers his head until it is touching the cool ground.
“There have been strange targeted attacks on some notable members of the Corp. As you know, Kamado Tanjiro and Kamado Nezuko have attracted a dangerous amount of attention from Muzan. But recently, some informants of mine have reported that this threat extends beyond the Kamado siblings. In fact, Agatsuma Zenitsu, too, has become a target for the demons, due to his inheritance of the thunder breath technique…”
Sanemi feels a gaze boring into his skull as he waits for him to continue.
“Shinazugawa Genya is also a person of interest— Kochou, please share your insights.”
Sanemi’s head shoots up, attention snaps to the mention of his brother. His eyes razor-sharp as they cut to the Insect Hashira. His breath held in anticipation.
Unperturbed, Shinobu Kochou gracefully lifts herself from the ground. “Certainly, Oyakata-sama.”
She stares at a distant point as she recounts her observations, “As Shinazugawa’s attending physician, with his consent, I conducted blood tests to examine his abnormalities. I discovered that his blood possesses a unique property—it repels demons. This is attributed to the presence of demon flesh absorbed into his system from constant consumption. While the exact origins remain unclear, whether he got it from genetic mutation or something else, the fact that he can repel and, more significantly, consume demons and gain their same powers marks him as a predator within our ranks—a threat that Muzan seeks to control and exploit.”
Ubuyashiki nods, allowing Shinobu to return to her position. “As you all are aware, Muzan’s goal is to attain immortality and develop resistance to the sunlight. Before, he personally handpicked humans with unique traits, morphing them into demons for observations, specifically looking for a guinea pig that fits his standards to base his blue-print of his ideal form. Currently, he has delegated this task to the Upper Moon demons. And now that young Shinazugawa’s ability was reported, resulting in a surge of demon attacks aimed at him for capture.”
Sanemi’s fists clench, his jaws tightening as an overwhelming desire to unleash violence surges within him. “Fuck I’m gonna kill him,” he internally seethes. But not if the demons have dibs on him first!
He senses the subtle shuffling of his colleagues around him, edging away as they feel the intensity of his murderous intent.
Good. He bares his teeth.
Meanwhile, Ubuyashiki is unfazed by the thick-as-tungsten tension in the room. “We have reason to suspect that there may be a traitor within the organization,” he declares, raising a hand to quell the murmurs and hushed exclamations. “The situations involving the Kamado siblings, Agatsuma, and young Shinazugawa were meant to be kept confidential— especially the Kamados as their exposure could sow discord among our ranks if they find a demon working alongside us. We don’t want them to be attacked by their allies when they are putting their lives on the line to kill our enemies.”
Kanroji Mitsuri —the zany Love Hashira— concern furrowing her brows, raising her hand. “How do we know for sure that information has been breached?”
Ubayashiki answers, “Young Shinazugawa has been with Tomoya and Kochou for examination, and his presence has been accordingly and deliberately concealed. The fact that there are sudden eyes on him means that someone is reporting intel to Muzan.”
The Sound Hashira, Uzui Tengen, crosses his arms, wearing an unconvinced expression on his stupid, garish face. “But it can’t possibly be a demon. Oyakata-sama, are you saying that a human is working alongside him?”
“It’s not impossible. If we have a demon on our side, why wouldn’t he have a human? We would have known ages ago if a demon was walking among us.”
Sanemi nostrils flares. All the more reason why he didn’t want that red-head rascal and his devil’s-spawn sister working with them. They’re a rot; a festering waiting to promulgate.
They should’ve kept them under lock and key. Literally.
The river of his fury ran swift, pumping in his body, frothing at his mouth to shout, to yell, scream.
In his periphery, the Snow Hashira looks at the ground with hard and vacant eyes. Urokodaki’s pupil presses his pale lips into a thin line.
It is that self-righteous prick who had trained and fought for their cause. The mere existence of the Kamado siblings had inadvertently brought unwanted attention to his dumbass brother. And they wouldn't even have thought of fighting with them were it not for him. That is it. Sanemi is going to jump him after this
Sweat beads at the back of his neck, pooling into an itchy vat, stoking the yearning to tear his clothes off. The slick residue trails down the curve of his spine, like a colossal snail leaving its mark on the world.
The bugs buzz around them as they always do when the sun is close to calling it a night.
Fuck this heat.
The mournful demeanor of their lord slices through his palpable vexation. “Though I am disheartened by this situation, we need to promptly enforce a lockdown of sorts while we weed out the mole. In the meantime, I would like to place them under your care.”
Kanroji squeaks out, red flushing her already overheated skin, “They are living with us?”
The Snake Hashira, Iguro Obanai slightly groans, and he shares the same sentiment. Not in a snowball’s chance in the burning pits of Muzan’s bitch-ass was he taking in the Kamados, nor the whiny blond fuck.
But then that means… Oh, but it’s going to happen.
There could be a silver lining to all this shitfest.
Hysteria a vortex sucking in all the reason from his mind: “I can break his arms and legs this time, cripple him so he won’t even think of raising another sword again—”
“Yes, and you will be training them.”
His jaw falls open in disbelief. “What,” he murmurs out loud, reverberating Obanai’s plangent, yet monotone response, “Damn.”
Ubuyashiki glances at a small figure behind him, nodding.
Emerging into sight as a silent specter, the third-born scion of their lord unfurls a parchment. His tresses, the black shade reminiscent of an ornyx’s horns, catch the vespers with a luminous sheen. Lately, at his father’s direction, Kiriya has assumed a more vocal role, priming himself for future leadership.
“Kamado Tanjiro and Kamado Nezuko will remain under the tutelage of Sabito of the Snow, alongside his tsuguko Giyuu Tomioka and Makomo Urokodaki. Once they have reached a satisfactory level of progress, they will transition under Kyojuro Rengoku’s mentorship and protection. Agatsuma Zenitsu will train under Uzui Tengen before joining Iguro Obanai. Shinazugawa Genya will be under the guidance of Shinazugawa Sanemi throughout the entire duration.”
Obanai sputters a bit. On the opposite end, tension seeps out of Sabito’s shoulder as it slumps— before straightening when he catches Sanemi’s glare. He reciprocates with a nasty scowl of his own.
Ubuyashiki smiles a little for the first time in their impromptu meeting. “Dismissed. And Sanemi, please keep it outside of my compound this time.”
The mercurial Wind Hashira takes that as a permission to wreak havoc and hoicks himself up with the finesse of a gorilla that caught the jitterbugs. He strides to the Insect Hashira, his growl rumbling low in his throat. “ You were experimenting,” he snarls. It was a miracle that he didn’t roar at her. Wheeling round, he fixes another fiery glare at Gyomei, jabbing a finger in his direction, venomous accusation on his tongue pouring forth, “And you kept this quiet?”
The Stone Pillar gazes up at the sky, almost forlorn. Sanemi looks up as well and doesn’t see what is so important up there— just a few fluffy clouds. He hears the Mist Pillar brat whispering to himself a few feet away, “Little bunnies.” Fuck, it’s like an asylum here.
Shinobu steps in, masked with stoicism. “To be clear, Shinazugawa, I was not experimenting, I was collecting data instrumental to unraveling Muzan’s intentions, with the consent of your nineteen-year-old brother.”
Hackles raised, Sanemi is about to shout at her when a solid weight lands on his shoulder. “Sanemi,” Himejima interjects, “If we said anything, it would only heighten the risk of Genya’s condition being exposed. There is a reason for keeping this secret confidential to three people.”
He pushes from the grip, but finds himself ensnared by his strength, as if trapped beneath a knotted root of a towering tree.
Closer by, Sanemi perceives a mass of heat trotting up to them. He grits his teeth. The Flame Hashira is like a tatara in human form. How he survives in this wretched heat is beyond him.
The breeze soughing through the verdant leaves barely rustles them, as they are unbearably dampened from the moistness of the morning shower. The fiery, owlish man exclaims, “It wouldn’t do much to mull over what has happened, Shinazugawa! Besides, it is in the interest of everybody to train our students so they can fend for themselves against higher-level demons.”
Kanroji joins, equally enthusiastic. “And wouldn’t it be wonderful to catch up with them?” She does a little jump as if she’s still fucking ten. “They are the bright future of our corporation, our adorable, cherished members. It is our duty to safeguard them, no matter what!”
Sabito — fucking bastard— makes an entrance like an unwanted infant, folds his arms. “Yeah, what they’re saying. So stop bitching, Shinazugawa.” He then throws a glare at Kyojuro, also feeling the ridiculous body heat radiating from him. “Man, you’re too close.”
Gyomei restrains Sanemi from flinging at the dickwad.
Shinobu attempts to pacify him, though half-hearted as he is starting to grate her. “My my, Sanemi, keep grinding your teeth like that and it will really turn into nubs.” At the mention of his poor dental health, he instinctively clamps his jaw and winces.
Tengen saunters over to the group, eyeing Obanai. “I’m guessing I’m to improvise his hearing abilities, but what are you going to do with him?”
The Snake Hashira shrugs. “Working on Agatsuma’s ability can make his speed more impotent. He can actually be alright to work with if… it wasn’t for everything else about him.”
Kanroji glances at Rengoku. “What are you going to train the Kamados with, senpai?”
“Hmm, I would like to teach them the fire breath!”
All eyes turn to Sanemi, a mix of curiosity and concern evident in their gazes. But he remains silent.
He has disobeyed his leader often in the past. This shame difficult to admit.
‘Training’ Genya is just another item to add to his list of grievances.
When Genya hears the news about what is to happen in the upcoming months, a familiar pit forms in his stomach; a constant, unwelcome presence.
The shy sun provides scarce light, hidden behind the gray clouds that blanket the sky. He squints as the reflective shine burns brightly, bringing its dreadful scorch.
Genya can’t fathom how his teacher, Gyomei, endures this awful hot spell in his heavy layers. As for himself, he’s wearing the lightest fabric from his wardrobe, yet he still struggles against the oppressive heat. Is it the breathing techniques? He can’t breathe at all, personally, choking on the mugginess.
The Stone Hashira’s twin streams of tears attract a cloud of insects drawn to the salt. Genya, exasperated, tells him to set aside his despair over humanity for another time.
After a while of walking, blushing with embarrassment, he tells Gyomei he felt like a child being dropped off at his guardian’s house and didn’t need the escort for the rest of the way. But, of course, Gyomei didn’t listen.
Genya knows that all the Hashiras have pods separate to their actual living quarters close to each other when on active duty. He had heard from the grapevines that Tengen has ten or more abodes, but he isn’t impressed— sounds like nothing but added responsibilities.
Ducking a stray branch, the gravel path thins to a forested stretch of land enclosed with fences. Sanemi picked the most isolated location of the bunch, hidden behind dense foliages, probably seeking attacks from demons even in time of rest and recovery. It is reckless. Stupid. But that is the infamous Wind Hashira for you.
“Ah, there is Muichiro. We were supposed to rendezvous here,” says Gyomei.
Hashira frequently work in pairs for high-stakes missions. In cases where the mission is of moderate intensity, they are paired with their tsukogos . For missions of lesserintensity and large tides of demons, they may be accompanied by two exceptional kinoes with their tsukogo as team captain, while Hashiras supervise.
For a second, Genya looks around, wondering where the hell the midget pillar was. A shadow drops from the branches with an elegance he can achieve in his dreams, answering his question. He hastily bows to the boy with turquoise eyes.
The Mist Hashira, his second mentor, nods at Genya, acknowledging him with a small smile before glancing at his primary teacher. “Seems like it will just be you, me, and the bird-girls doing most of the heavy missions.”
Muichiro has an eccentric habit of referring people to animals. Kanroji and Shinobu are the only avian icons of the elite group according to his sage thought process. Genya never questions this. There is no point, anyways. All Hashiras deserve their craziness; it is how they got this far.
“It appears so. The rest will be busy settling in with their new students.”
So he is not the only one being babysat. That is good. But he is the only one who has to deal with Sanemi for however long it is going to take.
The Mist Pillar reads his thoughts clear on his face and gives him an encouraging smile, knowing the tense (fractured, nonexistent) relationship he has with his sole family member. He spoke of it with him once, when they were on the topic of having to deal with the brunt of their older brother’s wrath plenty of times. But Muichiro’s kind gesture fails to penetrate his apprehension.
Genya bows and bids his farewells to his two mentors. Not raising his head until the pair of shadows cloaking his body recedes. He looks back, gulping at the plain white house.
Last time he tried talking with him, it ended with an ice-cold shoulder and repudiating his familial relationship.
Clutching his lips between sharp, clenched teeth, he let the tang of blood ground him. “C’mon, what’s the matter with you,” he scolds himself, picturing him looming over his child-self with hands on his hips. “Stop being a weak bitch and go.”
He glances at the house again, surprised at the plainness. It is one story and quite small.
Shoulder tensed and posture ramrod straight, he marches to the door. One knock. Two knocks. Then twenty more. Nobody answers.
His face falls, wondering if he is not being let in on purpose, slowly and steadily falling into a mental spiral. Maybe he should set up a makeshift camp. Like he’s an exile— because that’s the core of it, isn’t it?
In the eye of the hurricane of his typical dissociative reverie, watching the stream of his troubled thought circle him like vultures, a clanging sound in the distance halts the storm in his head.
Heart beating in his chest, he heads behind the house and sees a quaint garden that once had rows of bamboo. Now their stalks are strewn about, massacred. Their murderer heaves, fist loosening and gripping a practice sword in tandem to the rhythm of his deep and slow breaths.
“Well, at least he's expended some energy. That’s... that’s a positive, right?"
Sanemi has to have noticed him. He is a Hashira for God’s sake. So why isn’t he saying anything?
Finally, he turns around, pale purple eyes glinting.
Genya should lower himself, mutter out a polite “I’m in your care,” or something. But his throat lodges up.
“Still in the fucking Corp,” his voice, though not loud, booms. Sanemi whips his sword, letting it lay over his shoulder as he glares daggers at him, segueing into his verbal assault. “Don’t know how to use the breath. Shit at using swords. Eats fucking demons like a sick leech of a loser. And you’re. Still. In. The. Fucking. Corp .”
Words crowd to the edge of his teeth; his proofs and protestations of improving over the years standing at the ready. Yet, they don’t come out. Because in the end, it never matters.
Sanemi throws aside his sword before driving a punch into his temple, and in reflex Genya socks him in the shoulder— but all he met was air.
His brother is a white blur, heels swiftly pivoting behind him. He kicks the back of his knee in, officiating his wedding to the pebbly ground. His nose crunches upon impact. Tears burning down his cheeks, he brings his palm up in an attempt to stem the bleed.
Genya turns to the noise of deep, ragged breaths. It is the sound of a beast slipping on an aloof veneer over a pulsing vein of rage.
For a second, Genya feels a bit of that rage, too. Sanemi is a Hashira, entrusted with the duty of his care by Ubayashiki’s decree. Yet, he is muddying personal shit with the professional, resorting to violence like a petulant child. If that is not regression, then what is?
Sadness briskly parts through the bubbling anger. Once again his desperate need to forgive his older brother runs up against all the memory-nooks bearing the times he loved him.
Sanemi had to fill in the shoes of their bastard father growing up. He broke into adulthood too soon, and that in turn broke him. Perhaps this flimsy handle of his emotions, his bouts of childish outrage, is his body’s way of reclaiming his youth. To his misfortune, the medium he is channeling the pent up, caged mental state is through hurting.
He had observed variations of similar instability in his friends and the Mist Pillar. Sometimes, they act way younger than they should. Zenistu with his inclination to bawl at slightest misstep and his withdrawal into the embrace of sleep during battles; Nezuko with her volatile shifts between child, teen, and her supposition of adultness; Inosuke— just Inosuke; and the Mist Pillar who is numbed to life, blanketed under a daydream daze.
Seeing glimpses of this arrested development in his strong older brother churns and pains his heart.
“Did I jack up your skull? Stop staring like a creep and say something!”
Genya opens his mouth halfway before closing, reminding himself that he doesn’t want to be called ‘brother.’ He swallows, chancing his uncooperative vocal cords again, “I…” Damn, what will he say, though?
Sanemi isn’t going to fucking train him. He doesn’t want to be near him!
He winces at the scoff from his so-called not-brother. “Your room is all the way at the end of the hallway to your left. Better stay out of my sight for today and the next.”
“And the next, and the next,” his mind maliciously supplies.
“R-right… Thank you.”
With a considerable distance put between them, Genya trails behind like an unsightly shadow, stifling his silent tears with the heel of his palm. Thankfully, he can blame the wetness stinging his eyes on the humidity for the sake of his pride, which is on life support.
Later that night, Genya sits cross-legged in the middle of his room, rolls of gauze beside him for his busted nostrils. He swabs ointment on a cut on his mouth, a souvenir from his fall courtesy of the temperamental Wind Hashira. Chewing on the dead skin at the edges of his peeling, cracked lips, he ruins the balm’s application. Despite this, he enjoys the taste of the peppermint oil and lets the piercing coolness permeate his mouth. As he savors the sensation, rocking his brain trying to frame an argument that will convince his brother to train him. Something that he shouldn’t be doing at all, but when did Sanemi made life easy for anyone after their—
He shakes his head, pushing that thought off the bridge before it grows and feeds. Like a demon.
If Sanemi doesn’t follow Ubayashiki’s orders, Genya could technically report his disobedience. But he doesn’t want to strip away his brother’s honor like that. Besides, snitches get stitches.
So: back to formulating a rationale to present to the pillar. Sure, he may not be able to use breaths, but he survived the Selections Test at the forest. And his passing was not a fluke.
Flukes are not an option, anyways. Survival and strategic demon-hunting are essential. This is why candidates are initially misled into believing they must kill a specific number of demons to pass. This requirement can be met through collective efforts and is actively encouraged. Students who’ve hid under rocks, backstabbed, fled, and committed other acts of cowardice will fail without appeal.
Over the course of a few days that the test typically lasts, candidates are assessed for their suitability in different roles by people of higher ranks, and then their recommendation slides into the lap of Ubayashiki Amane. A select few progress to become active fighters. These fighters are assigned mentors to refine their abilities and breathing techniques, with some rotating to better match their mentor’s teaching style.
Some people, unlike Genya, were lucky to have mentors to take them in beforehand. With his poor social skills, he went solo in the forest. Using his white-knuckled gumption to chew and beat these spawns to death until sunlight came. Yes, he used traps and the likes— but he’s come to accept that it is difficult for him to make plans on the fly, or improvise an existing one.
His only plan during the test was digging a hole in the ground, covering it with sticks and leaves, and waiting for a demon to fall in. He used it as his snack compartment when his regrowth powers were depleted. It is messed up. But he doesn’t care too much. The demons are at fault for being stupid and his thinking is the eat-or-be-eaten ideology they subscribed to anyways. So there; taste of their damn medicine.
“But then there are some individuals who are blessed enough to not need plans,” he glumly thinks. They swerve and swish with grace, the whole forest their stage where they can dance their way around, slashing the necks of monstrosities. Those individuals of repute he heard were Sabito, who emerged as an exceptional student, helping to defeat many demons. Two senior ranks had to intervene at one point to restrain a particular one that was targeting Urokodaki’s students. Nonetheless, the fact that he willingly went out to help his fellow participants was remarkable and caught the eyes of the higher-ups.
Sabito of the Snow is a legend spoken amidst the absolute distal in the rank and files of the organization. He created his own breath ability unheard of: Snow, a combination of Water and Wind.
Another prodigy was Kocho Kanae. The woman who revolutionized and transmuted the power of wisteria, turning them into portable weapons, like smoke bombs and poison. Her sister, Kocho Shinobu, refined her legacy.
Kanae also commanded a swarm of butterfly familiars, some bred to track demon pheromones and others fed on nectar from wisteria flowers to be used in battles, as a single caress from their wings blisters the demons.
Intelligent and kind, but she can be brutal when she needs to be.
She trained Shinobu by putting her in a pit full of centipedes to build mental endurance. He heard that when her little sister captured a demon behind her back and willingly injured herself on it for experimental purposes, her elder sister whipped her shins a thousand times each. A thousand!
Shinobu was out of commission for a week. Poor woman.
He doesn’t know how she stayed with her afterwards, and then stopped his line of thought, because Sanemi literally just beat him up a few hours ago. And here he is. Not going anywhere.
He hunch inwards. God, he is pathetic.
He remembers the sheer panic sucking the breaths out of his lungs when Shinobu told him that she had relayed his abilities to Sanemi. The young woman’s exasperated tone conveyed the seriousness of the situation—Sanemi was going to come after him. Fear gripped him, and he really thought his brother was going to kill him any moment. He thanked God when the Insect Hashira intercepted him, preventing the chaotic, disastrous reunion from taking place.
He jolts when the door to his room creaks open, revealing an exhausted Sanemi. Thin film of sweat tells him that must've been training all day with barely a break.
Tense silence fills the room as they stare at each other, Genya’s wide eyes meeting Sanemi’s narrow ones.
“Food is on the table, because you came here to be coddled, apparently. Why the fuck else did you not go to the kitchen.”
Embarrassment flares in Genya’s chest as he fumbles for an answer. “You said you… you said you didn’t want to see me,” he squeaks out.
Annoyance flickers across Sanemi’s pallid expression before he drags his face into an approximate apathy. “So you decide to hole yourself up, instead? Did you want me to walk in to find a fucking corpse in my house, huh? Use your brain, dumbass. I didn’t enforce a fucking hunger strike!”
This time, Genya isn’t scared, just confused. “But you said! I was just listening to you—”
Sanemi slams the door shut.
Genya swallows his nervousness, feeling it rise in his throat. Hearing the door shut in Sanemi’s room, he decides to wait a little longer before leaving his safe den.
Peering through the window, he surveys the landscape under the glinting moonlight. The thin metal bars encircling the property had begun to darken with rust, but he can tell that they are routinely repaired from the patches.
Nearby, a pail of water stood by the well. He imagines Sanemi drawing it for the gardens and the stray cats that frequent the porch. He had seen some bowls scattered around.
Genya looks at his designated room, remembering the other components of the interior when he had moved in earlier. The curtains and other fabric are faded, but not bitten with moths. His dutiful sibling must be dusting them off properly and lighting up incense to keep critters away.
This space that his older brother lives in is half-cared for, half-neglected: the perfect aliquot of his and his brother’s union, their life, and the universe around them.
He doesn’t expect that to change.