"I'm truly sorry," Rengoku said, bowing his head slightly toward Tanjiro. "Ever since my mother passed, Father has been… like this. His mind isn't well."
Tanjiro waved his hands quickly. "No, no—it's fine!"
He didn't take offense at all. In fact, a part of him agreed with the old man's words.
He's right… I am still too weak.
Even if that was Rengoku's father, Tanjiro shouldn't have reacted so slowly.
Just one step back—and he'd needed both his sister and Rengoku to save him.
He clenched his fists.
I have to get stronger.
After exchanging a few polite words outside, the group followed Rengoku and entered the mansion.
Soon they gathered in Kyōjurō's room, where his younger brother, Senjurō, brought over a dusty old volume and handed it carefully to Chika.
It was the "Record of the Flame Hashira"—a book written by each generation of the Rengoku family, passed down from one Flame Hashira to the next.
Most of it contained technical notes, but the oldest section—written by the first Flame Hashira—was said to record the origins of the Dance of the Fire God, the technique tied to the original Breath of the Sun.
Tanjiro was practically trembling with excitement.
At last, he would learn the truth behind his family's inherited dance.
Chika, however, looked utterly calm.
She already knew what she was about to see.
She opened the book casually to any page—because it didn't matter which one.
Almost the entire thing had been torn apart.
Only shreds of parchment remained, edges jagged and blank.
Not a single full sentence survived.
Even though she had expected it, Chika still couldn't help the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Wow. He really committed to this bit. You can't even tell what language it used to be in.
Seeing her expression, both Kyōjurō and Senjurō immediately looked apologetic.
"It must have been Father," Kyōjurō admitted, rubbing his neck awkwardly.
"But don't worry!" he added, determination lighting his face. "Even if he tore it up, Father must still remember what was written. I'll go ask him right now!"
Before Chika could say, "Wait—!", he was already gone.
The Flame Hashira strode down the wooden corridor, his steps echoing softly through the old house.
He wasn't just going to ask about the book.
He wanted to speak to his father—to reach the man who once inspired him.
In Kyōjurō's memories, his father had been a gentle and admirable man—strict but kind, someone who'd once taken pride in both his family and his duty.
He couldn't accept that this broken figure before him was the same person.
At that moment, Shinjurō sat outside his room, staring blankly into the distance with a half-empty sake bottle in hand.
The Breath of the Sun… the original Breath…
The thought replayed endlessly in his mind.
He remembered what he'd read in that book—back before he tore it apart in despair.
The Warring States Era, when demons roamed unchecked.
And in that chaotic age, a man was born—Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
A man born with the Demon Slayer Mark, a condition that should have killed him by twenty-five.
But he had lived to old age, defying fate itself.
He was the creator of the Breath of the Sun—the origin of all breathing techniques.
Others tried to imitate him, but none could reproduce the divine precision of his movements.
Their imitations became the derivative Breaths—Flame, Water, Wind, and the rest.
The Demon King Muzan Kibutsuji was a monster beyond human measure.
But Yoriichi had been even greater—a being standing on the very roof of the world.
When Muzan first encountered him, one glance was all it took for him to realize—he was prey.
In an instant, Yoriichi had cut Muzan into a thousand pieces.
The Demon King had fled in terror, traumatized for eternity.
Yet even that man… could not kill him completely.
Yoriichi had later sent a letter to the first Flame Hashira, documenting his failures, his techniques, and his regrets.
That letter was what Shinjurō had once read in the Record of the Flame Hashira.
If even he—the man chosen by heaven—could not destroy Muzan…
Then what hope did the rest of them have?
What could mere imitators, wielding pale shadows of divine techniques, possibly accomplish?
The thought hollowed him out from the inside.
He had once loved being a Demon Slayer.
But after reading those words, the fire in his heart began to die.
He couldn't bear to watch his sons walk the same doomed path.
In his mind, anyone unable to use the Breath of the Sun was forsaken by heaven—destined only for death.
He wanted to protect them by pushing them away.
And so, he drank.
He insulted.
He drowned the ache in bitterness.
As he reached for another sip, the bottle ran dry.
"Out already?" he muttered. He sighed and stood, intending to refill it.
That was when he heard footsteps.
"Father."
Kyōjurō stood there, holding a steaming cup of sober-up tea.
In the old days, before his wife's death, she would pour this for him whenever he drank too much.
Now, her son was doing it instead.
Shinjurō looked at the cup but didn't reach for it. His voice was low and rough.
"Why are you here? Don't you have guests to entertain? Leave me be. You're annoying."
Kyōjurō only smiled, unfazed. He set the cup gently beside him and sat down.
He didn't start with questions about the book.
He started as a son, speaking to his father—not as a Hashira to a former Hashira.
"I'll carry on your dream, Father," he said quietly. "And until that dream is complete, I won't die."
Shinjurō snorted. "Foolishness. We have no talent. For men like us, only death awaits. Even the man chosen by heaven couldn't kill the Demon King—how could we?"
Kyōjurō fell silent. The usual smile faded from his face, replaced by rare seriousness.
"Father," he said at last, "the man you call 'chosen by heaven'… I think he's the most pitiful person of all."
The words made Shinjurō's head snap toward him in shock.
"Pitiful? That man?"
Kyōjurō nodded. His eyes were firm.
"By your logic, Father, the Demon Slayers of that era must have felt the same way you do now—weak, untalented, worthless.
So they placed all their hopes, all their burdens, on one man's shoulders.
But imagine his loneliness.
Everyone called him a savior, yet no one stood beside him.
Isn't that pitiful?"
He was right.
Tsugikuni Yoriichi—the strongest man in history, yet the loneliest.
Born a twin, deemed cursed by his own father.
His mother died young.
His wife and unborn child were slaughtered by demons.
His beloved brother turned into one.
And when he finally faced that brother again in old age, he couldn't bring himself to strike him down.
A life of endless strength—and endless loss.
He could cut through anything, except the weight of his own sorrow.
The strongest man in the world…
and the most pitiful.