I used to think training was the hardest part.
It wasn't.
The hardest part was pretending that everything was fine.
Every day, I smiled, worked, danced, and laughed with my siblings. Every day, I acted like I wasn't racing time—like I didn't know how this story would end.
But the smiles were real.
So was the warmth in my chest when I held baby Nezuko for the first time, her tiny fingers curling around mine. Or when Tanjiro brought home a stray crow, proudly declaring he had a new friend. It flew away the next morning. He cried. I gave him my wooden toy hawk, and he smiled through the tears.
These memories kept me sane. Maybe even human.
---
By the time I turned eight, my training had grown more focused. I'd mastered the footwork of the first five forms of the Hinokami Kagura. My breathwork could now sustain me through a full morning of uninterrupted dancing.
But technique alone wasn't enough.
My body was still that of a child.
So I began to build it—quietly, methodically.
I chopped twice as much firewood as before, carrying two logs at a time instead of one. I ran longer trails into the mountains, learning the terrain, cataloguing every ledge and tree root. I trained my grip strength by hanging from tree branches until my arms gave out.
Father noticed. He didn't say much, but once, when I was stretching my legs after sundown, he left a cloth-wrapped object by the door.
Inside was a small, handmade training bokken.
It wasn't much—just a wooden sword, sanded and shaped with care—but when I held it, I felt the same reverence I imagined Tanjiro would feel when he one day held a Nichirin Blade.
I bowed deeply, even though Father had already gone back inside.
This gift was more than wood. It was belief.
---
The Kamado house was often filled with noise now—good noise.
Nezuko, growing more curious and energetic by the day, had a laugh that echoed like bells down the hill. Takeo had begun following me around, trying to copy my movements. Hanako would braid wildflowers into my hair when I meditated under the cedar trees. Even little Rokuta, barely able to walk, would wobble to me with his arms outstretched, demanding to be lifted like a triumphant warrior.
Tanjiro and I spent more time together too.
He liked to accompany me into the forest. I taught him how to read the wind, how to spot rabbit tracks, how to listen for the telltale crack of a dry twig snapping underfoot.
Sometimes we just sat by the stream, skipping stones.
"Why do you train so hard, Nii-san?" he asked once.
I hesitated.
"To protect you," I wanted to say. "From things you don't even know exist."
But I couldn't. Not yet.
So I simply said, "Because I want to be strong enough to keep smiling, no matter what happens."
He didn't understand, but he nodded, eyes wide with admiration.
---
I asked Father deeper questions about the dance, trying not to seem too curious.
"Who taught you the Dance of the Fire God?" I asked.
He gave a soft chuckle. "My father. And his before him. We don't know where it started. It just... always was. It's tradition."
Tradition.
He didn't know its true power. But maybe it was better that way. Let him dance in peace, unaware of the war that lay behind every motion.
---
When winter returned, it came with biting winds and blankets of snow, like it always did.
I danced longer in the cold. The freezing air forced me to control my breath better—to conserve heat, time my exhalations, steady my core. I learned to listen to my body. When it trembled, I slowed. When it warmed, I pressed harder.
And one night, something changed.
I finished the first five forms in sequence under the moonlight. My breath flowed without pause. My feet moved with precision. I felt the snap in my core—the same feeling I'd had during the bear encounter, but clearer.
It was a click, like the tumblers of a locked door finally aligning.
My breath no longer felt like effort. It felt like rhythm. Like the wind itself was moving with me.
I had no name for it, but I knew what it was.
My first step into the edge of Sun Breathing.
---
"Big brother, why do you always train at night?"
Takeo asked me that one evening, his face sleepy but full of curiosity.
"Because the stars remind me to keep going," I said, ruffling his hair.
"Can I train with you when I grow up?"
I smiled. "If you want to. But only if you still find it fun."
Takeo grinned and nodded, then stumbled off to bed.
---
The New Year came.
This time, Father couldn't finish the dance.
He collapsed midway through the night, coughing violently, blood flecking his lips. We rushed to help him, and though he brushed it off with a tired smile, I saw the look in Mother's eyes.
Worry. Grief.
She already knew.
After we got him to bed, I stepped outside. The snow had stopped, but the sky was still full of stars.
I lit the lantern. I took position.
And for the first time, I danced alone from sunset to sunrise.
When the final form ended and the first rays of dawn broke over the trees, I knelt, chest heaving, heart ablaze.
This time, it wasn't practice.
It was a vow.