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The letter from the Corps arrived at dawn. Tanjiro didn’t wait for the ink to dry before tying on his haori.
They never used to send him alone. Not often. But that changed after Mugen Train. After him.
He doesn’t ask why the missions have grown longer, riskier. Doesn’t need to. It’s easier this way, running toward monsters instead of memories. Bleeding on purpose, because at least then the pain has somewhere to go.
He doesn’t say Rengoku’s name. But he carries the flame with him anyway.
The mission was simple. Disappearances have been reported near an abandoned temple deep in the forest in a remote mountain village. Many locals whisper of a demon, one who can mimic voices long enough to lure victims deep into the woods. The Corps suspects an Upper Moon demon, or a demon with illusion-based Blood Demon Art is responsible.
Tanjiro is aware he should’ve questioned why he was sent alone on such a dangerous mission. He had barely survived the Mugen Train mission, and had dodged a bullet with Akaza (though, somewhere deep within, he wished he hadn’t).
The trees thicken as he climbs, their branches clawing at the sky like frozen hands. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around his ankles with every step. The path narrows, swallowed by roots and silence.
No birdsong.
No wind.
Just the soft crunch of his sandals on dump earth and the steady rhythm of his breath, controlled but not calm.
The temple waits somewhere ahead, hidden in the gloom. He can feel it before he even sees it, like a weight pressing against his ribs. Like something’s watching. Listening.
He shouldn’t slow down. Slowing down allows the demon to close in, get a vantage point, and attack. Getting attacked this early would prove once again that he’s a liability out on the field. He wouldn’t be allowed to go on missions anymore, alone or not.
He didn’t slow down.
The wind shifts, just enough to stir the leaves. Just enough to carry a voice.
“Set your heart ablaze.”
Tanjiro freezes. His breath catches in his throat.
That voice. It’s impossible. It’s his.
But that voice. It’s not a memory. It’s here.
He turns toward the sound, eyes wide and heart hammering. The mist parts just enough to show a flicker of red–like a haori sleeve vanishing beneath the trees.
“Rengoku-san?” he whispers.
No answer.
Just the hush of leaves and the faint scent of pine.
He takes a step. Then another.
The forest swallows the path behind him.
He knows it can’t be real. But for one heartbeat, just one, he lets himself believe.
His feet move before his thoughts catch up. The mist thickens, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. That voice. It was too real. Too warm. Too much like hope.
But with every step, something twists tighter in his chest.
He shouldn’t believe it. He knows that. He knows that Rengoku is gone. He saw the fire fade from his eyes. He felt the stillness in his hand. He felt the moment Rengoku had left, leaving behind an empty shell. A corpse.
So why—why does his heart ache like it’s breaking all over again?
Is it because for a second, one cruel, beautiful second, he thought he’d been given a chance to say what he never could? To say he was sorry. That he wasn’t strong enough. That he’s still not.
That it should’ve been him who Akaza killed.
The trees blur. His breath stutters. The grief isn’t as sharp anymore, instead it’s heavy, like carrying a cathedral on his chest, every breath echoing off the stone walls in sorrow. A weight he’s been carrying for so long, too long, that he’s forgotten what it feels like to stand without it.
“I’m waiting, Tanjiro.” the voice returns. “Just beyond the treeline.”
He already told himself it wasn’t real. Said the words in his mind like a mantra. Calm, steady, absolute.
Rengoku was dead. That was that.
But the forest doesn’t care. It wraps around him like smoke, and the voice. The voice just keeps calling.
“I’m waiting, Tanjiro.”
Not angry.
Not threatening.
Just familiar.
He clenches his jaw tight. Tries to breathe through the shaking. Tries to steady his trembling hands.
It’s not him. It’s not.
But gods, if he could just see that flame one more time. Hear that cheerful, booming laugh. Feel that blistering warmth that made even despair feel bearable for a moment.
His legs move without permission once more. Forward. Toward the treeline.
It doesn’t even matter if it’s real. It doesn’t matter if it’s a trap.
He’s so tired of saying goodbye.
Tanjiro takes another step.
The mist thickens. The voice calls again.
“I’m waiting, Tanjiro.”
His breath trembles. His grip loosens.
Then, a hand clamps down on his shoulder.
Firm. Steady. Real.
“Enough.”
The voice doesn’t echo this time. It stops.
Tanjiro turns, startled. The Water Hashira stands behind him, a rough hand resting on his shoulder. It’s steady, grounding. Giyuu’s presence is like a cold riverstone: silent, solid, impossible to ignore. His haori shifts in the mist, half crimson, half patterned like memory itself. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, hold no judgment. Only something quieter. Something like understanding.
“You’re not chasing him," Giyuu says. “You’re chasing guilt.”
Tanjiro’s mouth opens, but no words come. His throat burns.
“I know,” Giyuu adds, softer now, “I’ve done it too.” He wraps a hesitant arm around Tanjiro’s shoulders, leading him over to an area where the mist isn’t so thick.
Tanjiro perks his head up at him. “But—the mission! There’s still a demon in there!”
Giyuu doesn’t stop walking. His grip on Tanjiro’s shoulder is firm, but not forceful. “The demon was luring you,” he says, voice low. “Just like the others. It wanted you to follow.”
Tanjiro stiffens, guilt flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean to. I thought I saw…him.”
Giyuu’s expression doesn’t shift much, but his silence does. It stretches, heavy and knowing. “I know,” he says at last, “that’s how it gets you.” He glances at him, eyes unreadable. “You weren’t the first. You would’ve been the last.”
They reach a clearing where the mist thins, moonlight catching on the edge of Giyuu’s blade. He lets go, but his arm hovers still near Tanjiro’s shoulder as he turns to face him fully.
“I called for backup,” he adds, recalling Tanjiro’s statement from earlier. “Kanroji and Tokito are already en route. The mission isn’t over but you are done for tonight.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “you don’t have to carry every battle alone.”
Tanjiro swallows hard. His shoulders tremble beneath Giyuu’s steady hand.
“I should’ve been stronger,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “If I’d just moved faster, if I’d done something, Rengoku-san might still be alive.”
The words crack as they leave him, raw and unguarded.
Giyuu doesn’t flinch. He just watches him, eyes steady.
“You think I don’t know that feeling?” he says, softer now. “I’ve lived with it longer than you’ve been in the Corps.” A pause. He sighs heavily. “But, blaming yourself doesn’t honor him. Living does.”
The mist didn’t clear, but the weight on his chest began to ease, just enough to let him breathe again.
Tanjiro nodded once, gaze fixed on the fading trees. “I’ll try.”