The Hashira meeting had concluded beneath the tranquil sky of the Ubuyashiki estate. Faint birdsong echoed through the pines, and sunlight filtered gently through swaying leaves. One by one, the Pillars departed in solemn silence—each like a drifting shadow, their minds heavy with duty and dread.
The war with the demons was escalating. Rumors of strange disappearances, moving shadows, and Lower Moons on the rise had reached the ears of the Master. There was little comfort to offer, only resolve. And so, the Hashira left, their hearts steady, their blades ready.
But one figure remained behind.
Kyojuro Rengoku lingered at the stone steps, casting a glance over his shoulder. There, near the entrance to the estate gardens, stood a swordsman he hadn't seen during the meeting—yet whose presence was unmistakable.
He did not pace. He did not speak. He simply stood, as if carved from wind and light.
Crimson hair fell down his back like a silk banner catching the breeze, and the sun caught on the red-and-white hanafuda earrings that swayed against his neck. There was something ancient about him—not in age, but in aura. He felt not like a man, but a memory given form. A whisper from another time.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
The name itself was legend. Passed down in quiet reverence among Demon Slayers for generations. A swordsman who had once stood alone against Muzan Kibutsuji and brought him to the brink of destruction. A man whose Sun Breathing gave birth to every style that came after. A figure many assumed was long dead, his legacy now myth.
But here he was.
Alive.
Real.
And radiating a calm so deep it unsettled the world around him.
Kyojuro inhaled slowly. His flame rarely flickered with uncertainty—but this man, this presence, shook something deep in his spirit. Not fear. Not intimidation. Something harder to name.
Respect… perhaps. Or awe.
He stepped forward, voice carrying its usual warmth and conviction.
"Yoriichi-san!"
The swordsman turned, not startled, but as if he had been waiting. His amber eyes locked onto Rengoku's—calm, unblinking, ancient. They held no arrogance, no challenge. Only depth. Like the surface of a still lake, hiding an ocean below.
He said nothing. But in that silence lived a thousand stories.
Kyojuro bowed his head slightly. "Forgive the interruption," he continued, offering a smile that gleamed as bright as firelight. "But I wished to speak to you. Your presence today… it's an honor."
Yoriichi tilted his head slightly, as though measuring Rengoku—not in strength, but in spirit.
Still, no words.
The wind shifted. Tree branches swayed. A crow cawed in the distance.
Something about the quiet between them felt sacred. Like the pause before a duel—or a prayer.
Rengoku shifted, clearing his throat. "Kagaya-sama has given me a mission aboard a train where civilians have gone missing. He has… requested that you accompany me."
A long silence passed.
Yoriichi didn't move. But in his eyes, something flickered—something distant. A shadow of recognition at the word train, perhaps. Or maybe at the mention of civilians, innocents needing protection.
Slowly, he nodded.
"…I will go."
His voice was soft, yet each syllable landed like a temple bell. Resonant. Absolute.
Rengoku brightened. "Excellent! Together, we will protect, whatever demon dares show itself."
Calm being Yoriichi—but a small shift in posture, a barely perceptible acknowledgment of the Flame Hashira's unwavering spirit.
For a long moment, Yoriichi remained silent. Something flickered in his eyes—like a memory surfacing, soft and distant.
"…I understand."
His voice was quiet, yet carried the weight of mountains. No hesitation. No doubt. Only calm, steady acceptance—like someone long resigned to the wheel of fate.
Rengoku's grin brightened. "Excellent! With you by my side, no lives will be lost tonight. The train awaits!"
Yoriichi nodded once. His movements were fluid, as if untouched by time itself. Without another word, he fell into stride beside the Flame Hashira.
As the sun sank beyond the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of blood and fire, the two Demon Slayers walked toward Hamugin Station—where destiny waited.
As they neared Hamugin Station, Yoriichi slowed his steps.
The great machine loomed before them—iron-clad and massive, its surface gleaming with rivets and smoke. Steam hissed from its valves like the breath of some sleeping beast. Its front glared with a single, round eye of glass that glowed faintly in the twilight.
Yoriichi stared in silence.
He had seen many things in his long life—castles burning, demons howling under a blood-red moon, men rise and fall like waves—but this… this was unlike anything his era had ever conceived.
"A… metal serpent," he murmured, amber eyes narrowing in quiet awe.
Rengoku noticed his pause and smiled. "Ah, yes! It's a train. Runs on steam and fire—faster than any horse. Astonishing, isn't it?"
Yoriichi's gaze traced the lines of the engine, the mechanical heart pounding within it. There was power here—not spiritual, but forged from iron, flame, and human will. It was unnatural, yet strangely beautiful. A testament to how far the world had come in his absence.
"So much has changed," he said quietly. "Even the silence of night sounds different now."
Rengoku tilted his head, thoughtful. "Change can be disorienting… but not all of it is bad. Some of it means we're moving forward."
"With steady steps, they neared the train, the moment of departure drawing near."
A scream ripped through the dusk.
Shrill, panicked, and raw.
Both swordsmen froze.
From the crowd, people scattered like birds. A girl—no older than ten—was yanked backward, feet dragging helplessly across the ground. Her small arms flailed in the air, reaching for someone, anyone.
A twisted figure emerged from behind the station columns, half-shadowed, half-exposed in the fading light. His limbs were long and crooked like broken branches, his skin covered in jagged scars that pulsed and writhed as if alive. Wild eyes bulged from a skull-like face, and long claws clutched the girl's neck.
His lips peeled back in a grin soaked with blood.
The Slasher Demon.
A creature whispered about in fearful voices from village to village—a killer of wanderers, children, and lone travelers. He was said to strike just before the last light of day, when even shadows weren't safe.
"Back off, or she dies!" the demon snarled, voice rasping like metal on bone. Saliva dripped from between yellowed teeth, and blood smeared across his chin like war paint.
Everything moved at once.
Rengoku's hand flew to his katana, his stance snapping into form as his voice thundered:
"Let her go!"
But even as the words left his mouth—
Clang.
There was no warning. No sound of footsteps. No shout.
Only the shriek of metal on air—and a flash of silver light.
The demon's body stiffened.
Yoriichi stood behind him, sword drawn, blade still humming.
For a breathless moment, nothing happened.
Then, the demon's neck split cleanly in two—a perfect cut, so smooth it looked like the world itself had cracked.
The girl's eyes widened as the claws around her throat loosened. She fell to the ground in a heap, coughing, but unharmed.
The demon's head toppled forward, expression frozen in disbelief. His mouth opened, perhaps to speak… but he crumbled into ash before the words could leave his lips.
Silence reclaimed the platform.
All eyes were on Yoriichi.
He stood motionless, sword still lowered, his expression as calm as if he had merely swept away a leaf on the wind.
Rengoku stared, stunned. His flame-honed senses could barely register what had happened. He hadn't seen the draw, the strike—only the result. It was like the man had moved between time.
"Your swordsmanship…" Rengoku said, stepping forward slowly, his voice hushed with reverence. "It's… beyond comprehension. The way you moved—so precise, so fast—I could barely follow it. That kind of mastery… that's not just the strength of a Hashira. It's something else entirely."
Yoriichi sheathed his blade in one fluid motion.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
The crowd, still in shock, began to murmur. A few brave souls clapped. Others knelt beside the girl to comfort her. A mother rushed over, clutching the child to her chest as tears streamed down her face.
Yoriichi turned away without fanfare, already moving toward the train steps. The moment had passed. For him, saving the girl was not heroism—it was duty.
Rengoku watched him go, his admiration growing with every step.
This man… he thought, heart pounding. He's not just a swordsman. He's a force.
Kyojuro stood beneath a warped rail arch, haori torn and singed, but spirit unbroken. The last rays of daylight painted molten gold across his face, the red tips of his hair glowing like embers caught in the wind. Behind him, the train rumbled low, steam curling from its engine like breath from the mouth of a slumbering beast. The iron tracks shimmered in the dusk like veins carrying something ancient and alive.
He exhaled quietly, a steadying breath—not from weariness, but reverence. The moment before any mission always held a particular stillness, as though the world knew what might be lost next.
Then—
a gasp broke the silence.
"…Shinjuro…?"
The name cut through the heavy air like a crack in glass.
He turned.
An elderly woman stood just a few steps away on the platform, hunched with age yet upright with sudden recognition. Her weathered face had gone pale, lips parted as if caught mid-memory. Beside her stood a small girl no older than seven, her tiny hand tightly gripping the woman's kimono. The girl's eyes, round and unblinking, stared at Kyojuro as though he had stepped out of a story rather than from shadow.
The woman's other hand lifted instinctively, trembling as it reached forward—not to touch, but to remember. The way her fingers hung in the air spoke of someone clinging to time that had already passed.
She wasn't mistaken without reason.
Shinjuro Rengoku—the man she had named—was once a legend that scorched through demon-filled nights. In his prime, he had stood among the Hashira with a presence so intense it seemed to make the very air shimmer around him. As the former Flame Pillar, his swordsmanship was unmatched, his will like burning steel. His face had been younger then—less burdened, more alive—but the haori, the stance, the flame-like hair… it was unmistakable.
Memories had a way of clinging.
Now, in the twilight, the son stood where the father once had—identical in silhouette, and yet utterly his own. A flame born of the same fire, tempered not by age but by choice, clarity, and compassion.
Rengoku blinked, then stepped forward gently, his expression kind. "Pardon me, madam," he said with a respectful bow. "You must be thinking of my father."
The woman's lips parted, but no words came out. Her gaze lingered on his face, as though searching for proof in the shape of his jaw, the curve of his brow—memories caught in a body not quite the same.
"I… I knew him," she finally whispered. "Years ago. You look just like him…"
Kyojuro's expression softened—not out of discomfort, but understanding. He recognized the look in the woman's eyes. It was not just confusion, but longing. Remembrance. Grief. And something tender that hadn't quite faded despite the passage of years.
He offered a warm, sincere smile. No need for correction. No need to explain that he was the son, not the father. The resemblance said enough. So did the silence between them.
The wind shifted again, tugging gently at his haori, revealing the flicker of his sword hilt. The woman's breath caught in her throat once more. Whether it was from grief or admiration, Kyojuro did not know.
But he bowed once more, a gesture of respect—to the memory she held, and to the life he now lived in that memory's shadow.
And then, like passing flame, the moment flickered and faded.
With nothing more than that silent exchange, Kyojuro turned from them and walked toward the waiting train. The platform behind him slowly returned to its quiet rhythm, the woman lowering her hand at last, her fingers brushing the small girl's hair.
Ahead, Yoriichi waited at the steps of the passenger car, his figure framed in the rising steam. He hadn't moved. His eyes, calm and timeless, had followed the scene without a word. But in that stillness, there was understanding—deep and ancient. He, too, knew what it was to carry ghosts in your blood, to live while others had passed, to wear the face of someone no longer here.
Kyojuro offered him a nod as he ascended the steps. Their eyes met briefly, no words exchanged.
None were needed.
And so, with only the hiss of steam and the rumble of iron beneath them.
( A/N :- This chapter has been rewritten after three months—it's been a while since I last worked on it.)