Shinjurō sat in silence, his son's words echoing in his mind.
The talentless were pitiful.
The chosen were pitiful as well.
Those without talent could never reach the heights touched by those blessed by heaven.
Even the Twelve Kizuki were formidable beyond measure—what hope did ordinary swordsmen have against the Demon King himself?
Yet those so-called "chosen ones," though they soared higher than anyone else, stood utterly alone.
From the perspective of power, Tsugikuni Yoriichi could have easily slain Muzan Kibutsuji—yet in the end, he failed.
But what if… back then, when Yoriichi first met Muzan, he hadn't been alone?
What if he'd had comrades—trustworthy, determined souls, even if they lacked his divine gift?
Perhaps then… Muzan might never have escaped.
Shinjurō tilted his head toward the open sky. The vast blue above felt different today—brighter, wider.
Maybe the scenery had always been there. Maybe he'd just refused to see it.
When he turned his gaze back to Kyōjurō, for the first time, he saw—not a boy—but a man who had surpassed him.
A son stronger, steadier, and far greater than he had ever been.
He lifted the cup of sobering tea that had sat untouched beside him, hesitated for only a moment, and downed it in one gulp.
A refreshing clarity washed through his fogged mind.
"Kyōjurō," he said at last, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. "If there's anything you want to ask, do it now."
It was the first time since Ruka's death that he had accepted sobering tea.
A small act, but one that marked the end of his long, drunken descent.
Ruka… forgive me. You must have despised the sight I became.
Soon after, Kyōjurō heard from his father the fragments that remained—what the Record of the Flame Hashira once said about the Hinokami Kagura.
When the story was done, Shinjurō turned toward him and asked quietly,
"So? Now that you've heard it all, do you still feel so confident?"
Kyōjurō furrowed his brows for only a second—then smiled again, radiant as ever.
That brief crease eased the weight in Shinjurō's chest.
Yes, he thought, he's nothing like me after all.
"Father," Kyōjurō said suddenly, "I want to show you something."
Shinjurō blinked. "Something? What?"
Before he could ask further, a metallic shing! rang out—Kyōjurō had drawn his Nichirin blade.
For a moment, Shinjurō's still-tipsy brain leapt to a ridiculous conclusion—
He's not planning to cut me down, is he?
He quickly shook the thought off. "What are you doing with that?"
"Just watch, Father."
Kyōjurō's tone was light, but his stance was unwavering.
He gripped the hilt with both hands, and the air around him seemed to thrum.
Even without concentration, Shinjurō could feel the heat, the energy, radiating off him.
Then it happened.
Within seconds, the red markings on Kyōjurō's Nichirin blade deepened—
then flared to life.
From the hilt upward, the crimson glow surged like molten flame, swallowing the entire sword in a living blaze.
Shinjurō's eyes widened. "Th-This…!"
As a former Flame Hashira, he could feel it instantly—
This wasn't a mere color change.
The sword's heat, its very will, had awakened.
The aura pouring from it was enough to make demons tremble tenfold.
Has the Corps advanced so far… while I wallowed in drink?
Kyōjurō rose, his blade still burning like a fragment of the sun.
"Father," he said firmly, "we will end the demons in this era—completely."
.........
By nightfall, the group had already left the Rengoku estate.
They hadn't stayed the night—there was too much to do, and the Corps was always short-handed.
Pillars didn't have the luxury of long rests.
As always, Senjurō stood by the gate to see them off.
But this time, as the travelers disappeared into the dusk, a second figure stood deeper inside the house—
Shinjurō Rengoku, quietly watching them go.
Their journey back to headquarters was quick but relentless.
Chika soon realized that travel time was the only real rest they had—because it was the only time she could think about nothing but the road.
Tanjiro, meanwhile, was silent.
He had learned the truth—that his family's Hinokami Kagura originated from the Breath of the Sun itself.
And Shinjurō's words still echoed in his head.
I'm using the strongest Breath… and yet I'm still so weak.
I have to grow stronger. I must.
Beside him, Chika ran with a composed expression—but there was a gravity in her eyes that Kyōjurō couldn't ignore.
He wanted to ask, but restrained himself.
Her calm was because she already knew the story of the Hinokami Kagura.
Her solemnity… came from knowing what would happen next.
Before long, they reached the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters.
For a day or two, they enjoyed what peace they could.
Then—
The gears of the Mugen Train Arc, the next hellish chapter of their fate, began to turn.
Far to the west, inside the large depot housing the Mugen Train, came the faint sound of flesh being torn apart.
If one listened closely, a frail girl's voice could be heard, crying weakly amid the crunching.
"Heheh… delicious. You're delicious! Your flesh, your blood—it's divine! Are you one of the rare-bloods they talk about? No… no, you're not. A real rare-blood would taste even better!"
The wet, greedy sounds of feasting echoed louder, drawing the attention of a nearby worker.
He frowned and called out, "Hey, what's that noise? Is someone there? Hello?"
Step by step, he approached the dim corner where the noise came from.
The sounds had already stopped.
The darkness was still.
He squinted. No one.
The light was too dim to notice the dark streaks staining the floor—
or the faint stickiness clinging to his shoes.
Scratching the back of his head in confusion, he muttered,
"Huh… maybe just rats?"
That was the last thought he had—
before a shadow rose silently behind him.