One night.
It was probably about five years after I had left the Demon Slayer Corps.
It was around the time Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ascended to the post of First Hashira.
I made my way back to the Rengoku household after a long absence.
But why did I smell charred wood?
Was something on fire?
Puzzled, I followed the household servant to the room where he was.
The scent of smoke was strongest in front of this room.
As I stood before the sliding door, the smell grew more pungent.
The servant pushed it open, and inside…
"What are you doing?"
"Oh! Michikatsu! You've come!"
Through the doorway into what looked like a training hall, I saw a madman and a servant spreading out glowing coals.
The room was thick with smoke, and the wooden floor was blackened and charred.
What on earth is going on?
Does he intend to kill himself?
Rengoku Tenjuro is only twenty-five, and with the Spots' side effects, no one knows when his life will end.
Is he so eager to die that he's taking matters into his own hands?
"This is a training method I devised myself!"
Catching the confused look on my face, Tenjuro quickly defended himself.
"I lay burning coals on the floor and spar, dodging them as I fight! I call it the [Purgatory Training Method]!"
He laughed heartily as he proudly explained his insane regimen, and I couldn't help but stare, dumbfounded.
Is there any logic to a regimen that almost kills you? And you expect to endure the Hashira's attacks on top of that?
I'd heard rumors that none of Tenjuro's successors could endure his training—except his younger brother. How on earth did his brother manage it?
I sighed, waved my hand, and spoke up.
"Seriously, is there any need to burn down the house during training? The smoke is drifting outside."
The great commotion ended there.
Declaring training suspended now that a guest had arrived, Rengoku Tenjuro painstakingly gathered up the coals.
The floor remained blackened, and the smoky odor lingered.
Once all was in order, we moved to the veranda and sat, drinking tea prepared by the household servant as we began to talk.
There was nothing of great consequence to discuss.
We spoke of Rengoku's younger brother's training progress.
Of the demons' movements and traces of Muzan.
It was simply a continuation of our earlier conversations.
Whether I was in the Corps or not, our talk never changed.
Even though death shadowed him, we did not speak of it.
It was just everyday conversation.
We laughed and reminisced as the night deepened and our tea cups emptied.
A sigh escaped his lips.
Outrageous.
How could the man who seemed the very embodiment of confidence—discarding any worry at a whim—sigh so deeply?
I cleared my throat, took a sip of tea, and asked, "Is something troubling you?"
Rengoku stared at his empty cup for a long moment, then said, "Lately, I've lost my confidence."
"That's not like you. What frightens you so?" I asked.
The man who burned hotter than anyone, whose laughter shook the air, who seemed personified confidence itself—has lost it. What could have brought him so low?
"Kibutsuji Muzan," he replied.
Hm.
I cannot deny it.
Kibutsuji Muzan is indeed a monster.
He is the Mugetsu I unleashed in a death pact.
Even when struck full on by an attack with the power to cleave a mountain in two, he regenerated unscathed.
His inhalation-like breath waves, his shockwave-like area attacks—his regeneration defied all comprehension, so much so that a sword blade passing through him was rendered moot.
Moreover, the power and elasticity of his flailing tendrils were astonishing, and a single lapse would mean instant death.
Even Tsugikuni Yoriichi, though he overwhelmed him, could not kill him.
And yet…
"You and the other Hashira drove him to the brink as well. Aside from Yoriichi, I've heard that you severed all of Muzan's weaknesses," I pressed.
"Indeed, we destroyed them. We pierced his inner form in the [Revealed World] and cut away his five brains and six hearts."
"Six?"
"Not seven?"
"Ah—one of the hearts I devoured myself."
I suppose such vital spots take longer to regenerate.
"But we did not completely sever his weaknesses. I saw them shifting—Kibutsuji Muzan's five brains and six hearts moving to new positions."
They can relocate?
Was that a known pattern?
He never showed that when I fought him.
I saw no motion of his organs shifting when he launched himself at the heart.
Internally, Muzan's voice provided additional clarification.
Rengoku set down his teacup and continued, "Yoriichi may not have slain him, but he drove him to the brink. You too forced Muzan back with mountain-splitting power. Yet I am troubled—such attacks still could not kill him. Then can my [Flame Breathing] truly defeat Muzan?"
"If Yoriichi should fall, Muzan would rampage unchecked. Then only you could stand against him. Yet I have no confidence. Even if successors continue my flame, I cannot be certain their flames will be enough to aid you…"
For the first time ever, I saw a somber expression on Rengoku Tenjuro's face.
He was truly worried.
A sorrow born of guilt at placing all this burden upon me.
The remorse of knowing he might not be able to aid me with his own strength.
His flame, which seemed destined to burn forever, was not subdued by fear of Muzan.
True to his nature—burning for others—it was waning under the weight of guilt and worry for someone else.
"It's so like you, yet unlike you, that worry," I said.
"Is that so?" he murmured, offering a sheepish grin.
"Yoriichi said, 'Those who push a path to its very limit will always arrive at the same destination. No matter how the age changes, or how different the journey, they will surely end at the same place.'"
"So it's the principle of all streams returning to their source."
"Indeed. Humans are fashioned after monkeys; the gods, after humans. Though our modes of walking may differ, we all walk the same path."
No one has yet reached the realm Yoriichi stands in—that much I can say with certainty.
And yet.
I am close.
At least, I am a tree that could be climbed.
The moon.
Humanity has not reached the sun, but did we not reach the moon?
"I seem strong because I knew beforehand where to stand. Whether it is my successor tomorrow, or someone in the far future, even if they are not in the Corps, someone will surely reach where I stand now. In that same way, your flame can reach it as well."
One can never know. It may appear from an unexpected quarter. Perhaps Sumiyoshi himself, or one of his descendants, could become the one to strike down Muzan.
And there is no way your flame will not be of help.
Your flame burns with a heat that does not pale beside [Sun Breathing].
"The reason [Sun Breathing] seems so incredible is that Yoriichi is, quite literally, extraordinarily strong. It is not the breathing style that is strong; it is the person wielding it. And there is no rule that the original style is inherently superior.
Just as using [Sun Breathing] with my body, even the most legendary weapon, if not wielded properly, is nothing more than a rusted blade.
It is not the strength of the weapon that matters, but the one who wields it, and finding the weapon that suits you.
"A derivative is not a weakening. On the contrary, because it is developed and refined to suit oneself, in some respects [Flame Breathing] may even surpass the sun."
"Flame… surpass the sun…"
It is a truth I know from personal experience.
If [Sun Breathing] is a sword style in which each form connects seamlessly, then [Flame Breathing] is composed of single, definitive, cut-and-dry slashes.
Therefore, unlike [Sun Breathing], which relies on fluid connections, [Flame Breathing] allows one to devote all power to a single form, so that the force behind each technique exceeds that of the sun.
In terms of pure power alone, no form of [Sun Breathing] could match the [Ninth Form: Purgatory] of [Flame Breathing].
Of course, if it were Yoriichi himself, he could obliterate you head-on with the First Form alone—but that is a special case, not a testament to the style itself.
"Is that so! Michikatsu, may I have a moment of your time?"
At my words, Rengoku's eyes widened, and he called for the servant, who fetched something.
It was a single book.
Rengoku wrote feverishly in it, then handed it back to the servant when he was done.
I wondered what he was writing. Some secret manual?
"What have you written?" I asked.
He looked at his refilled teacup and replied with a smile, "It's something like a will I leave to the flame that will blossom after me!"
With that hearty laugh, he returned to his usual exuberance.
I couldn't help but smile, realizing my words had helped.
"Michikatsu."
"Yes?"
Rengoku took a sip of tea and continued, "The luckiest moment of my life, I would say, was the moment I met you."
At that time—eight years ago—Rengoku appeared before me, a fixer, along with Tosen.
Because I met him, I was able to make contact with the Demon Slayer Corps.
"I can say that meeting you set my stagnated gears turning once more!"
To which I thought, The same is true for me, Rengoku Tenjuro.
If I had not met you, my story too might never have begun.
I would have remained stranded at the prologue, unable to move forward.
"The same is true for me."
When I spoke so calmly, he laughed heartily.
And then:
"The years since my father died, when I took up his mantle and carried the responsibility of the Hashira on my back—it's been those years. Have I succeeded? Have I truly fulfilled the responsibility my father entrusted to me?"
He cast those questions into his teacup as though they were tea leaves.
They were questions directed at me and at himself at once.
Have I fulfilled my duty?
"No."
"Is that so?"
"Your question is not the right one."
It is not the responsibility your father gave you.
"It is the obligation you vowed to uphold yourself—a flame all your own, belonging to no one else."
That flame has burned brightly enough.
And it has warmly enveloped everyone against the winter of the demons.
Your flame will continue to burn. It will never be extinguished.
There remains a kindling yet to be consumed: Muzan.
So, what I want to say is this:
"You have been a magnificent flame."
I answered, smiling.
Rengoku gazed at my smile, his eyes widening, and beamed the brightest smile I have ever seen.
"Thank you!"
Could that smile have been the last glimmer before the light fades?
With that smile, he whispered, "Rengoku?" and his flame went out.
It was a sudden farewell, yet a destined end.
So that he could rest peacefully and let his final embers expire in peace, I said, "Thank you for your service, Rengoku Tenjuro."
I watched his fading embers with a quiet smile as I bid him farewell.
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