Chapter Text
“Akaza! I'm going to cut off your head!!”
A last warning—something he had heard countless times before. Words hurled by formidable adversaries, yet none had ever come this close. And this time, it wasn’t a Hashira speaking—this time it came from someone far more unpleasant.
On the battlefield, you must confront all unexpected situations, even if it's your first time encountering them.
Or so Akaza believed.
The air grew thick, oppressive, as if the world itself was warning him. Every nerve, every cell in his body screamed to flee, yet his vision wavered.
Something changed– he's dangerous!!
It was like staring into the sun: blinding, searing, and yet… unbearably captivating.
His compass detected nothing from the boy before him—Tanjiro. That insignificant brat who had clawed his way into the world Akaza longed for… now advancing with a blade that gleamed like the first rays of dawn— before him stood a different, far more dangerous creature.
Nothing registered… nothing should have been there—yet his eyes couldn't deceive him, right in front of him stood the mere proof it was possible—this insignificant brat had stepped into the world Akaza had craved for so long.
The worst part—the thought that made his insides churn—was one he had known long before anyone dared to speak it aloud: the boy had surpassed him.
Surpassed his speed. Surpassed his techniques. Surpassed the culmination of hundreds of years of blood, sweat, and pain. All the battles, all the sacrifices, all the torment endured to forge his body and spirit into the purest martial weapon the world had ever seen… now defeated.
That was what he despised above all else.
To suspect it was one thing... to accept it... unbearable.
To think that everything—his art, his legacy, his very essence—was eclipsed by the boy he once dismissed as weak.
Rage boiled in his chest.
The Supreme Territory—the pinnacle he had clawed towards for centuries—was slipping right through his fingers.
And the only thing left— as the last act to keep his dignity from shattering completely— was to clench his fists until his knuckles cracked.
That thin thread of pride, fraying, was all he had left to hold on to.
How could a mere child grasp the strength that was mine by right? No way!
He had been overshadowed.
Defeated.
Just weak.
In that moment, a cascade of memories surged through him, and beneath them writhed a harsher truth—he had not only fallen short of strength, but of his own very being— he had failed himself.
“You failed to protect”
That voice… it wasn’t how Akaza remembered it.
Back then, it was strong, then helpless, panting, to actually fading away with its last breath. But now—it struck him again like a blade, fierce and alive, burning with spirit. He knew that voice, he would never forget it.
Wait… who was I meant to protect?
And just in an instant, his head was cut off.
Stupid—don’t overthink. Stay in the moment. This is not done! Not yet! I can still fight! I can still get stronger!
Tanjiro could not strip him of what he clung to the most—his unyielding determination.
Akaza reached for his head and put it back onto his body, unwilling to let the feeling of power be taken away from him. But the cut was too clean– the fibers of his neck would not knit back together, as if the blade itself had sealed the wound in fire.
But it wasn't enough, he felt another blade blasting and tearing through the back of his skull and ripping its way out through the center of his eyes.
“It can't end here… not like this. I will become stronger than everyone else! Even stronger!” the upper moon claimed in what appeared to be his last moments.
“Stronger? Haven't you done enough?! It's time for you to pay for the lives you've taken!”
Again—that voice. As his head neared the floor, Akaza recognized it. The voice of the one who, in a single night, had overturned his view of humans—their lives, the meaning of strength, their fragile yet unyielding wishes. Everything he thought he knew as a demon had been upended, leaving only the spark of what kept his interest in humanity.
His eyes slid shut after sensing the impact of the cold castle's floor on his cheek and then in the next instant, his head dissolved into nothingness.
“Kyojuro…” Akaza called, why would his final moments grant him the memory of the ex Flame Hashira? Was this some form of twisted punishment? “Kyojuro, that brat Tanjiro cut my head off— are you happy?”
Before him, only a faint flicker of light trembled in the dark void, which seemed appropriate to the darkness of his conscience.
“I will be once you're disintegrating in the air!”
The answer came as always—fierce, unwavering, burning with the enthusiasm that had once enthralled him. Akaza almost longed for it, that fiery spirit, the warmth, the exhilarating burn of crossing blades with a warrior as brilliant as Kyojuro.
“Why didn't you accept my offer? You could have been here! Fighting by my side!” he claimed into the darkness of his mind, which was suddenly lighted by a small flame flickering in front of him, as it could have granted the very power he demanded.
“Imagine it, Kyojuro! How strong, how unstoppable we could have been! Look at your friends—they’re done for! They’ll never defeat my master! Just wait! Once I regenerate my neck, the only thing left of them will be dust—my technique will pulverize their bodies!”
“I'm done with that demand!” Kyojuro’s voice thundered, the flame surging brighter “I'm glad and proud I died as a human I would never regret it! Because I would never partake in something as vile as being a demon!”
“But Kyojuro…”
“Enough Akaza! You're in no position for mercy! The lives you claimed will finally rest!”
“They will have to wait more—”
“Akaza don't!”
Just as stubborn as his will, his head might have disintegrated but his body kept moving. As he took a stance and deployed yet another posture, his compass flaring back to life. At last—his adversary came into focus.
No longer invisible. No longer out of reach!
He lunged at the boy with the hanafuda earrings, his fist crashing forward in a blur, each strike aiming for the neck—just as the boy had severed his. Tanjiro twisted away at the last instant, narrowly evading the blow, but Akaza’s kick caught him and hurled him into the wall.
Finally—out of combat. The brat was done for. Akaza stepped forward, ready to end the boy’s irritating existence once and for all.
“Akaza!”
Not now Kyojuro I'm changing, I'm becoming stronger just as I always wanted, no one will ever be compared to me, no one will ever be able to harm me again.
“Think of your loved ones, don't you want to see them again?”
There's no one left for me, you are dead. You won't follow me to hell– all that's left for me is this...
You died a human, Kyojuro Rengoku, but I will die a demon!
“Hakuji-san”
A whisper brushed against his ear—soft, fleeting. Akaza shook it off. Not now. Can’t you see? I’m about to step into the Supreme Territory!
“I’m still alive here!! If you want to kill Tanjiro, you'll have to get through me first!” Someone had called his name and risen to stand before him.
Right—the Water Hashira he was... a worthy adversary, yes, but just like Kyojuro, pride would be his downfall. And in that downfall, he would reveal to you the truth— of how fragile, how achingly human, humanity truly was. He would do no less than fall to his knees, pleading to become a demon.
While his fists were battling that broken and chipped excuse of katana, he let his mind wander.
Why? Why would humans care and risk their lives for others? Why would these slayers throw their lives away for people who wouldn’t even remember their names, the same who wouldn’t even thank them for being saved? It was pathetic. Their strength was wasted for nothing.
“Saving the lives of others is not useless! It's the best way to use the power we were blessed from birth!”
Akaza laughed, “Why are you still here, Kyojuro?! Don't you see you're going to watch the people you love and rely on die?” His attacks didn't falter, they will not show any act of mercy. “Kyojuro, tell me— are you proud to have died risking your life for nameless people, knowing they’ll all die someday anyway?!”
“Just like me, it's their duty to die for what they believe. The demon slayers corps are willing to protect the future!”
Akaza heard a sigh but he ignored it. Just as he raised his fists to strike again at the Hashira kneeling before him—on the verge of collapse, mere moments from passing out—a body materialized in front of him.
That cape patterned with flames. That golden-red hair. Those eyes of molten red and bright yellow.
He stopped.
“Akaza”
Kyojuro.
He was in front of him, but he seemed different. No blood trailing from a crushed left eye. No gaping wound carved into his solar plexus by Akaza’s hand. He looked whole. Untouched. Ethereal—just as radiant as the first time Akaza had faced him.
“Akaza, it’s enough, you’ve done enough damage!”
The warmth of Kyojuro’s hand settled on his shoulder—heavy, steady, alive. Akaza searched for the trace of a fighting spirit, but there was none. And yet, this man before him was every bit the Kyojuro he remembered. The heat. The colors. The familiarity.
It felt like fire. It felt like Kyojuro. Healthy and strong and alive?
His chest tightened. He shook his head violently. Of course not... as much as it tore at him, the Flame Hashira was dead. He had killed him.
He moved his arm, trying to remove the heavy hand of the slayer off from his shoulder. “Move Kyojuro. I have my orders. The weak do not deserve to live. I’ve tried with you before, but you didn’t accept my offer. Just like you—they are about to suffer the same consequences.”
The Hashira shook his head, standing strong, unyielding, keeping a death grip on Akaza’s shoulder. “Your head was cut off, Akaza. You've lost, it is enough!”
He scoffed, “As long as I’m standing, it’s not over for me Kyojuro!” He stepped forward, only to be blocked once more. The ghost of the slayer held firm, pressing him back, denying him his prey.
“Akaza, don't you miss being human?!”
He stopped in his tracks and laughed bitterly at Kyojuro’s last desperate and pathetic attempt to reason with him. “Why would I miss being so weak?!” His patience wore thin.
He was getting tired of Kyojuro's meddling— his fight was over. What was he still doing here? This was nothing but a stalling trick, meant to buy time for the other slayers to recover. If he let it continue, the slayers would regain their strength and finish him, they could kill him! No— he needed to be done with this stupid form of gaining time and eradicate Kyojuro’s last fragment of heart and soul for the last time!
“Humans are weak, Kyojuro, and weaklings are dishonorable— they lack strength— they go behind your back and poison wells.” He faltered for a moment—poison wells?—but pressed on. “There is no honor to begin with when you are weak, Kyojuro”.
“You once were a human being Akaza. Do you truly believe you did that before you became a demon?”
“Of course not! I would never have participated in those miserable acts, Muzan-sama saw my raw strength, my potential and possibilities far beyond human limits— and he placed his expectations on me!”
“You were snatched away from a righteous life, Akaza”
Akaza seethed with rage. Who was Kyojuro to dictate how he should have lived? His choices, his path as a demon, the way he fought and trained for power— those were his and his alone!
Enough!
He drove his fist toward the same eye he once felt crumble beneath his knuckles. But before the strike could land, the world around him shifted.
The walls of the Infinity Castle began to collapse, dissolving into ruin.
In their place appeared the image of a man lying on a worn out, filthy futon, his body was frail, his skin pale, his frame skeletal. Dark circles hollowed his eyes as he stared blankly at the ceiling—on the edge of death.
A pitiful human… none of this concerns me. I must find Kyojuro’s ghost, finish this, and return to the Infinity Castle. Only then will I deal with the Water Hashira and Tanjiro. Only then will Lord Muzan be satisfied with my work.
Just as Akaza reached for the shoji door, ready to escape that suffocating room heavy with the stench of sickness and death, his gaze caught the frail man moving with exertion as he dragged a sheet of paper towards himself, dipped a brush into ink, and with trembling yet deliberate strokes began to write, each line seeming to drain the little strength he had left until, at last, he folded the paper with care as though sealing away his final thoughts and placed it gently on a low table beside a bucket of freshly drawn water.
Slowly, with a will that seemed stronger than his wasted body, the man pushed himself upright and reached into the bucket, pulling out a length of rope which fibers were damp and coarse, the kind used to draw water from a well, and although his hands shook as if about to fail him, he managed to untangle it from its wooden handle and turned with hollow eyes filled not with despair but with a grim resolve.
Dragging a broken wooden bench across the tatami, he climbed onto it unsteadily, his frame gaunt and trembling but driven by unshakable determination, and with fingers stiff from sickness he tied the rope to a ceiling beam, the knot tightening with each tug until only a small loop remained, swaying in the dim light like a silent declaration of what was to come.
Akaza did not blink, his eyes fixed on the frail figure as the man moved in silence, each trembling motion carrying the weight of a final act, as though his body knew these were the last movements it would ever make.
And then, just as Akaza had expected, the man lowered his head into the noose.
For a moment Akaza flinched, shutting his eyes as if what he witnessed was not meant for him, a sharp pang striking his chest, needling through his heart and stealing his breath for an instant.
When he opened them again, he saw the man’s lips curve into a faint, sorrowful smile as he whispered words too soft for Akaza to hear “I am sorry for troubling you.”
The man’s final breath slipped away, and Akaza, moved by a rare and reluctant respect, bowed his head before stepping out of the small house.
Outside, the sun blazed in the sky, its light spilling over him. Akaza stiffened, expecting the familiar burn of its touch, but no pain came, no danger pressed against his skin.
He was walking under the sun as though it had accepted him, just as his master wished! The warmth felt strange, unlike the cold glow of moonlight. It was as if he could breathe again—as if life itself brushed against him.
Rounding the corner of the house, he saw Kyojuro leaning against the wall, eyes closed, lips moving softly as he finished a prayer. The sound of the shoji sliding close broke the quiet, and Kyojuro turned, his gaze meeting Akaza’s.
“Let’s go, Akaza”
The Flame Hashira stepped into the heart of the city with the certainty of someone who already knew the path. Akaza, silent and unwilling to argue, followed the blond swordsman.
For a brief moment he looked back at the house, as though he himself had once again walked out of that same door long ago.
“Where are you taking me, Kyojuro?” Akaza growled, his patience unraveling. He no longer cared to play along with whatever game this retired swordsman had devised. “Parading me through the pitiful lives of humans won’t stop me from slaughtering hundreds—thousands more.”
“We’re almost there, Akaza,” the Flame Hashira replied calmly.
Just as the blond man finished speaking, the sharp crack of lashes cutting through the air shattered the silence.
A group of grown men in extravagant, costly kamishimo—surely the local magistrate—surrounded a boy who could not have been older than eleven. The child lay face down on a tatami mat laid on grass in front of a man, his arms marked with three black lines of tattoos on each limb, bound tightly behind his back, while his legs were pinned down by two adults.
Akaza sneered. So many men just to break a single child? The sight almost amused him.
He and Kyojuro stood at the edge of the scene, watching how each lash tore across the boy’s back, splitting skin, leaving fresh trails of blood that soaked into the mat. But there were no screams. No pleas. Instead, the boy laughed—wild, manic bursts of laughter that rang louder than the crack of the whip. And when he did not laugh, he only grunted, teeth clenched, enduring each strike with a defiance that was almost animal.
Akaza couldn’t help but laugh himself. This boy knew how to take a beating, knew how to spit in the face of pain. He turned towards Kyojuro, expecting to see some trace of amusement, but the Flame Hashira’s face was set, serious and unreadable. Akaza’s grin faltered, his laughter dying in his throat. He almost asked Kyojuro what was wrong with being unable to enjoy the spectacle.
Then the man seated at the center—the one with the katana at his waist, clearly their leader—snapped a closed fan against the wooden floor, a hollow sound of authority. Coward, Akaza thought, too weak to dirty his own hands, too reliant on lackeys to do his work.
At the signal, the two men restraining the boy hoisted him up with wooden poles crossed in an X, lifting him like prey caught in a trap. The bindings that pinned his wrists snaked cruelly around his neck, tightening as he was raised, choking his breath and leaving him dangling, suspended between agony and suffocation.
The leader spoke, his voice sharp as he snapped the fan against the tatami. “You already have three lines tattooed on both arms for being a pickpocket! Next time, we will cut off a hand!”
The boy’s body trembled, but not with fear—his shoulders shook with wild laughter that spilled into the air. Even after enduring hundreds of lashes, his spirit burned untamed, his blue eyes glinting with a feverish light as he lifted his head just enough to speak.
“Ha! Ha! If that's what you're gonna do, then do it! If you cut both my hands, I’ve got feet!” His words dripped with defiance, ragged breath breaking into laughter again. “I’ll pickpockets with my feet! And I won’t even get caught next time!”
Silence followed. No retaliation, no lash, only the sound of his own voice echoing. Then, louder, with a grin smeared in blood, he spat his madness into the faces of his captors.
Akaza laughed, a low rumble at first that broke into something sharper, carried by genuine amusement.
Finally, someone with the guts, he thought, his eyes gleaming as he watched the bloodied boy spit defiance back at the men who towered over him.
This wasn’t the hollow bravery of a fool begging for mercy—it was the laugher of someone who refused to bow, even with his flesh torn open and his life dangling by a thread.
Akaza could not remember a time he had felt prouder of a human’s existence; this raw determination was something rare, something fierce. It was new, almost unsettling, to see in a fragile mortal the same unyielding principles Akaza himself had once clung to.
The grown man called for the last time “You are a demon child!”
Oh, how it made Akaza’s blood boil—this boy’s fire, this defiance that refused to break. He would take the child under his wing without hesitation, turn him into a demon in the blink of an eye, and grant him the raw, merciless strength to crush every single fool who dared to stand in his way.
The thought of it thrilled him, the vision of that frail frame transformed into a predator’s body, unstoppable and immortal, sent a shiver of excitement through his veins.
“Akaza!” As if sensing the thoughts burning in his mind, Kyojuro’s voice cut through, sharp and steady, pulling him back from the edge. “Come.”
In an instant, the boy and the men disappeared like smoke in the wind, leaving only silence behind. When Akaza’s gaze refocused, he saw Kyojuro already walking ahead, guiding him once more toward the poorest quarter of the city.
With nothing else to do, Akaza followed. Perhaps if he kept indulging these visions Kyojuro insisted on showing him, he would finally return to the Infinity Castle and put an end to this madness.
While they walked, the boy from before suddenly rushed past them, his bare feet slapping against the dirt. This time he wore a burgundy yukata, threadbare and frayed at the edges, clearly too small for his growing frame—perhaps the only garment he owned. The fabric clung to him awkwardly, stretched thin as though it had endured with him through every hardship.
Kyojuro followed immediately, as if he already knew something awaited, his presence steady and unwavering. It was instinct, Akaza thought, etched deep into the Flame Hashira’s very soul—this relentless need to step forward whenever another’s suffering lingered in the air. With a scoff, Akaza followed too, unwilling to lose sight of the blond man and his strange visions.
They stopped when an old man appeared, stumbling forward, his hands clenching desperately onto the boy’s shoulders. The child froze, his face hidden, but Akaza saw his small frame stiffen as the elder collapsed against him, tears streaming freely. The wailing broke the air, raw and heavy, as if grief itself had torn the man open.
“Hakuji! Hakuji! When he heard you got arrested again… your father hanged himself—he’s dead!!”
Akaza stopped in his tracks. The sickly man from before—the one lying frail on the futon—was this boy’s father. And he had taken his own life because of his son’s actions.
A part of Akaza scoffed at the weakness of humans, so easily shackled by their emotions, letting grief and despair chain them down. Yet another part of him—buried deep and reluctant—could not help but worry for the boy. So young, already robbed of his only family. Akaza could not truly empathize, but he knew well enough that such a loss had the power to break a soul… and this was no hardened warrior, but a mere child.
He watched as the boy pulled away from the old man’s grasp and staggered toward his home. Curiosity stirred in Akaza, sharp and uneasy. He wanted to see how the boy would react, what he would do in the face of such ruin.
Perhaps then Akaza could judge if this human had the strength to be useful to his master’s cause.
The black-haired child entered the same room Akaza had seen before. His small frame crumbled at the doorway, knees buckling as he took in the sight. The man no longer hung from the rope but lay on the futon beneath a thin white blanket. Death had stilled his body. Two adults stood beside the boy. One placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, their touch weary, almost practiced, as if such tragedies were all too common in this quarter of the city. The other held out a folded piece of paper—no doubt the final letter his father had scrawled before surrendering to despair.
Just as the boy was about to unfold the letter, the world shifted around them.
In an instant, they stood in a cemetery, the child collapsed against a tombstone, arms wrapped tightly around his late father’s grave. The letter lay discarded in the dirt, forgotten in his grief. The wind stirred, lifting it from the ground and carrying it through the air until it struck Akaza in the chest. He caught it, eyes narrowing, and unfolded the fragile paper.
Dear Hakuji, live a righteous life. You can still change. I didn’t want to go on if it meant stealing from others. I am sorry for troubling you.
Akaza’s jaw clenched as he gripped the paper. “A bother,” he scoffed under his breath. What did he have to apologize for? If the poor cannot even afford medicine, are they not allowed to live?
His gaze snapped back to the boy clinging to the stone. Rage boiled inside him. Why is it that some people are allowed to live comfortably, while this man and his child are left with nothing but loss? His hands balled into fists, the paper crumpling in his grasp, and in a burst of impulse he strode toward the boy.
“You, kid! Listen to me—become a demon and fight with me!” Akaza’s voice thundered as he dropped to one knee beside the grieving child. “You could kill everyone who ever wronged you! Avenge your father! Kill them all!”
The boy’s shoulders shifted, and for a moment it looked as if he had heard.
He rose with sudden resolve—but not for Akaza. Without a glance, without a word, he turned away, heading straight for the city. Akaza’s eyes followed him, and a sharp grin tugged at his lips.
Of course. He’s going back to the magistrate's office… the perfect place to start his revenge!
He followed the boy, but once again the image dissolved.
Akaza was left with an urgency to know what happened next, so he stayed in place for the next vision to materialize.
He didn't have to wait long.
Again the vision took place, but he was no longer in the same place, now this seemed like another city, another instant of time for sure.
He could hear the grunts of pain and followed the sound, he saw the kid now older, beating the shit out of more adult men.
Akaza wore a smile, with pride he watched the black haired kid—still with his burgundy yukata— unleash his fury on every grown man who dared to stand in his way.
Hakuji was a beast—throwing punches with wild abandon, fighting five— even armed— men at once with nothing but the raw strength of his body. His legs struck like whips, his fists cracked like thunder, his knees and elbows tore through. Blood spiraled through the air, painting the mud red, and still the men, though older and stronger in size, could not overpower him.
Akaza’s blood boiled with excitement. He wanted nothing more than to join in, to tear through these weaklings by the boy’s side, to make every wretched soul in this town suffer. To fight meant there was no loss—only glory.
“Oh wow, you’re pretty good!”
A voice rang out from behind. Both Akaza and Hakuji turned to see a man dressed in a gi, the uniform of a dojo, his hands clapping with calm admiration at the chaos wrought by a mere child.
“You beat adults without a weapon… Impressive!”
Akaza froze, his eyes narrowing. Who is this man? His presence unsettled him, but what followed stole the breath from his chest, he signaled the kid to come at him, a frontal declaration of battle, well at least he could respect that.
The demon saw Hakuji lunge at the stranger. The man moved—smooth, deliberate—shifting into a technique Akaza knew too well.
That stance… could it be? No—it had to be coincidence, just another martial artist.
Akaza shook his head, embarrassed of even thinking that.
But then he watched the man strike, dropping the boy with only a few brutal, precise punches, making him fall and pass out, ending the endless path of violence he chose.
The truth pressed in on him, impossible yet undeniable: the posture was the very mirror of Destructive Death!
Shock coursed through him. He had to see how this fight ended, had to know who this mysterious martial artist was— the one who carried the echo of his own power. But before the clash could land, the world shattered again.
Night fell in an instant. The streets, the fighters, the chaos—all vanished. Akaza spun around, desperate to find Hakuji or the strange man, but there was nothing. Only the hush of an empty forest, its towering trees blotting out every trace of moonlight, the kind of place he often used to hide from the sun.
At last, a flicker drew his gaze—a glow, faint but steady, a small fire burning not far ahead. Akaza followed it, the shadows parting, until the figure resolved in the light. There, waiting as if he had been there all along, stood Kyojuro.
He puffed out mockingly rolling his eyes, “Well at least I know you’re still here, Kyojuro.”
The golden-haired man said nothing.
“I tell you—whatever you’re planning, it won’t work!” Akaza snapped, his voice cutting through the night.
Kyojuro exhaled slowly, a sound clawing more to disappointment than anger. “Why do you want to become stronger, Akaza?”
“I already told you!” Akaza growled, he was tired of Kyojuro changing the topic. He dropped heavily to the ground beside where he stood, fists clenched on his knees. “If you were offered raw and incredible strength, wouldn’t you take it, Kyojuro?”
“No, I would not.”
Akaza laughed, sharp and bitter. “Come on! Tell me the truth! Everyone—humans, demons—everyone has a dream burning inside them. Some crave money, some long for freedom, some want to walk under the sun, and others, myself included want power!”
He gripped his knees tighter, eyes gleaming with the memory of his own hunger. “Don’t tell me you’re so naïve as to never have had a dream!”
“My dream…” Kyojuro’s voice softened, almost like an ember fading in the dark. “I was able to make half of my dream come true—”
The words struck Akaza like a blade. His grin faltered, and for a heartbeat he froze, the memory twisting deep inside him. Right, Kyojuro is dead, this is just his spirit. Of course, it was only halfway… because I killed him.
Kyojuro eased himself onto the floor besides Akaza, his movements soft and composed, his cape flowing lightly on the night breeze “At the Mugen Train I was granted a last dream from Lower Moon One—”
Akaza’s gaze lingered on Kyojuro as he idly stirred the small fire with a stick. The flames crackled softly, their glow dancing across his face, catching in his golden eyes.
There was no real need for warmth—the night wasn’t cold, and neither of them required comfort from the heat—yet Kyojuro tended the fire as if it were something sacred. The calm in his movements, the steady rhythm of the stick against the embers, carried a quiet serenity that seemed to ripple outward.
Akaza felt it settle over him, unfamiliar yet disarming, as though the fire’s peace had leapt from Kyojuro’s hands and into his own restless spirit. For a moment, he let himself breathe in that stillness, watching the man as intently as he watched the flame.
The flames danced across his features, painting him in molten gold and ember-red, highlighting every line of his face in a way that left Akaza unable to look away. He traced each detail in silence, until Kyojuro lifted his head and met him with those eyes—bright as fire, deep as gold.
He had known it before, but now he was certain— Kyojuro’s presence was what made him feel like breathing again. He realized, with a pang he hadn’t expected, how much he had missed this man—how empty he’d been without him.
His thoughts tumbled in silence, tangled and raw, until Kyojuro spoke again, cutting through them.
“In that dream, I was able to see my father Shinjuro, and my brother Senjuro. It was a memory of back then when I first became the Flame Hashira.” Akaza watched the blonde man smile, tinged with sadness. “I was home content and excited, I wanted to give my father—a former Hashira… the news.”
“Well, he must have congratulated you, it was a happy dream then…” Akaza interrupted.
“It wasn’t,” Kyojuro said quietly, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “It was more of my long old memory of my family than a fantasy dream. Yes, I was happy I was able to see them one last time… but just as I remembered my father wasn’t happy with me continuing as a slayer. He didn’t believe I would go far—” he let out a small laugh, trying to lighten the weight of his own words, “—and well, he was kinda right!”
Akaza didn’t laugh. His chest tightened, fury rising within him. How could someone as radiant as Kyojuro not have been cherished? How could a father reject a son like this? In Akaza’s mind there was no doubt—if Kyojuro had become a demon, every achievement would have been celebrated, every part of his body and strength treasured.
“But that never changed my passion,” Kyojuro went on, his voice steady, unwavering. “I wasn’t going to let what others said—or how they reacted—change how I felt about my duty.” Kyojuro never looked away from Akaza in any instant and Akaza was just enamored with Kyojuro’s words and spirit.
“As always, my duty was to protect others, those weaker than me. Even if my life hung by a thread, I wasn’t going to let their lives wither. My tsuguko, the humans, the young Tanjiro, the boar head boy and the yellow boy, everyone under my command—they always came before me and I would have never changed that.”
Akaza’s mouth opened, ready to refute, ready to tear apart the very idea of protecting the weak—when Kyojuro’s voice continued, calm but absolute, silencing him before the words could form.
“The only thing I wished I could have done that night after— if I had come out alive of that train was—” Akaza flinched at that last part, but Kyojuro continued, he didn't seem mad or sad, he had long made peace with that, “it was to tell my little brother, Senjuro, personally that I believe in him. That no matter what path he chose, his older brother would always be there and proud of him. No matter what, no matter how lonely it became—he had to keep that same passion burning inside his heart.”
Akaza sat in silence, eyes lowered to the fire that was Kyojuro Rengoku.
The words pressed against him in a way he couldn’t quite name. He had no family, no ties of blood to compare this feeling to, and so he told himself he couldn’t empathize. Yet somewhere deep inside, like an ember buried in ash, the memory surfaced.
Live a righteous life.
“Of course, the young Kamado kept his promise and transmitted my message flawlessly— he also keeps my brother company in my absence, and they have evolved into good friends… so there's nothing else I could've asked for, even after my death” Kyojuro said with a soft laugh, breaking the stillness, “Akaza telling you this might not change your point of view, or how you feel as a demon. But you were once a human. Someone who tried their best with the only possibilities available to them. There is strength in sacrifice too, you know.”
Akaza shook his head violently, averting his gaze from Kyojuro’s blazing presence for the first time, if only for an instant.
He struggled to maintain his composure—he knew that Kyojuro could burn him, and instinctively he tried to keep his distance from that searing light.
Once his breathing had settled he turned to face the embodiment of fire again in a defensive posture.
“So what! you’re telling me that—just because I was a human who might have suffered—I’m forgiven for everything I’ve done as a demon?”
“No.” The former Flame Hashira shook his head firmly. “Even after your death, you will have to pay for the crimes and the lives you’ve taken. Even if it costs you hundreds of years to atone, only then could you be forgiven… and maybe reincarnated.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in heaven and hell, Kyojuro.” he laughed bitterly.
“I do and I believe you could achieve it Akaza.”
Kyojuro touched his shoulder again—the same shoulder as before. The contact lasted only a few seconds, but it lingered on Akaza’s mind, a warmth that spread through him and refused to fade.
It was more than the touch itself; it was the feeling of someone placing their hopes on him, of being seen and believed in. He had longed for this more than he realized, the quiet reassurance that he could be counted on, that he mattered.
Kyojuro’s hopes… set on him? That was new. And yet, as impossible as it seemed, it stirred something deep inside him—a fragile, almost forbidden craving for more.
The demon didn't know how to answer that so silence fell between them, but it wasn’t oppressive. Akaza didn’t find it unnerving—if anything, he felt something close to peace. Sitting there beside Kyojuro was like brushing against a memory of life, of freedom, something he hadn’t felt in centuries.
He felt the ghostly sensation of two small, feminine, soft and gentle hands cupping his cheeks, and a refreshing, delicate voice lingering in his mind.
Just as fire can melt ice—ice can soothe fire just as gently.
“I will always accept a future with you Hakuji-san, no matter what, I'll never leave you alone”
Who was that??
At last, the demon broke the silence, his voice carrying the weight of a question he had buried for too long.
“Why am I here, Kyojuro?” His mind was reeling for the first time he was tired and confused.
“You don’t seem to understand, do you, Akaza?”
“What? Enlighten me then—my master.” Akaza’s smirk curved wider, his tongue wrapping around the word with mocking flirtation.
The blond man rolled his eyes at the flippant remark, but his tone carried unshakable gravity. “The reason you're here Akaza is because— these are your memories as a human.”
The smile on Akaza’s face faltered, disbelief twisting his features as he shook his head. No. This can’t be. Kyojuro is wrong. None of this made sense—he didn’t remember any of it.
That child, even with his relentless determination, couldn’t possibly reflect what his own life had been. He couldn’t accept it. He refused. He was sick of Kyojuro and this endless nonsense.
“NO!”
The scream tore out of him, raw and furious, startling even Kyojuro. Akaza surged to his feet, trembling with fury, his mind blank with rage. Kyojuro rose as well, his stance firm, his expression hard as stone.
“Ha! Ha! You really think I’ll fall for this twisted game of yours!?” Akaza roared, shoving him back with all his anger. “Kyojuro! Tell me—are you just so sad about your own life that you drag me down here to show me an even sadder one and call it mine!?”
His laughter was manic, hollow. “You come here, preaching these pathetic life lessons as if you’re some kind of savior, dictating what’s good and what’s wrong!”
His voice cracked into a snarl. “You fucking hypocrite! And to think I was even entertained by this pathetic lie! Come on, tell me I’m wrong! Tell me this bullshit about protecting the weak while being strong isn’t the biggest lie of them all!”
Kyojuro’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “Akaza— I would never lie about something as precious as life and family!” He got close to Akaza and added, reaching to him with a hand but stopping half way it made contact with the upper demon. “I would never lie about something I wasn't convinced about! Please come here again… sit next to me again and let's calm down.”
“I will not calm down! I’m fucking tired!” He turned around looking at the darkness as if searching for an answer on the dark-blue sky, he couldn’t keep looking at the fire that was—
His mind was spinning, a storm of anger and disbelief he couldn’t contain.
“Do you want me to empathize with a pathetic excuse of a life? That I became a demon because I couldn’t even save a useless father who was weak enough to hang himself while his only child went out to fight for both of them!?”
Akaza’s chest heaved, his thoughts a jumble of anger, grief, and disbelief. Every word he spat out felt like fire, but inside, a deeper confusion churned—he didn’t even know what he was trying to say anymore.
“Akaza! Don't ever talk or express yourself about your father like that! I will not tolerate it!” For the first time, Kyojuro’s calm broke, his voice firm, heated.
Akaza flinched, he couldn’t look around and see what he imagined was Kyojuro's pained face. The accusation was confusing him further.
He knew Kyojuro was mad at him and honestly it wouldn't be the first time he saw that sight directed at Akaza, he wanted to shout back, but the words tangled in his throat.
“Akaza, don't you get it?! He lived his life wishing he could give you more! He was ashamed—ashamed of watching his only blood suffer because of him! He wanted to apologize and lift that burden—”
“Shut up! That’s what weaklings do—they make excuses for themselves!”
Akaza’s voice cracked on the last word, a mixture of anger and guilt that made him feel hollow inside. Kyojuro noticed that.
He heard how Kyojuro took a step closer, always so strong— his voice softening yet remained firm.
“Akaza—he wanted to live with you but not at the expense of you spending your whole life stealing from other people or stealing away from yourself… from who you could be—”
Akaza opened his mouth to respond, but his thoughts scrambled. Every word Kyojuro said hit a nerve, yet he couldn’t untangle what he felt. Fire and blame and longing clashed inside him, leaving him trembling with confusion.
“Akaza you could stop this now, don’t let Muzan steal who you are…the part of you that wants to protect, the part that still cares. You don’t have to lose yourself to him!”
“Shut up, Kyojuro!” Akaza’s roar cracked through the night, his body trembling as his rage spilled over.
“If that’s so!” He finally managed to turn around and just as he expected he saw Kyojuro looking at him— but it wasn’t anger… what expression was that one supposed to mean? It didn’t matter.
The pink-haired continued ”then why did he do it?! I could take the whips! I could take them breaking my bones even for a hundred years—for my father’s sake! But the medicine was expensive! Don’t you understand? It was my purpose as a son to take care of my father! I would have been happy to die instead—if it were for his sake!”
The words tore from him like a confession he never meant to give, and at last his strength broke. He collapsed onto his knees, hands covering his face, nails digging so deep into his skin that blood welled against his cheeks. His breath came ragged, raw with anguish.
And in that moment, Akaza could feel it all—the sting of every lash burning across his back, the brutal weight of the whip tearing his flesh; the throbbing pain of tattoos being carved into his skin, branding him as a criminal— the endless ache of losing the only family he had… and the blood—his own blood, his enemies’ blood—coating his fists long before he ever became a demon.
“Kyojuro, say something!”
But nothing came. There was no one to hear his sorrow once again. He need to let it all out!
Akaza’s voice ripped through the empty forest, echoing against the trees. He was alone.
No trace of the golden-haired swordsman, no steady gaze—only silence. His throat tightened as the cry broke from him again.
“Akaza!”
“Kyojuro… I need you.”
“AKAZA.”
The voice thundered through his mind—his master’s call, cold and absolute. The burning wounds on his back stitched themselves shut, flesh knitting in seconds.
That was the gift of being a demon: no lash, no wounds, no physical torment could ever last. But the agony that raged inside him now was deeper than blood and bone, a pain that no regeneration could erase.
“AKAZA— this immature nonsense ends here. Finish the lives of those petty humans—end then.” He heard his laughter. “Only then you will feel nothing. Only then will the hurting stop.”
He was probably right but still— Akaza raked his own skin, desperate to tear out the hurt gnawing at his insides, yet the torment would not stop—for it was never of the body.
Maybe his master had the answer to his plea.
“Yes… Muzan-sama. I want the pain to end.”
And then, suddenly, it ceased.
And just like that, the forest vanished. He stood once more in the Infinity Castle.
Before him stood Giyu—the Water Hashira— barely shifted into a new stance, eyes sharp, breath steady, broken blade ready for another round.
Akaza’s lips curled into a bitter smile. He would end it all here—this endless torment—would finally be silenced.
Yes… Muzan-sama was right. If I killed them, the pain would end.
If he obeyed every order as he has done before, the gnawing emptiness would vanish.
This was not defeat. This was release.
And so, right here, right now—once and for all—he would finish this pathetic, sad story.