The sound of wind chimes danced through the gardens of the Eighth Division. Petals drifted lazily in the sunlight that filtered through the paper walls. For a place meant for the dead, the Soul Society always looked far too alive.
Tanjiro sat kneeling in silence, his black uniform drenched in sweat. The wooden floor beneath him was littered with splinters from a hundred broken practice swords. His breathing was steady — slow and measured — but his eyes were distant.
It had been years since he first woke up in this world.
Or maybe centuries.
Time had stopped meaning anything.
---
The Trickster Captain
A door slid open behind him with a lazy creak.
Captain Shunsui Kyōraku entered, his pink kimono fluttering, a sake bottle swinging loosely from his fingers.
"Still awake, Tanjiro? I told you, even souls need rest," he drawled, yawning.
Tanjiro's head dipped politely. "I'll rest once my spirit feels clean, Captain."
Shunsui chuckled. "Clean, huh? You're still trying to wash away guilt with sweat? You'll dry up before you finish that."
The words stung, but Tanjiro didn't answer. He knew Shunsui wasn't mocking him — he was probing, testing the cracks that time hadn't healed.
"Tell me," Shunsui said, settling down beside him, "how many years do you think it's been since you arrived?"
Tanjiro's hands froze. "I stopped counting at four hundred."
"Hmm," Shunsui murmured, taking a sip. "Then you've been here almost two thousand. You've seen recruits become captains, captains fade into myths… yet you still train like it's your first day."
The old captain looked up at the endless blue sky.
"It's almost poetic. A boy who carried the Sun in his heart, stuck in a place without one."
---
Fire in the Soul
Shunsui flicked his fan open. "Come. I'm bored. Let's see if your spirit pressure still trembles like a human's."
Tanjiro stood. His wooden sword burst into dust as his Reiatsu flared — a shimmering scarlet light burning from his chest outward. The ground trembled lightly; the air grew thick.
But Shunsui was gone.
A whisper at his ear — "Too slow."
A strike came from behind. Tanjiro spun, parrying instinctively, but Shunsui's presence vanished again.
"You're thinking too much," Shunsui's voice echoed. "Reiatsu isn't about force. It's about intent. The spirit's language."
Tanjiro inhaled.
Memories of Nezuko flashed through his mind — her warm smile, her quiet hums at night, her blood burning under sunlight.
The warmth turned into rage.
He exhaled. The red flame around him darkened into black-gold.
Shunsui's eyes widened slightly. "Ah… you've begun to speak that language."
Their swords clashed. Each strike echoed through the courtyard like thunder. When they finally stopped, the cherry blossoms had been burned to ash.
Tanjiro knelt, panting.
Shunsui's tone softened. "You remind me of my younger days… when kindness still frightened me more than power."
---
Lessons of the Trickster
Over the next centuries, Tanjiro trained under Shunsui's eccentric guidance. Sometimes, the captain made him sweep the division's hallways until dawn. Other days, he'd challenge him to drink contests where losing meant meditating for days on a single falling leaf.
Tanjiro never understood the purpose — not at first. But over time, he realized Shunsui's methods were meant to teach awareness, not strength.
"Every soul leaves a scent," Shunsui once told him as they walked through the Rukon District. "To sense Reiatsu, you must learn to smell the air between breaths."
It was those words that reawakened something in Tanjiro — his old talent, the Keen Nose that once guided him as a Demon Slayer. Now, that sense evolved beyond smell; it could feel emotion itself.
He could sense hatred curdling behind a murderer's grin… sorrow buried under laughter… and eventually, his own heart beginning to hollow out.
---
The Frozen Centuries
The longer Tanjiro stayed, the quieter he became.
He stopped smiling.
He stopped counting the cherry blossoms that bloomed each year.
He even stopped speaking Nezuko's name aloud — afraid time would twist it into something unfamiliar.
At some point, Shunsui stopped calling him "kid."
He simply called him Kamado-san.
By the thousandth year, Tanjiro's presence had become a rumor in the Seireitei — the nameless soul who trains under the lazy captain but never joins a division.
No one knew what he was waiting for.
Neither did he.
Until the day his Zanpakutō finally spoke.
---
The Awakening of the Blade
It happened in the middle of a storm.
Tanjiro had been meditating alone under a dead tree when lightning split the sky. The world around him shifted — the air turned thick and molten, and suddenly he stood inside a realm of burning clouds.
A voice whispered:
"The Sun that Died… yet Never Set…"
A figure emerged from the inferno — a silhouette of flames wearing a haori made of ash.
"You've spent two thousand years burying your warmth," the voice said. "Do you remember who you were, Kamado Tanjiro?"
He couldn't speak. Tears seared his eyes as memories poured back — Nezuko's laughter, Giyu's solemn vow, Muzan's cruel smile beneath the blazing sun.
"You seek strength not for life… but for closure."
The figure raised a burning blade.
"Then take it. Call my name."
Tanjiro grasped the hilt. The moment his fingers touched the flame, the entire realm ignited.
He screamed the name that came to his soul — but in the mortal world, the sound vanished, leaving only a burst of light visible from every corner of Soul Society.
Shunsui watched from a distant rooftop, smiling softly.
"So, you've finally found it… your Shikai."
---
Two Thousand Years Later
By the time two millennia passed, Tanjiro had become an enigma. He appeared unchanged — ageless, calm, eyes like dying embers.
Few dared to approach him.
Those who did claimed that standing near him felt like standing before the Sun itself.
He rarely drew his blade anymore.
He no longer needed to.
The mere pressure of his Reiatsu could silence a hollow from miles away.
Shunsui, now older and wearier, found him again in the same garden. "Still training, Kamado-san?"
Tanjiro's voice was quiet. "If I stop, I'll remember."
"Remembering isn't a curse," Shunsui said gently.
"It is when what you remember… is the end of everything you loved."
Shunsui sighed. "Then perhaps it's time you stop being a ghost here. Your soul's light has outgrown this world."
Tanjiro looked up. "You mean—?"
Shunsui smiled faintly. "I can't stop you if you decide to leave. Just… don't burn the gate on your way out."
---
Return of the Sun
That night, Tanjiro stood before the great Senkaimon, the gate that bridges worlds.
His sword hung at his side, its guard shaped like a blazing wheel.
He whispered a short prayer — not to gods, but to memories.
"Nezuko… Giyu… wait for me."
As he stepped forward, the air rippled. His Bankai stirred — the final evolution of his spirit. The world around him warped into blinding gold.
In that moment, Tanjiro's form dissolved into sunlight.
The gate behind him cracked open, revealing the blue skies of another world — his world.
The one he had left burning in memory.
---
Epilogue – The Breath of the Sun, Again
On the other side of that gate, far below, the Earth trembled.
Demons screamed under the scorching daylight that no longer hurt them.
Muzan Kibutsuji stood on a mountain of corpses, laughing at the sun that now bowed to him.
Until the sky split open.
A single ray of light, purer than any flame, fell from above.
It wasn't sunlight.
It was Reiatsu.
And within it, a voice echoed — calm, ancient, cold:
"Muzan… I've come back."