Chapter Text
The night sky was shrouded with thick clouds. Large flakes of snow fell from the sky, covering everything in their path. The sound of rapid footsteps crunching in the snow and panting cut through the serene atmosphere. Somewhere deep in the woods, the cold burned his skin as Tanjiro ran stumbling as the snow gave way beneath his feet. His sense of smell was numbed by the harsh weather; the falling snow obscured his vision, and all he could hear was a voice in his head telling him to run as far as possible, for as long as his legs would carry him. The throbbing in his muscles was accompanied by another strange, foreign feeling—like a swarm of cicadas buzzing inside him, fighting to escape. As exhaustion began to overtake his senses, his steps faltered, and he collapsed into the snow.
Suddenly, darkness began to envelop Tanjiro's surroundings, drawing him deeper into a void of unconsciousness. Somewhere, he could still feel the dull ache of his cheek against the snow, but the sensation was being drowned out by fatigue, lulling him into a deep slumber. He wanted to succumb, but the voice in his head still screamed:
"Wake up! You need to move! The closer you are to the Butterfly Mansion, the more at risk everyone is! Think of your friends! Think of Nezuko!"
The shouting echoed through his mind, and he managed to open his eyes just enough for the cold to make them water. He wanted to listen to the voice—whoever it was, their sound brought an odd feeling of comfort, but they sounded serious, as if some danger was nearby. Tanjiro strained to sniff out any signs of threat, but the cold dulled his senses to the point that it was impossible to detect anything. As he lay there, the echoing voice began to fade, and the weight in his eyelids grew increasingly unbearable—sleep tugging insistently at his mind. He couldn't will his body to move, even if he wanted to.
His body felt like it was made of lead, as if his weight was sinking him deeper into the snow. This time, he couldn’t feel the cold on his cheek; instead, warmth spread throughout his whole body, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his fingers, and the pangs of hunger became easier to ignore. As his mind began drifting fully into slumber, the familiar soothing voice shouted once more, distant now. It lingered in his mind, desperate and urgent, like a plea clawing its way through the fog of exhaustion:
"Think of Nezuko!"
Tanjiro felt that name was important, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember who it was.
Darkness pulsed behind his eyelids, steady and rhythmic, as if his heart were beating somewhere outside his body. Each breath he drew in tasted faintly of ice. Sounds drifted in and out, muffled as though they were filtered through water—obscured, impossible to grasp. Still, warmth blossomed in his chest, spreading outward to fill every hollow space within him, wrapping him in an immense, deceptive comfort. Whatever voice had called to him before was swallowed by the calm, soothed into silence.
Images flickered through his mind—flashes of red, an outstretched hand, violent sobs. Each time Tanjiro reached for them, the light warped and dissolved, slipping through his fingers like sand. Something tugged at him from above, urging him upward, urging him to open his eyes… but the warmth held him firmly, so inviting… so heavy.
The ground beneath him shifted, thin beams of light cutting through the dark like cracks in a shell. Something sharp pricked at his senses. The comforting stillness curdled into a suffocating pressure, the earth beneath him crumbled, and Tanjiro felt himself falling.
The warmth thinned. A cold draft sliced across his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing instinctively for impact—but none came. Instead, his feet settled firmly onto solid ground again, as if nothing had happened at all.
Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the light. Shapes and colors swam before him, blurred and indistinct. He blinked a few times, trying to steady his vision.
A tremor rippled through his body as the world snapped abruptly into focus.
Tanjiro was frozen in place, mouth agape, as he stared at the scene before him. All too familiar. A mind-numbing chill ran down his spine, and sweat began to bead along his forehead despite the winter air. The smell of blood overflowed his nose—thick, metallic, suffocating. The mangled bodies, the torn flesh, and the carnage etched themselves into the back of his mind like a brand. It was impossible to tell how many bodies lay among the slaughter—four? Five? Just as his pulse began to race, his eyes locked on one of the bodies: a young boy. The red hue of the boy’s eyes—now waxy and lifeless— triggered a painful flood of memories that surged Tanjiro’s consciousness.
His breaths quickened, and his knees wobbled, barely supporting his weight. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing—was this his family? No. No, it couldn’t be true. He must still be in old man Saburo’s cabin, trapped in some horrible dream. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe it.
A thousand questions raced through his mind, panic rising in violent waves. Who could have done this? Was it a bear? Or a wolf? His stomach twisted with disgust, his mind flickered with memories of stories he heard in the past, stories of man-eating demons. Is it possible? Could a demon have done this? Just as he tasted bile rising in his throat, he felt a smaller, trembling hand squeeze his. Tanjiro forced a hard gulp, managing to keep the vomit down, and finally pried his gaze away from the nightmare in front of him.
A young girl stood at his side. She was as still as he had been moments earlier, her eyes fixed on the blood-soaked room. Those wide, pink eyes trembled, stretched with terror, tears clinging to her lashes.
Tanjiro didn’t know why she seemed familiar—not at first. But instinct overrode memory. He squeezed her hand back and pulled her against his chest, shielding her from the sight he couldn’t bear to look at himself. She squeezed her eyes shut, clutched the back of his haori, and sobbed, her cries muffled against his shoulder.
The wobble in his legs became too much, and he dropped to his knees in the snow, still cradling the girl in his arms.
A few quiet seconds passed, and the girl finally raised her head to face Tanjiro. He looked into her tearful eyes—her pink irises reflecting the same raw fear that riddled his every sense—and somewhere deep inside, something strained for memories he still couldn’t resurface, screaming at him to remember.
She drew in a shaky breath and parted her lips to speak.
“W…what are we going to do, Onii-chan?”
Onii-chan? Tanjiro thought.
The word struck him like a blade, the name the voice had called out at him before tore through his mind.
That’s right.
This girl was his sister.
This girl was Nezuko.
How could he have forgotten?
He blinked, and once again, Tanjiro was engulfed in darkness. The memories of what had happened moments before drifted away, thinning like smoke no matter how desperately he reached for them.
Where was he?
Why was this happening?
The questions echoed faintly, swallowed by the void. The darkness heaved around him, until a low hum stirred in its depths, tugging at the edges of his awareness.
Before Tanjiro could make sense of it, light suddenly pierced through the black. It spilled into the space in a blinding rush, sweeping away the shadows that clung to him. He flinched, turning his face, but the light only grew brighter, pulling him forward as the darkness collapsed behind him.
Suddenly, Tanjiro found himself kneeling before five graves, a lit stick of incense pressed between his hands as he prayed. Nezuko knelt beside him, mirroring his movements, eyes closed in silent reverence. Confusion took hold of him. Whose graves were these? Had he and Nezuko dug them? None of this made sense.
Fragments of memory flickered—brief, broken flashes of the tragedy that had befallen his family. And then, with a strange, distant clarity, the truth settled in.
Right. His family was dead.
Tanjiro drew a steady breath and rose to his feet—his body moving before he could even will it to—then extended a hand toward Nezuko.
“Come on, Nezuko. We have a long journey ahead of us,” Tanjiro said with a bittersweet smile, attempting to mask the pit of sorrow swallowing his heart.
Nezuko took one last lingering look at the graves, her eyes glassy with fresh tears threatening to fall. She turned away, blinking hard, and reached up to take her brother’s hand.
As Tanjiro and Nezuko walked, the graves shrank in the distance behind them. He let his gaze linger, watching the pairs of footsteps they left in the snow—footsteps that would remain with their beloved family forever. As the siblings left the only home they had ever known, hazy fragments of a night long past began to surface. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire, smell the cooking meal, hear the voice of old man Saburo—though the details wavered, half-remembered, as if glimpsed through a veil. Saburo had spoken of man-eating demons that roamed the earth at sundown, and though similar stories had reached them from their grandmother, something about this one had been different. There had been mention of the Demon Slayer Corps, and of a fabled Slayer wearing a Tengu mask atop Mt. Sagiri, said to train young aspirants—though Tanjiro wasn’t sure if he had truly heard it before or if the memory had been imagined.
Even amidst the haze of recollection, one truth anchored itself firmly in his chest. He would avenge his family. No matter the cost. No matter the danger. No matter if it meant chasing a man who might not even exist. Every step he took, every heartbeat, carried that vow with him—a silent, unbreakable promise that the shadows of loss would not consume him. He would push forward despite the pain. No one he cared for would ever be hurt again. He would make sure of it.
The walk with Nezuko was mostly silent. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, eyes glazed over, yet she clung to Tanjiro’s hand with an iron grip. Tanjiro held his head high; as the eldest son, he knew he had to be strong—for Nezuko, for their family. Every step he took carried the weight of responsibility, a quiet determination to see them through whatever lay ahead. In his left hand, he gripped the axe he had used to chop wood just the day before, their only means of protection should danger arise. The path to Mt. Sagiri was long and harsh, and he needed to ensure their safety.
He trudged through the snow steadily, never stumbling once, as if his legs had a mind of their own. His mind, however, was a stark contrast to his unfaltering steps. Confusion churned through his thoughts in a relentless stream. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong—that this had all happened before, and he was merely reliving it. His steps felt too familiar, and the world around him seemed incomplete, with gaps in the scenery, like ink bending in water as if he were walking through a dream.
Or a memory.
Through the thinning trees, a faint light glimmered in the distance. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps it was the path he was meant to follow. Either way, Tanjiro tightened his grip on Nezuko’s hand, and together they began to walk towards it.
Tanjiro’s steps toward the shining light felt soft and weightless, as though he were walking on a cloud. The closer he came, the more numb his body grew, the sensation of Nezuko’s hand in his slowly fading. He tried to turn his head, to look back at where he had been, but the warmth of the light soothed his mind, and the memory of his surroundings slipped away like mist.
He closed his eyes, the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet already beginning to drift. Even though he could no longer recall exactly what had been happening, he knew this place was different—somewhere apart from where he had stood moments before. And he knew, with a quiet certainty that pressed at the edges of his awareness, that he was alone.
Where will I be taken this time? Tanjiro wondered.
His pondering persisted as he drifted through the void he had grown so familiar with. Though he still couldn’t make sense of what he had seen—these people and places that felt so close, yet impossibly distant—he knew he was witnessing them for a reason. They must be important; they had to mean something to him. But his mind moved like a rushing river, thoughts slipping past before he could grasp them, never lingering long enough to make sense of anything.
He expected the tranquilizing warmth to fill his body once again, but instead, a sweet, floral scent reached his nose—like honey spilling into every corner of his senses. The aroma caught Tanjiro off guard, a stark contrast to anything he had recently experienced. It carried a profound sense of safety, and he allowed himself to relax into its comforting embrace. His feet touched the ground again, taking slow, deliberate steps. A light breeze grazed his face.
Tanjiro opened his eyes to a marvelous sight—hundreds of purple wisteria trees stretching endlessly before him, their petals releasing that same enchanting fragrance. He took in everything around him: the full moon glowing bright in the night sky, the wooden fox mask resting against his head, the blue haori patterned with clouds clinging gently to his frame, and—most striking of all—the blade sheathed at his hip. Tanjiro halted, staring at the sword as if it were a looming question. Where had it come from?
He had no memory of obtaining it—or any of these possessions, for that matter. Frustration prickled at him. He was growing weary of the unanswered questions, of a memory that slipped through his grasp every time he reached for it. He could recall nothing in full—only drifting fragments, scattered moments, and the void he always seemed to return to.
Everything around him felt foreign, unfamiliar… yet the sensation persisted that he was meant to be here, that he was supposed to remember something—anything.
“Onii-chan? What’s wrong?” Nezuko’s voice wavered with concern.
Tanjiro collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his sleeve, muffling a sob. He didn’t understand why he felt so overwhelmed—not fully—but questioning it did nothing to stem the tide. The sweet aroma of the wisteria trees blended with the anxious scent stemming from Nezuko. He heard her footsteps shift, then hastily backtrack toward him.
She crouched in front of him. Tanjiro could almost feel her thinking, sorting through what to say. Then her scent changed—lighter, teasing, almost playful.
“You know, Onii-chan… if you were this scared, you should’ve told me!” she said, puffing out her cheeks in exaggerated seriousness. “I guess I’ll just have to go to Final Selection all by myself.”
Tanjiro lifted his head, eyes red, meeting her gaze. A coy smile tugged at her lips.
“Maybe this will finally prove which one of us is stronger,” she added with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Tanjiro couldn’t fight the grin that broke through, reassurance washing over the melancholy he felt. Even after everything—after however much time had passed—Nezuko was still the same funny, stubborn little sister he remembered. The world could change, years could slip through their fingers, but she would always be his Nezuko. Always his little sister.
She offered him a hand up, and as he reached for it, he noticed the rough callouses lining both their palms. Years of effort. Years of struggle. Years they had endured side by side. He let her pull him to his feet, and together they continued down the path, hand in hand. The callouses were proof of everything they had survived—harsh, grueling, but shared. And that, more than anything, gave him strength.
The siblings continued down the path until they reached a red torii gate. Passing beneath it felt like stepping into another world. The air grew still, heavy with anticipation, and the rustle of the wisteria behind them faded into a muted hush.
They emerged into the clearing, where roughly thirty other aspiring slayers were gathered. Tanjiro slowed, taking in each face one by one. They were all young—no older than he was—yet every expression was carved with the same fierce resolve. Eyes that had seen too much. Shoulders held stiff with the weight of responsibility. Kids who should have been worrying about chores and family dinners, not demons or death.
Tanjiro inhaled. Beneath the faint sweetness of wisteria, he caught the sharper smells of fear masked by determination, stubborn courage, and hearts beating too quickly. These were people who had been pushed to the edge long before their time. People just like him… and yet nothing alike at all.
Nezuko squeezed his hand once before letting go, stepping forward with her chin raised. Tanjiro followed her lead, grounding himself with one last steadying breath.
No matter what was to come, they would face it together.
Tanjiro and Nezuko joined a crowd that had gathered near a gate farther ahead, where two young girls stood—one black-haired, the other white-haired—each holding a lantern. Their resemblance was uncanny; they were undoubtedly sisters.
Both girls wore placid smiles, serene in a way that felt strange for children so young. Tanjiro wondered how they managed to appear so composed, almost ethereal, radiating a calm far beyond their years. One after the other, the sisters explained the conditions of Final Selection: the participants were to survive in the forest for seven days, a place where demons roamed freely. Those who endured would be granted a place within the Demon Slayer Corps.
A sudden, throbbing pain pulsed through Tanjiro’s head, catching him completely off guard. He pinched the bridge of his nose, brows knitting tightly as he winced. The voices of the sisters fell on deaf ears; Tanjiro was now preoccupied with another sound.
It was awful—taunting—and it hammered relentlessly in his ears. Tanjiro couldn’t tell whether he was truly hearing it or whether it lived only inside his mind. He shut his eyes hard, searching for even a single recognizable word that might offer clarity, something to ground him in this haze of tangled memories. But there was nothing. No words he could discern, no answers waiting for him.
As the headache intensified, a cold dread washed over him. This voice… he knew it. He had heard it before. And whatever it had once said had wounded him deeply.
Frustration flared. The voice didn’t make him angry at it—it made him angry at himself, as though every indistinguishable word pulled some hidden fault to the surface.
It felt like hours had passed as he stood there, absorbing the excruciating echoes of ridicule. He could have remained frozen forever—but then, a firm hand gripped his shoulder, breaking the spell. The voice vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Tanjiro turned to find the owner of the hand—and of course, it was Nezuko.
She looked at him with a bright smile, seemingly unaware of the mental battle he was just fighting. Her scent radiated anticipation and excitement. Her courage was commendable, and Tanjiro's heart swelled with pride.
"Let's go, Onii-chan! Don't chicken out on me now!" Nezuko exclaimed, tugging the sleeve of his haori, urging him toward the entrance of the forest.
Tanjiro smiled softly. As long as they were together, nothing bad could happen. He wouldn't allow it.
The siblings stepped out from the safety of the wisteria grove, venturing into the woods where they would soon be forced to fight for their lives against the lurking demons.
The forest wasted no time revealing the dangers hidden within. Shapes snarled in the shadows, and Tanjiro caught sharp, suffocating whiffs of bloodlust drifting through the trees. The first demon descended from above, forcing the siblings to dodge as its attack slammed into the earth, leaving a small crater in its wake.
Tanjiro was confident he and Nezuko could handle a single demon—but just as he lowered into his stance, a new scent cut through the air. A second demon burst from the bushes, lunging straight for Nezuko. Before Tanjiro could call out, she had already slipped out of its reach; her speed never failed to amaze him.
The demons turned on each other, snarling and arguing over who had the right to their “prey.” The siblings seized the moment.
Tanjiro sprang upward, blade arcing behind him as he readied Water Breathing, Fourth Form: Striking Tide, while Nezuko moved with precise, fluid steps, drawing her sword for First Form: Water Surface Slash. Their blades met no resistance, both demons being finished off effortlessly, their bodies crumbling to ash.
Confidence surged through Tanjiro; all those years of grueling work had finally amounted to something—they were stronger now, no longer helpless before the monsters that once terrified them. Emotions pulled at his chest. This was proof he could protect others now. Proof he wasn’t powerless anymore.
Just as he was about to offer Nezuko his praise, a terrified scream—followed closely by a nauseatingly acrid stench, interrupted him. Tanjiro recoiled, raising a hand to pinch his nose in an attempt to minimize the overwhelming odor. Nezuko tensed beside him, eyes sweeping the darkness. She had always possessed a superhuman sense for looming danger, and Tanjiro trusted her instincts just as much as his own.
"Something's close. Can you smell where it's coming from?" Nezuko asked, voice woven with bone chilling seriousness, her eager demeanor from before nowhere to be found.
Tanjiro lowered his hand and shut his eyes.
Find it.
Find the source.
Total Concentration.
He visualized the swirling scents around him narrowing, sharpening—threads of aroma pulling taut, aligning into a single, streamlined trail. And then he saw it: a clear path, guiding him straight toward whatever danger awaited in the dark.
“I found it,” Tanjiro said, turning to Nezuko.
She nodded, her expression firm with tenacity.
Without another word, he sprinted toward the source of the scent, Nezuko right on his heels. There was no need for further discussion—the scream belonged to someone in danger, and that was all they needed to know.
The journey wasn’t long. After only a minute of running, Tanjiro spotted another slayer through the trees—blood trickling from a wound on his forehead, eyes wide with terror. When he finally broke into a clearing, the sight stopped him cold.
An enormous demon towered before him, larger than any he had ever seen. Its body was a writhing mass of dozens of arms, with one twisted around half its grotesque face. Tanjiro’s gaze dropped, and his chest tightened: another slayer was trapped in its grip, limp and lifeless, blood gushing from his eyes, his body crushed between the creature’s monstrous grip.
Something about the sight of the demon brought back the splitting headache he had felt earlier. Tanjiro shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Now wasn’t the time for questions. The slayer trapped in the demon’s hold might already be beyond saving, but Tanjiro would stop at nothing to ensure the other’s safety.
The massive demon hungrily devoured the prey it had captured, then extended an arm toward the defenseless slayer on the ground. In an instant, the siblings darted towards the scene with astonishing speed, Nezuko just slightly faster than Tanjiro. He moved to pull the slayer out of harm’s way, while Nezuko’s blade struck with deadly precision, slicing through the demon’s attacking arm.
The severed arm struck the ground and crumbled away. Tanjiro made sure the other slayer got to safety, while the monstrous demon fixed its gaze on the siblings, studying them with an unsettling, almost curious intensity. Then, with alarming speed, the missing arm regenerated, muscle and flesh knitting back together in seconds. The demon’s face twisted into a jarring, unnatural smile.
Tanjiro rushed back to Nezuko’s side; whatever awful feeling had crawled up his spine, he knew she felt it too. The tense air soured as uncomfortable snickering rippled through the clearing. The demon’s eyes stayed fixed on them, its laughter growing vicious, more unruly with every bellow.
Tanjiro clenched his teeth, his hand tightening around his sword’s hilt until his knuckles turned white. Something about that laugh stirred a furious pressure inside him—an anger swelling like a rising tide, the floodgates straining to hold back the tsunami straining to break free.
"I've never had two little foxes come to me at once," the demon said, voice laced with sickening delight, "it must be my lucky day."
Tanjiro and Nezuko locked eyes, sharing a brief look of confusion. The demon seemed to revel in it, stretching its grin wider as though trying—badly—to smother a laugh. The siblings stayed tense and silent while it began counting aloud, lifting a finger with each number.
“...eleven, twelve, thirteen...” The demon paused, a sheepish chuckle slipping out. “And that makes you two numbers fourteen and fifteen!” it exclaimed, pointing a finger at each sibling.
Tanjiro could smell the rage emanating off Nezuko; she had never been able to stomach the sight of death—especially not at the hands of a demon, so this one’s mocking demeanor after just killing a human being right in front of them, only heightened her hostility. She couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.
“What do those numbers mean?” she asked. Her voice was steady, almost calm, but Tanjiro knew it was only a façade.
The demon never broke its shrewd stare, that subtle grin still carved across its face.
“It’s the number of Urokodaki’s disciples I’ve devoured,” it sneered, its aura dripping with amusement. “I can tell by the fox masks—those carvings are just like the ridiculous one he wears.”
The demon’s voice rose, swelling with fury. “After he trapped me here all those years ago, I swore I’d kill every one of his students. Every last little fox.”
All at once, the demon sprouted a dozen more arms, each one tensing to strike. Nezuko moved first—darting past an incoming blow with a fluid grace Tanjiro hadn’t yet come close to mastering. She slipped through the flurry as if she were water itself, weaving between the arms without a single misstep. In the span of a heartbeat, her breathing shifted, and she sliced through almost every arm in a sweeping arc—Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance.
Ice pooled in Tanjiro’s veins. The demon’s words hit something deep inside him—something tangled, half-formed. Flashes of memories—events that hadn't happened yet, harassed every corner of his mind, blurred but insistent, as though trying to force their way through. And that strange anger from earlier surged again, clearer this time, like the demon’s voice was dragging some buried truth toward the surface.
Tanjiro forced himself to focus. He couldn't get distracted—not now. Nezuko shouldn't have to face this monster alone, and she certainly shouldn't be the one protecting him. He steadied his breathing just in time to see the demon staring at Nezuko with something like twisted admiration. Another grin—more unsettling than the last—stretched across its face.
“I haven’t seen a Water Breather that skilled since that peach-haired brat with the scar,” the demon mused, inching closer to Nezuko. “I’ll crush your skull in my fist—just like I did to his.”
Tanjiro’s fist tightened around his sword hilt so fiercely he thought the wood might splinter. The demon’s words replayed in a relentless loop—brief images of a peach-haired Water Breather flickering through his mind, the knowledge that this slayer had been killed by the creature before him igniting a heat that made his blood boil. But nothing enraged him more than the demon’s audacity to threaten his sister. Anyone who dared to endanger the ones he loved would have their fate determined by the edge of his blade.
Tanjiro lunged toward the demon, his attack fueled purely by emotion. He darted in front of Nezuko, positioning himself as her shield against any sudden counterstrike. An arm whipped toward him from the left—Tanjiro jumped, landing squarely on the incoming limb. His footing held, and he wasted no time severing the arm beneath him. But the demon wouldn’t falter from a wound like that; its massive size made that clear.
Dozens of hands burst from the stump, surging toward him from every direction.
Tanjiro tightened his stance, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing.
Total Concentration.
A long, measured breath filled his lungs.
Water Breathing, Sixth Form: Whirlpool.
A cascade of severed arms scattered around him, not a single one left intact. The demon reeled, stunned by the sheer force of the attack. Tanjiro seized the moment—shifting his footing in one fluid motion before sprinting up the length of the remaining arm, racing straight toward the demon’s head.
He could do it. He had to do it. He wouldn’t allow this monster to claim another innocent life. Anger surged through him in a single, focused current as he sank into his stance, every muscle coiled and trembling with anticipation.
Water Breathing, First For-
"Onii-chan! Watch out!"
Tanjiro suddenly felt a brutal force slam into his side, knocking him off balance and hurling him from the demon’s arm. The impact sent his vision spinning, fading in and out of focus.
In the split second he was airborne, a hundred questions tore through his mind. What hit me? Did I miss an arm?
He crashed into the earth, his breath forced from his lungs. Pain flared sharply at the back of his head, radiating outward in a dizzying pulse. Blood trickled from a wound on his forehead.
In this paralyzing state, Tanjiro suddenly became hyper-aware of the weight dragging through his limbs. Every movement felt thick, slowed—like he was wading through water. He’d been in states like this enough times to recognize the truth lurking beneath the surface: none of this was truly happening. Or rather… it had happened. Despite how vivid it all felt, there was something faintly artificial about it, as if the world around him were only a reconstruction of moments he had already lived—fragments of memories replaying themselves around him.
And yet, that realization only fed a quiet frustration in him; every time he slipped in and out of these fogged-over moments, the details scattered. He couldn’t hold onto what he’d just seen or felt unless something in front of him forced the pieces back into place. It was like trying to cup water in his hands—no matter how hard he tried, it kept running through his fingers.
Even now, a knot of dread told him something important was unfolding right before him—something he needed to stop, someone he needed to help—but the reasons wouldn’t surface. His vision swam, his ears rang, and every attempt to focus only made the haze thicken. He hated this. He felt useless. He was useless. Danger was close—he could smell the blood—but his body refused to move. All he could do was drown in the weight of his own helplessness, as if the world itself were forcing him to witness his failure. A punishment, maybe. A reminder of how weak he truly was.
Abruptly, the ringing in his ears stopped.
"How long do you plan to keep your butt on the ground?"
Tanjiro blinked hard, his vision finally sharpening enough to make out the figure now standing over him. It was a boy around his age, a fox mask hanging casually from the side of his head. His hair glowed a vibrant peach, catching the dim light and making him seem almost radiant. A thick scar ran from his right ear to the corner of his mouth, tugging faintly at his expression even as the rest of his face remained calm, unreadable. The boy’s appearance matched the flickering images of the Water Breather Tanjiro had glimpsed earlier.
He studied Tanjiro with an impassive, almost clinical stare—no sympathy, no annoyance, just blunt appraisal. The weight of that gaze alone sent a flustered heat shooting up Tanjiro’s neck. Why was someone looking at him like that, like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing? He scrambled for words, for anything at all, but only managed a stunned silence under the boy’s cool judgment.
The boy’s expression shifted to one of disappointment. He closed his eyes and let out a long, quiet sigh.
"I see you’ve still learned nothing," he lamented.
Tanjiro barely had a moment to gather his thoughts before the boy continued.
"You lie here, feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pathetic. I thought I taught you to think with your head, not with your heart."
The boy crouched down, his grey-lavender eyes sharp and focused now.
"How can you pity yourself if you don’t even remember who you are?"
Tanjiro’s eyes widened in shock. He searched desperately for a reason to reject the accusation—but all he found was the devastating truth. The boy was right. Tanjiro had truly lost all framework for who he was at his core, and when he thought about it hard, he couldn't even remember his own name.
He knew he was a brother. A son. He knew that he loved, and that he was loved in return. But those facts—if they could even be called that—floated through his mind untethered, lacking any anchor of identity. And if the truths of his love and bonds could drift so freely, then so too could every negative, festering thought run rampant, unchecked, with nothing to tell him they weren’t real.
Before his panic could spiral out of control, the boy spoke again:
"You must fight—fight for your memories like the man I know you are. If you don’t, you’ll never be free."
He placed a hand on either side of Tanjiro’s head, cradling it gently.
"As long as you know who you are, the darkness inside holds no power."
A soft smile crept across his face, a gentle contrast to the stoic expression from before.
"We’re always watching over you. I knew you and your sister would be the ones to avenge us."
Then, as if she’d been there all along, a dark-haired girl appeared at his side, adorned in a matching fox mask. Her deep cyan eyes looked at Tanjiro with quiet fondness, the same soft smile gracing her lips. For some reason, seeing them together made tears well in Tanjiro’s eyes.
"We believe in you, Kamado Tanjiro."
The pair vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, but their presence had left him with something invaluable. Memories flashed through his mind with unprecedented clarity—memories of the two who had helped him slice the boulder atop Mt. Sagiri. This time, their names came unbidden to him: Sabito and Makomo. Every cell in Tanjiro’s body thrummed with an exhilarating, almost electric energy. Strength surged through him, every sense heightened. The fog that had clouded his mind began to lift, and with it, his sense of self returned.
He rose to his feet, bracing himself to finish this battle. Blood dripped from the wound on his head, his vision still slightly blurred, but he steadied his stance. His eyes scanned the scene—and then he saw it. Nezuko lay sprawled on the ground, her body marred by multiple wounds. The most striking was a deep gash across her face, and her sword lay broken in two beside her.
His veins turned to ice, though the fire of wrath that burned in his heart could surely melt them. The demon's crude laugh filling his ears only fueled his fury. Panting hard, he lifted his gaze to face the monster that had done this to his sister.
"She fought hard, poor thing," the demon mocked. "She was close to cutting off my head, too. But you can see where that got her," it added, gesturing toward her broken sword.
Tanjiro’s instinct screamed to strike, to finish the creature then and there and make it pay for every sin. But Sabito’s words echoed in his mind: I taught you to think with your head, not your heart. He needed strategy, not blind rage. If someone as skilled and agile as Nezuko could be reduced to this, defeating the demon would not be simple. Yet hope still flickered—Tanjiro’s raw strength exceeded his sister’s. Perhaps it was enough to sever the monster’s head.
"What's wrong? Too scared to fight me? Or maybe you're too embarrassed, knowing you had to be protected by your little sister… how pathetic," the demon taunted.
The words twisted Tanjiro’s stomach. He couldn’t bear the sight of Nezuko so badly injured—all because he’d been careless enough to get himself knocked out. She had fought with everything she had to protect him until he woke, offering a protection he didn’t feel worthy of. What if he was in over his head? What if he truly wasn’t strong enough?
The demon seemed to savor the turmoil building inside him, delighting in every flicker of hesitation. But just as the voices of doubt threatened to swallow him whole, another voice drowned them out:
As long as you know who you are, the darkness inside holds no power.
Tanjiro steadied his breath. He clung to Sabito’s words—letting them anchor him, guide him through the storm inside his mind. Things were different now. He had reclaimed something vital.
He knew who he was.
I’ll kill it.
For Nezuko.
For Sabito and Makomo.
I won’t let anyone down again.
Before he knew it, his blade had sliced clean through the demon’s neck—and as its body crumbled to ash, this memory dissolved with it.
Tanjiro opened his eyes to find himself at the base of the mountain, near where he and Nezuko had begun Final Selection. The last thing he remembered was defeating that demon, and then everything had gone black. He turned to search for Nezuko—thankfully, she was right by his side, her injuries carefully bandaged. Though he had no memory of it, a quiet certainty told him he must have tended to her wounds himself. His gaze lingered on the bandage across her face, recalling the deep slash the demon had dealt her—he hoped it would leave no scar.
In the distance, the red torii gates marked the clearing where all the slayers had gathered a week ago; he wondered how many of them still remained. Beside him, Nezuko practically vibrated with energy. Even after everything they had endured, she brimmed with excitement. They had passed Final Selection. They had survived. Even with her broken blade and the bruises still healing beneath her uniform, Nezuko radiated triumph, her steps light and eager as she imagined the moment they would receive their official Demon Slayer ranks. Tanjiro couldn't help but admire her relentless spirit.
“I’ll race you there, Onii-chan!” she exclaimed, already tugging at his hand with a grin.
Tanjiro knew he didn’t stand a chance—Nezuko was far more agile, and every step made his legs throb after a week of pushing his body to its limits. How she still had so much energy was beyond him.
But none of that mattered. If running with her made her happy, then he’d run until his legs gave out. She deserved that and more.
“Okay, okay—are you ready?” Tanjiro crouched into a stance, his legs trembling beneath him. “On your marks… get set… go!” he shouted, and the two of them sped off toward the torii gates.
It didn’t take long for the gap between them to widen—Nezuko was already five meters ahead, her feet barely touching the earth. Every step Tanjiro took sent a jolt of pain up his legs so sharp he nearly stumbled, but he forced himself onward, eyes fixed on the red gates. He watched Nezuko reach the clearing first, triumphant as always, and he pushed himself the last few meters toward the entrance— until a breathtaking scent stopped him dead in his tracks.
Tanjiro froze, breath catching as the scent washed over him. It was unlike anything he had ever smelt—soft and soothing, laced with delicate notes of peach and citrus that seemed to wrap gently around him. Scents this vivid usually tugged at memories, but none surfaced. Instead, a warm, fluttering feeling unfurled in his chest, light and inexplicably tender—carrying with it a strange sense of recognition, as if some part of him had been waiting for it without ever realizing. The pain in his legs seemed to drift away; he was so at ease that his eyes had closed without him even noticing.
For a moment, everything else faded—the forest sounds, the distant rustling of Nezuko’s footsteps, even the cool mountain air against his skin. All that remained was that scent, sinking into him, smoothing out every frayed edge left by the week-long ordeal. His breath steadied. His shoulders loosened. It felt… safe. Comforting. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.
He drew in a slow inhale, letting the softness settle deeper.
What is this...? Who..?
Something inside him stirred—an instinct he didn’t recognize, pulling him forward before his mind could catch up. His hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for the source, drawn to it like a magnet. His heartbeat, which had been hammering from the race, now thumped with a different kind of urgency—gentler, but no less powerful.
Nezuko called his name from somewhere ahead, her voice bright with victory, but it sounded muffled, distant, as though he were underwater. Tanjiro blinked slowly, heavy-lidded, lulled by the scent’s warmth. It guided him, coaxing him to look.
And when he finally lifted his head, eyes fluttering open,
He saw a boy standing just beyond the torii gate.
His hair glowed a brilliant golden colour, unlike anything Tanjiro had ever seen.
Time seemed to freeze as Tanjiro stared at the boy’s back. He could feel that radiant scent emanating from him, and he wished—longed—for the boy to turn around, hoping the sight of his face would unlock some forgotten memory. The world felt still, silent, holding its breath, all focus drawn to the golden-haired boy shifting nervously before him.
As if reading his mind, the blonde boy began to turn around—his movement in slow motion, the light catching his hair beautifully. Tanjiro’s eyes stayed fixed on him, straining to catch a glimpse of his face. Every part of him screamed to move, to reach, but his legs felt rooted, as if the world itself held him in place.
Suddenly, a loud, erratic voice thundered in his ears—the same voice that had once comforted him, the one that had urged him to run as far as he could.
“Wake up! You need to wake up!”
Tanjiro watched, stunned, as everything around him dissolved like ash in the wind—mountains, the gate, his sister, the blonde boy—all vanishing into an endless, suffocating darkness. He wanted to stay, to watch the boy’s face, to remember, but the voice pressed on him, relentless, demanding. The boy, the scent, the warmth—they slipped just out of reach as the darkness swallowed everything.
A surge of dread gripped him as his head throbbed violently, the voice growing louder, impossible to ignore.
“Please, Tanjiro! Wake up! The sun is rising! You need to hide!”
The words made no sense, and the pounding in his head escalated into unbearable pressure, as if it might split his skull apart. In the surrounding void, a cold so frigid wrapped around him that he shivered, wondering how he had not already frozen solid.
Unexpectedly, a blinding burst of light erupted in front of Tanjiro. It offered no warmth—if anything, it made the cold feel enhanced, more biting. He tried to retreat, but the light seemed alive, creeping toward him relentlessly. The closer it came, the heavier the sensation pressed on him.
A deep, foreign buzzing thrummed within his chest, a feeling he couldn’t name or place. His body felt... wrong—altered in some subtle, unsettling way. And the emptiness in his stomach gnawed at him, a hollow ache that grew impossible to ignore. He was starving. So unbearably, painfully hungry.
The light swelled, impossibly bright and overwhelming. Tanjiro struggled, but resistance was futile—he surrendered, and the beam consumed him completely.
His eyes snapped open. Snow pressed cold and heavy against his back as he scrambled upright, brushing the huge blanket of white powder that had accumulated off himself. His body ached with stiffness, every muscle screaming, and his mind raced to catch up. Around him, the forest stretched in silent, frozen stillness, branches bowed beneath the weight of snow.
Had he been asleep this whole time? He remembered running through the forest, a guiding voice pulling him forward—the same voice that had just woken him. He remembered the exhaustion that had dragged him down, the moment he collapsed… and then nothing.
But now, the sharp chill of the snow, the solidity of the ground beneath him, the crisp air filling his lungs—all of it was real. He was awake. Finally, he was awake.
Yet, something in his chest stirred uneasily. The rustling he felt inside—alien, almost intrusive—like something was trying to claw its way out of his body. His senses felt sharper, unnaturally so; the scent of blood lingered faintly in the air, more vivid than it ever had been. His hands brushed against his body, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the subtle, restless pulse of something… other. Not just human. Something dormant, waiting, hungry.
Tanjiro swallowed hard. There was no panic, only a hushed, uneasy awareness. On a quiet impulse, he flexed his fingers and felt a strength that didn’t match memory—it was unnerving, unnatural.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to reckon with the thought: how was he not dead? It was undeniable by the amount of snow that had covered him, he had been here for multiple days. The cold should have killed any normal person long ago—but then again, Tanjiro didn't quite feel 'normal' anymore.
Tanjiro’s thoughts shattered as the rising sun spilled its light across the landscape, painting everything in brilliant gold. In an instant, the rays struck him, and a searing, excruciating pain ripped through his body. His skin felt as if it were burning, melting under the relentless heat of the sunlight. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to escape the agonizing blaze threatening to consume him. Even before he could think, his muscles tensed, ready to propel him away from the source of the torment.
He sprang to his feet, running faster than he ever had in his life, desperate to outrun the ruthless heat devouring his skin. His lungs burned, his chest heaved, but the pain only pushed him harder. Branches tore into his arms and legs as he barreled through the forest, yet he barely felt them—nothing mattered except escaping the merciless sun.
Then, through the haze of agony, he spotted it—a dark opening at the base of a rocky outcrop, almost hidden behind a thick cluster of pine trees. Desperation lent him more speed. His feet carried him there in a chaotic, stumbling sprint, and he flung himself inside just as the sunlight grazed the edge of the cave.
The darkness was immediate relief, cool and merciful against his burning skin. Tanjiro collapsed onto the stone floor, snow and dirt clinging to him as he curled into the shadows. His breaths came ragged and uneven, every tremor in his body a reminder of how close he’d come to being burned alive. He didn’t dare look at himself. He had no idea how much damage the sun had inflicted.
But he had to know.
With a reluctant breath, Tanjiro lifted his hands into the dimness. Bracing himself for the horrific sight, he forced his eyes to focus—
And froze.
His skin… was healing. Even as he watched, the blackened, blistered flesh knit itself together, smoothing into unblemished skin. Not a scar. Not even tenderness. Just perfect, impossible regeneration.
Heart pounding, Tanjiro raised a trembling hand to his face. His fingertips brushed smooth, untouched skin.
He went still. Completely still. His hand remained pressed to his cheek as his thoughts began to collapse inward. The unnatural feeling in his chest. The ravenous hunger twisting inside him. The way the sunlight had seared him. His body healing on its own.
Every piece pointed to the same answer.
Slowly, almost against his will, Tanjiro’s fingers slid to his mouth. He parted his lips—and felt them.
Sharp. Prominent.
Fangs.
A pit of ice opened in his stomach, deep and hollow, swallowed immediately by the surge of hunger clawing up his throat.
This isn’t possible, he thought—pleaded. But no matter how he tried to deny it, the conclusion remained.
He wasn’t human anymore.
He was a demon.