Tanjiro stood firm in the heart of the mansion, face-to-face with the demon whose every movement twisted the space around them. The tsuzumi embedded in Kyogai's body pulsed like a war drum, rotating the rooms with maddening rhythm—left, right, ceiling to floor. Walls changed, gravity shifted, but Tanjiro remained steady, eyes narrowed.
Kyogai glared, frustration etched into every line of his face. "You mock my art… my blood demon technique… My drum creates beauty in battle!"
Tanjiro didn't answer. His gaze wasn't filled with hatred—it was focused, precise. Even in the heat of battle, he noticed the demon's pain. His worn claws. The desperate hunger for validation. This was not just a monster—it was a fallen soul clinging to fading pride.
But Tanjiro's compassion didn't soften his resolve.
He observed the rhythm. The pattern.
One tsuzumi on the left shoulder—room rotation. Another on the stomach—claw strike. He dodged, rolled, and deflected in seamless motion.
The pain in his legs—still injured from previous battles—flared. But he gritted his teeth. No room for weakness. He was fighting not just for himself, but for the terrified boy hiding behind him.
"Water Breathing, Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust!"
He dashed through the narrow corridor of spinning walls, his blade slicing clean across Kyogai's chest.
The demon staggered.
But he beat the drums again—walls twisted violently, and a claw ripped through Tanjiro's shoulder.
Blood sprayed. He winced, dropping to one knee.
"You must keep moving. Watch the rhythm… Time it…"
Tanjiro's eyes burned with clarity.
He steadied his breathing.
"Water Breathing, Tenth Form: Constant Flux!"
The sword spun like a watery spiral, growing faster with each cycle. Tanjiro sprinted low, closing the distance between each beat. Kyogai screamed and beat every drum at once—but the room was no longer chaotic.
It was a melody.
And Tanjiro was dancing through it.
With a final strike, his blade swept clean through Kyogai's neck.
Silence.
No more drums. No more shifting walls. Just the still air of a fallen stage.
Kyogai's head fell, but his tears came first.
"I… was worthy… I played something beautiful…"
Tanjiro bowed his head in respect, heart heavy. "Your blood demon art… had form. But your path led to cruelty. That's where you fell."
He gathered the blood sample for Tamayo and carried the frightened child back toward the others.
Outside, the house trembled.
Zenitsu, holding the battered Nezuko box close, stood between it and Inosuke's blade—protecting her with all his fear, all his heart.
Tanjiro returned in time to stop Inosuke's assault.
Breaths heavy. Swords lowered. Tension slowly uncoiled.
In the morning sun, the mansion behind them collapsed into stillness.
Three boys stood on scorched earth—one calm, one panicked, one wild.
None truly friends yet.
But something had started.