The afternoon sun beat down on the training grounds, but the heat radiating from Kyojuro Rengoku was far more intense. The Flame Hashira stood with his hands on his hips, his golden-red haori billowing like a living fire.
"So! You are the young doctor who set the porch ablaze!" Rengoku's voice boomed with a terrifyingly cheerful energy. "Show me this 'Wildfire'! Let us see if your spirit burns as bright as they say!"
Henry Jekyll bowed, his Japanese manners impeccable, though he felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. He drew his blade—the steel still a neutral, shimmering silver—and took the stance he had discovered through the rhythm of the universe.
"I am honored, Master Rengoku," Henry said softly. "But please, be cautious. This style... it does not always behave as I intend."
The spar was a blur of gold and crimson. Rengoku moved with the structured perfection of Flame Breathing, his strikes like solar flares. But as Henry countered, the air didn't just heat—it ignited in a continuous, rolling wave. The Wildfire Breathing was fluid, circular, and possessed a raw, ancient purity that seemed to consume the very oxygen around them.
Rengoku parried a particularly fierce circular slash and leaped back, his eyes wide with genuine wonder. "Magnificent!" he shouted, a wide grin splitting his face. "The heat... the flow! Young Jekyll, your style possesses a fundamental power that surpasses even my own Flame Breathing! It is as if you are drawing from the sun itself!"
Henry lowered his blade, breathing heavily. "You are too kind, sir. It is merely... a natural resonance."
While Rengoku roared with laughter and praise, a cold presence moved toward the small table where Henry had left his medical bag. Giyu Tomioka, the Water Hashira, stood silently, his dark eyes fixed on the rows of glass vials.
Giyu picked up a small, amber-colored bottle. The liquid inside was thick, swirling with a strange, metallic sediment. He could smell the sharp, clinical sting of Western chemicals, but beneath it, there was a scent he couldn't identify—something heavy and repressed.
"What are these?" Giyu asked, his voice a flat, haunting calm that cut through Rengoku's boisterous shouting.
Henry turned, his heart skipping a beat. He stepped toward Giyu, gently but firmly taking the vial back. "Those are my medications, Mr. Tomioka. As a physician, I carry various treatments for the nerves and the blood. They are... essential for my health."
Giyu stared at Henry. His intuition, honed by years of hunting demons, felt a jarring dissonance. The boy looked like a scholar, and he smelled of Wisteria and herbs, but that liquid felt like a cage for something violent.
"Medication," Giyu repeated, his gaze never leaving Henry's eyes. "It has a strange weight for simple medicine."
"The science of the West is often misunderstood here," Henry replied with a polite, practiced smile, though his grip on the vial tightened. "I assure you, it is merely to keep my constitution stable."
Giyu said nothing more, but as he walked away, his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. He didn't trust the "light" of the Wildfire any more than he trusted the "darkness" he sensed in the boy's leather bag.
******
The seven days of the Final Selection were a blur of wisteria and blood. Henry moved through the dark woods of Mount Fujikasane, his Wildfire Breathing illuminating the night. He passed with flying colours, his forms so efficient that the demons barely had time to scream before their heads hit the forest floor.
Unbeknownst to Henry, a shadow trailed him. Giyu Tomioka watched from the canopy, his silent presence merging with the trees. Giyu saw the brilliance of the boy's light, but midway through the third night, he saw Henry stumble. A violent tremor took hold of the youth; his breathing became ragged, and for a fleeting second, his aura shifted into something jagged and predatory.
Giyu gripped his sword, sensing a dark, hulking shadow rising within the boy. But Henry was quick. With trembling hands, he reached into his pouch, pulled out a vial of his serum, and drained it. Almost instantly, the shadow shriveled, becoming weak and subdued. Henry wiped his mouth, regained his gentlemanly composure, and continued his march. Giyu remained in the shadows, his doubt deepening even as the boy's "light" returned.
Upon descending the mountain as a survivor, Henry was asked to select an ore. He chose a heavy, dark stone that seemed to hum with a hidden energy.
Weeks later, a man wearing a Hyottoko mask arrived at the headquarters, carrying a long bundle and breathing heavily with anticipation. Hotaru Haganezuka did not offer a polite greeting; he lunged toward Henry, thrusting the sword into his hands.
"Draw it!" Haganezuka barked through his mask. "Let's see what the Westerner's spirit does to my steel!"
Henry gripped the hilt and slowly unsheathed the blade. As his fingers made contact, the shimmering silver began to change. It didn't turn blue like water or red like flame. Instead, a deep, obsidian stain crawled up the metal until the entire blade was pitch black.
Haganezuka went dead silent, his mask tilting as he inspected the steel. "Black," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "It is said that those who carry a black blade never live long enough to become Hashira. It is a color of bad luck... an omen of an uncertain path."
Henry looked at the dark reflection of his own eyes in the steel. He didn't see an omen; he saw a mirror.
"I am a man of science, Mr. Haganezuka," Henry replied with a calm, solemn smile. "I do not believe in superstitions or 'bad luck.' Black is simply the presence of all colors combined—or perhaps, the absence of light. Either way, it is a tool. Nothing more."
Haganezuka grumbled, dissatisfied with the logical answer, but Henry felt the sword's weight. It was perfect. As he sheathed the black blade, he felt a faint, appreciative thrum from the "other" within. The beast liked the color of the void.