Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fields were on fire.

Ash clung to the sky, the ground, his skin. Every breath scraped down his throat like glass, but he didn’t slow. The air pulsed with the weight of something feral—ancient, gleeful, cruel.

He saw her again, just ahead. A flash of silver hair tangled in soot and moonlight. Her legs buckled as she stumbled barefoot through the burning grass, blood slicking one knee. She was a streak of desperation against the blaze, her too-small frame nearly swallowed by the waist-high stalks.

And behind her—the thing.

The demon loped on all fours, unnaturally long limbs bending the wrong way with each stride. Its tongue lolled, wet and grinning, snatching embers from the air. It was toying with her. Every few steps, it let out a delighted cackle. It could have killed her already. That wasn’t the point.

I’m too slow.

Giyuu ground his teeth and surged forward, narrowing his body into the wind. He tore through the flaming field like a blade slicing water, lungs seizing with smoke. His sandals skidded across the dirt, kicking up plumes of ash. His grip on the sword at his hip still faltered—calluses not yet hardened—but he had trained. And more than that, he had seen it.

The aftermath. The silence. The blood-soaked tatami. Tsutako’s still body. Sabito’s blade, broken in the grass.

He knew exactly what would be left behind if he failed again.

Not again. Not this time. I won’t lose another.

He hit the ditch just before the edge of the rice paddy and leapt without hesitation, clearing the embankment. His knees screamed on impact, but he rolled, dirt grinding into his palms, and sprang up faster. The girl was closer now. She glanced back.

Lilac eyes, rimmed in pink. Wild with terror.

The demon lunged. Giyuu moved.

There was no time to think—only breath, motion, instinct. Draw, step, strike. His sword arced through the air, slicing across the demon’s shoulder. It shrieked and recoiled, rearing back on its limbs like a puppet with tangled strings.

The girl hit the ground hard. Her body curled inward, bracing, but she didn’t cry out. Just pressed a trembling arm over her face and waited for death.

“Move,” Giyuu barked. His voice came out flat and hoarse, roughened by smoke and something older—fear, maybe, though he wouldn’t name it. “Now.”

She didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, dirt caked on her legs, and bolted without a word.

The demon hissed, twitching in jerky spasms. Its mouth split wider, revealing too many teeth. “Little slayer,” it cooed. “Just a baby.”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He stepped between it and the girl, lowering into his stance. His hands weren’t steady, but his eyes were clear. He’d drilled this form under Urokodaki until his knees gave out, until his vision blurred. He could hold it.

“Move, and I cut,” he said, voice low.

The demon cocked its head. “You think you matter?” it whispered, not with anger, but pity. “You smell like loss.”

The sword wavered in his hand. Tsutako in the doorway. Her back to him. Blood soaking the earth. Silence after the scream.

The girl had turned back, smoke curling between them, as if something in her refused to leave him behind. Even through the haze, he saw it—she was waiting.

Tch.

He charged.

His form wasn’t perfect. Too short in the stance. Breathing uneven. Grip not yet tempered by time. But he moved with everything he had. Water Breathing, First Form—Water Surface Slash.

The demon blocked with one jagged arm. Claws raked his cheek. He didn’t scream. Just pivoted, dragged the edge of his blade across its ribs—bought himself two heartbeats of distance.

It wasn’t enough.

The demon struck him full in the chest. Something gave—bone or breath, he couldn’t tell. He hit the ground hard, pain flaring bright behind his eyes. The sword flew from his grasp, vanishing into the grass beside him.

The demon leaned down. Its breath reeked of blood and rot. “You’ll die slow, little slayer.”

Its talons tore through the smoke—too fast to dodge, too close to counter.

Giyuu twisted toward the fallen sword, his fingers brushing the hilt—just as the thing’s gnarled hand came down to tear out his throat—

A scream.

The demon shrieked—a high, wet, furious sound. It reared back, flailing. Clawed hands tore at its own face.

Giyuu grabbed his sword and rolled onto his side, gasping through the pain splintering his ribs. For a moment, he thought it was a hallucination. The smoke, the heat, the blood loss—it could’ve conjured anything. But no.

The girl was on its back. She had leapt onto the demon, clung to it—small hands locked around a single rusted kama. Dull and pitted with age, the kind used to cut weeds, not flesh. She drove it into the demon’s right eye socket. All the way to the hilt.

The demon thrashed, bucking and spinning, trying to throw her off. One of its arms snapped backward, striking her shoulder with a force that could’ve dropped a grown man. She didn’t fall.

She screamed—wordless, raw. Her body trembled from the blow, but her free hand raked down the demon’s face, nails carving furrows in its cheek.

She’s buying me time.

Giyuu surged to his feet.

He exhaled. One breath.

Centered his stance. Two.

Drew power from his legs. Three.

Water Breathing: Second Form—Water Wheel.

He spun into the arc like a tidal surge breaking loose, his blade whistling through the smoke. The demon sensed it too late. It turned—half-blinded, shrieking, the girl still clinging like a curse to its spine—and raised one arm to block.

The Nichirin blade cleaved clean through its neck.

Blood erupted in a wide spray. The demon’s body slackened, limbs twitching in grotesque spasms as it collapsed first to its knees, then into the dirt.

Giyuu landed in a crouch, breath short and uneven.

The girl rolled off its back as the corpse sagged beneath her, hitting the ground hard. For a moment, she didn’t move—just lay there, cheek pressed to the earth, the dull kama still clenched in her grip.

The demon’s flesh melted from bone until nothing remained but ash, already unraveling into the grass on a weak gust of wind.

Giyuu stumbled forward and knelt beside her, chest heaving. His arms had begun to shake now that the adrenaline was bleeding out of him. “You—” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. “Are you injured?”

She blinked up at him. Her eyes were leaking tears she clearly hadn’t noticed. Her mouth opened, then closed. A breath passed. Then she sat up and began to retch—dry, wrenching heaves into the grass, one hand braced to her stomach.

He slid his blade back into its sheath with a soft shhhk, careful not to favor the ribs he knew were bruised, if not cracked. Each breath felt like a quiet argument with his own body. But he didn’t wince. He stood. Straightened his spine.

“…Thank you,” he said—low, clipped. Almost too quiet to be heard.

The girl was still breathing. That was enough.

So he turned. And ran.

He didn’t look back.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was brittle—like the stillness in a house just after the screaming stops, when echoes still cling to the walls. The night felt hollowed out. Wrong.

Pain lanced down his side like a hidden blade. His legs throbbed. His lungs dragged fire through torn cartilage. But he kept moving—because if he stopped, the moment might stretch into something unbearable. Into memory. Into shame.

He had done what he came to do.

Then—behind him—

“Wait!”

A single word. Thin. Frantic.

He froze mid-step and turned his head.

She was chasing him.

Her bare feet stumbled over the uneven earth, arms flailing for balance. “Please—” she gasped, voice hoarse. “Please don’t leave—don’t—don’t go, I—” She tripped again, knees folding. Her hands reached for him blindly, fingers knotting into the fabric of his uniform. “I’m scared—” Her eyes rolled back. Her body went slack.

Giyuu caught her before she hit the ground.

His arms locked around her, but the movement tore a white-hot streak of pain through his ribs. He grunted, jaw tightening as the breath punched out of him. For a second, his vision blurred—knees nearly giving—but he didn’t let go.

Her head sagged against his chest. She’d passed out completely. Pulse shallow but steady, her body feverish from shock and overexertion.

He shifted his grip, carefully adjusting her weight in his arms. She was lighter than he expected—bird-boned and fragile—yet her grip a moment ago had left a dull ache where her fingers had dug into his sleeve.

In the distance, firelight curled upward from the farmhouse, where the walls continued to collapse inward. The scent of scorched wood and blistered grain hung heavy in the air. No other survivors would be found here. Of that, he was certain.

Giyuu looked down at her.

Her hair had turned ashen, tangled with soot and streaked with blood—some hers, some not. Even unconscious, her expression wasn’t peaceful. Lips parted. Brow drawn tight. As if her mind was still running, long after her body had fallen still.

She had begged. She had come back.

And if she hadn’t...

He swallowed the thought.

He adjusted her again, slipping one arm beneath her knees and drawing her close to his chest. The pain in his side flared bright, but he welcomed it. It gave him something solid to hold onto.

With one last glance at the burning farmhouse, he turned toward the trees and started walking. Step by step. Then faster. The fire in his ribs kept pace, but he kept his breathing steady. He had trained for this. He knew the routes. He would make it.

Behind him, the wind shifted—carrying the groan of falling beams, the snap of wood giving way.

Giyuu didn’t look back again.

He carried her all the way through the night.

The journey back to headquarters carved itself into Giyuu’s muscles like a scar.

Two days through rain-slick forests and bone-dry fields, along footpaths that crumbled beneath his step. He carried her the entire way. She hadn’t stirred. Not to eat. Not to speak. Her breath stayed steady against his collarbone—light, shallow, as if she didn’t quite trust herself to take up too much space.

Once, on the second night, she whimpered in her sleep. Then curled tighter against his chest, like someone who knew she had no right to be comforted—but couldn’t stop seeking it, anyway.

By the time they reached the gates of the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters, dawn had already begun clawing its way up from the east—thin streaks of color smearing the pale sky. The gates creaked open with a groan.

The Kakushi appeared at once—five of them, robed in black, faces masked, movements silent and synchronized. One stepped forward, arms raised. “We’ll take her now.”

Giyuu said nothing. He only held her tighter. His arms were numb. His legs no longer felt like they belonged to him. But still—he hesitated.

The way her fingers had knotted in the collar of his haori days ago had left creases in the fabric. Her head was tucked into the curve of his throat like she belonged there.

“She needs treatment,” said the Kakushi. “The Butterfly Mansion is ready. Kanae-sama is waiting.”

Giyuu’s jaw locked. A breath passed. Then another.

At last, he eased his grip just enough. They slipped her from his arms. The ache in his ribs bloomed again the moment she was gone—sharper now. As if her weight had been the only thing keeping him upright.

Still, he said nothing.

One of the Kakushi offered a small bow, then turned and vanished down the stone corridor, cradling her with surprising care. The others followed in step, their dark forms swallowed by the eastern garden.

A flutter of wings pulled his attention. Crows weren’t uncommon in the compound, but this one circled him twice before spiraling once more and dipping. It dropped something from its claws—a thin rolled parchment.

It landed in his palm.

He recognized the handwriting immediately. Elegant. Sparse. Unmistakable.

The Master.

Giyuu, You did well to bring her.

The girl is now your responsibility. I have already made the arrangements. You may train her, or not. But her life is now bound to yours.

Whatever she becomes—let it be decided by the one who did not leave her behind.

He read it twice. Then once more.

She was his responsibility now.

Giyuu folded the note once and tucked it into the inner lining of his uniform, over the place where his ribs still throbbed. He looked once toward the direction they had taken her. Then turned to follow.

Chapter Text

She surfaced from the dream as if rising through the bottom of a cold pond, vision slow to sharpen, the world swimming and refracting in slats of sunlight. Someone was calling her name—softly at first, then with more insistence.

“Yume. Yumeeee. Are you alive?”

The sky above was a deep blue, too lavish for the small business of living and dying. Cherry branches overhung the training yard, their leaves still freckled with rain. Somewhere nearby, cicadas droned in the warmth.

She blinked. Murata’s face hovered into focus, concern and amusement drawn into fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked like he expected her to be dead. Her cheek was pressed into the grass; the taste of damp earth lingered in her mouth. A pebble bit into her hip—something she only registered when she moved.

“Murata,” she murmured, fighting a yawn that threatened to unhinge her jaw. “You’re back. Did you want something, or do you just enjoy watching defenseless women nap in public?”

He sighed, shaking his head. His hair, always a little too neat for a Demon Slayer, glinted in the sun. “You’re asleep. In the middle of the yard. Again.”

She smiled up at him, unbothered. “Yes. I make a habit of it. Very restful. You should try.”

It should be more embarrassing than it ever is, she thought. But the Pavilion was forgiving—its gardens quiet, tucked behind stone walls. Sunlight slanted through the branches, breaking into patterns across the sand and moss.

Murata gave her a long-suffering look, one eyebrow lifted. “Do you ever worry someone’s going to think you’re dead?”

She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, shrugging. “If I’m lucky, maybe they’ll bury me somewhere comfortable.” She stretched her arms overhead, bones cracking. “Besides, I had the most fascinating dream. I was at a banquet. All the guests were frogs. The main course was me.”

He snorted, flashing a crooked grin. “You’re strange.” He plucked her fallen kama from the grass, twirling one between his fingers before handing it back. “Weren’t you supposed to be training?”

She accepted the weapon, running a fingertip along its edge. “That was the plan. Then I got tired, and the ground was persuasive. You know how it is.” She tilted her head, her voice slipping into its familiar lilt. “Tell me, Murata, have you come to propose marriage again? Because I should warn you, I’m already engaged to sleep.”

His cheeks pinked—a warm, telltale flush he tried to mask by squinting up at the clouds. “You really have to let that go. I’d had too much sake. It was—just forget it. That was months ago.”

Yume grinned. “Really, you should practice on someone less likely to fall asleep halfway through the confession.”

He rolled his eyes, but his voice softened. “Only you could turn passing out in the middle of a training exercise into a chance to mock someone’s love life.”

She dusted off her haori, glancing down at the tear clumsily mended with blue thread, the memory of last week’s bloodstain now faded to a ghostly shadow. “That’s the spirit. If you can’t laugh at yourself, you’re probably not cut out for the Demon Slayer Corps anyway.” She flicked a glance his way. “So—did you come all this way just to check if I was still breathing, or are you here for the pleasure of my company?”

Murata hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the wisteria vines curling up the garden wall, as if the answer might be tangled somewhere in the leaves. “I had a day off. Thought I’d see if you wanted to spar. Or, you know, just talk.”

She let the question hang between them, studying him sidelong—the way his fingers fidgeted at the hilt of his sword, the nervous set of his shoulders. It was almost endearing, how he could slay demons and still flinch at the possibility of her gaze.

“Well, if you’re here to talk, you should sit. If you’re here to train, that’s unfortunate, because I’m not moving another inch.”

He chuckled and lowered himself beside her, their shoulders brushing. “You’re shameless, Yume.”

She smiled, closing her eyes, letting the sunlight warm her face. He’ll stay as long as I let him. And today...she didn’t mind the company. “That’s not the word people usually use. But I’ll take it.”

Murata propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with open amusement. He had the look of someone only recently learning how to relax—shoulders still tense, always half-listening for the next command. Now, though, he let himself take up space, as if her permission alone made it possible.

His hand reached over, threading carelessly through the tangled waves of her hair. His fingers caught on a snarl; instead of pulling free, he flicked the strands aside, revealing the scab that carved a crooked path across her scalp.

“Well, look at that,” he said, his mouth quirking—his tone somewhere between concern and mockery. “A genuine battle scar. You know, some people collect charms or keepsakes. You just let the demons carve up your head.”

Yume rolled her eyes skyward. “Don’t be jealous. Not everyone can pull off the half-mauled look. It’s a gift.”

He grinned. “I think it’s more of a warning, honestly. ‘Beware the Tsuguko—she might bleed on you at any moment.’ Very intimidating.” He leaned in, squinting with exaggerated seriousness at the scab. “You know, I think I can see my reflection in it. Or maybe that’s just the shine from all your sweat.”

She laughed, nudging his arm away with a lazy flick of her hand. “Mocking the wounded—very gallant of you. If you’re going to flirt, you’ll have to do better than cheap jokes.”

Murata only smiled, unrepentant. His eyes lingered on the wound for a beat too long—close, but not quite touching. The worry beneath the humor was plain.

“If I were really gallant, I’d carry you inside and feed you oranges until you stopped looking like you crawled out of a grave.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “And deprive you of the thrill of seeing me like this? The horror, Murata. You might actually miss it.”

He snorted, brushing a few stray petals from her hair, fingers gentler this time. “It’s a public service. Someone has to make sure the Water Pavilion isn’t haunted by your ghost. Tomioka would have my head if I let anything happen to you.”

“Hmm. He’d just glare at you until you wished you were dead. Much more effective.” Her tone stayed light, teasing, but her gaze softened, tracking his movements with a kind of lazy affection.

Murata stretched out beside her, glancing up at the clouds, then back down. “You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “sometimes I think you collect injuries just to get attention.”

Yume feigned scandal, pressing a palm to her heart. “You’ve uncovered my secret. Next time, I’ll let a demon gnaw my arm off—think of the sympathy.”

He shook his head, lips twitching. “You’d still find a way to sleep through it.”

She grinned, eyes drifting closed. The sun burned soft behind her lids, an afterimage blooming violet and gold. “That’s right. I’m unbeatable. You could learn a thing or two if you stopped hovering and actually tried it.” She nudged his knee with hers. “You could challenge me to a spar. Maybe I’ll actually stay awake.”

Murata grinned, rolling his eyes. “And let you humiliate me in front of all the Kakushi? I have some pride left, Yume. Not much, but enough.”

“Coward.”

It was a peculiar thing—how the air shifted before he even appeared. For Yume, it had become as unmistakable as the moment before a storm, like the scent of rain pressed close to the earth just before the first drop. Eight years of sharing every scar, secret, and silence—she’d know Giyuu anywhere, even if memory and sense deserted her.

She felt him draw near before his shadow fell across the grass. She was already pushing herself up on one elbow, the lazy afternoon snapping in half.

Murata hadn’t noticed. He was gesturing wildly about the village festival—lanterns, carp banners, the chance to see ordinary people living as if nothing in the world ever bled. “We should go,” he was saying, enthusiasm bubbling over. “Just you and me—try the sake, see the fireworks—”

Giyuu’s voice cut clean through. “Murata.”

Murata’s body went rigid, back straightening as if yanked by an invisible thread. His words died in his throat, a sudden flop of silence. He scrambled upright, brushing dust from the knees of his uniform, eyes darting from Yume to the figure standing at the edge of the garden.

“Tomioka-sama!” Murata managed, bowing low—too formal, too fast. “I—uh, apologies. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the Pavilion so soon.”

Giyuu’s expression was unreadable—the kind of blank that said more if you knew how to listen. His gaze flicked between them, pausing just long enough on the space between Murata and Yume to say what words wouldn’t. Sunlight fractured across his haori—one side burgundy, the other a geometry of green and gold. “Why are you here?” The question landed like a gate slammed shut. Not unkind—never unkind, not with Yume watching. But it was edged in possession.

Murata swallowed hard, composure slipping. You could see him rehearsing responses and tossing them aside just as quickly. “I—Yume-chan and I were, ah—training. Talking. I stopped by to check if she was recovering well, after her last mission. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He glanced at Yume, silently pleading. She only arched an eyebrow, waiting to see if he’d drown on his own.

Giyuu’s gaze didn’t shift from Murata.

Overprotective, Yume thought, studying the line of his mouth.

She feigned indifference, even as she felt the charge swirl in the air between the three of them. “Murata was just telling me about the festival in the village,” she said, tone airy, inviting trouble. “He was making a compelling case for fireworks and overpriced rice balls. I was about to say yes.”

Murata turned a deeper shade of red, his mouth opening as if to protest—then snapping shut. Giyuu didn’t so much as blink.

“You have duties,” Giyuu said. “Don’t let them slip for distractions.” He flicked a glance at Yume. “The Water Pavilion isn’t a playground.”

Murata nodded rapidly, bowing again, every muscle tight with retreat. “Of course, Tomioka-sama. I only meant—well, I’ll be on my way.” He hesitated, casting one last look at Yume—a silent plea, apology, or hope for forgiveness; she couldn’t say. Then he turned and hurried down the path, feet crunching across the gravel, posture too stiff to be mistaken for casual.

Silence settled into the space he’d left behind.

Yume waited, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. She glanced up at Giyuu, eyes sly, voice pitched low and lazy. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

He didn’t answer, but the look he gave her—a tilt of the head, an almost imperceptible softening around the eyes—carried more weight than any apology.

He’s not good at sharing, she thought, the realization both irritating and, in some secret place, satisfying.

She let herself flop back onto the grass, head pillowed on her arm, and looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “So,” she murmured, “did you come to rescue me from the evils of Murata, or do you just enjoy showing up at the exact moment things get interesting?”

Giyuu’s mouth twitched—the smallest betrayal of humor. He didn’t respond right away, and she let the question linger, enjoying the silence, the familiar war between wanting and restraint that always defined them.

He stepped closer, extending his hand—calloused, ringed with old scars. Yume took it without hesitation, their palms fitting together. He drew her to her feet, barely using force, but she felt his strength.

Yume dusted bits of grass from her haori, then grinned up at him, a tilt of her chin that dared him to name what he was feeling.

He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—almost absentminded, but his gaze cut sharp. “You let Murata linger around you too much.” 

Yume shrugged, letting her fingers play lightly along his, refusing to break the contact. “I like his company. He’s sweet. A little hapless. Cute, even—don’t tell him I said that, or his ego might combust.” Her smile widened, turning sly. “If he ever musters up the nerve to propose again, maybe I’ll retire. Put away my kamas, trade them for an apron. I’d make a fearsome housewife. No demon would dare spoil my miso.”

Giyuu’s grip tightened. His face stayed impassive—too still, a mask honed on the edge of old wounds. Only his eyes betrayed him: bright, distant. “You’re not funny,” he said, voice flat. “That isn’t a future for you.”

She blinked—caught, just for a breath, by the weight behind his certainty. “You really think I’d quit the Corps for a kitchen knife?” she teased, though the laughter in her voice carried a challenge. “I couldn’t stand to be ordinary. I’d die of boredom before I finished my first pot of rice.”

He let her go, finally, hand falling to his side. “Don’t joke about leaving.” The words came out harder than he meant them—a confession.

She studied him—the stubborn set of his jaw, the fatigue feathered at the edges of his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, Murata wouldn’t survive my cooking, let alone my temper.”

He looked away, fixing his gaze on a stray petal drifting in the breeze, shoulders tightening with something like embarrassment. “Just don’t let him get too close,” he murmured.

The meaning was clear enough, even if the words weren’t.

Yume leaned closer, her voice low, intimate. “What, you think Murata’s a threat to my virtue, Giyuu-chan?” She let the honorific linger, wry and deliberate. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

He flinched—just enough for her to see.

“I’m not—” he started, but the protest broke apart, drowned by her laughter.

She let it ring out, unafraid of his discomfort, her arms looping around his middle in a swift, unrepentant embrace. For an instant, he stood rigid—unyielding, as if duty itself were stitched beneath his skin, until he shifted to accept her body against his better. The kind of surrender only she would notice.

She pressed her cheek against his chest, catching the solid thrum of his heartbeat. “If you’re going to stand there brooding all afternoon, we might as well make it productive. Want to train?”

He regarded her, eyes narrowing in a familiar calculation. “Yes.”

She grinned, spinning out of his grasp. The grass parted beneath her feet as she darted to retrieve her kamas. She rolled her shoulders, feeling the echo of old bruises, and let herself fall into the choreography of habit, and he drew his sword.

They circled one another, drawn into a ritual older than words. The Water Pavilion yard transformed beneath them—a stage, a battlefield.

Giyuu’s stance was water-perfect, every limb balanced, anchored by years of relentless discipline. He moved like a current. Yume mirrored him as best she could: one foot forward, body low, kamas held with deceptive ease. Her breathing slowed, syncing into the rhythm he’d beaten into her since childhood.

He gave the first command, voice low but sharp. “Guard up. Right elbow loose. Don’t let your weight shift forward unless you commit.”

She answered with a lopsided grin. “Bossy,” she shot back, already adjusting her stance to appease him.

His reply came in motion—a blur, a sidestep, a cut of air so clean she barely saw it before his hand was at her wrist, redirecting the arc of her left blade. The contact was brief, but it sent a shiver up her arm.

“You telegraph your feints,” he said. “Every time you hesitate, you drop your shoulder. Again.”

She reset, circling him, watching the way sunlight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair. He was always beautiful in motion—dangerous, controlled, the promise of violence coiled into every breath.

She lunged, aiming high, then dipped low at the last instant—her dream breathing full of half-promises and sleight of hand, a dancer’s rhythm woven into violence. Her kamas flashed, singing a soft, discordant note as metal kissed metal. He deflected with ease, pushing her back with a simple twist.

“Don’t give ground so easily,” he said, a faint note of irritation slipping through. “You won’t get a second chance out there.”

Yume pivoted, frustration burning sharp under her skin. “Maybe if you didn’t hit so hard, I’d have time to be graceful.”

He moved again, faster this time—a ripple of intent, too swift for most to follow. She managed a parry by luck and reflex, the jolt singing through her bones. He closed the distance, crowding her guard, his presence inescapable.

“Stay with me. Watch my hips, not my hands,” he murmured, breath hot against her ear as he spun her out, forcing her to reset. “You’re thinking too much. Move.”

She obeyed, letting instinct take over, body remembering what her mind wanted to forget. Her movements smoothed, erratic dream dancing in and out of his water—her attacks weaving around him like mist.

They traded blows, sweat and breath mixing in the charged air. He pressed her, never letting up, corrections falling like rain: “Tighter arc. Step lighter. Wait for the opening. Don’t force it—”

She gritted her teeth, darted in, and finally caught him with a glancing strike along his sleeve—a nick of fabric, nothing more, but it thrilled her all the same.

“Ha!” she exulted, breathless. “See? I can land a hit.”

He glanced down at the torn cloth, then back at her, unreadable. “Don’t get cocky.”

She flourished her kamas, the exhaustion sharpening her focus. “If you wanted humble, you should’ve found a different Tsuguko.”

He almost smiled. “Be serious.”

She dropped into her stance, all teasing gone. For a moment, nothing existed but the space between them—tight with the tension of old grief and stubborn affection. They moved together—Hashira and Tsuguko—faster and faster, until every correction, every exchange, became a language only the two of them understood.

Somewhere between one motion and the next, her vision faded at the edges—first a soft haze, then encroaching black that gnawed at the corners of her world. Her heartbeat stuttered, then slowed, as if time itself thickened. She pressed forward on instinct, form melting into form, dream breathing infusing her limbs with a languid, unnatural rhythm.

Her movements blurred—unpredictably sharp, then suddenly yielding, like a dream fragment slipping away.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

She awoke, the taste of adrenaline lingering on her tongue. The sunlight had shifted—the garden a shade deeper. She blinked hard, struggling to orient herself, and only then noticed the weight at her hand. Her kama hovered at Giyuu’s throat—one heartbeat from victory, the blade pressed to the pulse beneath his jaw. Neither of them moved.

His hand was on her waist, anchoring her in place, fingers curled with care. He watched her with eyes as deep and unreadable as a mountain lake—startled, yes, but not afraid. She noted the faint tightness at the corners of his mouth.

Yume took a half-step back, the world spinning briefly. Giyuu didn’t release her; his grip steadied her, thumb pressing lightly against her side. The rest of her body felt distant—numb.

She caught his gaze, her lips curling into a lazy, triumphant smile. “Looks like I won,” she murmured, voice ragged but unmistakably smug.

“You need to work on waking up. That disorientation—if it happens in a real fight, you won’t have time to blink. You’ll be dead before you know you’re awake.”

Yume rolled her shoulders, masking the shiver that ran through her. “That’s what I have you for. You and Murata—my loyal bodyguards. I pass out, and you catch me. Works so far.”

His expression darkened, eyes narrowing. “One day you might not have anyone. Not me. Not Murata. No one.” The words landed hard, stripped of affection. “You don’t get to rely on someone to pull you back. You need to fix this—immediately. That’s not advice. It’s an order.”

The edge in his voice cut through the last of her confusion. For a moment, she almost bristled, a joke or clever retort clawing up her throat. But his grip didn’t loosen, and his gaze didn’t waver.

He means it. He’s scared for me.

“I know,” she said at last, softer than before.

He let go, fingers trailing along her arm, almost gentle. “Train yourself. Force it. No hesitation.”

Yume tipped her head. “Yes, sir. No beauty sleep on the battlefield. Understood.”

He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If you want to live, don’t treat this like a joke.”

She met his eyes, the humor fading from her face. “I’ll work on it,” she promised.

“Good.” Giyuu turned away, already scanning the horizon like the moment had never happened. 

One day you might not have anyone.

But that wasn't true. 

I will always have him, won't I?

Chapter Text

It was hot.

Giyuu lay on his back atop the futon, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sweat pooled at his temples and slid into the hollow at the base of his throat. Even with the screens pushed wide, trying to invite what little breeze the night would spare, the air in the Water Pavilion’s sleeping quarters hung stubborn and close.

Sleep—always fragile for him—slipped away completely. He shut his eyes, counting the rhythm of his own heartbeat, but it was pointless. Warmth pressed on his skin, the memory of Yume’s laughter in the training yard—her blade ringing against his—refused to settle, restlessly shifting beneath his ribs.

He turned onto his side. Then his back again, arms crossed over his chest. Irritation simmered. The silence in the room was broken only by the creak of the wooden beams above. For a moment, he lay still, stubbornly willing his body to remain where it was. Sleep wouldn’t return.

With a short sigh, he pushed himself up and knotted his sash.

The hallway outside was thick with darkness—denser than the heat inside his room, but more forgiving, as if the shadows held their own kind of relief. Yume’s room was just across from his, her sliding door limned in the same thin moonlight that spilled through the old house’s seams. Giyuu moved quietly, easing the screen aside.

Her futon was empty. Sheets tangled blue and white, pillows kicked askew. He felt no surprise, no surge of alarm. It was habit by now; Yume’s narcolepsy turned her nights into a string of unpredictable wanderings and vanished hours. Some nights, she drifted through the house, curling up wherever exhaustion overtook her—sometimes the garden, sometimes the kitchen, once even on the steps by the koi pond.

Still, a knot of unease settled in his stomach, slow and persistent. He let it sit for a moment, debating with himself. Should just leave it—she’s probably fine. But his feet moved anyway. Silently, out the back door, and into the darkness of the garden.

The Water Pavilion’s well stood near the edge of the cypress grove, the stone rim slick with condensation beneath his palm. He worked the old pulley, let the bucket drop, its hollow echo rising from the black water, and hauled it up. The water was cold and clean—he drank deeply, then splashed his face, letting the shock cut through the heat and haze.

That was when he heard it: the sharp crack of metal biting into straw, practice dummies yielding beneath relentless assault. The sound rang out, echoing across the yard.

Giyuu wiped his face with one sleeve, following the noise. He rounded the bathhouse and stepped into the training yard, pausing.

Yume was there, outlined in moonlight, her hair a pale spill down her back. She wore no haori—just the thin, black uniform clinging to her like a second skin. Her kama flashed, slicing arcs through the humid air, faster and more precise than he’d ever seen her move when awake. The dummies—stuffed with straw and bound in faded cloth—shuddered beneath her onslaught. Every movement contradicted itself: impossibly fluid, then whip-fast, the tempo unpredictable and elegant.

He recognized the rhythm, but not the edge. This was dream breathing at its purest—a dance that slipped beyond waking. She fought as if guided by instinct, her body free from doubt or hesitation.

It unsettled him, watching her like this. The Yume he knew—the quick wit, the hunger for control, the sharp tongue—seemed eclipsed by something older, stranger, more dangerous. Her strikes were sharper. Her balance, flawless. She spun, dipped, vanished, and then reappeared behind her target. The speed would humble most seasoned slayers. There was nothing playful in her now—just precision and power, a trance spun out of her own affliction.

Giyuu watched in silence, a knot of awe and unease tightening under his ribs. He remembered Shinobu’s observations—clinical, almost cold: “Her body adapts, her mind finds refuge in battle. This isn’t ordinary narcolepsy. She’s made it her own. More dangerous like this. When she’s lost to the dream, she matches a Hashira’s strength. Unnatural. Brilliant.”

He kept to the edges of the yard, unwilling to break the spell or risk startling her awake. The moon slid behind a cloud. Shadows warped across the battered dummies. For a moment, the only sound was steel cutting air, and the faint echo of his own uneasy respect.

How long can she keep this up? How long before the dream swallows her whole? Would I know the moment it happens?

He moved closer, careful not to step into her path, watching the flicker of her silhouette as she spun through her forms. Each arc of her kama was so precise it seemed carved from the air.

Then it happened—a tiny stutter, almost imperceptible. Yume’s foot caught, just slightly, her rhythm off by half a heartbeat. Her body stiffened, hesitation crossing her face. Her eyes, a moment ago wide and unfocused, blinked as if surfacing from water. Confusion flickered, and the deadly grace of her dream breathing slipped away. In that fraction of time, she was only a girl in a dark yard, caught between waking and the ragged edge of sleep.

This was the danger—the hesitation she carried like a curse. The reason he never let her take solo missions.

He crossed the distance. The weight of command settled on his shoulders. He reached out and seized the back of her neck, fingers firm but not cruel, grounding her before she could flinch away. The air between them was thick with the smell of sweat and straw.

“Dead,” he said, flat and even. “You hesitated. You failed.”

Yume jerked in his grasp. Instinct and muscle memory tightened her frame, but her waking mind lagged behind. For a moment, she looked at him, startled—her eyes darted, breath caught somewhere between indignation and embarrassment. Her kama hung useless at her side, posture all wrong. Even now, she seemed distant, slow, as if the dream hadn’t quite let her go.

He didn’t loosen his grip. “You woke up confused again. That’s the moment that’ll get you killed.” His eyes searched her face, taking in every flicker. “You can’t afford it.”

Yume blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the confusion. Her mouth tightened, frustration sharp in the set of her jaw. She reached up, fingers brushing against his wrist, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m not—” she began, her voice rough, as if unused. “I didn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His reply was unforgiving. “You do that on a mission and there’s no one to pull you out. No one to buy you those seconds. If I were a demon, you’d be gone already.”

Her jaw clenched. The usual retort, quick and clever, hovered on her tongue—but this time, she swallowed it. Her teeth pressed hard into the inside of her cheek. She looked away, lashes lowering. In the moonlight, her stubbornness looked more like shame.

He watched her, letting the silence hang, heavy as the humid night air. She needed to feel it. Giyuu understood what it meant to be slow, to let hesitation become tragedy—he’d lived in the aftermath his whole life.

“You have to train it out of yourself,” he said, voice low but steady. “Force yourself awake the instant you come back. There won’t always be someone here. You know that.”

Yume drew a long, trembling breath and finally met his gaze. “I know,” she whispered, the words raw, stripped bare.

He let his hand fall away. For a heartbeat, he wanted to tell her it was enough, that he would always be there. But he had learned—brutally, again and again—that the world didn’t spare the vulnerable. That kindness could be cruelty if it kept her weak.

“Enough for tonight,” he said, brooking no argument. “We eat.”

She didn’t bother to turn, only tilted her head with a defiant flick of hair. “You go. I’m not finished. I need to fix this.”

Stubbornness settled over her like a second skin, sharpened by guilt and the bite of failure.

“Yume.”

She whirled, blades lowered, her reply bristling. “I’m not hungry—”

He caught her by the back of her haori, fingers curling into the fabric just below her collar. She squawked in outrage—a sound half protest, half laugh—but he didn’t let go. Instead, he dragged her across the yard, her feet scuffing furrows into the grass.

She twisted in his grip. One hand braced on his wrist. The other waved her kama in what might have been a menacing gesture if she wasn’t being hauled along like a stubborn child at a festival. “Giyuu, let go! I’ll—let go!”

He said nothing, face impassive, refusing to meet her glare. The Water Pavilion’s engawa creaked beneath their weight as he hauled her up the steps and into the house. Shoji screens slid open and shut behind them, the soft whisper of paper on wood following their movement. Yume kept up a steady stream of curses, threats, and dire promises—each one more outlandish than the last. He ignored all of it.

“You’re impossible,” she spat, twisting as they passed the Kakushi’s quarters. “You can’t manhandle me!”

He kept walking, dragging her through the corridor. “Stop struggling. You’re worse than the koi when it’s time to clean the pond.”

“That’s a compliment,” she snapped. “The koi at least get to do what they want.”

He glanced over his shoulder, giving her a dry look. “The koi also get eaten by birds when they’re careless.”

She fell quiet at that, only for a breath, then redoubled her efforts. Her heels dug into the floorboards as he tugged her into the kitchen. Lantern light glowed amber, casting wild shadows over jars and bundles of herbs, illuminating the old irori. He released her. She righted herself, swatting at his hand. Her indignation flickered, but the flush on her cheeks gave her away—she turned her face, jaw tight, avoiding his eyes.

He turned his back, busying himself with the kettle. The water hissed over the embers, steam curling up into the air. The warmth and scent of roasting tea leaves filled the small kitchen.

Eventually, she slumped onto the nearest tatami mat, tossing her kama aside with a clatter. “I hate you,” she muttered. “You know that?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he poured two cups and slid one across the table. For a moment, he watched the steam rise, listening to the familiar hush that settled once her protests faded.

Yume stared at her cup, shoulders slumping. The kitchen felt too big for just the two of them, shadows gathering at the edges. Still, the small rituals—the way he brewed her tea stronger than his own, the act of filling her cup first—worked as they always did. A comfort built on habit, not words.

She drank, grudging at first, then in long, slow gulps.

Giyuu gathered up the rice cask from beneath the counter. He measured the rice by feel, scooping fistfuls into the battered iron pot. Then he worked the water in, swirling it with his hand until it ran nearly clear. There was comfort in the repetition, even if the rice always ended up a bit too close to burnt. At this hour, no Kakushi would chase him out or scold him for intruding in their domain.

Behind him, Yume shifted on the tatami. He set the pot on the embers and nudged it deeper into the heart of the heat. The water bubbled and spat, steam curling in the lamplight.

“Domesticity suits you, Giyuu-chan,” Yume drawled, her voice thick with mischief, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

He didn’t look back. “The Kakushi would disagree,” he replied, a flicker of dry humor beneath the words. “They say I ruin the rice every time. You know that.”

“Mm.” She stretched, arms above her head, drawing herself long and loose. “I don’t mind a little char. It gives the rice character.” She leaned her cheek into her fist, watching him, her gaze steady and bright.

Giyuu busied himself with the pot, letting the clatter of the wooden lid mask the awkwardness prickling under his skin. His ears felt hot. He shifted his stance, shoulders tense, refusing to meet her eyes. “You’re going to collapse,” he muttered, glancing at her sidelong. “Training when you should have been resting. If you’re going to fight, at least stay awake for it.”

“Maybe I’d sleep more if you stayed in my room at night. For my safety, of course.”

He ignored the bait, but his grip tightened on the ladle. “Eat when I’m done. Then sleep. I won’t say it again.”

She grinned, unrepentant, delight flickering in her eyes. “You never do. That’s the trouble. So serious in the daylight, but get you in a kitchen and you turn gentle. If demon slaying ever loses its appeal, you could keep any old inn’s kitchen lively—burnt rice and all.”

He served the rice into two bowls, ignoring where it stuck, slightly scorched, to the sides. He placed hers in front of her, still not meeting her gaze, but his hands moved with an awkward gentleness. As he settled across from her, she nudged the bowl with her chopsticks, letting the steam drift between them.

She took a mouthful, chewed, and made an exaggeratedly pleased noise. “Perfect,” she announced, licking a grain from her thumb. “Completely ruined.”

He glanced up, finally, unable to suppress the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth—so fleeting it might have been imagined. “You talk too much.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial. Her eyes were half-lidded and bright with sly challenge. “And you like it. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

As they ate, she kept up a stream of idle talk—oddities about the Kakushi, arch observations about the Corps’ latest rumors. Giyuu let her words drift past him, listening in silence, only interjecting when her humor skirted something reckless.

When they finished, he gathered both bowls and cups, rinsing them in the stone basin. Water splashed cold against his hands.

After, they left together. Lantern light flickered across the floors as they walked the corridor. At her door, Yume paused and turned to face him. She rested her hand on the sliding frame, shoulder tense with exhaustion, but her eyes were still bright, always searching.

“Goodnight, Giyuu,” she murmured, voice softening, the edge fading away. She slipped inside before he could answer, leaving him in the empty hall.

He returned to his own room. The futon sat in perfect order, waiting, but felt wrong beneath the weight of the quiet. The tatami seemed to echo beneath his feet. He stood there a long moment, a pressure building behind his sternum—tight, restless, refusing to fade.

Finally, he turned. The shoji rasped softly as he slid it open and crossed the hall.

Yume’s door gave way beneath his touch. Behind the folding screen, her silhouette was visible—bare shoulders, hair loose and falling down her back, arms raised as she tied her fresh yukata. The scent of persimmon drifted faintly in the air, mixed with the trace of warm tea and old paper. She didn’t startle at his entrance. Instead, she peeked around the screen, a mischievous glint in her eyes, lips curving with delight.

“Couldn’t sleep alone after all?” she teased, voice low, one brow arched in challenge. 

Giyuu averted his gaze, studying the scatter of scrolls and tangled ribbons littering her side of the room. “The house is too quiet,” he said, knowing she’d sense the truth beneath it.

Yume lingered just out of sight, letting the silence hang, clearly savoring his discomfort. “You know, you could have simply asked,” she said, emerging to tie her sash. “It’s not as if I’d ever turn you away.”

He made no reply. Instead, he moved to her futon and settled onto its edge, waiting. She crossed the room and slid beneath the covers, her body curling easily into the space beside him.

Giyuu lay back, arms folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on the shifting darkness above.

Yume, warm and drowsy, inched closer, letting her breath ghost across his shoulder. She draped one arm over his chest, her hair spilling across the futon. “Try not to wake me with your snoring” she murmured.

He grunted, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. “Go to sleep, Yume.”

“Only if you stay,” she countered, her voice already dissolving into a whisper.

He always did.

Giyuu woke to emptiness. The futon beside him was cold, the sheets left in a tangle that betrayed neither haste nor apology. Sunlight crept across the tatami, slicing Yume’s room into pale gold and shadow. Another day begun without him.

He lay there a moment longer, staring at the ceiling as if he might summon her back by will alone. She could at least wake me, he thought, not for the first time. The admission settled like a stone in his chest. He would never say it aloud.

He sat up, rubbing a palm over his face, then stood. Crossing the hall, he entered his own room and dressed quickly, slipping his arms through his haori. The fabric still smelled of cypress—a scent that pulled at him, reminding him, unwelcome, of Yume’s hair after she’d spent a morning in the garden.

Stepping into his sandals, Giyuu left the house. The shoji snapped shut behind him. Outside, the air was already thick with heat. Cicadas rasped in the cypress, a chorus that drilled at the edge of thought. He made for the well, where the bucket and ladle waited at its rim. He cupped it in his hands, splashing it over his face until his skin prickled from the chill. It did little to clear his mood.

That was when he heard Murata’s laughter—a bright, eager peal winding around the side of the main house. Giyuu’s hand froze mid-motion, droplets sliding from his fingers. Irritation burned under his ribs. He knew, with the same certainty he brought to battle, that Murata was with Yume. It was always the same: Murata, appearing like a persistent sparrow the moment Yume surfaced. Never far from her side. Always offering jokes and easy smiles.

He dried his face on his sleeve, pulse beating in his temple. It wasn’t Murata’s company that unsettled him most, but the ease with which Yume let herself be found by others—her willingness to drift, companionable, into someone else’s morning while he was left behind, still tangled in her scent. Always the one left behind. The thought sat bitter on his tongue.

His mood soured with each step toward the sound. There, by the training dummies, he saw them.

Murata leaned against the practice post, talking with animated hands, his haori half-unfastened and sword resting carelessly across his lap. Yume sat cross-legged in the grass, face tipped to the sun, laughing at something he’d said.

How does she do that? he wondered. How does she move so lightly through the world, when all I can do is drag my past behind me like a broken blade?

Murata leaned in—too close—and Yume tossed her head back, laughter ringing through the yard. Giyuu’s mouth tightened; he let out a slow breath, steadying himself. But before he could step forward, a harsh caw split the air. A black shape wheeled above him—a crow, heavy-bodied, its eyes like polished obsidian. Urokodaki’s messenger. It dropped from the sky and landed on his shoulder, feathers brushing against his jaw.

The crow fluffed itself, then let the blue cord of a letter fall into his palm. Giyuu broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read:

Tomioka

The boy, Kamado Tanjiro, has survived Final Selection. He slew the Hand Demon. He now departs for his first mission. Nezuko has awakened, and she accompanies him. I trust her completely. You did well to spare her. I am proud of you.

—Urokodaki

The words blurred in front of him, a knot tightening in his chest. The Hand Demon. That filthy, grinning thing—Sabito’s death. That night’s aftermath haunted him. For years, Giyuu had trained and hunted, living with the taste of that failure bitter on his tongue, unable to put Sabito to rest because the world would not allow it. The demon had devoured a hundred children before Tanjiro. No sword had avenged them—until now.

He killed it, Giyuu thought, numb. The boy did what I couldn’t. Sabito’s spirit can finally go free.

Relief and envy mixed, pressing against his ribs. A hollow space, yes, but also the sharp sting of something dangerously close to gratitude. He pictured Tanjiro—earnest, stubborn, those eyes echoing someone lost to him. And Nezuko, small and wild-eyed, cradled in her brother’s arms.

I am proud of you.

He let the letter drop to his side. For a moment, the world tilted—light glaring too bright, the hum of insects pressing at his ears. He had carried the weight of mercy for two years, doubting every step, unable to believe he’d chosen rightly. Now, vindication stung through him, almost foreign.

But beneath it, Sabito’s absence cut deeper. He remembered Sabito’s hair plastered to his cheek, wet with rain and blood. The faint, maddening smile, that infuriating confidence as he said, “If you can’t save anyone, what good is strength?”

The demon was dead now. But the one who avenged them wasn’t Giyuu.

A breath. Two. He made no sound. Didn’t let the grief move past his teeth.

Across the yard, Yume had turned. She was always attuned to his moods, sometimes he was sure she knew him better than he knew himself. She watched him, a furrow between her brows, her eyes intent and searching.

Murata said something, oblivious, but she ignored him.

It’s over. Sabito is avenged. Urokodaki still believes in me. I’m not alone in this memory.

Chapter Text

Yume perched on the meditation stone, knees drawn in, arms loosely looped around her shins. She listened for the contours of her own fatigue—the slackness gathering at the base of her skull, the familiar tug of sleep threatening to pull her under. The air was quieter now with Murata gone, his laughter still lingering in the humid dusk.

He didn’t speak at first. Giyuu’s presence hovered at the edge of her senses, never abrupt. Somehow, he always managed to appear beside her without a sound—a contradiction she could never quite unravel.

“If you’ve come to announce a new training regime, I’m going to pretend to be dead.” Her voice was languid, deliberately careless. “Or did you want to tell me what was in that letter?”

Silence stretched between them. She could almost see his mouth flattening, his gaze flicking toward the koi pond, away from her.

But instead of answering, he said, “Do you want to go to the village?”

She cracked open one eye, studying him—the haori draped over his shoulders, his expression as inscrutable as always, the letter already put away. “I must be more tired than I thought. Did you just invite me somewhere?”

“The festival’s still on. Last day.” Giyuu’s voice was even, but she noticed a slight hesitation—a pause, almost like he feared she might say no.

Her lips parted in surprise, before twisting into something sly. “You? Want to join the crowds? I never thought I’d see the day. Have you been replaced by a demon? Blink twice if you need saving.”

He shot her that look—the one hovering between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “No.”

“Should I be flattered? Or worried you’re planning to test my reflexes by hurling me into festival games? Or is this a secret mission? Will I be forced to defend my honor against traveling merchants?”

He shook his head. “If you want to go, let’s go.”

“Oh, this is serious. Is this your attempt at courtship?”

Giyuu’s stare remained steady, though she caught the faintest shift—a glance sliding past her, his thumb grazing the hilt of his sword in that familiar, absent way he did when uncertain. “No.”

She swung her legs off the stone, letting out a dramatic sigh. “That’s three ‘no’s’ in under a minute. You really are determined. But I want to go.”

He nodded once, curt, already turning toward the engawa. “Come on.”

She caught up with him in a flurry of half-steps and skips. Late afternoon lingered behind them—soft, bruised light seeping through the cypress branches, painting gold whorls across the garden’s uneven path. Yume hooked her fingers into the fold at the back of his haori, an old childhood habit meant to irritate and comfort both.

She pressed closer, grinning up at his profile. “You’re walking too fast, Giyuu-chan. Are you just eager to avoid being seen with me in broad daylight?”

He didn’t answer, but his stride eased. She noticed the way his shoulder dipped, letting her catch up. The stone wall of the Water Pavilion faded behind them, bronze bells chiming—thin, wind-snatched notes following them down the path. Outside, wild ferns and leaning bamboo crowded the lane, sunlight breaking apart through a hundred green blades.

“By the way, Giyuu…I heard from Sugisawa that a man buying a woman a comb means he’s planning to propose. Is that true?” She tilted her head, lashes low, feigning solemn curiosity. “Because if so, you should probably budget for two. I’d hate for Murata to feel left out.”

Giyuu glanced down at her, mouth tight. His eyes slid away, the faintest furrow between his brows. “Don’t start.”

She sighed, mournful. “Ah, he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know. Tragic. Next you’ll tell me you’ve never even looked at a hair ornament.” She looped her arm through his. “Well, I’ll just have to pick one out myself. Something gaudy, with mother-of-pearl and peacock feathers—so everyone will know you’ve been seduced by scandal.”

He scowled, cheeks coloring. “No one’s buying you anything. Especially not a comb.”

“Heartless.” She pouted. “You’re really missing your chance. It’s not every day a Tsuguko offers herself up for a lifetime of mutual grumbling and burnt rice.” Her thumb traced the edge of his sleeve, playful but gentle. “Imagine it: Yume Tomioka, the Water Hashira’s most terrifying housewife. The Kakushi would quake in their geta.”

The mountain path narrowed, worn by old rains and wandering deer. She kept close, weaving to avoid the roots and slick stones. A dragonfly hovered at the edge of her vision, its wings catching the dusk in flashes of cobalt and green.

Giyuu exhaled, stubbornness simmering just beneath the sound. “You don’t know how to be quiet, do you?”

She flashed him a smile. “No.” Her words were gentle, threaded with affection. “Otherwise, you’d wander through life with only your own misery for company.”

The path began its descent in earnest, the forest thinning until slivers of the village below grew into patterned roofs and tangled banners. Distant drums rose from the festival, their rhythm threading up through the twilight. The scent of grilled fish and sweet sake drifted on the air, weaving between the pines.

She brushed the back of his haori with her fingers. “You should buy me something anyway. A comb, a charm, a festival mask—anything. If you don’t, people will think you dragged me down the mountain against my will.”

He stopped, glancing sidelong, eyes wary. “If you behave.”

She laughed—a quick sound. “That’s practically a promise. But you should know, I’m terrible at behaving. Especially around you.”

He grunted, resuming his descent. “I noticed.”

She fell in step behind him, content in the space he allowed her.

He never says what he feels.

The village clung to the base of the mountain. Sunset poured between the low eaves and tiled rooftops, dyeing the cobbled lanes in honey. Already, festival chaos shimmered: strings of paper carp fluttered overhead, children with inky hands darting between booths, shrieking as they jostled for lanterns or fox masks.

Yume took it all in—the overlapping voices, the metallic clang of a festival bell, the scent of fried mochi mingling with the smoky tang of roasting sweet potatoes. Her attention snagged on a sweet stand, trays loaded with candied chestnuts, pink-dusted dango skewered three to a stick, spirals of goldfish-shaped sugar candy gleaming under the lanterns.

Hunger overtook patience and she darted forward, reaching for the nearest stick. Just as her fingers brushed the tray, a firm hand caught her haori by the collar and pulled her back. She spun, catching herself on tiptoe to avoid bumping into Giyuu.

“Don’t run off.” His voice cut through the noise, low and close. His hold was careful, but there was no give.

Looking up, Yume flashed him a grin, eyes bright and unapologetic. “If you let go, I might vanish forever—lost among the festival masks, never to be seen again. Maybe you should hold my hand.”

His eyes narrowed, a warning flicker behind the curtain of hair. But when she slipped her fingers into his, palm pressed to his callused skin, he stilled—just for a moment—then allowed her hand to remain. The smallest pause at his jaw, a nearly imperceptible breath, betrayed something he’d never say aloud.

“See?” she murmured, voice pitched low for him alone. “Much better.”

Giyuu shook his head, but his lips twitched at the corner, almost betraying a smile.

She tugged him through the press of villagers, the two of them moving quietly through the tide. Old men in yukata drifted past, faces already flushed with sake; mothers wrangled sticky toddlers; teenagers tossed rings for prizes, laughter pealing out as they missed or won. Lanterns floated overhead, trailing wisps of colored smoke.

They stopped at a stand crowded with sweets. “If you buy me one, I promise to share.” The words came out with just enough charm to make him glance sideways.

He sighed, already defeated. The vendor—an old woman with hands dusted in sugar—waited, smiling knowingly. Giyuu dug a coin from his sleeve and slid it across the counter without looking at either of them.

“One,” he said.

Yume chose a stick of mochi, powdered pink and glossy with syrup. Once they stepped aside, she held it up for him. “Here,” she said, offering him the first bite. “See, I can be polite when I want to impress someone.”

He hesitated, then leaned in. She watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed, eyes flicking away from hers. Grinning, she took a bite herself, syrup smearing sweet and sticky across her lips.

Festival music drifted through the air—shamisen and bamboo flute weaving above the crowd. Together they wandered the row of stalls, her fingers still threaded through his. Their hands swung easily between them, steady and warm.

Children darted past, laughter and shouted dares tumbling through the night. Old men hunched over shōgi beside the shrine steps, coins clinking as bets changed hands. Nearby, a vendor called out, promising fortunes for a copper coin, while another handed out colored paper strips to tie onto the wish tree.

They paused beneath a string of lanterns shaped like plum blossoms. Yume offered him the last piece of mochi. “For luck,” she said, her voice softer now.

He accepted, lips brushing her fingertips. For a moment, the rest of the world receded—the crowd, the music, the lanterns overhead. All she felt was her heart thudding in her chest, Giyuu so close she could count the tiny specks of syrup clinging to his mouth.

Yume tugged him by the hand through the bustle, weaving between villagers lighting lanterns at the shrine square.

A line of paper lanterns hung from a crossbeam, each a different color—saffron, jade, the blue of half-remembered rain. She let go only to press her fingertips to one, studying the array before choosing a deep blue that matched his eyes. She held it up between them.

“Look. This one matches you,” she said. “Very solemn. Very rare.” Her smile curled sly at the edges, but her eyes lingered on him, all playfulness gone. “Help me light it, Giyuu.”

He took the lantern, steady hands shielding the wick as they leaned together. She struck the match, the sharp scent of sulfur biting at her nose before the flame caught and chased away the dark.

All around, the square swelled with celebration. Children painted each other’s faces with wisteria dye. A fisherman juggled persimmons for a shrieking crowd. Couples knotted their fortunes to a cherry branch bowed by wishes. The priest’s voice rose above it all, urging everyone to lift their lanterns together, to send regrets and hopes into the night sky.

Yume glanced at the flickering sphere in Giyuu’s hands. “Let’s send it away,” she murmured, her voice heavy with drowsiness. Together, they raised the lantern, hands meeting briefly in the warm light. On the count, they let go.

Blue and gold, their lantern floated upward, weightless. It drifted into the growing constellation above the square, joining a sky thick with wishes for health, safe returns, mercy for the lost. She watched it climb, vision blurring at the edges, fatigue creeping up behind her eyes.

She swayed, knees buckling as if her body remembered the habit of surrender. Her lips parted in a sigh—not here, not now—but sleep was merciless, an undertow she couldn’t resist. Giyuu’s hand caught her elbow before she could slump to the cobbles.

Without a word, he crouched low and turned his back to her. She knew what he wanted. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, legs draping around his waist. His hands locked at her thighs, solid and grounding.

Lanterns floated overhead, the village bright with fleeting magic. Her eyelids fluttered. “You’re warm,” she whispered, or maybe only thought it, too tired to be sure the words left her mouth. The world faded to the steady rhythm of his stride, the silent comfort of his arms.

Even now, he never lets me go.

Yume woke, roused by the shudder of the gate closing behind them. She tightened her hold around his neck—a small, greedy gesture, arms cinched close, refusing to let sleep pull her under just yet. He didn’t complain, only adjusted his grip and carried her through the tangled grass and across the mossy flagstones to the engawa.

“Let’s sit here,” she murmured, her voice husky from dreams. She tugged a strand of his hair in lazy encouragement, and he crouched so she could slip down. Yume sat beside him, knees pulled up.

She leaned against him, head dropping to his shoulder, not quite ready to let go of the comfort. The festival’s echo still lingered in her bones—laughter, the glimmer of lights, the sweetness still on her tongue.

But her mind kept circling back to what hung between them. The letter. His silence. It needled at her. She nudged him with her knee, feigning nonchalance. “You never told me what was in that letter,” she said. “Did Urokodaki-sama finally remember to send you a recipe for edible rice, or was it a warning about the koi? Maybe he wants to know if you’re still brooding at midnight.”

He hesitated, jaw tight as if weighing each word. “It was just an update,” he replied, gaze fixed somewhere past the pond. “About someone he’s been training. Nothing important.” His tone was too even, practiced—like he’d already said it to himself a dozen times.

Yume watched him, suspicion flickering. He rarely lied, but he often withheld, tucking the truth behind those eyes. For once, he didn’t look away. He met her stare, steady and unflinching, the two of them mirrored in each other.

There’s more. He’s keeping something—maybe to protect me, maybe just to carry the weight alone a little longer. It stings, even if I understand. But I’ll let it go.

She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes, fingers gentle. “Your hair’s a mess,” she chided, voice light. “Falling out everywhere. If you keep this up, you’ll be bald by thirty.”

He scowled, but didn’t pull away as she dug around in the inside pocket of her haori. She produced a scrap of blue fabric—torn from her own sleeve, the edge singed from a too-close brush with the irori. “It isn’t a comb,” she declared, brandishing it with mock solemnity, “so your reputation is safe from scandal.”

Yume gathered his hair, smoothing out the tangles. The strip looped around her fingers, still warm from her body. She tied his hair back—not as neatly as Tsutako once had, but with more patience than anyone else would bother. “There,” she said, voice lowering as the teasing faded. “Fixed. No proposal, but I promise it’s charmed. You’ll live to haunt the rest of us another year.”

Her hands lingered, brushing his nape. His eyes met hers again, and she held his gaze. He looked softer, vulnerable in a way she rarely saw. She wanted to say something—anything—but didn’t trust her voice.

Instead, she let her head rest against his shoulder and closed her eyes, letting the world settle. “I’ll keep you safe,” she murmured, laughter threading through the words, heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer, but his hand closed over hers, holding it in his lap.

Giyuu…please let yourself be happy here, with me.

Chapter Text

Giyuu moved alone in the training yard, shirtless, sweat rolling slow and salty down his spine. Each motion was exact—the blade of his wooden sword hissing through humid air: strike, parry, pivot, repeat—his feet carving familiar furrows into the dirt.

The dummies, patched and overstuffed, listed at odd angles, battered by years of his discipline and the occasional wrath of a Tsuguko with something to prove. Today, their straw guts spilled in sullen heaps, and his mind followed suit—unraveling, thread by ragged thread, as sweat stung his eyes and the muscles in his back ached for rest.

He remembered the night before—the lanterns bobbing in the dusk, her hand resting in his. Yume had looked at him like...Tch. I don't deserve it.  He slashed down, too hard, and the wooden blade split the dummy’s side with a sickening rip, straw tumbling out. He dropped the sword, chest heaving, and pressed a fist to the knot of pain blooming beneath his ribs.

I lied to her again. Not just about the letter. About who I am. About what I’m not.

Sabito’s face rose in his memory, white-knuckled, mouth bloodied, eyes so sure. That confidence had been a blade to everyone around him—fierce, unyielding, alive in a way Giyuu never managed, not even now, with years and titles clinging to his name.

Hashira. Water Pillar. Protector.

Fraud.

If only she knew. If only she saw the boy he’d been—shivering in Urokodaki’s hut, clutching broken ribs, blood still warm on his hands, Sabito’s ghost in every corner. He’d been too slow, too weak, spared by accident or pity. When Sabito fell, the rest called it fate, but Giyuu knew it for what it was: a mistake that couldn’t be taken back. He’d never earned the mantle. Not really. Not like Sabito would have.

Yume’s haori fabric still cinched his hair. He wanted to rip it out, to discard anything that suggested tenderness, but his hands shook, and he left it. A coward’s comfort.

He braced his arms on his knees, head bowed, breath rasping. His body ached in the ways he’d come to crave—pain, at least, meant he still had something left to atone for.

If she knew what lived inside me—how every word of praise sits wrong on my tongue, how gratitude always turns to guilt, how the only reason I still carry my sword is to atone, not to be worthy—would she still sit beside me on the engawa? Would she still reach for me, patch my wounds, laugh as if the world hadn’t already decided what I owed?

Sabito should be the one alive. Sabito would have told her the truth. Sabito would have deserved it.

He ground his teeth, knuckles pale as he gripped the wooden blade again. The yard felt too wide, the world too small. You’re just the one who survived, he told himself, the words raw, the old ache clawing up his throat. You’re not special. Not a Hashira. Not anything she thinks you are.

The gate’s iron latch rasped open. Giyuu stilled, letting the sword’s tip sink into the churned earth. Footsteps crunched over gravel around the far side of the house—too hesitant for Yume, too upright for Kakushi.

Murata. Again.

The boy’s voice rang out. “Tomioka-sama—morning! Is Yume up yet? I wanted to ask if she’d go on patrol with me—there’s word of something by the river, but—” He stopped, taking in Giyuu’s stripped-down state, sweat shining on skin, the splintered dummy.

Giyuu’s eyes slid over Murata—measuring, dismissive. He made no effort to blunt the edge in his stare. Why is it always you? Why can’t you just leave us be? The words crowded his tongue. “Are you so weak, Murata, that you can’t manage a patrol alone?”

Murata hesitated, smile faltering, gaze dropping to the ground. “That’s not it, Tomioka-sama, I just thought—”

“You just thought you’d waste someone’s time.” Giyuu cut him off, the words snapping in the humid air. “You’ve been in the Corps for nine years. Still fumbling around, only managed to claw your way up two ranks. Now you need a Kinoto just to walk beside you?” He took a step closer. “That’s pathetic.”

Murata’s mouth opened—no sound at first, just a visible struggle for dignity. He glanced back at the gate, cheeks coloring. “I—” he managed, voice cracking, “I only thought—Yume always—”

Giyuu shook his head, lips thinning. “You want to use her as a crutch. She isn’t here to patch over your incompetence. If you’re so frightened, perhaps you should ask the Kakushi to hold your hand instead.”

Murata flinched, jaw working. His fingers twisted around the hilt of his sword—habit, not threat. “You don’t have to be cruel,” he said quietly, but there was no force behind it. “She—she likes going out—”

Giyuu would have pressed further, words stacking up, ugly and mean, if not for the sudden clatter of the sliding screen. The house groaned, wood complaining beneath old rails, and there was Yume. She looked past Giyuu entirely, her attention fixing on Murata. “Wait by the gate. I’ll come when I’m ready.”

Murata nodded, ducking his head, relief written in the looseness of his shoulders. He moved quickly, almost stumbling in his haste to escape.

Yume turned to Giyuu. “Come here.” Not a request—an order, clear and uncompromising.

He considered turning away. The urge clawed at him: retreat, let her go, bury himself in drills until the world blurred. But he couldn’t—not with the memory of her hands in his hair, her laughter under lantern light. He set the sword aside, jaw tight, and crossed the yard to her.

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she reached up, fingers deft, tugging the scrap of blue fabric tighter in his hair. Her hands lingered. She spoke low, voice calm, but with iron in it. “You were cruel.”

He didn’t look at her. “He deserved it. The weak have no rights.”

“Maybe he did,” she said, tightening the knot. “But not like that.”

He bristled, every instinct urging him to flinch away. “He shouldn’t rely on you.”

Her fingers paused. “Everyone’s weak, Giyuu. Even you.” Her words slipped beneath his guard, pressing on old wounds he refused to name. “You know what it’s like to need someone.”

He held himself rigid, shoulders locked, refusing to yield. “He wants you to fight his battles.”

She sighed. “Maybe he does. Maybe he just wants to walk beside someone who makes things less frightening. It’s not your place to punish him for that.”

He forced himself to meet her gaze, and for a moment saw only his own failure reflected there—harsh, unsparing, but not without understanding. “He wastes everyone’s time. Yours. Mine.”

Her smile was slight, sadder than he expected. “All this anger—what does it buy you, except more loneliness?”

He swallowed, throat thick with words that never reached the air.

She finished with his hair, stepping back. “Try again tomorrow,” she murmured. “Let yourself be better than this.”

Yume turned, walking back into the house, leaving him with the ache of her touch lingering at the base of his neck.

Giyuu sat cross-legged, haori shrugged off, the heat of the day finally dissolving, leaving his muscles loose but alert. The bento, still warm, sat beside him—a nest of pickled plum, burdock, slivers of grilled mackerel, rice pressed into neat triangles by Kakushi hands. Two bowls, steam rising, lids trembling.

He watched the path beyond the gate, where wild grass tangled with dusk and pale moths battered themselves against the lamp. Footsteps approached—uneven, half-running. He braced for Murata’s voice, but it was Yume: sleeves askew, hair twisted by the wind, cheeks flushed with the mischief of someone who’d been too long away. Without preamble, she dropped into his lap, all elbows and the sharp press of her knees, letting herself half-sprawl against his chest as if she owned the entire Pavilion and everything inside it.

He let out a grunt—more exasperated than pained—resting a hand at her waist. “You’re late,” he said.

She craned her neck, grin bright and unrepentant, the tip of her nose barely grazing his jaw. “Were you waiting for me, Giyuu-chan? How devoted. What if I’d run off with Murata and joined a rival corps?”

He narrowed his eyes, lips pressed into a line that wasn’t quite a frown. “You’re late for yuhan. That’s all.”

Yume made a show of sighing, her head tilting dramatically against his shoulder. “So cold, Giyuu. The bento might have forgiven me, but you—never.” She snagged the chopsticks, picking at the rice, her hunger thinly veiled beneath her usual bravado. “Besides, I brought you back a souvenir.” She patted her pocket as if she’d pulled some trinket from a street vendor, but produced nothing. “Well, it was just a story, actually. Would you settle for a story?”

He shrugged, noncommittal, but didn’t move to push her off. “If you must.”

Yume took a mouthful of rice, chewing thoughtfully, watching the deepening indigo of the sky. “Murata got us lost. Again. We circled the same cedar grove three times. He claimed he was tracking a demon—turned out it was a very aggressive tanuki.” Her tone was dry. “I suggested we let the tanuki join the Corps, since it has a better sense of direction. He didn’t appreciate the joke.”

Giyuu ate in silence, but he relaxed, and let her lean in, her shoulder warm against his chest. She comes back, no matter how many times I push her away, he thought. 

Yume pressed on, voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “He tried to ask me about dream breathing. As if I would teach him, hmph. I told him to stick to basic footwork until he stops tripping over his own sword. He’ll never admit it, but he listens to me more than he does to you.” She nudged his knee, her chopsticks hovering over a pickled plum. “Don’t look so sour. I was very diplomatic. Didn’t even tell him he’s hopeless. Unlike you.”

She finished eating, then shifted, sliding down until her head rested against his thigh, gaze turned up to the clouds scudding overhead. The silence between them was companionable, edged with the fatigue of the day—a peace earned, not given.

Giyuu set his bowl down, tracing the curve of her spine with a hand, more reflex than intention. “You’re lucky it was just a tanuki.”

She hummed, eyelids drifting. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I would have charmed the demon, anyway. You should have more faith in your Tsuguko.” She rolled onto her back, looking up at him, eyes narrowed to sly slits. “Or are you jealous Murata gets my best stories?”

He snorted and flicked her forehead. “If your stories keep him alive, you can tell as many as you want.”

Her laugh was soft. “So generous.” She quieted, watching the sky darken. The last of the sun gilded the edge of the clouds, a ragged gold that lingered after the heat was gone. In the garden, something—a frog, maybe—sang a single note and fell silent. Yume closed her eyes and let her hand drift to his knee, fingers tapping out an idle rhythm.

Giyuu’s hand hovered, caught between desire and restraint, the pads of his fingers grazing the silver at Yume’s crown. He let his palm rest, careful and tentative, threading through the fine strands. He shouldn’t have allowed himself this comfort—not after everything, not with hands that had failed so many times before. Each gentle motion was a trespass, a small, stolen kindness he always found a way to regret.

You don’t get to have this. You’re only holding what the world hasn’t taken yet.

Yume’s breathing slowed in counterpoint to the pulse thumping at his wrist. The weight of her head in his lap threatened to dissolve him. For the first time in hours, he felt almost calm—then the world, always eager to remind him of its cruelty, wrenched that peace away.

From above, two shapes swooped down, black wings splitting the dying light. Kanzaburo, Giyuu’s kasugai crow, battered the air with his familiar vehemence. Beside him, Tsuki—Yume’s young crow, white-tipped feathers already dusty from mischief—landed with a clatter on the rail, wings flared, both cawing with the shrill urgency reserved for catastrophe.

“GIYUU! YUME! IMMEDIATE ORDERS!” Kanzaburo shrieked, feathers bristling, scroll dangling from his leg. “EMERGENCY! NISHITAMA! MANY VILLAGERS GONE MISSING—MULTIPLE DEMONS SUSPECTED!”

Tsuki chimed in, her voice a curious mix of childish chirping and panic. “Urgent, urgent! Water Hashira and Tsuguko required! Come at once! Nishitama! Blood, disappearances, many devoured! Too many to count!”

Giyuu felt Yume jolt beneath his hand, the inertia of contentment instantly broken. She pushed upright, blinking herself awake, the sleep not yet banished from her gaze but already replaced by the sharpness of habit.

He stood, reaching for the scroll. The wax seal tore easily beneath his thumb. He read the message in silence, eyes narrowing. The crow’s words hadn’t exaggerated—Nishitama, remote and forest-shrouded, with a river that cut the valley, now bled villagers by the dozen. Bodies vanishing at night, no signs of struggle, no witnesses. Patrols dispatched. None had returned.

Yume rubbed at her eyes, sleep clinging stubbornly to her lashes, but her mouth already twisted into a wry smile. “Peace never lasts long here, does it?” Her voice was soft, but the undertone was something harder—a readiness that always surfaced in her, even when her limbs trembled.

He shook his head, jaw set. “No. Get ready.”

Tsuki fluttered down to Yume’s shoulder, nipping at her hair. “Go, go, Yume! No time to stop for sweets or sleep!”

Kanzaburo, still ruffled, hopped closer to Giyuu’s hand. “No time for tea! No time for waiting!”

Yume pushed to her feet, rolling her shoulders, the lines of fatigue replaced by the coiled tension of anticipation. “You heard the bird. No time to fix my hair, either.” She grinned up at Giyuu, mocking her own mess. “If I die looking like this, let the Master know it’s your fault.”

He couldn’t help the sound he made—a dry, humorless huff. “You won’t die.”

“Is that an order?” she teased, knuckles brushing his. Then, more quietly, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be ready.”

There was no room left for gentleness, not now—not with Nishitama devouring its own. He watched her retreat, the swing of her haori, the easy way she called Tsuki to perch, and he felt the old ache settle, colder and heavier with every step.

The garden, a stage for intimacy only moments before, now bristled with the premonition of violence. Kanzaburo circled overhead, shouting warnings to the sky, and Giyuu followed Yume inside, hands already reaching for his uniform.

No matter how many times you return to this place, the world will always find a way to pull you from it. You belong to the sword, not to her.

The crows shot ahead. Kanzaburo’s squalling caws echoed down the trail, always a step ahead—urgent, urgent, move faster, don’t linger.

Yume ran at his back, the cadence of her footfalls distinct even in the thicket of night insects and the splintered crunch of forest debris. She moved with a floating rhythm, the kind that belonged to someone forever walking with dreams. Giyuu listened—half to her steps, half to her breath, measuring for the slackening that always signaled her consciousness dissolving. A kind of vigilance that felt closer to superstition than strategy, but he’d learned to trust it.

The scent of damp loam and cold river drifted up from the ravine, thickening the air, catching in his throat. For a moment, he almost forgot they were being driven toward carnage. It might have been beautiful, if not for the crows and the knowledge that the path beneath them was slick with memories of blood.

He heard it then: the stagger in Yume’s breathing, the faint hesitation in her step. She wavered, just enough for him to notice, just enough for alarm to flicker through him. He eased his pace, shortening his stride until he was running beside her—close enough to catch her if her body failed. It was a dance they’d repeated for years—unspoken, precise, ugly in its necessity. When she was younger, before her muscles had learned this cruel choreography, he’d carried her half the way on missions. Hoisting her across his shoulders, feeling the deadweight slack of her body, uncertain if she was only sleeping or lost somewhere deeper. Kanae’s words drifted back: “Repetition, Giyuu. The body remembers, even when the mind disappears. It’s a kind of dream walking.”

He never understood the science, nor did he want to. He only understood the stakes. The world had already devoured too many children like her—like him. All he could do was make sure she kept moving, even when her consciousness failed her.

Her breath slowed, lengthening into something not quite sleep and not quite waking. He reached out without thinking, his hand ghosting at her elbow—ready to anchor her, to drag her forward or pull her upright if her knees buckled. The first time it happened, he’d panicked, shouting her name, shaking her until she choked awake. Now, it was muscle memory—another scar layered over the rest. He no longer yelled. He only watched, and waited, and carried her if he had to.

Giyuu remembered her as a child—too small, too pale, lost in sleep’s grip. He’d resented it then, mistaking her frailty for indifference. Now, he wondered what kind of monster would call it weakness. The knowledge twisted under his ribs, shame.

It was noon by the time they reached Hikawa.

Yume’s grip curled into the fabric at the base of his haori. He slowed his pace for her, though he pretended not to. Children shrieked around their ankles, chasing pinwheels. Paper carp bobbed in the breeze above the main avenue, strung between shopfronts like a festival that had overstayed its welcome. The whole village had a washed-out, dreamlike quality—or maybe I’m just tired. Or anxious. Or both.

They reached the old ryokan at the heart of town. The sign was lacquered and chipped, characters half-swallowed by moss. Giyuu pushed open the latticework door. Inside, the tatami muted their footfalls, and a faint thread of incense—sharp, with a medicinal undercurrent—drifted in the air. The landlady, a woman bent like a willow branch and beaming with gold-toothed warmth, greeted them with a bow so low her obi nearly grazed the floor.

“Oh! You two make a lovely pair. Are you here for the lantern night?” Her eyes twinkled, unabashed as she took in the way Yume leaned on Giyuu. “You’ll want a room at the back. Quieter. More private. The walls here are thin—just like a young wife’s patience!”

Yume, radiant as ever in discomfort, slipped smoothly into the space the old woman left open. “He’s terrible in the mornings,” she confided with feigned sorrow, sliding her arm through his. “But I’m training him. You mustn’t worry.” Then, with a sidelong glance: “Newly married. You can tell, can’t you? Look how grumpy he is.”

Giyuu’s mouth twitched. She makes a game of it, every time. He nodded curtly to the innkeeper. “We’ll stay for a night. Maybe two.”

“Ah! Two nights, wonderful.” The old woman’s eyes lingered on Yume—she saw the exhaustion, but not the truth of it, only what she wished to see. “Room and bath, and I’ll send up rice balls and soup once you’re settled. The mats are freshly aired.”

Money changed hands with the clink of coins. Giyuu didn’t meet the woman’s gaze; he felt the prick of it against his skin anyway—her scrutiny, her assumptions, the way people always wanted to believe in ordinary things. Newlyweds. Not killers. Not wanderers. If only she knew…

Up the narrow stairs, the room was small and sun-drenched, a screen thrown open to reveal a sliver of garden, all moss and water. The futon sat neatly folded in the corner; a pair of porcelain cups waited on a tray, rimmed with green tea stains.

Giyuu slid the door shut behind them. He loosened the knot at his throat, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness.

Yume stood by the window, fingers drifting along the sill. For a moment, her eyes lingered on the world outside, then she turned, her smile all sly teeth. “Shall I act the dutiful wife?” she murmured. “You’re supposed to praise my tea ceremony, and tell the neighbors you’re the luckiest man in Hikawa.”

He exhaled, voice deadpan. “You’d spill the tea.”

She grinned wider, undeterred. “You’re right. I’d fall asleep halfway through. You’d have to catch the cups.”

He pressed his lips together. “We’ll rest for a little while,” he said, his tone clipped, businesslike. “Eat. Then we’ll go out and talk to the villagers. Start with the last place anyone went missing.”

Yume reached for the futon and tugged it from its neat cocoon, letting it billow out. The blanket followed—cotton worn thin from years of use, still holding the faint, clean scent of air outside. She smoothed the edge with one hand. She’d done this in countless inns, some less generous than this one.

She didn’t wait for his permission. She gripped Giyuu’s sleeve and pulled. “You’re not staying up,” she said, her voice low but edged with command. “Not if you to be sharp when we go hunting.”

Giyuu hesitated. Yet the day clung to his limbs, every muscle throbbed. He studied her—she was already on her side, hair spilling over the pillow, watching him with a look that brooked no argument.

He surrendered to the pull, sinking down beside her. They arranged themselves without ceremony—no awkward negotiation, no space held back. Yume rolled close until their foreheads nearly touched. Giyuu, unthinking, slid one arm around her waist. He closed his eyes, listening as her breathing deepened. Pressing his plam to the small of her back. Her breath grew steadier, the line of her spine unfurling as she settled into the cocoon of his hold. For a moment, he let himself believe in the possibility of safety, even if it was only as long as the sunlight lasted across their blanket.

If she lets go, I won’t know how to hold myself together.

Chapter Text

The streets of Hikawa bustled with activity—merchants hollered over the rolling thunder of cart wheels, mothers argued with fishmongers, and children darted beneath rickety market stalls. Festival detritus littered the gutter: cracked bamboo fans, scattered grains of rice, the odd smear of plum sauce.

Yume kept to the edge of the thoroughfare, her body tuned to the rhythm of near-collision and practiced sidestep.

A pair of laborers approached, broad-shouldered and heedless. Their arms strained beneath the weight of storage trunks banded with iron, the kind favored by traveling troupes or undertakers. They shouted warnings to no one in particular, sweat flying from their brows as they wove through the crush. She recognized the look—eyes glazed with exhaustion, movements tuned for utility rather than grace.

She miscalculated, just for a heartbeat, stepping wide to avoid a woman with an armful of kimono bolts. The world telescoped: the laborers' burden swung out, too fast, and she realized—too late—that the crate would catch her.

A hand closed around her upper arm. Giyuu yanked her out of harm’s way, spinning her into the shadow beneath an awning. The men didn’t even turn; their shouts faded, lost beneath the grunt and scrape of commerce.

She landed chest-to-chest with him, off-balance. The noise of the market receded, replaced by the cadence of his breath, the salt of his sweat in the air between them. Sunlight fractured around his hair, catching at the edge of his jaw, the line of his mouth drawn taut.

Her gaze snagged on his lips, drawn tight as if biting back some rebuke. The world compressed to the taste of copper and heat and the question blooming inside her: What would it feel like? She wanted to draw him in, to see if she could break his silence.

The thought sent a violent shiver down her spine. She jerked back, pulse stuttering, face hot. His hand fell away as if burned. She busied herself, dusting invisible grit from her sleeve, refusing to meet his eyes.

Giyuu cleared his throat. “You should watch where you’re walking.”

She forced a smile. “But I have you here to save me.”

Giyuu was never the first to offer comfort, but he had a knack for rerouting tension into function. “Where do you want to begin?” he asked. His voice was all business—Hashira, not friend; a command disguised as a question.

Yume scanned the bustling street. No one here looked frightened enough. No clusters of gossiping housewives, no farmers cursing vanished relatives—if the demon had been busy, the evidence had been neatly swallowed.

“The shrine,” she said. “If anyone’s heard whispers—travelers, pilgrims, superstitious grandmothers—it’ll be the priest. He sees the newcomers. He hears the prayers for missing sons, lost wives. Besides, priests gossip more than anyone.”

Giyuu grunted. “Lead the way.”

She started forward, weaving through a river of bodies, conscious of his presence a pace behind. The avenue sloped uphill, the air thickening with the tang of incense and the honeyed rot of offering fruit left too long in the summer heat.

Cicadas buzzed in the trees above, a chorus that grated. The shrine gate rose ahead—old wood lacquered to black, the rope thick with sacred paper charms. Red lacquer bled in the gutter, washed from the old torii by last night’s rain. A group of women in traveling clothes clustered by the hand-washing basin, hands folded, voices pitched low.

Yume paused, letting Giyuu catch up. She glanced at him, meaning to make a quip—something easy, to cut the new awkwardness—but found him watching her. She looked away, pulse skipping, and dipped her hands into the basin.

He joined her, rinsing his hands. She found herself watching the veins in his wrist.

They moved through the gate together. The priest waited at the threshold, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes sharp as a crow’s. His gaze landed on Giyuu first—sizing him up, the haori too distinctive.

Yume dipped her head, voice slipping into the formality required by such places. “Honored priest. Might we trouble you with a question?”

The priest’s mouth twitched—curiosity, wariness, perhaps both. “You’re not pilgrims or merchants.” His gaze lingered on her kama.

She inclined her head. “We need to know about the disappearances in the area. What you’ve heard. Who came last, and who didn’t leave.”

“You’re not the first to come asking. People are frightened. Most keep it tucked inside—call it bad luck, the whim of the gods. There was a man—young, or maybe not so young, hunger ages a face. Came down from Ogouchi village three nights ago. Said the spirits of the forest had turned vengeful. Livestock gone, crops withered. Children taken by fever. Even the river’s turned mean—floods one day, bone dry the next. He was half-crazed, speaking in riddles about pacts and broken promises.”

Giyuu cut him off, voice brisk. “We’re not here for blighted harvests or offended gods. I want to know about the people who vanish. Names. Numbers. When. Where.” His bluntness lanced the priest’s composure, drawing a flicker of distaste.

Yume stepped in before the tension could congeal. She bowed. “Forgive him. My companion is thorough—sometimes at the expense of courtesy. Please, anything you can share about the disappearances themselves. Even the smallest rumor helps.”

The priest’s mouth tightened. Still, he relented, the stiffness in his posture fading by degrees. “The man from Ogouchi said his neighbors were vanishing—one, then another, then whole households. He insisted they were simply leaving, at first. Told me—‘It’s just the hunger, the fear. They walk into the forest looking for something to fill their bellies, or maybe just escape the famine. Who could blame them?’ But he wouldn’t meet my eye. That’s always the way: they call it choice, when what they really mean is something made it for them.”

Giyuu’s eyes flicked up. “Did he describe what took them? Or when it started?”

The priest hesitated, shook his head. “No.”

Yume’s mind spun out, mapping rumors against absence. The priest’s words held the shape of evasion, but the fear felt real—tangible, metallic, like the taste of blood on the tongue after a fall. She glanced sideways at Giyuu, catching the tension along his jaw, the way his hands hovered close to his sword, reflex layered over anxiety.

She offered the priest another bow, lower this time. “Thank you.”

The priest gave a small, brittle smile. “We pray for answers. If you’re going north, follow the river, not the ridge. The path up to Ogouchi is hungry ground these days.”

Giyuu nodded, already turning away. Yume lingered, her gaze falling over the makeshift altars, the marks of loss etched into stone and wood. Her own voice sounded foreign, half-dreaming. “We’ll be careful,” she said.

Giyuu waited at the torii, eyes distant, mouth drawn in its habitual line of regret. When she joined him, he spoke without looking at her: “We’re going to Ogouchi.” His voice left no room for debate. “The disappearances started there.”

“If he was lying, it wasn’t just to the priest. He’s hiding something. Or afraid of it.” She paused, lowering her voice. “People don’t run from hunger into haunted woods unless they think what’s behind them is worse than what waits ahead.”

Dusk washed Ogouchi in a bruised palette, everything dying or already dead. The air carried the faint, bitter tang of scorched millet and dry rot. Each step into the village thickened the sense of abandonment: paddies cracked and choked with weeds, bean rows stunted, millet husks crumbling at the touch.

Animals lingered in the pen nearest the road—a pair of goats, and a pig. Splashes of blood dried black along the fence posts, coagulated in the ruts where straw once cushioned the ground. Flies gathered at the edges, their wings thrumming in the stagnant air.

Giyuu moved ahead, footsteps soundless on the clay. Yume followed, fingers curled tight in the trailing fold of his sleeve. The silence pressed close, broken only by the creak of shutters.

They passed the shrine—its banners limp, paper prayers water-stained and torn. The only living thing bold enough to move in the open was a stray cat, ribbed with hunger, darting across their path and vanishing beneath a cart.

Giyuu approached the first villager—a gaunt man, clutching a basket of wilted greens. He didn’t look up until Giyuu’s shadow fell across his feet. Even then, his eyes skittered past, never quite meeting Giyuu’s gaze. “What happened here? The crops, the animals—the blood. Was there an attack?”

The man’s jaw clenched. “Just a famine,” he answered, too quickly, hands tightening on the basket’s edge. “It’s the season—bad luck. The gods have turned away. That’s all.”

Yume studied his posture: the way his shoulders drew in, the trembling. A man with nothing left but fear, and fear withered down to the bone. She kept silent.

They moved on, skirting a shuttered shopfront where a woman swept invisible dust from her stoop. She flinched as Giyuu approached, broom pausing mid-motion. “Excuse me,” Giyuu pressed, impatience etching his features. “Have you seen anything strange? People missing, not just leaving. What happened to your neighbors?”

The woman’s eyes darted from Giyuu to Yume, and back again. “People go where there’s food,” she replied. “My brother left last week, said he’d find work. Didn’t say goodbye. No one did. That’s all there is to it.”

A lie, so thin it barely qualified as denial.

Yume reached out, voice gentle. “Did anyone see them leave? Did anyone say where they were going, exactly?”

The woman’s lips flattened, hands moving faster on the broom. “I told you—he left. They all left. It’s what you do, when you want to live.”

At the edge of the square, a group of children watched from behind a broken fence, eyes wide, faces streaked with dust. One picked at a sore on his elbow, saying nothing. The oldest, a girl with hair hacked short, met Yume’s gaze with open challenge—feral, defiant. No one spoke. The village had learned to make silence its shield.

They pressed on, approaching an old man tending the remnants of a kitchen garden—leaves mottled, stalks bent. Giyuu’s tone sharpened, frustration leaking through. “Famine doesn’t spill blood in the animal pens. Where did the people go?”

The old man stared down at his hands, earth caked in the whorls of his fingerprints. “They left, same as the rest. Nothing for them here.” He flicked a pebble from under his fingernail, mouth twisting. “No use digging for bones in barren ground.”

Yume exchanged a glance with Giyuu, letting her hand drift to his arm. They’re terrified. Not just of hunger. Of something watching. Something worse than dying here.

The houses grew sparser as dusk deepened, outlines frayed by the encroaching gloom. Smoke curled lazily from one or two chimneys. Everywhere Yume looked, she saw signs of erasure: rooms stripped of futons, shrines denuded of offerings, a world shrinking to its last stubborn survivors.

She tugged gently at Giyuu’s sleeve, drawing him aside, voice low. “They’re lying. Or they believe what they’re saying, which is almost worse. Nobody here is leaving of their own will. They’re disappearing, one by one, and no one dares name it.”

Giyuu’s mouth set in a hard line. “Someone’s making them keep quiet. Or they know what’s out there, and they’d rather let it eat them than speak its name.”

She looked at the empty windows, the doors bolted from within, the stains that refused to be washed from the earth. If I say it aloud, will it come for us too?

Giyuu had gone silent, eyes fixed on the horizon, weighing each word. Yume slid her hand into his, fingers threading with the rough calluses. She felt his surprise—subtle, a minute tightening of his palm—before he glanced down, eyes flickering, uncertain in the last dregs of sunlight.

She kept her voice low, barely above a murmur. “Something’s wrong here.”

He nodded, wordless, a ghost of agreement. Whatever he was about to say dissolved into stillness as a sound broke the tension—a furtive scuff, too soft for adult footsteps. Yume turned, hand never leaving Giyuu’s, and caught sight of a small figure peeking from behind a crumbling wall. A boy—barefoot, knees muddy, eyes large and wild—beckoned with sharp, panicked urgency.

Giyuu’s stance shifted. She could read suspicion in the way his other hand hovered near his blade, weight coiled and ready. But Yume tugged, insistent, pulling him toward the shadows where the boy hid. There was always risk in this—approaching the unknown, exposing their backs—but the ache in the child’s gaze was something Yume couldn’t walk away from.

They slipped into the alcove between houses. The boy pressed himself flat against the wall, breathing in shallow bursts. He eyed Giyuu—fearful, but not of swords or slayers. Not that kind of fear.

Yume crouched, making herself small. “You wanted to tell us something,” she coaxed, careful to keep her tone gentle, almost playful. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

He darted a glance at Giyuu, then back to Yume. His voice came out in a tremor, barely more than a shiver of sound. “You shouldn’t be here. She’ll be angry again.”

Giyuu’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

The boy hesitated, chewing his lip, then whispered, “The forest spirit. My brother was supposed to marry her this time, but he ran away. So she—she cursed us. The fields, the animals. All dying.” He paused, blinking hard. “That’s why everyone is afraid.”

“Marry the spirit?” she echoed, careful not to let disbelief bleed into her tone. “Your brother? Did someone make him—?”

He shook his head. “Mama said it’s always been like this. Someone has to go to the forest—twice every year—so she won’t get angry. If there’s no wedding, she takes people instead. She took my cousin last spring. And a girl from the next hamlet before that.” His voice caught on the memory.

Giyuu went still, that specific, haunted kind of stillness that came from realizing the truth was uglier than rumor. “You’re saying your village sends someone to her—on purpose?”

The boy nodded, voice barely a breath. “If we don’t, she comes. Makes things worse. Some say she eats them. Mama won’t say. She says we shouldn’t ask too much.”

Yume’s mouth was dry. She kept her hand on Giyuu’s. “When did this start?” she pressed. “Has anyone tried to stop it?”

The boy shook his head again. “I don’t know. Always, I think. Papa said it’s not our place to fight the gods. We just…survive.”

Giyuu’s expression hardened, jaw flexing. “This isn’t a god.” His voice was quiet, flint-struck, promising retribution more than comfort. “No one should have to live like this.”

Yume’s gaze darted to the ragged hem of the boy’s sleeve, the dirt ground into the lines of his palm. “Why did your brother run?” she asked.

He swallowed, face pinched. “He was scared. Mama told him not to cry, but he did anyway.”

Yume pressed her lips together, mind racing. The truth was here, coiled in the marrow of the village: a pact sealed with terror, fed twice a year, blood for harvest, flesh for mercy. The famine wasn’t an accident. It was a sentence.

Yume stood, brushing dust from her knees. She squeezed the boy’s shoulder, voice softening. “Thank you for telling us. Go home. Stay inside tonight. Whatever happens, don’t come looking.”

He nodded, too young for hope but too old for ignorance, and vanished through the narrow gap between houses.

We’re too late to save the past. But maybe not the next child. Maybe not this village.

Chapter Text

Giyuu scanned the horizon: corpse-pale crops brittle beneath the wind’s touch, the acrid reek of dried blood in the livestock pens. Even the birds had abandoned the rafters, leaving only the sound of the river and the rasp of wind.

Yume lingered at his side, eyes flickering restlessly over rooftops and alleys, her fingers already straying to the hilts of her kama. She was alert in that particular way—shoulders loose but spine taut, her exhaustion hidden beneath a layer of practiced poise. He knew the mask for what it was, having worn its likeness for years. The impulse to reach out—to shield her, even from a silence so complete—was nearly overwhelming.

He cleared his throat. “We’ll patrol tonight. If anything comes out of the forest—” He let the words hang, unfinished.

She nodded, no trace of doubt, only a spark of mischief. “I’ll take the north end. You always look grim when you cover the shrines.”

She stepped away, knees bending, ready to launch herself to the roofed eaves above. But before she could leap, Giyuu’s hand shot out, catching the edge of her haori between his fingers. Her eyes widened, startled; for a moment, she was entirely still.

He met her gaze, voice low, stripped bare of pretense. “If you see anything—you tell me first. Don’t run off.”

The words came out sharper than intended. The knot of fear beneath his ribs threatened to unravel. It would be so easy, here—among the soft decay and withered fields—to let old habits take hold, to lose her in the fog of battle the way he had lost so many others. The old nightmare pressed against the base of his skull: her body slack, eyes unfocused, his hands not quick enough.

Yume didn’t bristle. Instead, she leaned in, almost conspiratorial, a half-smile playing at her mouth. “Stop worrying.” She reached up and tugged the ragged strip of blue cloth binding his hair. “I’m not going to disappear on you, Giyuu.”

He didn’t look away. “Promise me.”

Her expression sobered. “I promise.”

Giyuu released her haori. “Don’t make me regret it.”

She grinned, and in a blur of motion, sprang up onto the nearest roof, her silhouette dissolving into the dark.

The patrol was rote by now, almost ritualistic—circle the hamlets, check the fields, pause in the hollow where the air always ran coldest. But tonight, the routines felt stripped of their usual certainty, exposed by what he now knew. This was no ordinary demon. This was something older, fed by bargains, woven so deep into the bones of Ogouchi that the villagers themselves had become both jailers and victims.

He set off down the path, every muscle tuned to the scrape of wood on stone, the body moving where it shouldn’t. Yume’s presence flickered overhead—sometimes a shadow passing between broken rafters, sometimes nothing at all.

Giyuu stood atop the highest roof, arms folded tight across his chest. Silence suffocated the village below. No rattle of shutters, no lamplight seeping through reed blinds—just fear pressed across every threshold.

He had lost sight of Yume. She’d made the rooftops her kingdom—always had—said she liked the vantage, the way wind curled around her, the feeling of being neither earthbound nor truly among the clouds. He searched for her silhouette—pale, insistent, impossible to mistake. Nothing.

A twinge of unease snagged at him, growing sharper with every heartbeat. He scanned the horizon. Where are you? The words clenched behind his teeth.

He tensed, poised to leap to the next roof, when a flicker of motion at the treeline snared his gaze. There—silver flashing, hair wild, blades bared to the moon. Yume. She was running full tilt, already breaching the threshold where field collapsed into forest. In that instant, Giyuu’s heart seized with a violence he hadn’t felt since the world last snatched something precious from his grasp.

He sprang from the tiles, every muscle honed by years of discipline, by hard-won knowledge that the first to hesitate was always the first to die. Each landing was a promise—I won’t lose her, I won’t fail here, not again—his feet devouring the distance between him and the ragged shadow streaking toward the trees.

Why hadn’t she called for him? Where was the signal, the whistle, the code they’d practiced—the one meant for danger too great for pride? She knew better. The forest’s mouth yawned before him, tangled roots and brambles crowding like the teeth of a beast. He crashed through, urgency banishing stealth. Her name left his lips in a snarl: “Yume!”

No answer. Just the susurrus of leaves, the shrill hiss of insects.

He pressed on, mind racing through every possibility—sleep attack, blood demon art, ambush, betrayal. The woods here were thick, trees massed like ancient priests, trunks knotted and scarred, earth soft beneath his feet. He caught another glimpse—a flick of silver, moonlight glinting off her blades, her stance poised and tense.

Relief flared, then died. She stood utterly still, gaze locked on something in the brush. He reached her in two strides, hand closing around her arm with all the force of command. “What are you—”

Her body rippled, blurred, then collapsed—hair dissolving to fog, limbs unspooling. She vanished between his fingers, and cold, wild laughter swelled in the dark, echoing between the trees, threading through the undergrowth.

For an instant, he was twelve again—Sabito’s blood, Tsutako’s hand slipping from his own, loss shattering his certainty.

He bared his teeth, pulse roaring in his ears. This was a demon’s trick—a blood art meant to disorient, to drive him off course, separate him from his Tsuguko. He steadied his stance, drew his nichirin blade, the blue steel almost black beneath the canopy. Every sense sharpened; the world slowed to its core essentials: breath, heartbeat, threat.

“Come out,” he commanded, voice flat as slate. “If you want to play with me, show yourself. Or are you only brave when you’re hiding behind illusions?”

The laughter circled him, high and bright—a child’s giggle rotted through with something ancient, something hungry. Petals spun on the wind, white as bone, spiraling down from nowhere to settle in his hair, on his blade. The scent—cloying, almost sweet—crawled into his nostrils and set his nerves alight.

He gripped the hilt tighter. The world seemed to tilt; colors bled at the edge of vision. For a moment, he thought he saw her again—just ahead, just out of reach—her mouth open in silent warning, eyes wide with the same helplessness that haunted him.

Still, he advanced. Each step a refusal—No. I won’t let you take her. His eyes darted through the thicket, blade raised, ready for any shift in the air, any hint of movement that might break the spell and drag them both back into the world of blood and consequence.

His name—torn from Yume’s throat—ricocheted off the trunks and rang inside his skull. Once. Again. A third time, so sharp it hurt to hear. The pitch was perfect. Her voice—just ragged enough to suggest terror, just breathless enough to conjure the image of her pinned beneath some horror, blood slicking the roots. Every part of him recoiled; his body wanted to run toward it, tear the forest apart to reach her.

But that wasn’t her. It’s wrong. The sound was too loud, everywhere at once, like an avalanche of memory—each shriek baited for him to chase. He pressed his hand to his chest, grounding himself in the texture of sweat and fabric, the ache beneath his ribs. His blade remained steady in his grip.

Think, Giyuu. She wouldn’t scream for you—not once, not ever, not even if she was dying. Not even if she wanted you to come. That’s not Yume. That’s bait. That’s the demon’s art.

Still, the sound gnawed at him, scraping raw the old scar of every failure, every loved one he’d failed to save. The cries fractured, spinning through the branches—her voice shifting from plea to accusation, then back again. The demon knew how to use his own mind as a weapon. Giyuu’s breath grew ragged from the pressure of memory and dread knotted together.

A branch snapped behind him—he whirled, blade flashing, teeth bared, only for the woods to close in around him, empty, silent. The only movement was a scatter of dead leaves, twisting in a wind that didn’t exist. From somewhere ahead, Yume’s scream tore through again, wordless, drawn-out—a cry designed to eviscerate reason, to override everything except the urge to save.

She is strong. His mind conjured her face—steady, infuriating, the tilt of her chin that always preceded defiance. He used that memory as an anchor, let it smother the noise, set his pulse back to its proper rhythm.

The screams crescendoed, filling the woods to bursting. Every tree became a mouth, every bush a throat. Still, he advanced, forcing his breath steady, repeating her name now only as a ward: “Yume.” Once. Twice.

The demon is clever, he realized—a blood demon art honed to wound not flesh but will. It drew on memory and regret, forced the blade of doubt against the softest parts of the mind. He grit his teeth.

He turned the memory of her voice against the art itself—replaying not her imagined terror, but every careless laugh, every barb, every moment she’d drawn blood with a word and not a weapon. That was the real Yume: quick, dangerous, too proud to ever beg. Never, never a victim.

We know nothing about this demon, he thought. No pattern. No scent. Only the aftermath—the villagers who vanish, the pact, the false famine.

Her scream battered him again. He flinched, then straightened, voice slicing through the chaos—flat, uncompromising, forged by years of failure. “That’s enough. I know you’re not her.”

The air thickened, fetid and heavy, suffused with a sweetness that crawled up his nostrils, pricked the back of his throat, settled in his lungs like wet plaster. Giyuu pressed forward, each step sinking into a carpet of white blossoms—thousands, pale as bone, petals slick with dew that clung to his ankles and left smears across his calves.

He staggered onward, one hand braced against a lichen-slick trunk. Above, branches knotted and recoiled, veins of pale vine weaving between them like a net waiting to drop.

Then—suddenly—crashing undergrowth. The urgent stampede of small, fleeing feet. He spun, heart jolting, sword half-raised—there, through a gap in the trees, Yume hurtled toward him.

She was a ruin: blood smeared from a gash in her scalp, soaking the collar of her uniform; one eye swollen shut, the lid slashed, crimson trailing down her cheek; her hand clamped to her belly, fingers splayed and shaking, dark rivulets leaking between them. Her steps faltered, knees buckling, but she pushed on, barreling through the field of ghostly flowers.

“Giyuu!” Her voice cracked, raw with pain.

The world narrowed. Instinct—older than training, older than language—tore through him. His sword slipped from his grasp, forgotten, the world a smear of panic as he surged forward, arms outstretched. He caught her, gathering her close, his hands searching blindly for the wound. Her body was warm—too warm—blood seeping across his knuckles.

“Yume—hold on, don’t—” His own voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar, a growl of rage and terror. “Stay with me. Look at me—Yume—”

But her form shuddered, flickered, became porous beneath his grip. Her flesh melted to vapor. A ragged wisp, as insubstantial as smoke, billowed away on a sudden, fetid breeze. His arms closed on nothing—only empty air and the bitter aftertaste of fear.

“No—” The word slipped from him, half a snarl, half a plea, scraping his throat bloody.

He spun, searching for the source of the illusion. Where? Where was the demon? Where had it taken her?

Above him, vines whipped down, thick as a man’s wrist, festooned with barbs and writhing white blossoms. One caught his shoulder, another snapped around his waist, another tangled at his ankle, jerking him back. Pain exploded through his ribs as thorns bit deep, seeping venom into the wound.

Giyuu lunged for his blade, fingers clawing through mulch and shattered stems. The laughter rose to a shriek. More vines lashed for his throat, for his wrists, pulling tight enough to strain muscle and grind bone.

He wrenched himself sideways, forcing his weight into a roll, the vines scoring bloody tracks along his side. His hand closed on the hilt—a cold, blessed anchor in the delirium. He surged upright, slashing in a brutal arc, shearing through a handful of wriggling stems. Sap spattered his face, stinging his eyes, but he kept moving, relentless.

“Coward!” His voice ripped free, animal and raw. “Show yourself! Enough of these tricks!”

The only reply was the demon’s laughter, unfurling through the trees—a sound that belonged to neither man nor beast, blooming and collapsing like a flower rotting in reverse. All around him, the white blossoms pulsed, petals yawning open to reveal teeth made of pollen, stamens twitching, hungering. The air pressed in, thick and swampy. Yume’s scream echoed again, this time from right behind him. He didn’t turn.

Not her. Not real. I know you, demon. I’ll tear your roots from the earth.

Chapter Text

Yume, wake up.

Her mother’s voice lanced through the sleep-murk with the shock of ice water. She startled upright—not in her futon, not on slick roof tiles, but knee-deep in a ruin of trampled white blossoms, petals bruised and sodden with green sap. Her breathing rasped, sharp and uneven, as the world knitted itself together: coppery blood, the rank sweetness of overripe flowers.

I was patrolling the rooftops. Around her, vines lay heaped in slaughtered coils, stalks bleeding a viscous green, gluey clots already streaking her forearms. Memory scattered: her last lucid thought, Giyuu’s silhouette against the moon—a promise of routine safety.

A cry split the forest. Giyuu’s voice, thrown into the dark, laced with an edge she barely recognized: fear. The crash of struggle followed—a staccato of blade against bark, the shuddering collapse of living things.

She ran, feet skidding in loamy mulch, heart thumping. The world flickered: white petals swirling on updrafts, the forest thrumming with a malice she could taste, metallic and fungal. She slashed at every vine—some hung limp, others convulsed, splitting into thorns midair, raking her thighs and tearing at her haori. Blood beaded, but she pressed forward, orienting by the battered rhythm of Giyuu’s breathing.

There—through a lattice of trunks—he appeared, locked in battle. Vines had bound him: one coil constricting his wrist to a dark, dangerous violet, another snarled at his ankle, dragging him toward roots gaping like a mouth. His sword flashed, but he moved with the violence of someone fighting not just an enemy, but himself.

Yume hurled herself forward—Dream Breathing, Third Form: Dreamstep Mirage—her form blurring, twin kama arcing. In a breath, she sliced through the vine throttling his wrist, landing hard between him and the encroaching thicket.

But before she could form his name, Giyuu’s hand clamped her shoulder, spun her. She slammed back against a pine, bark scraping her spine. The edge of his nichirin pressed beneath her jaw—a line of peril so fine it vibrated through every nerve. His eyes—wild—searched her face, refusing her. For an instant, she saw not Giyuu, but a man dragged too far by loss and rage.

“I won’t fall for it again,” he snarled, voice shredded. “You think I don’t know your tricks?”

Her pulse thundered, a mix of indignation and fear. “Giyuu—what are you—” she started, voice low, arms loose at her sides. His blade bit deeper, parting skin, heat blooming beneath her chin. His breath came hot and ragged, eyes fixed on hers but seeing something else.

“I’m offended you honestly can’t tell the difference between me and some demon fever dream.” Her lips twisted, wounded pride flaring to fury.

Giyuu’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up.” His blade pressed harder; her breath caught as it drew blood.

Behind him, the demon’s vines writhed, slow and anticipatory, coiling like serpents, barbs slick and wet. He’s lost in it, and it’ll kill us both if I don’t get him back.

“Where is Yume?” he demanded, seizing her wrist, pinning her to the tree. “What did you do to her? Where is she?”

“For the love of—” She stomped his foot, hard enough to jolt him. Not enough to break his grip, but enough to make him falter.

She surged forward, ignoring the blade’s sharp bite, the blood sliding down her neck. She crashed her mouth against his—a kiss of teeth and desperation, biting his lip, hard enough to bruise, enough to draw blood.

He froze, every muscle rigid. Then the tremor—his body flinching, confusion crackling through the mask of rage and fear. His hand slackened, falling away.

She broke the kiss, breath burning ragged between them, voice edged with ferocity—half grief, half stubbornness. “If I was an illusion, I’d have picked a sweeter dream for you. Use your head, Tomioka.”

He stared at her, lips parted, blood dripping where her teeth had bitten. His eyes cleared—storm and fog draining away, recognition returning.

He looks like he’s going to break. For a moment, she feared he might. The vines shifted behind him, patience dissolving. Yume pushed him back, out of their reach.

The air snapped with a shriek, primal and furious, and all at once the earth erupted: roots clawed from the leaf-littered soil, splintering moss and stone, whipping through the dark with a predator’s hunger.

A silhouette uncoiled from the bramble—limbs dripping leaves and flowers so white they gleamed in the moonlight. Not a woman, not really—though her shape mocked the human she once was. Skin the pallor of fungus, alive with green veins; eyes wide and amphibian. Petals spilled from tangled black hair, blossoming and rotting, lips hidden by trailing ferns and thorns.

She moved without footsteps, gliding as if the ground recoiled. Behind her, every tree bowed, bark splitting, sap flowing.

The demon’s voice slithered out—a chorus, as if the forest spat the words. “So close.” The sound vibrated through bark and marrow, wanting to root itself in your skull. “He was so close to shattering. All that pain—I could taste it. You ruined it.” The demon’s mouth twisted—grotesque and almost beautiful—a smile of lichen and poison. “I would have savored it. Watching him break. Watching him kill the one thing that keeps him warm.”

She shifted, vines flexing at her feet. The kanji for “Six” shone in her left eye, gold-rimmed and terrible. Upper Moon. Not just another hungry ghost.

Her gaze fixed on Yume, hatred blooming like black mold. “You ruined everything. You—” her voice cracked, fissures spidering through her restraint, “—will be consumed first. I’ll let him watch. I’ll let the roots drink you down.”

Giyuu stepped forward, sword in hand, posture taut. For an instant, he was again the Water Hashira, not the fractured boy she’d kissed back into himself. His voice—flat, lethal—cut through the demon’s rant. “You won’t touch her.”

The demon laughed—a sound like wind tearing through hollow branches, echoing from all sides. Vines shot for his feet, snapping like whips. “Brave,” she mocked, voice cruel. “Does she bleed the same if you cut her again, Hashira?” She circled, petals fluttering, the scent thickening until Yume’s eyes watered. “Or will you let me do it for you?”

Roots surged at her ankles; she leapt, spinning, blades carving through green. Sap sprayed her cheek, viscous and stinging. “Dream Breathing, First Form: Lilting Lullaby,” she hissed, a whisper of rhythm beneath panic. The world tilted, her body moving as if underwater, senses stretched thin and sharp.

Beside her, Giyuu cut down vines lashing for his arms, every strike a ripple of blue, cold and clean as mountain runoff. The demon watched, delighted. “Fight, then,” she purred. “Fight until you’re mulch. You’ll feed this forest one way or another.”

Petals swept the clearing in a blizzard. Yume spun, blades flashing, the world a confusion of screaming vines and voices—a chorus of Giyuu’s—some pleading, some snarling, some whispering her name with a hunger that wasn’t his.

Her feet bit into the loam, kama wet with sap and blood, the air cloying with the stink of rotting lilies. Somewhere left, Giyuu bellowed—a raw, animal sound—her name fracturing the night. She cut through a tangle of thorns, heart stuttering. There he was, flickering between trunks: haori tattered, mouth twisted in agony, body split and bleeding. Another version stumbled into view, missing a hand, staggering on a mangled leg. “Yume, help me,” he pleaded, voice hoarse and breaking. Then another—face hidden, sword dragging, blood pouring between his fingers as he pressed a shaking hand to his chest.

It’s not him. None of them are him.

The realization burned cold. This is what she did to him. This is why he almost broke. All that pain, all that guilt—she’s made him live it, over and over, and now she’s making me watch, as if it’s my own failure.

Her rage surged, so sharp it nearly choked her. I won’t let you bleed him for your amusement.

The demon’s laughter pulsed through the roots. Petals multiplied, cascading until sight itself became a wound. Each blossom that touched her skin stung—acidic or icy. She gasped, slicing wildly, trusting muscle memory and Breathing, letting her senses drift where vision failed.

Nearby, Giyuu grunted in pain—a sound that couldn’t be faked, or so she thought. She called out, voice tearing. “Giyuu! Where are you?” No answer. Only a fresh deluge of illusions—Giyuu crawling, clutching a shattered sword, another pinned by vines, throat closing as he tried to gasp her name.

She staggered, the world folding inward. Was she dreaming? Awake? Was the blood now beading at her throat real, or another fiction spun by the demon? Her own anger steadied her, a tether to the only thing she could trust. She wouldn’t abandon him. She wouldn’t let this thing break him, or her, or what they were together.

“Yume!” Giyuu’s true voice—or something near—rang out. She spun toward the sound, hope flaring despite herself. Petals parted. And there he was, moonlit, a vine as thick as her wrist driven through his torso. Blood bubbled at his lips. He fell, knees thudding into the muck, reaching out as if drowning.

She didn’t think—she ran, dropping to her knees in the sludge, reaching for him, for anything real. “No—no, you’re here, I’m here, I’ve got you, I—” Her hands closed on empty air. His body dissolved into silver mist, vanishing as if he’d never existed.

How do I stop this?

Chapter Text

Midoriko watched the world she spun cling to the two intruders. Her vines twined slow and patient, a noose tightening around neck and ankle. The pollen’s bitter musk swirled in every breath they took—she tasted its work, the way it loosened memory, turned love to anguish, the way it caged them in the theater of each other’s death.

Her gaze lingered on the Water Hashira as he staggered back from the vision she conjured—his Tsuguko, face ruined, one eye gouged, blood slick at her lips, crawling for mercy he could never give. He faltered, sword sagging, lips moving silently as if biting his own tongue to ground himself. Even now, she admired the raw will in his eyes. He muttered her name—“Yume, Yume”—like a warding charm, repeating it to anchor himself to the waking world.

But words were weak, and she was patient.

A new vision blossomed before him: Yume again, throat flayed open, fingers trembling as she tried to stem the arterial flow. The guttural sound he made brought a bloom of pleasure to Midoriko. He collapsed to his knees, the nichirin blade clattering to the roots. Good, she thought. That’s it. Drown. Let it pull you under.

She turned to the girl. The Tsuguko’s eyes were open but unseeing, fixed on a phantom Giyuu dropping dead at her feet—both arms severed, face pleading as he begged her to save him. Midoriko’s lips curled. So close, both of them. So desperate, so starved for each other. But all they could see was loss; all they could touch was grief.

Who are you to come here and threaten me? What do you know of the bargains this mountain demands? She almost laughed. Let the Master have his spectacle. I have killed Hashira before—their agony always tastes the sweetest. So much pride to tear down, so much legend to soil.

The clearing was a theater of woe: both on their knees, bodies hunched, heads bowed, hallucinations blooming like weeds around them. She drifted closer, intent on savoring that first bite of despair, but the Hashira’s head snapped up. His eyes blazed—a midnight, bottomless thing, not the cracked confusion of a man drowning, but the rage of one who had touched rock bottom and found bedrock.

He rose. His sword dragged up from the muck. The way he looked at her, she felt the old fear—the kind humans had given her long ago, before she’d eaten enough names to become something more than a girl in a mountain hut. For a heartbeat she wanted to run, but pride and spite held her fast.

“You’re done tormenting us,” he rasped. “I won’t break. Not for you.” The air rippled with his breathing, the scent of fresh snow and river water battling the sickly rot of her blooms.

So he’d found his anchor. The girl. Of course. How boring. How brave.

She bared her teeth, and the vines surged—knotted with thorns, reeking with rot, aimed for his heart. “You’re finished,” she sang. “I’ll wear your bones for spring, Water Hashira!”

He charged, blue blade slicing through her web, the shockwave splintering petals into a thousand tiny knives. She screamed in exhilaration, bending backward, arms a forest of branches, letting the roots fight for her.

Around them, the pollen thickened—each inhale a challenge, every gasp a dare to keep their memories from twisting. Her plants fed on his sweat, on the tears the Tsuguko shed as she watched phantom after phantom die in her arms. Midoriko danced with the logic of undergrowth. He landed a blow, and she let him. The pain was nothing. She could regrow anything, everything.

“I wonder which of you will break first. Maybe I’ll feed you to each other before I finish,” she hissed.

He didn’t answer, only attacked again—each strike more furious: snowmelt fury, river’s edge patience. Petals blotted the moon, vines writhed, and Midoriko laughed, thrilled by two souls on the edge of snapping—her garden’s finest hour, the feast Master promised.

She evaded the Water Hashira’s next stroke—a blue flash cutting air into fragments, sending a spray of sap hissing from a sundered vine. Her foot slipped on a tangle of blood-wet roots, mud slick beneath the rain of petals. She hissed, backpedaling, brambles pulling at her ankles, but her gaze snapped to the girl—not just a girl now. Something else stood in the unsteady pool of moonlight.

The Tsuguko’s entire bearing had shifted—limbs loose, head tipped. Yume’s eyelids fluttered half-mast. Is she…sleeping? But the Tsuguko’s eyes tracked her with predatory patience, measuring every twitch of leaf and limb. Impossible.

The Hashira pressed his assault—water-breathing, blade scything clean arcs that lopped through vines and blossoms alike, shockwaves cracking bark from the trees. Midoriko snapped her own arms wide, flesh splitting into thickets of bramble and thorn, trying to catch him, to drag him down. But his blade flashed again, cutting through her defenses. She staggered, felt her body split open and instantly seal itself, the pain echoing, twisting her hunger.

Yume moved then—her feet barely touching earth, posture a contradiction of weightlessness and certainty. She slid between demon and Hashira, one kama spinning up, the other tucked low. With a languid twist, she danced, silhouette rippling as if seen through heat or fog. Midoriko tried to anticipate the strike, but the rhythm was off, wrong, mesmerizing. The Tsuguko dipped, feinted sleep, then struck—a blur at the edge of vision. Cold steel grazed Midoriko’s hip, a sickly-sweet agony pulsing through her leg.

How does she move like that? How does she know where I am?

Giyuu lunged in, and Midoriko couldn’t split her attention—he was relentless, striking as if the world depended on this fight, every blow a refutation of despair. The garden sown in blood and hallucination twisted against her now: petals clogged her vision, vines slashed and burned, thorns blunted and snapped. I should have picked them apart. Alone, either might fall. Together, they move like a single body.

She tried to snare the girl, but Yume slipped past her reach—a half-turn, a whirling spin, and the Tsuguko was suddenly behind her, both kama flashing. Midoriko felt the blades bite, a perfect duet of agony. Her form flickered, body dissolving into a rush of leaves to escape dismemberment. She reformed farther back, gasping, tasting something bitter in the air. Blood—hers.

The Tsuguko’s aura grew heavier with each breath, the air thick with the resonance of her Breathing. The world around Midoriko began to pulse and warp, her own hallucinations rebounding. No. No, this can’t be. She’s bending my own art…

Giyuu pressed the attack—water and dream interlacing, blades clashing, their movements a violent lullaby. For every vine she lashed out, Giyuu’s sword severed it, and for every illusion she conjured, Yume’s body slipped through—guided by some unconscious wisdom. Not even the pollen could pull her under; it only seemed to fuel her, like a strange narcotic.

They’re killing me. I’m dying here, in my own garden. It’s not supposed to end like this…

Vines burst from the earth, thorns gleaming like needles, aiming for Giyuu’s exposed throat. Yume caught them midair with her kama, a flick so deft it looked lazy. Blood splattered her cheek. Giyuu’s sleeve was torn, flesh beneath gouged, but his grip didn’t loosen, his eyes never leaving the demon.

Midoriko spat, words thick with moss and venom. “I cannot die—not by your hands—you’re nothing but—” She didn’t finish. Yume slipped behind her again, movements blurred, afterimages dancing through the flowers, strikes everywhere and nowhere at once.

Pain lanced through Midoriko’s side—arm, neck, belly. She spun, flailing, the world smearing at the edges. How are they everywhere? How does he always find the opening? How does she—sleeping— She lashed out with everything, her Blood Demon Art in full, wild bloom. The clearing choked with vines, air clogged with white petals, ground buckling under the force of her fear. Roots lashed out, trying to swallow them whole.

But the Hashira and his Tsuguko moved through her power as if it was only weather—rain to run through, thorns to sweep aside. Dream and water, blue and silver, two tides tearing the garden asunder.

She fell. Tried to stand, body reknitting, but her ankle split and she crumpled again, hands digging into the loam as if to root herself and disappear.

Giyuu’s blade shone above her, the water’s edge reflecting the moon.

Midoriko raised her head—moss, blossom, tears. She tried to speak, to curse, to beg. Yume’s kama crossed before her throat. For a heartbeat, she saw her own reflection in those sleepwalker’s eyes.

She screamed—not in pain but denial—as their blades cut through her at once, water and oblivion, severing the curse she had become.

Petals burst in the air. The hallucinations died with her.

Midoriko opened her eyes to a blackness so complete it pressed against her skin. There was no ground beneath her, no shape to her limbs—only endless void, dense and cold, thick as pond-mud in her lungs. She tried to gasp, but sound didn’t exist here, not even the scrape of her own breath. Her hands clawed at the dark, seeking purchase, memory, anything—but it swallowed her nails, her desperation, her very shape.

No. Please—no, not again. Not the dark, not the box, anything but the box…

She curled inward, knees drawn to her chest, shivering. Old pain flickered in the marrow of her bones—the bite of splinters, the damp reek of rot, her nails torn and caked with blood from endless scratching at pine boards. Her father’s voice—low, pitiless—echoed in the black: “This is your punishment, girl. Bad children belong in darkness. If you’re quiet, maybe I’ll let you out.” The memory coiled around her, constricting, and she thrashed, choking on panic, phantom bruises blossoming along her arms.

She remembered screaming, day after day, until her throat was a pit of glass and her pleas sounded like an animal’s. She remembered the bruises that never faded, her mother’s voice in the next room—soft, weeping, powerless. He would open the door only to strike her, only to remind her that she belonged to the dark.

But I had escaped once, hadn’t I? Her mind stumbled through that memory, grasping for the brittle edge of hope. Yes, she had broken out, torn her way past splintered wood and into the pale arms of the mountain forest. The trees had closed around her, cold and indifferent, the air sharp with sap and snow. She ran until her feet bled, until the pounding of his steps behind her was drowned out by her own heart. He caught her. He always caught her—his hands around her throat, shoving her down, tearing, hurting, hissing that she would never leave him, never see the light.

I begged the spirits to save me. The mountain gods, the foxes, even the moss. No one came.

In the dark, she was a child again—helpless, voiceless, unseen. Only her terror was real.

A pinprick of radiance appeared ahead. A soft seam of white like dawn through shōji paper. Her heart leapt, then quailed. Was it a trick? Another punishment?

She inched forward. The blackness thinned around her feet. She heard something—a familiar voice calling from beyond the light. “Riko? Riko, where are you?”

She crawled, then stumbled upright, drawn forward. It grew, softening the dark until it became a doorway. On the other side: her mother, unchanged, the lines of her face tender and waiting. She wore the kimono with the faded plum blossoms, hair pinned. Her arms were open, and her smile shone with all the love Midoriko had buried deep.

“Riko, you finally came home. I’ve been waiting.”

Midoriko ran. Her feet made no sound, her body almost weightless, tears streaking down her cheeks. She sobbed her mother’s name, grief breaking through her—all the years and punishments, all the hunger and monstrousness—dissolving in her mother’s embrace.

She was small again, safe, held tight. The darkness faded, leaving only the scent of plum blossoms and the gentle hum of a mother’s lullaby. The garden she’d tried to build, the bodies she’d devoured, the bargains struck in blood—none of it mattered now.

I’m home. At last. I’m home.

Chapter Text

Giyuu barely registered the scattering of ash. The world’s violence faded and, before he even realized it, he was moving—the sword dropped from his hand, landing somewhere out of reach. He didn’t care. He only saw Yume, sprawled in the grass, her body too still.

Petals stuck to her skin and hair, slick with sweat and whatever poison the demon had left behind. He stumbled to his knees, and pain clawed through his side, but he ignored it. His hands wouldn’t steady—he fumbled, gathering her up, feeling the odd, loose weight of her body. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

Her uniform was ruined. Shreds of black cloth hung loose, peeling back to show raw cuts—some just scratches, some deep and ugly, the worst gash torn across her ribs. She’s so small. I forget, until she goes limp like this.

He pulled at the cloth, fingers clumsy, trying to see how bad it was. Giyuu tore a strip from his haori—clumsy, desperate, the threads resisting as if Sabito’s memory clung to the weave—and pressed it to her side, trying to stanch the flood. It was only then he realized how badly he, too, was bleeding: a deep gouge above the hip, a bite of vine at his neck, the inside of his elbow torn raw.

He made himself look at her face. Too pale, lips parted, her breath shallow and quick. He put his hand to her cheek, thumb smearing blood away. No response. Just that tiny, fluttering breath.

The clearing was wrecked—petals ground into the earth, roots torn up, sticky sap running everywhere. Everything smelled wrong. Even the moonlight seemed too sharp, making everything look washed out and cold.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Tell her she did well. Tell her she’s not alone. Apologize for not being faster, for every mistake. For letting her get hurt like this. No. She can’t hear me anyway. He wiped more blood off her jaw, hand shaking. His head ached, iron taste filling his mouth, exhaustion crawling up from somewhere deep. He pressed harder, counting her breaths, willing himself not to pass out.

Blackness hovered at the edges of his vision, pressing in. He forced himself to keep moving. Just finish tying the cloth, keep her warm, don’t let go. Her fingers twitched. He froze, but she didn’t wake.

“Yume,” he rasped, voice rough and too quiet. “Stay with me. I’m here.”

Did she hear that? No way to know. My voice barely makes it out—what’s the point? He bowed over her, mouth near her ear, as if words could keep her anchored here. “Don’t go,” he whispered.

His own wounds started to scream for attention. Pain ran down his ribs, through his arm. He could feel his body threatening to give in, vision flashing white. Still, he kept his hands working—wrapping, pressing, trying to keep the blood in. Every move got heavier, like the air itself was weighing him down.

Eventually, his strength just gave out. His arms dropped. He slumped forward, cheek against the tangled mess of her hair, breathing shallow and quick, every inhale thinner than the last.

Giyuu came to, awareness crawling back up through cold and pain. His face was pressed into the mud. Something touched his shoulder—wrong, unfamiliar. He tensed.

“—Tomioka-sama, can you hear me?”

He jerked upright, muscles seizing. Instinct took over; he pulled Yume tighter against his chest, only half-awake, the world spinning.

Three Kakushi stood around him, hands open, careful not to startle him further. One edged closer, voice soft. “We’re here to help. You’re both hurt.” Her glance flicked to the raw welt on his neck. “Your Tsuguko isn’t waking.”

His grip on Yume tightened. Her head drooped, eyes closed, lashes streaked with blood and sweat. Was she breathing? Was this sleep, or something worse? He shifted, trying to put himself between her and the Kakushi, voice scraping out: “Don’t touch her.”

“We have medicine from Kocho-sama.” The Kakushi knelt, mask nearly touching the muck. “If we wait, the poison will spread. She needs the antidote. So do you.” There was a pause—a look passing between the masked assistants, something like dread. The second Kakushi drew a small flask, the glass catching a bit of dawn.

Giyuu’s eyes darted: vial, Yume, Kakushi. If I say no, she dies. If I let them, I might lose her anyway. Shouldn’t have come to this. Should’ve been faster. Stupid. He unclenched his jaw, shame pricking under his skin. “Her first. I’ll watch.” The warning was clear. The Kakushi nodded, inching forward.

They rolled Yume onto her side, peeling away fabric crusted with blood. Giyuu’s haori, stiff and ruined, came off in shreds. The Kakushi murmured to each other—something about shock, the wound’s depth, her pulse. One set out a kit, another uncorked the antidote, the smell sharp, chemical. The world felt narrowed to those small motions. Needles, pressure, medicine forced into her leg, hands pushing at her chest to keep her breathing. Her lips barely moved. Giyuu stared, waiting for any sign—panic twisting tighter inside him. Don’t die. Not now. Not like this.

He barely noticed the other Kakushi working on him until one grabbed his wrist, pushing a bandage to his hip. He jerked away, baring his teeth. The Kakushi bowed lower. “Please, Tomioka-sama. You’re bleeding.”

They worked quick, efficient—cutting away his ruined uniform, dabbing wounds, sponging poison from skin. Each touch stung, the cloth coming away stained black-green. A compress pressed to his neck. Another dose of Shinobu’s antidote. He gritted his teeth and watched them all, refusing to let his guard down.

Light seeped through the trees—dawn, or something like it. Giyuu’s gaze stayed fixed on Yume’s face, looking for any movement: a flutter in her throat, a twitch in her eyelids. The Kakushi checked her wound again, packing it with a cold, bitter-smelling poultice.

Yume made a small sound—almost nothing, just breath catching in her throat. Her fingers twitched in the moss. Giyuu felt his own wounds burn, poison crawling under his skin. He refused a second dose of antidote until he saw her start to stir.

The Kakushi knelt beside him, voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll live. You both will. But we have to move. This place isn’t safe.”

He only nodded, jaw locked. As the antidote took hold, the ache in his body grew colder, the fight draining away.

They lifted Yume onto a litter, the wind swirling petals over the wrecked ground. One of the Kakushi looked up, voice low, almost for herself: “We’ll get her home.”

Giyuu followed, battered and limping, refusing any support. He kept his eyes on Yume as they carried her away, body screaming in protest, but he didn’t look away—not once. Not until he was sure she was safe.

The journey back to the Water Pavilion blurred together—two days of tramping muddy paths and rutted roads, the world shrinking to the steady ache in Giyuu’s limbs, the bitter taste of blood in his mouth, and the uneven rattle of the litter that carried Yume just ahead. The antidote kept him on his feet, but exhaustion dragged at every step, making the ground feel unsteady beneath him. The Kakushi stopped often—sometimes to check Yume’s fever, sometimes to peel back dirty bandages, sometimes just to make sure neither of them slipped away. Yume never woke.

Mist hung low in the foothills as the familiar line of the Pavilion’s stone wall appeared through the trees—damp with moss, bells stirring on their cords.

The gate creaked open, and more Kakushi rushed out. Giyuu hardly noticed the hand-off. Orders snapped between them. The litter vanished inside. He followed, hand clenched tight at his side, trying to keep his focus from scattering.

He trailed them along the engawa; the boards groaned under the weight of bodies and gear. The Pavilion’s infirmary smelled sharp—camphor, boiled linen, and crushed shiso leaves someone had tucked near the window. A Kakushi pointed him to a futon in the corner. “Please, Tomioka-sama. You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

He ignored her. He moved to Yume’s side, blocking out the rest. All he saw was blood beading at her ribs, the faint lift and fall of her breath. The Kakushi worked quickly—cutting away scraps of uniform, pouring cold water over her wound, scrubbing until her skin went white. Giyuu hovered close, jaw clenched, every muscle tense, ready to grab for her if anything went wrong.

A younger Kakushi, hands shaking as he tried to thread a needle, risked another plea. “Tomioka-sama, please—your fever’s going up. Let us help.” His voice cracked. Giyuu just glared, silent. No. If he moved away, if he slept, if she died while he rested—he’d never forgive himself. Not for that. Not for being weak.

The senior Kakushi set her tools down and met his eyes. “She’s stable. The poison’s out. Her pulse is steady. She’s only sleeping.”

He let out a breath—sharp, unsteady—suddenly lightheaded. His knees almost buckled. It felt like something broke loose inside him, the fear and tension spilling out at once. For a moment, the room’s noise faded—the drip of water, the brush of cloth. He barely registered hands steadying him, guiding him to a futon, gentle but firm. He let them, all at once too tired to resist. The world slipped sideways, blurred by fatigue and the crash of relief.

Warmth pulled Giyuu up from whatever dream he’d been lost in. A damp cloth pressed to his brow. He blinked, half-expecting a Kakushi mask. Instead, it was Yume—hair loose, falling forward, too close for comfort.

Her mouth crooked sideways. “Awake at last, Giyuu-chan? I thought you were going to sleep until the crows started picking at you.”

He stared, slow to process. She looked alive—real color in her cheeks, lips tilting in that smirk that always spelled trouble. Still, there were the marks of everything they’d survived: the stitched wound at her ribs, the tremor in her hand as she wiped at his forehead.

His hand drifted up, almost on its own. When his palm found her cheek, a shudder went through him—relief, surprise, some weird hope. He ran his thumb along her jaw, feeling the warmth, the proof that she wasn’t some fevered illusion.

He swallowed, still not trusting it. “You’re real?”

Yume didn’t laugh. Her smile softened, eyes drifting shut as she leaned into his touch. “I hope so,” she said quietly. “If I’m not, I’d rather not wake up. This version of you is a lot less grumpy.”

He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. His grip tightened. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I didn’t know you’d turn into such a worrier,” she muttered, but her voice was thin, tired.

Her fingers moved, skimming over the cut at his lip. The touch started hesitant, then pressed a little more, tracing the sting where she’d bitten him. “Hashira blood on my conscience. Should I apologize, or thank you for not lopping off my head?” Her brow lifted, mocking but not really.

He caught her wrist, pulled her hand to his mouth, and pressed his lips to her knuckles—just holding her there. “You’re not forgiven,” he murmured, voice rough. “But…I’m glad you bit me. It snapped me out of it.”

She blinked, looking genuinely surprised. “That’s new. Most men would ask for mercy.”

“You don’t care about most men.” He didn’t bother hiding the flatness in his tone. He turned her hand over, thumb brushing her pulse.

She leaned in, lashes low, a smile hovering at her mouth. “I know. Though I was hoping for a more enthusiastic welcome. Saving your life should get me something. Maybe something that isn’t sharp.”

He looked at her for a moment, dead serious. “You need rest.”

She made a low sound, fingers playing at his jaw, gaze sly. “Actually, I was thinking we might attempt our first kiss again. No demons. No blood. Just us.” Her mouth curled, mischief alive in her eyes.

Giyuu’s pulse jumped—face heating, breath sticking in his throat. For a second, he couldn’t move. He caught himself staring at her mouth—soft, parted. He remembered the sharp bite, the taste of blood, how her kiss had hurt and healed at once.

But as he looked, the other memories crept in too—her limp body, blood everywhere, the thin red line at her throat, a wound he’d made by accident. His own blade, his own fear. I almost lost her. Not to a demon. To me.

She noticed, her own gaze gentling as she watched his eyes flicker over her. “Hey.” Her thumb brushed his eyebrow, coaxing him back. “I’m here. Don’t look at me like I’m a ghost.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted his hand, fingers spreading over her throat, feeling the unevenness of that healing cut. Reverent, shaky, almost desperate.

In a motion that felt too bold for him, he tugged her down. The futon creaked. Yume made a startled noise, smothered as his mouth caught hers. The kiss this time—no clashing, no blood, just her. He tasted salt, a hint of tea, and her breath against his lips. She kissed back, soft, then deeper, pulling him closer. His chest ached, but it was a good ache—relief, maybe joy, though he wouldn’t call it that even in his own head. He let go of everything else: the sterile smell of the room, the background clatter, even the memory of panic.

Yume pulled back first, lips a little red, searching his face. “See? Better. No knives, just you.”

He huffed out a breath, unable to answer, and pressed his forehead to hers. His thumb traced her jaw, the curve of her neck, as if reassuring himself she was still there.

“Don’t do that again,” he pled.

Yume laughed before her fingers went to his collar, unfastening buttons. She tugged the fabric aside, baring the thick, angry seam of stitches that cut across his ribs. The wound was swollen, ugly. She opened a pot of salve—the smell sharp, full of pine and ginger—and dabbed ointment over the stitches, eyes flicking between the wound and his face. “You heal like a monster,” she said, voice dry but a little awed. “Typical Hashira. You’d probably survive a mountain falling on you.” Her fingers lingered, tracing muscle, scar, the shape of him. She flashed him a sideways grin. “Not bad. I’d compliment your physique, but your ego might burst and take out the whole Pavilion.”

Giyuu’s face burned. He looked away, grunting.

She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Relax. It’s just clinical observation.”

He grumbled, “You’re not a doctor.”

She finished tending to him and settled beside him, tucking her head under his chin. He pulled her in close, hand curving around her hip. They stayed like that, silent.

He felt her shudder, a small, involuntary tremor. Her fingers tightened in his shirt, needing something solid. Her voice was thin, almost lost. “I was scared. I kept telling myself it wasn’t real, just another illusion. If I waited long enough, fought hard enough, it’d end. But it didn’t. I thought I’d lost you. Not a dream—really lost you. Blood, screaming…everything.” She trailed off, breath hitching.

Giyuu’s hand tightened on her waist. Words stuck in his throat. For years, he’d braced himself for loss—always waiting for it, expecting silence to follow. Yume had torn open all those old scars. Now, her fear matched his.

He kissed her temple, the gesture small, honest. “I was afraid too.” It came out blunt, stripped down. “You almost died. I almost—” He couldn’t finish.

She tipped her face up. “You didn’t. I’m here.” They lay together, the memory of the demon’s illusions still sharp behind their eyelids.

How many more times can I watch someone I love die and still find my way back?

Chapter Text

Yume tiptoed, ears tuned for Giyuu’s footsteps—always somewhere at the very edge of sound. She had plotted this escape for days, mapping each line of sight from the training yard to the engawa, rehearsing every pivot and feint in her mind as if choreographing a battle.

A restless thrum danced in her chest—half mischief, half the delicious risk of being caught. She paused at the doorway, peering through a crack in the shoji. In the garden, Giyuu moved through the forms of water breathing: precise, nearly meditative. The arc of his blade caught the sun, flaring sudden light into her eyes.

Yume waited, counting the breaths between his turns—one, two, three—then darted out. She slipped past the laundry line, skirted the edge of the koi pond, smothering a giggle. The defiance felt electric, running in her blood. If she could reach the gate, the road to the village would be hers.

Almost there. She edged closer to the outer wall, hand closing around the weathered latch, tasting triumph.

A strong grip seized the back of her uniform. She squeaked, arms flailing in protest, feet scrabbling at the dirt as she was hauled backward. Giyuu’s presence loomed behind her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The question landed with the weight of stone but with an undertow of concern, suspicion, the memory of too many near-losses.

Twisting, she craned her neck to glare at him, eyes narrowed in indignation. “Let go. You’ll wrinkle my new uniform.” She wriggled, trying to twist free, but his grip didn’t budge.

His expression barely shifted. Only his eyes betrayed irritation, flicking over her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she huffed, indignation sliding into a grin she couldn’t quite hide. “Just running a small errand.”

“Alone?” His tone stayed flat, but his fingers tightened—a warning, as if restraining a wild animal who’d bitten him before.

She turned on the full force of her charm, voice airy. “You’re busy. Besides, if you knew what I was doing, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

His brow furrowed, suspicion warring with a flicker of amusement at his mouth’s edge. “That’s when surprises get dangerous.” 

Yume’s lips curled, mischief undimmed. “I’ll take my chances. Unless you plan to tie me to a futon? I’d bite.”

His face betrayed a trace of exasperation. “Don’t tempt me.” His gaze lingered—he noted the healing wounds at her ribs, the way she favored her left leg. His thumb traced an absent-minded line at her shoulder, silently counting bruises still fading.

“You said two days. It’s been seven. If I don’t get out of this house, I’ll turn feral.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go either. Afraid. Still believes the world might steal me if he looks away.

For a moment, neither spoke. The village bell tolled in the distance—a reminder that life beyond the Pavilion continued: markets bustling, lives breaking and mending.

She shifted tactics, softening her voice. “Trust me, Giyuu.”

He didn’t flinch. His hand rose—callused fingers tracing her jaw, thumb sweeping the hollow at her cheek. The gesture was tender, but final; a wordless warning that stubbornness wasn’t the same as strength. "No.” His voice had the finality of a verdict. He stepped closer, crowding out her plans with the calm gravity only Giyuu could summon. “I’ll come with you.”

She huffed, feigning outrage. “How am I supposed to keep this a surprise if you hover the whole time?”

“I can’t.” The words came soft, nearly lost, but she caught the confession tangled beneath them. I need to see you. 

Nights since their return had been restless—her own jolting awakenings, his rigid silhouette at her side, breath shallow, hand sometimes finding hers beneath the blankets.

Her heart stung at the memory, empathy eclipsing annoyance. She leaned up, pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Fine,” she relented, words muffled by his lips, “but if you’re coming, you’re buying me sweets. And keep your nose out of my business, Tomioka. It’s still a surprise.”

His eyes softened at the corners, amusement breaking through wariness. “Not too many.”

She grinned, triumphant. “What’s the point of living if you can’t eat yourself sick now and then? It’s good for morale.”

He tested the word on his tongue, faintly bemused. “Morale.”

Yume let her fingers trail down his arm. “Since you’re feeling generous, maybe buy me a comb too.” Her gaze sparkled, daring him.

Giyuu’s reaction was immediate—a sharp glance, the faintest flicker of panic. “No.”

She laughed. “Still afraid of commitment? I thought Hashira were supposed to be fearless.”

His hand tightened at her nape, thumb brushing a half-circle just below her ear—a gesture both possessive and apologetic. “Not today.”

“Tomorrow, then?” she teased, always pressing at the edge of his restraint for the glimpse of something softer beneath.

He sighed. Yume answered by entwining their fingers, grip light but insistent—a living counterweight to the heaviness anchoring his movements. She drew him forward, Pavilion’s gate swinging shut behind them with a hollow thunk.

Yume emerged from the general store with her arms brimming, packages cradled tight against her chest in a jumble of color and texture. Bolts of red, green, and yellow fabric peeked from the top of a brown paper bundle, tied off with twine. Matching spools of thread nestled in beside beeswax, and a jar of orange dye threatened to roll free at any moment. Rice paste, a pack of shining needles, and a cluster of pins rattled somewhere deep in the nest.

Sunlight washed along the village street, warming the churned mud and sparking off lacquered signs. Overhead, drying persimmons bobbed from eaves like small suns. The smell of sweet rice cakes and charcoal-grilled fish tangled in the air, sharp enough to remind Yume how long it had been since breakfast.

Across the way, Giyuu stood amid a small knot of villagers—his tall form stoic and immovable as ever. He inclined his head, listening rather than speaking, the set of his shoulders signaling that he was enduring attention rather than seeking it. Yume recognized most of the faces clustered around him: Mrs. Endo from the bathhouse, her round cheeks flushed; old Mr. Fujikawa, whose cane doubled as a weapon against mischievous boys; and little Noriko, clinging to Giyuu’s uniform as if proximity alone might make her taller.

Mrs. Endo jabbed a finger at Giyuu’s chest, her voice carrying across the street with the clarity only middle-aged women possess. “You, Tomioka-san! You never came to the izakaya after the festival. We saved the best sake for you and everything. The first round would have been on the house, you know!”

Giyuu’s ears reddened. He murmured something Yume couldn’t catch, but the villagers cackled as if he’d delivered the wittiest retort in the prefecture. The exchange had the air of ritual—this was Giyuu’s village, his little fiefdom at the foot of the mountain, and the people here clung to him with a fierce, simple affection woven from gratitude and gossip.

As Yume darted across the road, one of her bundles slipped, and she caught it against her hip with a hasty, silent curse. The sudden jolt sent a brief ache through her arms. Giyuu spotted her immediately, and his posture shifted: the easy set of his shoulders became alert, watchful. He moved to intercept, eyes sliding over her parcels with suspicion.

She anticipated his approach and sidestepped, angling her body to shield her packages from view. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned, her tone light but breathless. “You’re not allowed to peek.”

He stopped, expression flat. “You’re carrying too much.”

“It’s called multitasking, Giyuu-chan. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” She stuck her tongue out and swept past, parcels swaying perilously.

Mrs. Endo’s attention latched onto her like a hawk. “Ah! Yume-chan, look at you. Stocking up for a winter wedding, are you? Or is Giyuu making you do all the chores again?” A sly wink and the unmistakable collective expectation followed the question.

Mr. Fujikawa snorted, thumping his cane against the ground. “You two are always together, like miso and dashi. If you aren’t married yet, you’re not fooling anyone but yourselves.”

Giyuu looked as though he wished the ground would swallow him whole. His ears had turned a spectacular shade of crimson. Yume grinned, elbowing him, feeling the warmth of shared embarrassment settle in her chest.

One of the younger wives—Mika, with her ever-present baby tied to her back—leaned in, stage-whispering, “If you need any help, Yume-chan, I have extra bridal hairpins. Silver, very fancy. And if Tomioka-san needs advice on being a husband—well, my Toshi can talk some sense into him.”

Yume bowed as best she could, laughter bubbling out despite herself. “Thank you, Mika-san, but I’m afraid he’s a lost cause. Maybe next year.”

The women tittered; Mr. Fujikawa muttered, “You say that every year,” but his eyes shone with fondness.

Giyuu tried, not very successfully, to reclaim some dignity. “We have things to do,” he managed, but the villagers only waved him off, wishing them luck, good health, and—in Mrs. Endo’s case—“lots of strong sons, soon.”

Yume swept a low, dramatic bow, her bundles nearly toppling. “Duly noted, honored elders. I’ll do my best.”

They began the long ascent back to the Pavilion, sunlight now slanting gold, gilding the mountain path. Yume’s arms ached beneath the weight of her parcels, the raw cotton and colored silks shifting with every step, but she refused to relinquish her burden.

Giyuu walked at her side, silent as always. His palm hovered at the small of her back, steadying her on the steeper stretches, his gaze sweeping the path ahead and—just as often—darting back to her precarious armful. It was an unsubtle warning: one slip and he’d relieve her of every bag, no matter what secrets she was hiding.

After the third switchback, with the village reduced to miniature rooftops behind them and no eavesdropping elders in sight, Yume shifted her packages and ventured, “Does it bother you?”

He glanced down, brows knitting. “What?”

“When the villagers joke,” she clarified, “about us being married.”

Giyuu didn’t answer at first. His eyes returned to the path, watching each pebble, every uneven patch of moss. She waited, the silence stretching, the silence of the woods broken only by their footsteps and the distant sound of water.

At last, he shook his head, voice low and certain. “No.”

She pressed further, emboldened by his lack of hesitation. “Even when I joke about it?”

Again, he paused, the set of his mouth thoughtful. “No,” he repeated, and this time, something in his tone cracked—softer, almost uncertain. His hand slipped higher, brushing the curve of her spine, a silent reassurance.

Yume’s lips curled, the teasing edge softening as something warmer surfaced. “You know, you’re supposed to be embarrassed. Or at least pretend. The older ladies will lose their minds if you keep giving them nothing to gossip about.”

He regarded her sidelong, a flicker of wry humor surfacing in his eyes. “They’ll gossip anyway.”

She laughed. “True. I think Mrs. Endo’s already planned our wedding menu. She once said she’d make plum wine herself.”

He grunted—barely more than a breath, but it might have been amusement.

The moon rode high over the Pavilion, a pale coin drifting behind a thin cloud. The house was silent but for the slow creak of old timbers and the wind combing through the bamboo groves outside. Within her room, Yume existed in a liminal blur between sleep and waking, forehead pressed to her half-finished work, the scratchy taste of dreams still on her tongue.

She startled at the scrape of her door. The lantern was down to embers. Yume blinked, confused, fingers fumbling to shove the mess of green-dyed cloth, spools, and half-pinned patterns beneath her futon. In her haste, the world narrowed to a snarl of threads, a lone crimson thread trailing from the fabric like a dropped vein.

Giyuu’s silhouette stood in the doorway, his hair unbound and wild, yukata rumpled. He looked both disheveled and formidable, the residual gravity of a Hashira who’d just woken from a shallow, unsatisfying sleep.

Any remnants of fatigue scattered as Yume dove to conceal the haori panel, elbow knocking over her lacquered sewing box with a noisy clatter. Pins rolled beneath the tatami in a metallic scatter, and in her rush, she jammed the needle squarely into the soft flesh of her cheek.

A strangled yowl split the quiet. “Ow—!”

Giyuu crossed the room in two strides. His eyes swept over the scene—the jumbled fabric, the tiny bloom of blood on her cheek, the tangle of guilt and indignation flickering in her expression.

He crouched beside her, voice lower than usual, thick with exhaustion and edged with exasperation. “What are you doing?”

Yume clapped a hand over her stinging cheek, heat rising under her palm. “Nothing! Go back to bed—” Her words wobbled, defensive. “You ruined everything!”

Giyuu ignored her bluster. His thumb brushed away the blood, his other hand reaching for a discarded piece of cloth, pressing it gently against her cheek. She squirmed. “Stop—! You’re going to see—” Her glare flickered, pride bruised by surprise.

He pinned her with a look. “You’ll get an infection. Hold still.” The words were gruff, but his touch was soft—a contradiction she knew too well, always more frustrating when she’d been caught.

Yume’s gaze drifted down to the floor, where the unfinished haori sprawled, crumpled and creased from her efforts to hide it. She saw him register the work—the familiar pattern emerging along the seams, the unmistakable intention. Giyuu’s expression barely changed, but she caught the tension in his stillness, the held breath, the effort not to say anything.

She scowled, cheeks burning. “I wanted it to be a surprise, you oaf. You weren’t supposed to see it until it was done.”

He dabbed the last drop of blood from her cheek, folding the cloth in on itself. “It’s the middle of the night. You should be asleep.”

She glared, trying to muster her dignity. “So should you! Why are you even here?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Yume, still flushed from embarrassment and the sting of the needle, squinted at him through narrowed eyes. “Couldn’t sleep? Or were you plotting to sneak into my futon? Be honest, Giyuu-chan.”

He didn’t dignify the jab with more than a glance—though she caught a reluctant glint of amusement. “No. But if I had, you’d have stabbed me with a needle.”

She snorted, swallowing a laugh. “Not if you ask nicely.” Then, softer, as she gathered her scattered project, “You’re not as stealthy as you think, you know.”

He knelt beside her, fingers deft, and helped stow the last of the fabric—his hands careful with her work in a way that made something in her chest twist. When he pressed the sewing box lid closed, it was an unspoken apology: I see you, and I’ll keep your secret, even if it’s spoiled.

With the mess wrangled and hidden, Giyuu turned to her futon, gesturing with his chin. “You can finish it tomorrow.”

Still sulking, Yume slipped beneath her quilt. Giyuu followed, settling behind her, an immovable presence in the cramped space. His arm circled her waist, palm splayed over her belly, drawing her close until the slow rhythm of his breath pressed against her back. His legs folded around hers, anchoring her.

She shifted, chin tilting up, but his hold only tightened. He’s never this forward. Not unless something haunts him, or he’s grateful, or both. The thought flickered through her—a small shiver rather than an unwelcome ache.

In a voice so soft she barely heard it, “You shouldn’t work so late. You’ll make yourself sick.”

She rolled her eyes, but her reply was gentler than before. “You’re not forgiven, you know. I wanted it to be a surprise. You ruined the best part.” The words tumbled out, sharper than intended, but underneath, a longing she tried to hide.

His reply came after a heartbeat. “I won’t look.” He buried his face in her hair, the tip of his nose tracing her scalp. “Next time, wake me up. I’ll keep you company. Even if you’re hiding things from me.”

She huffed, unable to stop the smile threatening her mouth. “You’re terrible at apologies.”

He only squeezed her tighter.

The Pavilion felt muffled in the morning hours—cicadas slow to waken, the echo of Giyuu’s footsteps already faded beyond her door. He had whispered his parting in her ear, lips brushing her hairline, his warmth lingering on her brow long after the shoji slid shut. Yume stayed motionless beneath her quilt, the hollow where he’d lain beside her now cool against the bedding.

She only stirred when the kakushi arrived, bearing breakfast—soft rice, pickled radish, a wedge of persimmon arranged with fussy precision. She managed a nod, a feigned thank you, but left the tray untouched at her side. Appetite retreated before another, sharper urge: the restless ache building in her fingers, a near-desperate focus for work.

For hours, she stitched and unstitched, threads tangling, knuckles aching, the yellow pattern growing beneath her hands—sharp angles and curves, painstakingly traced from memory. Every few minutes, a needle pricked her fingertip; she muttered under her breath, pressing away each bead of blood with her palm. Dye left tidal stains along her cuticles, ghostly smudges of yellow and orange where her skin met thread.

At last, the final seam drew tight beneath her hands. Patterns—leaf green, sunlight yellow, shot through with orange—fell into place. A satisfaction sharp as hunger surged through her, leaving her momentarily light-headed. Yume draped the haori across her knees, smoothing the cloth with trembling hands. Its unexpected weight pressed into her legs—wax, dye, memory, every joint’s ache collected there. Her eyes burned; exhaustion pressed behind them, heavy and inescapable.

She let herself fall back against the futon, arms splayed, her gaze drifting up to trace the ceiling’s familiar beams.

Sleep gathered her in slow increments. She blinked once, twice, then let the world slip away—her last waking thought the color of green.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

A sensation of water, the brush of cloth over her palm—each pass stinging, gentle—brought her up from dreams. The world sharpened: silver daylight falling across her futon, the susurrus of wind threading through hinoki branches outside, and Giyuu, kneeling at her side. He focused on her hands, cradling her wrist.

Yume jerked, trying to pull free. “Oi—what are you—” But his grip only tightened.

“Stop moving,” he murmured, tone implacable as ever. “You’ve made a mess of your fingers.”

His thumb swept over her knuckles, revealing a constellation of pinpricks, ink smears, and a stray spot of dried blood. His attention lingered not on her wounds, but on the folded haori at her hip.

She cradled her hand to her chest. “You said you wouldn’t look,” she accused, lips curling in a theatrical pout, her voice slipping more toward embarrassment than anger.

Giyuu didn’t bother with a denial; his lips compressed, but his eyes softened. “You left it out. Not my fault you’re careless with surprises.”

A huff escaped her. “Hashira arrogance. You should be grateful I didn’t ruin the whole thing. I nearly bled to death for you.” Her sulk was mostly for show, pride brightening her cheeks. She carefully unfurled the completed side, letting the fabric spill across her lap.

Giyuu traced the lines. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never—” His words faded, caught between gratitude and awe.

Unable to meet his gaze, Yume picked at a loose thread near the seam. “You’re not allowed to cry over it. That’s my job.”

A rare smile broke across his face. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over hers—first gentle, tentative, then returning with a deeper pull, restraint fraying at the edges. She pressed into him, pulse quickening, hands winding into the back of his uniform, heedless of ink-stained fingers.

He broke away first, breath unsteady, eyes gone dark enough to send a shiver through her. “I have something for you,” he said, voice low. From his uniform’s inner pocket, he drew a narrow box—plain, lacquered black, the kind meant for keepsakes and offerings. He pressed it into her palm, gaze never leaving her.

Lifting the lid, Yume found a single silver kanzashi—wrought in the shape of breaking waves, the metal catching the light, delicate as water in motion. She stared, words caught behind parted lips, struck by the weight and the meaning folded into each curve.

Her grin surfaced slow, delight blooming in her eyes. “Giyuu Tomioka, is this meant to make me your wife?” Her voice was teasing, light with mischief.

He didn’t flush, but the tips of his ears darkened, nerves flickering beneath his calm. “No,” he said, and for a heartbeat, she nearly believed him. “If it was, I’d have gone to your mother’s grave first. This is…so you’ll stop pestering me for a comb.”

Laughter slipped out of her, bright and incredulous. “You’re not subtle, you know that? Most men would write a poem, or at least wait for a festival. You show up with a hair stick shaped like a wave and think that counts as subtle?”

His mouth quirked, and he took the kanzashi from her fingers, sliding it into her hair with careful hands. “Neither are you.” He kissed her again, slow as the tide drawing back from shore.

Chapter Text

The gate groaned as Giyuu slid it open. His gaze landed on the clothesline: Yume’s half-finished haori was pinned there, drying in the weak sun, Sabito’s memory stitched into every line. Something in his chest tightened—a gratitude too raw for words, and the dull throb of an old scar beneath his ribs.

He lingered, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. The faint scent of wet linen hung in the air. Laughter broke the spell—not just Yume’s, which always rang high and teasing, but the lower, uncertain cadence of Murata as well. The sound scraped at him, unwelcome.

Giyuu crossed the engawa, following the voices around the corner of the main house. The training yard spread before him—sunlight filtered through leaves, dappling the grass with shifting shadows, and the hush of morning stillness broken by the rhythm of practice. Yume stood at the edge, wooden blade in hand, hair caught up in the kanzashi he’d given her.

Murata faced her, posture rigid, as if conscripted into a lesson he had little hope of surviving. His grip on the bokken was loose, knuckles pale; his expression flickered between devotion and dread. Yume’s mouth moved—probably a correction. When she spotted Giyuu, her smile sharpened, lighting her face.

Murata, in contrast, jerked as if struck, the practice blade dipping in awkward deference. “Tomioka-sama! Good morning! We were just—” He hesitated, swallowing. “She was showing me…” He trailed off, forehead damp, eyes darting between them.

Giyuu’s eyes returned to the glint of the kanzashi, the way she still wore it. He tried not to let the satisfaction show and only nodded, curt. “Yume,” he said, “patrol with me.”

Her lips curled. She cocked her head, a challenge in the gesture. “Can Murata come, too?” she asked, voice syrupy with false innocence.

He considered refusing. The word pressed at his tongue. Murata was reliable enough, but Giyuu didn’t want another witness to the silent thread drawing him and Yume closer each day. But he knew her; if he denied her, she’d dig in with a jest, and the wall between them would only rise. He tamped down the impulse. “Fine,” he replied, voice clipped.

Murata straightened, relief washing over his embarrassment. “If I’m not intruding—” he ventured, but Yume had already slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

Yume shot Giyuu a sidelong look as she passed, eyebrow arched—daring him to object. He grunted, watching her go: the sway of her borrowed haori, the spark of defiance in her eyes, the silver flash of that kanzashi.

The descent from the Pavilion traced the old mountain road—sunlight pooling in the ruts, the scent of damp earth and sweet fern heavy on the air. Giyuu led the way, steady-footed and silent, his hands tucked inside his sleeves. Every so often, a dragonfly darted across his vision.

Behind him, chaos unfurled in the form of Yume and Murata, their laughter skipping off the mossy stones and echoing between cedar trunks. Yume’s voice carried, quick and mocking, matched by Murata’s clumsy protestations and the slap of sandals against mud.

Halfway down the slope, Murata broke rank, careening into a patch of tall grass grown wild at the edge of the trail. The green rose above his knees, stippled with dew and the last tatters of wildflowers. There was a mad rustling, a yelp, and then Murata reappeared, triumphant, brandishing a glossy, writhing lizard between his fingers. Its skin was slick as ink and it splayed its little legs in mute outrage.

“Yume! Look—catch of the day!” Murata’s voice rang with wicked glee. He lunged, waggling the lizard inches from her face.

Yume shrieked, abandoning any pretense of composure. She flung herself forward, colliding squarely with Giyuu’s back, her arms a vise around his waist. Her cheek pressed against his back, half-hidden laughter bubbling out between startled, indignant gasps.

“Murata, if that thing touches me, I’ll carve you into bait!” Her threat carried no real venom; her grip on Giyuu, though, was another matter entirely.

Giyuu, braced by years of battle and betrayal, nearly staggered beneath the sudden impact. His mind flicked through a dozen possibilities for counterattack, all of which involved separating Murata from his lizard—and possibly his hands. Instead, he glared over his shoulder, the sort of look that could silence a rowdy room.

Murata, chastened, hastily released the lizard, which tumbled back into the grass and vanished in a scurry of leaves. He dusted his hands on his uniform, forcing a sheepish grin. “It was only a joke, Tomioka-sama. Please, don’t look at me like that.”

Yume, now safe, peered up at Giyuu. “That's just his face, Murata. That’s why we like him.”

Her words sent a ripple through Giyuu, a sensation sharp and unfamiliar. He’d grown used to the world treating his silence as a rebuke, or a challenge. But with Yume, her teasing became a lifeline tossed across a chasm, tugging him toward something he had almost forgotten.

Still, he only grunted, prying Yume’s arms from his waist with more gentleness than his scowl suggested. “If you’re done playing, keep up,” he ordered, but his tone softened around the edges.

They didn’t let up for a single step. If anything, the path became their stage—a running comedy act played for their own amusement, Giyuu the unwilling audience. Murata, emboldened by Yume’s laughter and perhaps the safety of her affection, poked at her with one finger, quick as a snake. Yume yelped, retaliating by swinging the flat of her palm against the back of his head.

“Try that again, Murata, and you’ll have to pick your own teeth out of the stream,” Yume declared, straightening her uniform with a kind of imperious dignity—though her cheeks were flushed with laughter.

Murata rubbed the crown of his skull, scowling. “If you were any slower, I’d have time to catch three lizards,” he shot back, stepping just out of reach, then darting forward again to make another feint.

Giyuu ground his teeth until his jaw ached. He considered, with cold clarity, the merits of simply leaving both tsuguko and subordinate behind to fend for themselves—surely, the wilds would teach them restraint. He imagined the peace and quiet: only the wind for company, no shrieking, no thuds, no foolish banter bouncing between the trunks.

Instead, he endured the ceaseless back-and-forth of their argument.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and a snake will bite you instead,” Yume retorted, sidestepping a patch of moss and shooting Murata a sharp look. “At least then you’d finally be quiet.”

“Harsh. You should be more gentle with your elders,” Murata sniffed, playing up his seniority by all of three years, earning another derisive snort from Yume.

Murata lobbed another quip, Yume volleyed back, and soon her laughter spilled over the pines. Giyuu’s patience felt threadbare. He exhaled, hoping the sound might telegraph some warning. But it was like spitting into the wind.

This time, Murata’s fingers found the bandages on her ribs, and she recoiled, a sharp cry slipping out before she caught herself and smothered the sound with a breathless laugh.

Giyuu spun. “Enough, Murata.”

Murata froze mid-motion, the half-formed joke shriveling on his lips. “What? She’s fine—”

“Don’t touch her.” Giyuu’s voice dropped.

Yume stepped between them, rolling her eyes, but her hand fluttered over her ribs. “Giyuu, it’s nothing. Really. We were just—”

“You’re lying,” he cut in, gaze fixed on her, reading every line of pain she thought she hid. The urge to throttle Murata, to shake some sense into Yume, coiled tight inside his chest. “If you can’t take this seriously, both of you, you’re done.”

That threat landed with force. Even Murata, brash as he was, flinched back, expression wilting. “Tomioka-sama—”

“No.” Giyuu’s tone left no room for rebuttal.

Yume’s lips twisted, caught between irritation and embarrassment. She offered a thin, defiant smile—her habitual armor, though for once it seemed to slip. “Are you going to tie me to the Pavilion, then? Lock the gate and hide the key?”

“I should.” His eyes darkened. “Next time, I might.”

A silence settled, heavy and uncomfortable. Murata shifted his weight, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, suddenly eager to count pebbles at his feet.

Giyuu forced himself to unclench his fists. “If you want to act like children, do it at the Pavilion. Out here, you are demon slayers. Remember what we’ve lost.”

Yume met his eyes for a moment. Then, with a little huff, she tucked her hair behind her ear and glanced away. “Understood, Tomioka-sama,” she said, voice light but edged.

Murata mumbled agreement, subdued for once. For a few paces, the three of them walked in near silence, the grass swallowing up the last scraps of their laughter.

The light was bruised as they crossed the threshold into the village. Giyuu led the way. Behind him, Yume and Murata whispered in a conspiratorial murmur, their voices bright as sparrows as they skirted puddles and stray cats along the road. Giyuu pretended not to listen, but the fragments reached him anyway—mostly laughter, a few snatches of gossip, one ill-advised joke about who would win in a brawl, Yume or the sake merchant’s wife.

As they passed the lantern-lit eaves of the izakaya, Yume piped up, her voice teasingly plaintive. “Let’s stop for food, Giyuu-chan. You may even choose the table yourself this time.”

Giyuu nodded once, too tired for protest, and they slipped inside. The izakaya was already warm with voices—two uncles haggling over dice, a woman shelling edamame with her teeth, a toddler’s shriek as he toppled a bowl. The hush that followed their entrance was brief; villagers had grown used to seeing the Water Hashira and his Tsuguko together. Some bowed, others just grinned, and Mr. Endo behind the counter offered a half-serious, “Welcome home.”

They settled near the window. Giyuu took the edge seat, back to the wall out of habit, eyes sweeping the room. Murata dropped across, and Yume—because she delighted in bothering him—sat close enough that her feet could brush Giyuu’s under the low table.

The waitress came, quick and blushing, bowing and pouring barley tea. Yume ordered plum wine, Murata requested sweet sake, and Giyuu—after a moment’s hesitation—asked for cold water. The old man at the next table leaned over, giving Yume a gap-toothed wink. “Don’t let him get away with that, miss. A Hashira’s not a real man ‘til he’s drunk you under the table.”

Murata nearly choked on his rice cracker. “Yume would have him asleep in the gutter before the third cup, old man.”

Giyuu ignored the laughter, fixing his gaze on the lacquered tabletop, but Yume nudged him, daring him to join the world. “He’s just shy,” she called over. “But it’s true—I’ve never seen him drunk. I doubt he’d be any fun.”

Murata grinned. “I bet he’d get all sentimental. Start reciting poetry. Or worse—start singing.”

Giyuu gave Murata a flat look. “I do not sing.”

Yume’s lips curved into a sly smile. “We’ll see. You could always prove it. There’s a shamisen behind the bar—”

He interrupted, “no.”

It earned him a smirk, and another gentle nudge beneath the table. The banter ricocheted around the small table: Yume challenging Murata to eat the spiciest pickles, Murata countering with stories from his early days in the Corps, and Giyuu—against his own instincts—drawn in bit by bit.

He found himself speaking more than he intended, correcting Murata’s embellishments, pointing out that the so-called “legendary demon chase” was nothing but three drunk slayers trying to outrun a goat. Yume laughed, head tipped back.

Their food arrived: grilled river fish slick with miso, daikon pickles, bowls of rice fragrant as new straw, fried tofu bubbling in its own golden oil. Giyuu’s chopsticks moved with ruthless efficiency, ferrying grilled fish and pickled daikon from his plate—and just as quickly, from Yume’s. She barely noticed at first, too busy recounting some half-remembered tale to Murata about a demon encounter involving a runaway chicken and a very drunk Kakushi. But with every story, her own meal seemed to shrink, the mound of rice vanishing with each soft click of wood on ceramic.

Murata, watching with undisguised amusement, finally nudged Yume. “Are you planning on feeding him all your dinner, or are you simply used to living with a wild animal now?”

Giyuu didn’t so much as blink, merely met Murata’s gaze with the kind of silence that had ended more than one conversation before it started. The other slayer recoiled, mouth snapping shut. Yume, unfazed, reached out to rescue her last piece of tofu only to find it had vanished—Giyuu, impassive, already chewing.

She snorted, shoving her empty plate aside. “He can’t help it. Hashira metabolism. They eat twice as much as regular men—three times, if you count all the brooding.” She tipped her head, hair tumbling over one shoulder, lips twisted with amusement. “If I’m not careful, I’ll wake up one day to find him gnawing on my pillow.”

Murata’s laughter rang out, loud enough to turn the heads of a few nearby drinkers. “He’d look you straight in the eye and say nothing, too. Like, ‘No, Yume, the pillow simply dissolved.’” He waggled his chopsticks for emphasis, mimicking Giyuu’s reserved frown.

Giyuu shot him a look. “If you spent more time eating and less time talking, maybe you’d be worth half a meal yourself.”

Yume dissolved into laughter, pressing her fingers to her lips. Even Murata, cowed by Giyuu’s stoicism, had to grin. Giyuu’s gaze lingered on Yume, noting the tired set of her eyes, the faint weariness that still hid in her movements. She felt it, too—turned and met his stare, teasing replaced by something gentle. “You really do eat like you’re making up for lost years, you know,” she murmured, soft enough that only he could hear.

He didn’t answer, but nudged the last morsel of fish onto her plate. She raised an eyebrow but accepted it, meeting his silence with a half-smile.

Murata, emboldened by sake, leaned across the table. “If you two keep feeding each other, the villagers are going to start rumors. More than they already do.”

“Let them. Maybe it’ll finally get someone else to invite us to dinner for a change.” She nudged Giyuu’s foot under the table. “Next time, though, you’re buying the rice. And I’m hiding the tofu.”

Giyuu’s mouth twitched. “Not if I find it first.”

Yume slipped into his futon, all bare feet and silk. The shoji screen glinted with the ghost of moonlight, the hour so late it felt illicit. She burrowed beneath the blankets, skin warm, seeking him out with purposeful urgency. He stirred as her lips traced his jaw, the curve of his throat—each kiss a silent plea.

Giyuu wrapped her close, palm pressed flat against her spine, feeling the way she trembled. He brushed her hair aside, voice rough with sleep and worry. “What’s wrong?”

She buried her nose at his collarbone, voice muffled and evasive. “Nothing. Just cold.” Even half-awake, he caught the false note—knew her too well by now to be fooled by feints.

With a sigh, he tugged at her sash, fingers deft and stubborn. “Let me see.”

She protested, “You’re scandalously forward for a man who’s never even bought me a comb.” Still, she let him push aside the layers of her yukata, baring her ribs. The wound had knitted closed—no longer raw, but still painted with the dusky violet of healing. His thumb skimmed the scar.

“Does it still hurt?”

She shivered, a ripple running through her—not from pain. “Only when you look at me like that.” She caught his chin and kissed him, bold and unrepentant, mouth hungry on his. He answered with a growl, rolling her beneath him, lips wandering to her throat, collarbone, the delicate rise of her chest. His hands paused at the hem of her wrap, gaze searching hers for the silent answer to a question he couldn’t ask. Are you sure? Do you want this? 

She tipped her chin, a flush rising high on her cheeks.

The wrap unwound under his hands, slowly, inch by inch. The linen fell away, and the moonlight caught her bare skin—pale, strong, scarred, beautiful.

He drank her in, as if imprinting her onto memory.

Another long, healed scar curved beneath her left breast, a souvenir from an old fight. Her muscles were taut beneath her softness, shaped by years of training, no less feminine for it. He let his eyes linger, then his hands.

She kissed him again, this time slower, less certain.

He tasted the hesitation on her lips, the tremor under her breath—but also the hunger. Her hands slid into his hair, pulling him down as his mouth began its descent, brushing the curve of her breast.

And just as his lips grazed her nipple—

A shriek sharp enough to splinter the stillness. Kanzaburo, feathers bristling, crashed through the open window, scattering chill air and feathers everywhere. He landed on the floor, wings outstretched, a scroll clutched in his claws.

“Urgent message! Urgent message from Master Ubuyashiki! Immediate! Immediate!”

Yume yelped, diving under the blanket, clutching it to her chest. Giyuu, jaw clenched, snatched the scroll and unrolled it, ignoring the crow’s aggrieved caws.

The letter was written in the Master’s careful hand. As Giyuu read, the world constricted to the shape of those tidy, terrible lines:

Giyuu,

You are to depart at once for Asakusa. There has been a direct encounter: Tanjiro met Muzan Kibutsuji. Muzan has vanished. Your orders are to investigate all traces, and remain until all leads are exhausted. Muzan may have left clues. This is now your highest priority.

Be safe.

Kanzaburo was pecking insistently at the paper, already demanding a reply. Yume, wrapped in a cocoon of shame and thwarted longing, peeked out from beneath the blanket, her cheeks bright with color.

“Of all the times for a crow to—” she started, then deflated. “What does the Master want?”

Giyuu’s mouth was grim. “Asakusa. A slayer had direct contact with Muzan.”

Yume propped herself up on her elbows, eyes wide and clear, all the playfulness bled away. “Truly?”

He nodded, already reaching for his discarded yukata. “Yes. We leave before dawn.”

She wrapped the blanket tighter, then, after a beat, reached for her clothes, movements businesslike. Their intimacy broken by duty, the air between them now charged with disappointment and urgency—a familiar harmony for both.

Kanzaburo, preening, announced, “Orders from Master must not be delayed! Hashira! Tsuguko! Move!”

Yume threw a pillow at the crow. “I hope you choke on a millet seed.”

Giyuu grunted, pressing a quick, wordless kiss to her temple—apology, promise. “Be quick,” he said, as he rose.

He paused at the threshold, gaze sweeping over her—hair wild, blanket slipping, body marked by both love and war.

Chapter Text

Yume blinked awake to a rush of electric color and city noise—a city she didn’t recognize, crowded with lanterns and voices pressing in from every angle. Her mind clawed its way to the surface, awareness flickering in fragments, piecing together the blur of travel, the chill clinging to her skin, the hand locked firmly around her wrist. She looked down, then up: Giyuu’s profile, jaw set, gaze unyielding. He was guiding her—no, dragging her—through the thicket of Asakusa’s chaos.

She tugged, just to prove she wasn’t dreaming. His grip didn’t slacken; if anything, his fingers tightened, thumb circling once against her pulse. “Giyuu,” she muttered, pitching her voice low, “I can walk, you know.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance at her. “Don’t wander.” He tipped his chin upward, indicating the crow circling overhead—Kanzaburou’s silhouette cut black against the swirl of banners and gaslights. “We’re meeting a witness. The crow knows where to go.”

Asakusa at night felt like the belly of some fevered beast, all scales and hissing breath. Paper lanterns and arc lamps spilled wild color onto the wet streets; every reflection threatened, every shadow conspired. Even Giyuu, always calm, moved differently here—shoulders squared, every nerve strung taut, eyes flicking from alley to alley. He kept Yume at his side, almost tucked behind him, a wordless promise that nothing—not even Muzan Kibutsuji himself—would reach her without going through him.

Kanzaburou banked suddenly, angling down toward the end of a narrow street, then vanished. Giyuu changed direction at once, pulling her into an alley half-drowned in mist and guttering lamplight. The city’s noise peeled away in stages; every footstep echoed, hollow, beneath their soles. They came to a stone wall, slick with city grime, and Kanzaburou disappeared—straight through the wall, as if it were made of fog instead of brick.

Yume squinted, mouth quirking. “Are we supposed to follow him into solid stone, or is this the part where we turn back and pretend we never saw any of this?”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He pressed his palm to it, and the wall yielded. Yume caught the faintest edge of blood, ozone, and the musty sweetness of torn tatami. They stepped through together.

The world contracted: a battered courtyard, the ruins of what must have once been a house. Even with half the roof gone and two walls caved in, the place reeked of demon battle—blood and spent power, something scorched and metallic lingering in the boards. Moonlight shivered on splinters, tracing a story of violence she didn’t need to ask about.

Every surface bore the signature of struggle. Charred beams jutted at awkward angles, their blackened ends still oozing sap. The ground was churned to mud, scattered with broken tiles. A trail of dark, sticky residue led to a corner where the wall had been peeled away like fruit rind.

Giyuu paused, his grip finally loosening. “Stay close,” he said.

Yume obeyed, scanning every angle. Kanzaburou cawed and vanished, black wings carving a streak of shadow through the empty window. Giyuu paused at the threshold, hand already resting on the hilt of his blade. Yume, blades out, stepped in beside him, reading the warning in his posture—a tension like drawn wire. The ruin above was all broken edges and silence, but here—where a hidden hatch yawned at their feet—the air thickened with something else: anticipation, and the muffled murmur of voices rising from below.

Giyuu listened, head tilted, eyes narrowed, the silence stretched so tight Yume could almost hear the pulse beating in his throat. At last, with a flick of his chin, he moved, nudging the hatch open and descending, his hand clamped around her wrist to prevent even the ghost of hesitation.

The steps led them down into a lacquered corridor, walls heavy with the scent of medicine and old blood. It looked nothing like a cellar—more like a physician’s domain, clinic doors lined in even rows, paper lanterns glowing dimly overhead. Giyuu’s grip tightened, and for a split second Yume wondered if he meant to drag her into the afterlife or simply into another nightmare.

Suddenly, a young boy’s head popped around the far corner—a riot of dark-red hair, broad forehead, round, earnest eyes that glowed as if lit from within. His face, wide open and guileless, broke into a smile of pure recognition. “Giyuu-san!”

Yume’s first instinct was confusion—then a rapid calculation. She’d never seen this boy before, yet he called Giyuu by name. She slid a half-step in front of him, weighing the kama in her hands, body tensing.

Giyuu stiffened, eyes darting from the boy to Yume and back, as if bracing for what might come next. He spoke Yume’s name, low and careful—a warning and apology tangled together. “Yume—”

But it was too late. Another figure slipped out from behind the boy—a girl, slight and silent, hair like ink, eyes unblinking. Instantly, every nerve in Yume’s body screamed: demon.

Yume didn’t hesitate. At the sight of the demon girl, every memory of her mother’s ruined body, every lesson branded into her bones, surged in a single violent arc. She moved before thought could catch her, muscles rippling. Her kama slashed the air—silver, vengeful, merciless. Giyuu’s arm locked around her waist, pinning her as if she were nothing but a shadow caught in a slant of sunlight, but she fought him, too, as ferociously as any enemy. He wrenched her back just as two more figures rounded the corner—one pale, regal, expression unreadable, the other glaring, dark-eyed, hostility pouring from every line of his narrow body.

Three. Three demons in one place.

“Let go—!” she thrashed, the kama arcing within inches of Giyuu’s thigh. “Giyuu, they’re right there—!”

Giyuu, face grim, made a split-second decision: he hoisted her off her feet, slinging her over his shoulder like a wayward child. She beat her fists against his back, curses muffled in a blur of furious sound, as he carried her up the stairs. The world jolted, spinning, her pride shattering with each step. She kicked, struggled, landed a knee in his ribs, but his grip never loosened.

Outside, Giyuu set her down—no gentleness in it. He forced her to the ground, hands braced on her shoulders to keep her from springing up.

“How can you—!” Yume spat, voice raw with fury. “How can you let them live after what they’ve done to us?”

Giyuu’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. He looked on the edge of shattering. “Nezuko is not like them,” he growled. “She’s different. The Master believes in her. If the Master trusts the others—” he jerked his chin toward the ruined house—“then I have to trust them too.”

Yume trembled, a wire pulled too tight. “Different?” she seethed, shoving at his chest. “She’s a demon. That’s all there is. I saw her eyes. I saw—” The rest broke off in a ragged gasp. “You know what they are, Giyuu.”

He didn’t flinch. “I do.” His hands loosened, fingers trembling with the effort of restraint. “But Nezuko… When I first found her, I thought she would kill her brother. Instead, she protected him. She shielded him from me.” His eyes flickered, haunted. “I saw her turn her back on Muzan’s blood. I saw her choose.”

Yume shook her head, wounded. “And you didn’t tell me. Not once. Not after all we survived. All this time—you kept it from me.”

Giyuu’s voice dropped to a whisper, the words dragged out, fraying. “I was afraid. Afraid you’d see me as weak. Afraid you’d look at me the way you look at demons. That you’d be disappointed, or… That you’d think I’d failed you. Failed everyone.” He looked away.

“If you’re wrong,” Yume warned, voice shaking, “if you’re wrong about them, I’ll never trust you again. I can’t—Giyuu, I can’t.”

He nodded once. “If I’m wrong, I don’t deserve your trust. But I’m not. I know what I saw.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Yume’s breath shuddered, her eyes stinging. “I’m not ready. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Giyuu pressed fleeting apologies across her brow, her cheek, the edge of her jaw—his words barely more than a breath against her skin, the comfort of his presence shielding her from the world’s indecency. Each whispered “forgive me” settled heavier than the last. It might have gone on—her breathing slowing, the two of them locked in that raw space between anger and relief—but for the scuff of footsteps through the rubble. Yume went rigid beneath him.

She turned her face away, hair falling to shield her eyes, jaw set. Giyuu braced one hand to the ground, the other at her waist as he looked over his shoulder, features already shuttered. There, just beyond the ruined frame of the doorway, stood the boy—flushed, breathless, mortified. He bowed deeply, voice stumbling out.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt, but…” The boy’s eyes darted nervously between them, pausing on Yume’s kamas, then flicking back to Giyuu’s impassive stare.

Giyuu’s hand flexed on Yume’s hip. His voice, when it came, was cool and commanding. “Tanjiro. Come here.”

Tanjiro straightened, swallowing hard, and shuffled closer. His expression bore none of the guile Yume expected from a demon’s ally—just a battered sort of decency, wide-eyed and desperate to be understood.

“Tell us everything. Start from the beginning—what did you see? Where was Muzan? What did he do? Every detail.”

Tanjiro knelt in the dirt, hands folded in his lap, gaze flickering between the two demon slayers. He drew a slow breath, gathering himself. The city beyond seemed impossibly far away—no festival clamor, no lantern-lit laughter could reach them here. Here, only the ruined bones of battle and the stench of old fear remained.

“I saw him last night,” Tanjiro began, voice taut with memory. “He was in the crowd—he looked like a man, maybe thirty, with a woman and a child. You’d never know, just by looking…but when I got close, I could smell it. That same scent from the mountain. He changed right in front of me, his eyes going red. There was no time to fight him—he vanished into the crowd the moment I tried to confront him. And then—” Tanjiro’s voice wavered, fists clenching in his hakama. “He turned a man into a demon, right there in the street. Just one scratch, and that was enough. I tried to stop him, but—”

He swallowed again, shame burning his cheeks. “The demon attacked everyone around him. I barely managed to keep Nezuko and the others safe. That’s when Tamayo and Yushiro helped us. They’re demons, but not like the others. They saved us. We fought two more demons—one with arrows, another with a temari ball—but Muzan was gone before I could even try to follow. I…I failed.”

Tanjiro’s eyes lifted, searching Giyuu’s face for condemnation, for hope—anything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even get close.”

Giyuu’s voice was a blade. “What did he look like, exactly? His hair, his eyes—tell me.”

Tanjiro nodded, eager to comply. “Black hair, curled, pale skin. His eyes were red, not human at all. He wore Western clothes—a suit, gloves.”

Yume forced herself to meet Tanjiro’s gaze, searching for any trace of deception and finding none—only exhaustion.

Giyuu, still half-shielding her, exhaled slowly. “You did what you could.” A rare concession. “If Muzan is still in the city, will you be able to track the woman and child with him?”

Tanjiro nodded. “I can try.” His eyes lingered on Yume as if searching for reassurance. She only nodded, the gesture clipped and mechanical, before turning away from both men.

Giyuu stood, his shadow stark against the splintered wall, and offered her his hand—though Yume pretended not to see it. She forced herself to her feet, rising on her own, jaw set. Silence bristled between them, more barbed than any blade. Tanjiro excused himself, muttering something about Nezuko, then vanished down the hatch.

She didn’t look at Giyuu as she moved toward the exit, the stink of burnt blood and ash stinging her nose. He trailed after, but she felt his gaze, heavy as iron, pinning her in place.

He called her name but she refused him. A hand caught her arm, spinning her to face him. Before she could protest, his fingers tipped her chin up, thumb pressed to the hollow beneath her lower lip—demanding, desperate.

“Don’t,” he said, low and ragged. “Not now. Not when we’re this close to him. Be angry when we return home. Yell at me, if you must. I’ll listen. But not now.” His eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, bore into hers—a command and plea at once. “If you lose focus—even for a breath—I lose you. I can’t let that happen.”

A beat passed between them. Somewhere, distant temple bells tolled, hollow and mournful. Yume met his gaze, letting the pain in her chest settle into something cold and functional. She nodded, though the motion cost her something vital.

“I’ll do my duty,” she murmured. “But when this is over, you will answer for this. All of it.”

He released her chin, and the absence of his touch left its own wound. “I will,” Giyuu promised. “But until then, stay beside me.”

The city’s early light bled through the labyrinthine alleys of Asakusa. In the slow creep of dawn, even the raucous nightlife had faded—only a handful of street vendors dozed by their carts, and a stray dog nosed at an overturned basket. Yume walked with Tanjiro and Giyuu through these silences.

Tanjiro led them, head tilted, nostrils flaring—more dog than boy, Yume thought, irritation prickling beneath her skin. He was too earnest, too eager. Tanjiro’s eyes stayed downcast, fixed on the invisible trail, oblivious to her resentment. Giyuu hovered just behind, closing the space between them, his hand reaching again for her wrist—that insistent need to keep her within arm’s reach. She jerked away, refusing his touch. Giyuu’s hand fell, knuckles whitening around the hilt of his blade, but he said nothing.

The path twisted on itself, a relentless warren of lantern-lit streets, then climbed a residential slope. Tanjiro paused before a house unlike the others—a foreign car under the eaves, its body black as a beetle’s shell. The windows were all dark, curtains pulled shut against the coming day. An oily unease slid up Yume’s spine. 

Tanjiro’s expression sharpened. “The scent is strongest here,” he murmured. “There’s blood. Not fresh, but—” His voice caught, a flicker of dread passing over his face. “It’s…a lot.”

Giyuu moved to the front, voice all command, every inch the Hashira now. “Stay behind me.” He didn’t bother with civility; he pushed the door open, crossing the threshold, Tanjiro right behind. Yume followed, tension threading through every joint. Inside, the air pressed down, thick and sour, the metallic tang of blood tangled with perfume, spilled sake, and under it all, the bitter ruin of death. 

The hallway stretched before them, pristine tatami streaked with crimson. Shoes left askew at the genkan. The silence inside pressed in—so complete it seemed to ring in Yume’s ears, worse than any scream. Giyuu moved through the rooms without hesitation, checking each door. Tanjiro’s nose twitched, eyes wide, mouth set tight.

A collapsed form sprawled in the parlor—an elegant woman in a pale kimono, her throat slashed, dark hair fanned around her head. The child was crumpled nearby, limbs twisted, a porcelain doll’s hand clutched in one fist. Blood pooled beneath both bodies, thinned and already beginning to turn. Two servants lay by the kitchen, faces slack, eyes open to nothing.

Yume stopped. Cold clamped her from within, stopping her mid-step, breath caught somewhere between then and now. For a heartbeat she couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink—her mother’s ruined body flickered behind her eyes, memory and horror overlapping. This was what demons left behind—always.

Tanjiro’s hand covered his mouth, voice barely a whisper: “We were too slow—”

Giyuu only knelt, closing the child’s eyes, fingers gentle in a way Yume couldn’t watch. She looked away, fury gathering under her skin, her voice breaking through the carnage, rough and sharp. “This is what demons do,” she spat at Giyuu, though the words stung the world more than him. “This is what you protect when you hesitate. This—this is all that’s left behind.” 

Giyuu didn’t flinch, but his mouth tightened, eyes shadowed. He wiped blood from the child’s face with the edge of his sleeve. “Not all of them,” he said quietly, as if that could matter, as if mercy might ever be enough.

Yume shook, her breath scraping out in ragged bursts. She sensed Tanjiro’s guilt hanging in the air, but it was Giyuu’s  pain that pinned her. For a moment, she hated him for it—the hope he wouldn’t surrender, the burden of forgiveness pressing sharp against every old wound.

Chapter Text

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Giyuu’s irritation brewed in the pit of his stomach, as if he’d swallowed stones for breakfast. The outpost felt smaller every week—a knot of wooden corridors and stale air that clung to skin. He had combed the grounds twice already. Yume’s absence scratched at him like an old wound left to fester. Not at the morning meal, not in the training yard where dew still silvered the grass. Not with the others, either. The other boys shrugged, eyes sliding away—unwilling, or simply uninterested, in the girl with the strange eyes and quieter moods.

He prowled the boundaries, checking alcoves she’d disappeared into before: behind the rain barrels, in the dusty lean-to that housed old straw mats, even beneath the wooden porch where shadows thickened with midday. Each place yielded only silence and the shiver of wind. It was always like this—her slipping through the cracks, leaving him to hunt, to be the one responsible. It gnawed at his pride, his sense of order. The Master’s words rang in his mind, that cursed obligation—her life is now bound to yours. Like a shackle, though he would never say it aloud.

He questioned the Kakushi, who exchanged unreadable glances. No one had seen her, or they didn’t care to look. Giyuu’s voice grew brittle, thinned by a year of frustration.

Where would she go, if she wanted to disappear? Someplace forgotten, where nobody would bother a stray cat.

The shed at the back, half-swallowed by tangled plum trees, its door nearly hidden by drooping branches and the sweet, overripe scent of fermenting fruit. No one used it except the Kakushi, and even they lingered only as long as duty required.

The door stuck, warped by rain and years. He forced it open with a grunt, sunlight pooling in through cracks and dust swirling up in lazy spirals. The air inside was warmer—thick with the odor of rice, oil, something medicinal. Broom handles lined one wall; rice sacks slumped along another.

There—half-buried in shadow, small as a mouse—Yume. Curled atop a sack, knees hugged to her chest, hair pooled around her, her breathing shallow. The sunlight caught on the curve of her cheek, coloring her skin with a sickly yellow glow. She looked peaceful, almost fragile.

Something in him recoiled.

He crossed the floor in three strides. The anger returned—sharp, familiar, safer than anything else.

“Get up.” His hand clamped around her upper arm, fingers digging in harder than he meant, but he couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip.

Yume didn’t stir, not even when he shook her. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling like the legs of a crushed insect. For a heartbeat, he hesitated—some half-forgotten voice in his chest urging gentleness, but it soured instantly into impatience.

“I said get up.” He dragged her upright. Her body was limp, too warm, her head lolling before she blinked at him, confusion clouding her features. She was always like this after he woke her—eyes unfocused, movements sluggish, as if she’d been pulled from some ocean far deeper than ordinary sleep.

She stared at him, slow and blinking, and for an instant he felt a flicker of something uncomfortable—guilt, or maybe just annoyance at his own hesitation. She tried to twist away, but his grip held.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice came out harsh. “You’re supposed to be at drills. You missed breakfast. Again.”

Yume’s voice was soft, hoarse from sleep. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

He released her arm—too quickly, as if her skin burned. She sagged against the rice sacks, eyes closing again for a moment before she forced them open. There was a darkness beneath her eyes, bruised and ancient.

“You can’t just run off and hide whenever you want,” he said, refusing to meet her gaze. “People think I’m the one who’s lazy, because I can’t keep you in line.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands worried the hem of her sleeve, fingers twisting fabric into small knots. Her hair was tangled, caught with stray bits of straw. She looked smaller than ever, the years between them stretched like wire.

“I’m not hiding,” she murmured. “I was tired.”

“You’re always tired.” The words burst from him. “You sleep through drills, you sleep through meals, you’d probably sleep through a demon attack if you could.”

She flinched, but only slightly—a rabbit’s recoil, all instinct, none of it conscious. She turned her face away, so he couldn’t see her expression. “I can’t help it,” she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it. “I just…can’t.”

Giyuu scoffed, folding his arms. He forced himself to remember Urokodaki’s lessons, the lectures about discipline, about pushing through weakness. “You’re making excuses. You think demons will care if you’re tired? You think they’ll wait for you to wake up?” He watched her for some sign of resistance, wanting—needing—her to push back, to show any spark of the girl he’d saved, the one who’d stabbed a demon in the eye with a rusted kama.

Instead, she only sagged further, eyes glassy with exhaustion or defeat—it was hard to tell which. He remembered, distantly, what it felt like to be that tired, to want nothing but to sleep until the world ended. But that was weakness, and he hated it in himself as much as he hated it in her. “If you’re not going to train, why are you here? Why did you even bother coming with me? You want me to feel sorry for you?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

The words were like a slap, stinging, unexpected. For a moment, Giyuu could only stare at her, the silence between them expanding until it felt like a living thing.

“You’re coming with me,” he said at last. “If I have to carry you to the yard, I will.”

He grabbed her wrist—not as harshly as before, but with enough pressure to make his point clear. She didn’t struggle. Her feet barely cleared the ground as he half-dragged her from the shed into the sunlight, his grip iron around her thin bones.

If she’d been heavier, he might have left her there. If he’d been kinder, he might have let her sleep.

But they were neither, and the world wasn’t gentle. The path back to the outpost cut through weeds and windfallen branches, dust rising in their wake. He kept his eyes forward, jaw clenched. Behind him, Yume stumbled once, then twice, but didn’t complain.

By the time they reached the training yard, the others had already begun sparring, the air ringing with the clatter of wooden swords and shouts of effort. Giyuu let go of her arm at last, shoving her forward. “Get in line.”

She went, shoulders slumped, hair spilling over her face. For a moment, Giyuu watched her—searching for any sign of defiance, or apology, or gratitude.

He found none.

This is what it means to be responsible, he thought. To carry a burden you don’t want, to be resented for your efforts, to fail even when you do everything right.

He took his place at the edge of the yard, arms folded, eyes fixed on Yume. She swayed on her feet, sunlight too bright, the ground tilting under her steps. Someone snickered nearby—a sharp, ugly sound—but she ignored it, blinking slowly as if each breath cost her something.

He told himself this was what she needed. He told himself she’d thank him someday.

The wooden practice sword might as well have been a log. Yume’s fingers curled clumsily around the grip, the weight unbalanced, blade drooping toward the dirt. Every other trainee—boys in stiff uniforms—stole glances, amusement flickering in the curl of their mouths. Nobody tried to hide it. Cruelty came easy to children forced to survive on scraps of glory and leftover pain.

The boy who stepped forward wore his kindness openly—a rare thing here. Murata, of all people. Giyuu’s stomach twisted at the sight of him, the memory of Final Selection pressed between his ribs. Murata had watched Sabito die. Had told Giyuu—matter-of-fact, not unkind—how the others had fallen. There was a sort of haunted care in the way Murata crouched beside Yume, adjusting her grip, murmuring advice as though it might soften the edge of the world.

Giyuu bristled, heat rising up his neck. Murata’s voice carried—a low encouragement, not for the others but for her alone.

“Hold it higher, see? Like this. Good. You don’t have to squeeze so hard—let your wrists move, or you’ll tire out too quick.” Murata straightened, offering her an awkward, encouraging smile. “We’ll go slow. Just follow me, alright?”

Yume nodded, hair falling in her eyes. Her stance was awkward, too wide, as if the ground beneath her refused to hold steady. When Murata raised his own practice sword—one, two—she mimicked the movement, her gaze watery and unfocused. Giyuu couldn’t look away. He hated how careful Murata was, hated the gentle way he spoke to her, hated the way it twisted something inside him, sharp, jealous and mean.

The two circled—uneven, the rhythm halting. Murata barely tapped her blade, coaching her through each block. For a moment, it almost looked like training. Then Yume’s eyelids drooped mid-step, her arms slackening. The sword sagged, then slipped from her grip altogether. She wobbled, knees buckling.

Murata caught her before she hit the earth, his hands steady at her shoulders. “Hey—Yume, are you alright? Can you hear me?” His concern cut the air, clear as temple bells. “Something’s wrong, Giyuu!”

Giyuu stormed over, anger boiling beneath his skin. He wrenched Yume upright, pulling her from Murata’s grasp. Her head lolled forward, and she blinked at him. For an instant, she looked through him.

“She’s just lazy,” Giyuu snapped. “She does this every time. It’s an act.”

Murata stepped between them. “That’s not true! She’s not faking—can’t you see she’s sick?”

Giyuu’s jaw set, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “You don’t know her. None of you do.” He tightened his grip on Yume’s wrist until her skin blanched. “If she can stand, she can train.”

A few slayers gawked, unsure if this was cruelty or discipline, but no one intervened. Giyuu dragged Yume across the yard, until they reached the gate. He shoved it open with his shoulder, barely glancing back. Yume stumbled after him, half-dragged, half-walking.

Beyond the compound, the world opened up—wild, untamed. Summer weeds choked the path, cicadas screaming in the fields. The air hung heavy with heat and pollen, the sun low and unkind, the distant trees warped by haze.

He let her go at last, releasing her as if she were a coal gone cold. She swayed, catching herself on hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut against the light.

“You want to sleep?” Giyuu’s voice sounded unfamiliar even to himself, strained with anger. “You want to hide from the world? You can go back. Lie down in the ashes if that’s what you want.” He forced the words out, sharp and ugly, each one worse than the last. “No one’s stopping you. But don’t come crawling to me when you can’t protect yourself.”

Yume’s breath came in shallow gasps. Her face was twisted, splotched with red, tears bright at the corners of her eyes. She lurched to her feet, swaying, fists balled at her sides. Her voice cracked with fury and exhaustion.

“I hate you,” she spat. “I wish you’d left me. I wish I left you to die.”

The words rang out, cutting the air. Giyuu stood perfectly still. Something inside him flinched, small and stunted.

She swung her foot, aiming a wild, childish kick at his shin. It connected—a sharp jolt of pain. He stumbled back, startled, but said nothing.

Yume turned and bolted into the field, hair streaming behind her, feet catching on brambles and roots. She didn’t look back. The grass swallowed her, blade by blade, until she vanished—only the thrashing sound of her passage left behind.

Giyuu stood where she’d left him, hands clenched, jaw set. The sky overhead was vast and pitiless, a blue bowl heavy with too much sun.

Let her go, he thought. One less problem. One less burden.

But the words rang hollow. All around him, the fields hissed with wind and the sound of things breaking—stalks underfoot, the brittle shell of pride, the uneasy bond that kept them tethered, whether they wanted it or not.

He just watched the weeds close behind her, and wondered, in a flash of anger and regret, whether he would have left her behind, after all, if he’d only known how much harder it would be to keep her.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

The meal hall pulsed with hunger and fatigue. The stink of boiled rice and pickled daikon clung to the rafters, curling between the sweating bodies packed tight along the benches. Chopsticks clicked against bowls. Slayers’ laughter swelled and broke. Every face was washed gold by lantern light, every conversation stitched together by the same threadbare need: food, warmth, and the momentary illusion of safety.

Giyuu sat stiff-backed, his rice untouched, eyes sweeping the room with restless, needling suspicion. The seat beside him stayed empty—Yume’s spot, though she never filled it for long. He counted the heads around him, then again, as if he’d made a mistake. No silver hair. No slumped shoulders. Not even her blue greta by the door.

She should be here. After sulking all afternoon, after missing every meal—she should be starving.

He tried to convince himself it was the same pattern: she’d storm off, sulk, sleep in some dusty corner, and slink back before dawn as if nothing had happened. Yet something twisted in his gut.

She’s probably curled up in the old laundry shed. Or behind the kitchen barrels. Or in that nook beneath the storage eaves.

Annoyance rose. He stood abruptly, the bench skidding back, earning a sidelong glare from a Kakushi at the end of the table. He ignored it, stalking out into the main corridor.

He scoured the compound, checked every cranny where Yume might wedge herself: behind rainwater tubs, in the loft above the feed room, among the withered herbs in the garden. The light was fading—dusk gathering in the eaves, painting everything in blue.

Nothing.

He cornered three boys loitering near the gate. “Have you seen Yume?” His tone was flat, more threat than question.

One of them, a sharp-faced kid with a permanent sneer, shrugged. “Probably ran away. Who’d want to stay with you yelling at them all day?”

Another, younger, chewed on a reed and snickered. “Maybe she realized girls don’t belong in the Corps. Wouldn’t blame her.”

Giyuu’s patience snapped. He seized the sneering boy by the collar and shoved him hard—his back hit the ground with a thud and a hiss of dust. “Say that again,” Giyuu spat, voice low, shaking.

The boy just stared, wide-eyed and silent, mouth half-open. Giyuu let him go and turned, shouldering through the others, barely seeing where he went. Rage burned in his chest. They don’t know her.

He strode through the gate, voice rough as he called her name. “Yume!”

Silence answered, thick and oppressive.

He tried again, louder, each shout cracking at the edge. “Yume! This isn’t funny. I’m not playing.”

Wind tugged at the grass, carrying away his voice. The field was empty, stretching wild to the outpost’s walls—a sprawl of bent weeds and broken stalks, the last of the sun dripping gold across the paddies. He pushed farther, feet crunching through reeds, anger and worry colliding in his chest, indistinguishable now.

Where could she have gone? Where would she even run? There’s nothing out here but fields and ghosts and the old roads where the Kakushi refuse to walk after dark.

His voice faltered, then rose again—less a call, more a demand, each syllable jagged with frustration. “Yume! Come out! I mean it!”

He imagined her small, sullen figure crouched in some thicket, face streaked with dirt, eyes closed in one of her bottomless sleeps. He hated her for it—the way she slipped away, the way she forced him to chase her, made him the villain.

But beneath the anger, a colder thread wound tight around his ribs. What if she doesn’t come back this time? What if she’s lost—really lost? What would I tell the Master?

Giyuu ran until the world blurred—past the last shreds of rice grass and into the clutch of bamboo, stalks packed so densely they pressed out the sky. Each footfall tore through a tangle of roots and dry leaves. Branches snapped at his face, dripping with sweat and panic, their tips scraping his skin as if they meant to scold him for every misstep.

He called her name until it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. Each shout grew hoarser, scraping out of him in raw, uneven bursts. The bamboo forest stretched on, endless. Lantern bugs bobbed between the stalks, their greenish light warping the air, tricking his eyes into seeing ghosts at every turn.

He stumbled out, finally, to the riverbank—breath in tatters, lungs burning. The water slipped by carrying away scraps of moonlight. Giyuu bent low, searching the silty edge for any print, a scuffed sandal mark, the sweep of a small hand. Nothing.

She could be anywhere. The world had grown too large—no fences, no watchful eyes, only the immense emptiness of fields, bamboo, and now the roads beyond. His anger dissolved into dread. Every step now felt like penance for every harsh word, every hand that had yanked her upright instead of offering comfort.

A caw sliced the dark. His crow dove from above, black wings like blades. Kanzaburou circled twice, then dipped, leading him beyond the reeds, away from the comfort of paths. Giyuu crashed through nettles, sandals sodden, no longer caring about thorns or mud. He stumbled, nearly fell, caught himself—kept running.

The crow banked, screeching, and soared along the winding road that carved through the fields. Giyuu followed, heart pounding, each call of her name growing more desperate, unmoored from anger, shivering at the edge of terror.

At last, Kanzaburou circled a patch of roadside, cawing loud and insistent, talons grazing the tall grass. Giyuu saw her then—a small, crumpled shape where the dirt gave way to weeds and broken stone. Yume lay curled on her side, legs pulled tight to her chest, hair tangled with burrs and dust. Scratches crisscrossed her arms, red and raw, as if she’d fought off the whole night by herself.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands shaking now. “Yume.” His voice cracked, rough with fear. He touched her shoulder, tried to turn her toward him. Her skin was hot and clammy; her face streaked with dried sweat and tears. The rise and fall of her chest was shallow, uneven.

She didn’t stir.

He shook her again, firmer this time, fighting the urge to shout. “Yume. Wake up.” Nothing. Only the rhythmic tremor of her breath, rasping thin as rice paper. He brushed hair from her cheek, startled by how hollow she looked—cheekbones standing out too sharply, eyelids bruised purple with exhaustion.

How long had she been running? When was the last time she’d truly slept? Had he done this—pushing, dragging, never letting her rest? Had he broken something that couldn’t be mended?

“Come on.” He tried to lift her, but her limbs were deadweight, boneless as a discarded doll. “Don’t do this. Wake up.” Panic strangled his words. “Stop pretending.”

But it wasn’t pretending.

He checked her pulse, remembered the way Urokodaki had taught him: two fingers at the throat, count the heartbeats. There—they fluttered, too rapid, then too faint.

He shook her again, rougher than he should have. “Yume! Wake up, damn you!”

Still nothing.

For a wild moment, he imagined walking away—leaving her there, letting her disappear like a bad dream. But his feet refused to move.

He pressed his palm to her cheek, felt the fever beneath the skin, the trembling breath. She didn’t wake. She didn’t even flinch.

Kanzaburou circled above, his caw slicing urgency Giyuu had never heard before.

Giyuu’s voice came out tight, almost hoarse. “Kanzaburou. Where do I take her?”

The crow banked low. “Village! Closest place is east of the river!”

He hesitated only a moment. Then he slid his arms beneath Yume’s thin body, lifting her as gently as he could manage. She barely weighed more than a bundle of reeds. Her head lolled against his collarbone, lips parted, lashes trembling in a sleep so deep it might have been mistaken for death. The fever radiated off her skin in hot pulses, soaking through his sleeves.

He set off through the tangle of grass and stones, feet churning up dust and broken seedpods. Kanzaburou darted ahead, always just within sight, his voice a sharp goad.

“Faster!”

Giyuu gritted his teeth, refusing to answer. Sweat slicked his brow, breath coming harsh and uneven. The bamboo thinned, replaced by the knotted roots of old cedar trees. Branches whipped at his shoulders, snatching at Yume’s hair. He shifted her weight, careful not to jostle her more than necessary.

The village loomed ahead—no more than a clutch of weathered houses huddled around a crooked well. Lanterns flickered behind slatted windows. Dogs barked as he approached. A thin haze of woodsmoke hung in the air.

Kanzaburou swooped lower, perching atop a warped torii gate. “There. Third house. Apothecary lives there. Hurry!”

Giyuu pushed forward, Yume limp in his arms. He stumbled once, knees threatening to buckle, then forced himself upright. He reached the door and hammered with his fist, ignoring the sting in his knuckles. Wood rattled beneath the blows.

After a moment, a lantern bobbed behind the paper window. The door slid open a crack, a sliver of wary eyes peering out. “Who’s there?”

Giyuu straightened, jaw tight. “She’s sick. She needs help—now.”

The woman on the other side wore her hair twisted in a gray bun, her kimono faded, but her eyes were sharp, taking in the uniforms, the slumped child, the crow now preening on the gatepost.

“Come in, then. Quickly.” She slid the door wider, stepping aside. Her hands trembled only slightly as she gestured Giyuu to the futon near the hearth. “Lay her down—there, gently.”

Giyuu did as he was told, careful to ease Yume’s head onto a folded pillow. The woman knelt beside her, fingers probing her pulse, her brow furrowing as she peeled back an eyelid and examined the deep bruising beneath. “How long has she been like this?”

He shook his head. “I—I don’t know. She ran away. I found her by the road.”

The apothecary’s mouth pinched into a frown. “She’s burning up. Look at her hands—trembling. When did she last eat?”

Giyuu swallowed, unable to meet her gaze. “She missed breakfast. And lunch. Probably supper too.”

The woman sighed, irritation laced with something softer—a kind of weary compassion. “Children these days,” she muttered, reaching for a basket of bottles and packets. “Always pushing past their limits.”

She uncorked a small ceramic jar, the bitter scent of dried chrysanthemum and licorice root curling into the air. “Hold her steady.” Her hands moved with confidence, mixing herbs with warm water in a shallow bowl. “If she wakes, make her drink this. It’ll help the fever break. You—” Her gaze flicked up, assessing him with the measured disapproval of someone who’d seen too many stubborn boys try to carry the world. “Stay by her side. Don’t let her wander off again.”

Giyuu nodded, jaw clenched. “I won’t.”

Kanzaburou peered through the open window, wings folded. “Don’t run, Giyuu.”

He flinched, but said nothing.

Yume’s breaths rattled. Giyuu knelt beside her futon, fingers hovering, unsure whether to reach for her or pull away. He watched her face—skin stretched too tight over cheekbones, lashes clumped with dust. For the first time since the fire, since the field, since the night he’d carried her bleeding through the dark, he felt something shift in his chest.

He’d failed her. Not by weakness, but by strength misused—by turning discipline into cruelty, by forcing her awake, dragging her when all she needed was mercy.

The apothecary pressed a damp cloth to Yume’s brow, voice softer now. “She’ll sleep a long time. You should rest too.”

But Giyuu shook his head, stubborn. “No, she needs me.”

He watched her—through the hours when the fire burned low, when the wind rattled the windows, when even Kanzaburou quieted outside, hunched against the eaves. He waited for her to wake. He waited for her to speak. He waited, and wondered if forgiveness could be earned, or only begged for.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Yume had been asleep for three days. In that time, the world had shrunk to the dull ache in Giyuu’s legs and the stale taste of old tea in his mouth. When the Kakushi finally arrived—black-clad, silent as crows themselves—he saw them lift her into a palanquin lined with cotton. He trailed behind, eyes gritty with exhaustion.

They traveled at dawn, mist drifting across the foothills. Every so often, the Kakushi checked on Yume, brushed sweat from her brow, pressed a folded cloth to her mouth. Giyuu said nothing. His voice had been spent in the fields, in the bamboo, in the urgent hours of her disappearance. Now there was nothing left but silence and the faint, sickly hope that she might wake before they reached the Butterfly Mansion.

But she didn’t. She slept on as if her body had sealed itself behind a locked gate.

By the time the Butterfly Mansion’s gates creaked open, Giyuu was little more than nerves stretched too thin. Lanterns hung on every post, their pale glow fighting the morning haze.

Inside, Kanae and Shinobu waited—ghostly and composed in their uniforms, hair pulled back with the kind of care Giyuu had never learned to muster. Kanae was his age, but she carried herself with an authority that made him feel younger than he was. Shinobu hovered beside her, a massive medical tome clutched to her chest, lips moving in rapid, whispered consultation.

The Kakushi set Yume on a bed in the center of the infirmary, her hair spread out like seaweed, hands folded over her stomach. She looked impossibly small, lost in the folds of a borrowed yukata.

Kanae knelt first, gentle but clinical, pressing the back of her hand to Yume’s cheek, then her wrist. “Still feverish,” she murmured. Her fingers danced over the girl’s temples, checking for swelling, for heat, for signs of a fever dream that wouldn’t break. “Pulse is weak, but steady.”

Shinobu flipped furiously through her book, black bob swinging, breath puffing as she muttered medical terms under her breath. “Symptoms—sleep, persistent, resistant to rousing—no response to pain stimuli—”

Kanae glanced up. “Is there anything about sleep illnesses?”

“Plenty,” Shinobu replied, not looking up. Her finger traced down a list in the index. “But most are either fever-dreams or poison. I don’t see anything that fits… She’s not frothing, and her eyes are normal. It’s like—” Shinobu frowned, brow creasing, “it’s like her mind’s gone somewhere her body can’t follow.”

Kanae’s face grew grave. She exchanged a look with Giyuu, who hovered just outside the screen, fists clenched at his sides. He tried to look brave, but the room pressed in, medicinal air thick enough to make his tongue taste bitter.

Kanae straightened, brushing stray hair from her brow. “We’ll need the doctor,” she said quietly, as if confessing a sin. “I can treat the fever and scrapes, but this…this isn’t ordinary exhaustion.”

Giyuu stepped forward, unable to stop himself. “Will she wake up?”

Kanae met his eyes, steady but sad. “I don’t know.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Her body is past its limit, Tomioka-san. Whatever pushed her this far, it wasn’t just the fever. She hasn’t eaten, she hasn’t rested—not really—in weeks, by the look of her.”

Heat crawled up Giyuu’s neck. He said nothing, jaw rigid. This is my fault. I did this.

Shinobu, half-hidden behind her book, spoke up in a surprisingly soft voice. “She’s not the only one who needs rest, you know.” She glanced at him with a rare flicker of something like concern, or perhaps just professional obligation. “Go wash your face, Tomioka-san. The doctor will be here soon.”

He hesitated, shame prickling in his chest. “I’ll stay. In case she—” His voice threatened to break. He forced it level. “If she wakes up, I want to be here.”

Kanae’s expression softened, a breath of warmth slipping through her usual composure. “Of course. She’ll want to see a familiar face.”

Giyuu nodded, retreating to a corner of the room. He watched Kanae and Shinobu work in tandem—cleaning Yume’s wounds, sponging her brow, speaking in the low, precise language of healers. Outside, rain began to fall again, soft against the roof, as if the sky itself mourned the child too tired to wake.

He sat with his back to the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, watching her chest rise and fall.

If she wakes up, what will I say?

Sorry, maybe. Or nothing at all.

He pressed his forehead to his arms and waited for the doctor.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Giyuu startled awake the moment the door slid open, his cheek pressed to his arm, eyes sticky with exhaustion.

The doctor entered—a stooped figure in a moss-colored haori, spectacles perched low on his nose, hair pulled back in a wiry queue. A Kakushi followed, carrying a box that jingled with tiny glass bottles and folded gauze. Shinobu hovered behind, notebook already open.

The man knelt beside Yume, her breaths still slow and ragged, fingers twitching in the throes of some distant dream. He pressed two fingers to her wrist, then her throat, eyes narrowed in concentration. For a moment, only the tick of rain against the paper windows and the distant groan of the house settling could be heard.

He examined her with patience, murmuring little noises—“Hmm. Ahh. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Shinobu watched, clutching her medical tome as if afraid it might sprout legs and vanish. Giyuu hovered nearby, arms folded tightly across his chest, knuckles white, feet numb from crouching too long. Kanae was silent.

After several minutes, the doctor glanced up. “Who is responsible for her?”

Giyuu stepped forward, ignoring the heat rising in his face. “I am.”

The man grunted. “Tell me—how long has this been going on?”

Giyuu hesitated. “Since I’ve known her. She’s always…tired. She falls asleep, even when she shouldn’t. Even in the middle of things.” He cast a glance at Kanae, searching her face for judgment. She gave nothing away.

The doctor’s pen scratched across a small pad of paper. “And what does she say about it?”

Giyuu frowned, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve. “She says she can’t help it. That she just gets tired. Sometimes she tries to stay awake, but…” His words trailed off, sour with guilt. “She can’t.”

“Has it worsened?” The doctor’s eyes were birdlike, missing nothing.

Giyuu nodded, voice hollow. “At first, she was just tired sometimes. Then she started missing drills. Then meals. She falls asleep anywhere. I thought…” He swallowed, throat dry. “I thought she was just lazy. I forced her awake. I wouldn’t let her sleep. I…I thought she was avoiding training.”

The silence that followed was cold and absolute.

The doctor let out a long, slow sigh, as if emptying his chest of judgment. “You are not the first to make that mistake, boy.” He adjusted his spectacles, turning to Kanae and Shinobu, who exchanged a worried glance. “This is not simple idleness, or the willful avoidance of hardship. There is a sickness—rare, but not unknown, at least to some of the Western-trained doctors in the capital.”

Shinobu’s eyes widened. “A sleep sickness?”

He nodded, voice grave. “The westerners call it narcolepsy. It is a disorder of the mind and body, something that robs a person of control over their own sleep. The afflicted cannot help it; their bodies betray them. They may sleep for days, or collapse in an instant. No amount of scolding or discipline will cure it—only rest, and careful management.” His voice gentled, almost a whisper. “You have made her worse by forcing her awake.”

Giyuu’s breath stilled. The shame stung so sharply he nearly flinched. Every time I dragged her out of sleep, every time I yanked her back, I was breaking her. Not fixing anything. Not making her strong—only making her sick.

The doctor continued. “This is not a weakness of character, nor a lack of will. You must remember that.” His gaze flicked to Kanae, who nodded solemnly.

Shinobu wrote furiously in the margins of her book, mouth pressed into a thin line. “What can we do?” she asked.

“For now, let her sleep,” the doctor replied. “When she wakes, she will be weak. Keep her nourished, do not allow her to exhaust herself. In time, she may learn to manage it—some never do.” He gathered his things with finality, rising in a rustle of fabric. “She may always need help. She may never be able to train as hard as others.” The doctor paused at the door. “Be kinder, if you can.” He nodded once to Kanae, and then was gone.

The room was silent but for the sound of rain and Yume’s fragile breathing.

Giyuu bowed his head, hands trembling, the past year pressing down on him like the low, gray sky.

Forgive me. Please, just wake up and say something cruel. Anything.

Shinobu hunched over her notebook, ink-stained fingers moving with restless energy. Her lips worked quietly, mouthing symptoms, the nib of her pen scratching a relentless tally of possibilities.

Kanae hovered beside Yume, her touch deft and careful.

No one spoke. Not for a long time. Not until Kanae straightened, brushing her hands off on her hakama, and studied Giyuu with that gentle, unwavering focus he’d always resented in her. She stepped to the foot of the bed. “I think it would be best if Yume stayed here with us,” Kanae said. “The Butterfly Mansion is equipped for those who need special care. She can train with the others, at her own pace. We can accommodate her condition—make sure she’s not pushed past her limits.”

The words struck Giyuu like a slap—unexpected, sharp, stinging. He stared at her, blinking, as if she’d suddenly spoken a language he couldn’t parse.

“No,” he said, his voice rising. “That’s not your decision. She’s my responsibility.” He crossed the tatami in two strides, jaw set, arms folded tight over his chest. “You don’t know her. You haven’t seen what she’s like, not really. She’s mine.”

Kanae met his gaze, unflinching. “She needs more than training—she needs to be understood.”

He bristled, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing. “I do understand. She’s not as fragile as you think. If you coddle her, she’ll never get stronger. She’ll never be able to fight.”

Shinobu looked up from her book, eyebrow arching, voice precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Do you even know her?” she asked, the words cutting through the room with the casual cruelty only a child could wield. “Or do you just know the parts of her that make your life harder?”

Giyuu recoiled, fists balling at his sides. “You don’t—”

“No,” Shinobu interrupted, her tone cold, unblinking. “You don’t. You don’t know why she’s tired, or what it feels like to be trapped in a body that doesn’t listen. You only see what she can’t do, not what she tries to do.”

A flush crept up Giyuu’s neck. He searched Kanae’s face for support, but found only conviction.

“Kanae-san,” he said, voice trembling between anger and something brittle, “you can’t just take her. She’s not yours. She—she’s under my protection. The Master said—”

Kanae shook her head, stepping closer, her expression gentle but resolute. “The Master entrusted her to you, Giyuu-san, but that doesn’t mean you own her pain. It doesn’t mean you decide her limits for her. If you want to protect her, let her rest. Let her heal. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let someone else help.”

For a heartbeat, Giyuu’s world tilted—rage and confusion blurring together, raw as an open wound.

They don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like, being responsible. Carrying someone else’s survival on your shoulders. If I let go, if I let them have her, am I abandoning her? Or is this what kindness looks like—letting someone else take her pain?

He wanted to argue, to scream, to stake his claim on her as if that would keep her safe. But the words stuck, too heavy to force out.

If I let her stay here, is it mercy or surrender? Am I giving up, or giving her a chance?

Giyuu stared at the floor, pulse drumming in his throat, and finally spoke. His voice was thin, scraped raw by too many sleepless nights.

“When she wakes up,” he said, not looking at either girl, “she can choose for herself. She doesn’t belong to any of us.”

He turned away from the weight of their judgment, walked to the edge of Yume’s bed, and sank down onto the floor beside her. Knees drawn up, arms folded, chin tucked to his chest—a sentinel, or perhaps a supplicant, guarding a silence he couldn’t break.

Chapter Text

They didn’t linger for the cleanup. Yume had already fled the threshold. He caught a last glimpse of her silhouette—shoulders rigid, jaw set, eyes fixed not on the dead, but the world beyond the garden. She refused the Kakushi’s murmured offers of water or comfort, waving them away with a flick of her wrist. When he tried to catch her gaze, she turned from him, chin lifted.

The bodies vanished beneath clean linen; soon the blood would be scoured from the floors, but nothing could cleanse the memory from his hands. Giyuu left the house last, the weight of every year he had survived heavy on his shoulders—a tally exacted by each loss.

She won’t look at me. Perhaps not for a long while.

They wound back through crooked alleys. Yume walked a pace ahead, refusing his company, unmoved by Tanjiro’s worried glances. When the ruined courtyard emerged, shadowed by the battered skeleton of the safe house, Giyuu felt her hesitation.

At the mouth of the hatch, Tanjiro ducked below without a word—already half-swallowed by darkness. Yume halted just beyond the threshold, arms folded tight across her chest. Giyuu reached for her, but she jerked away, a flash of contempt in her eyes. She circled the courtyard, head bowed.

He paused, hand suspended midair—foolish, uncertain. He almost spoke, but the words congealed in his throat. Instead, he followed Tanjiro down.

Tanjiro waited just inside the first room, his face pinched. Nezuko let him guide her into the wooden box. Her eyes met Giyuu’s only once—a look both feral and pleading, animal sorrow folded inside a child’s face. Tanjiro’s hands trembled as he slid the lid shut, fingers hovering at the iron clasps. Giyuu watched him—this boy who had learned too early the cost of mercy.

Tamayo stood by the futon. She inclined her head when Giyuu entered, her gaze weighing him from beneath the mask of her painted mouth. Yushiro lingered at her shoulder, eyes hot with suspicion, every muscle taut.

Giyuu’s voice sounded harsher than he intended. “Why are you here?”

“I know what you fear. But I am not your enemy. Neither is Nezuko. We fight from within the belly of the beast.” Her gaze slid to Tanjiro, then back, probing. “You have seen it: Nezuko’s blood. She is different. She resists Muzan’s curse, does not yield to hunger. I believe—no, I am certain—the answer lies within her veins.”

Giyuu studied her. There was a gravity to Tamayo that defied centuries—something starved, almost holy, in her refusal to surrender to the monstrous. “You are trying to cure it,” he said, less a question than a realization.

“Yes.” Her answer rang with the clarity of a death knell. “If I can distill the truth of Nezuko’s blood, I may find a path back. Not for myself—my sins are too old, too many—but for others. For the boy, for those you have lost.” Her voice faltered—a fissure in her composure. “For every family butchered by his hand.”

“If Nezuko’s blood can save others—whatever you need, we’ll do it.” Tanjiro’s hands clutched the box. “We want to help. We have to.”

Tamayo’s lips parted—almost a smile. “Then let her rest. I will need time, and samples, and the permission of the Corps. I do not want to be hunted while I work.”

Giyuu inclined his head, formality masking the fatigue gnawing at his bones. “You will have my protection. And the Master’s word.”

Tamayo met his gaze, ancient weariness and wild hope mingling in the lines around her mouth. “Then pray you are as persuasive as your sword, Water Hashira.”

Giyuu kept his gaze ahead, jaw set. Tanjiro’s pace—always half a step too eager—kept him at the front, Nezuko’s box thudding against his spine. Each time Nezuko shifted, the faint scrape of claw or hiss of breath made Yume’s hand drift to her kama, her shoulders going rigid.

They threaded through the foreign quarter—streets twisting with oil-stained cobbles, the sting of burning coal, horse sweat, and the unfamiliar tang of perfume that could never be found on any mountain wind. Western architecture reared up, blocky and ostentatious, windows glaring like eyes. Tanjiro gawked, wonder splashed across his face, neck craned to catch sight of stone angels perched atop the eaves. Giyuu found no comfort in these imported facades, all sharp edges and false grandeur, the rooms promising only strangeness.

He directed them to a hotel—a three-story monolith in blue brick, its entrance flanked by potted evergreens, lanterns replaced by gas sconces, the front desk manned by a clerk who tried, and failed, to hide his distaste. Giyuu kept his request terse. “Two rooms. Adjoining, if possible.”

Yume cut in. “Three,” she said, voice light, the edge visible only to those who knew her well.

Tanjiro blinked, looking between them with concern. The clerk, sensing discord, bowed too deeply and dispatched a boy to lead them upstairs—Tanjiro and Nezuko’s box vanishing into the second room, Yume slipping into the third, door shutting before Giyuu could draw breath.

He lingered in the hallway. The door to his own room—lacquered wood, garishly painted, brass handle—yielded with a screech. He stepped inside.

Western comforts crowded the space: a tall brass lamp buzzing with false daylight, the bed too high, the coverlet smelling of rosewater. Heavy damask curtains blotted out the city’s morning. He stood in the center of the room, hands curled into fists, unable to shake the sense of intrusion. Everything here felt borrowed, nothing sacred—no corner where he could fold himself small and unseen. Even the floor was carpeted, a smothering softness beneath his soles, as if the earth itself had been denied to him.

He thought of the Pavilion’s tatami, the wind in the garden at dawn. I don’t belong here. None of us do.

Worse still was knowing Yume lay not twenty paces away, the divide between their rooms a wound he didn’t know how to close. Anger—at himself, at the world, at necessity’s cruelty—gnawed at him. The memory of her face—eyes sharp with accusation, mouth set in a line that refused forgiveness—haunted every breath.

He crossed the hall. Yume’s door was unlocked, as if daring him to enter. He didn’t hesitate. No knock.

Inside, the air was thick with her presence—sleep-mussed, restless, her discarded uniform puddled on the carpet, kama tossed aside. She was already in bed, the coverlet pulled up to her chin, face half-turned to the window where sunlight cut gold bars across her cheek. He caught the gleam of dried salt at her lashes, but her gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, refusing him.

Giyuu bent to gather her uniform, smoothing the worst wrinkles before folding it. He set the bundle atop the dresser, placed her kama beside it, his own uniform dropped in a careful heap beneath the window.

He moved to her side, the mattress sighing beneath his weight. The moment his hand reached for her shoulder, she flinched—sharp, involuntary, as if struck. Giyuu’s hand froze, the gesture unraveling into silence. Her throat fluttered with a swallow, her body curled tight beneath the sheets, each muscle locked in self-defense.

He withdrew, fingers curling into his palm. “Yume.” His voice was soft, stripped bare, each word shaped by exhaustion. “I won’t leave.”

He shifted, sitting at the edge of the bed, back bowed. “I was wrong. About Nezuko. About keeping secrets.” His eyes traced the crumpled shape of her, wishing guilt could become comfort, regret warmth.

Still nothing. Yume’s hand crept to her throat, nails digging crescent moons into her skin.

He let the silence stretch, let it gnaw at his nerves. “If you’re afraid, tell me.” His words were raw, a confession couched as an apology. “If you’re angry, tell me.”

Yume’s voice came flint-edged. “If those demons kill anyone—anyone at all—their blood is on your hands. Do you understand that, Giyuu?” She didn’t look at him, her gaze anchored to the wall, as if the plaster might answer where he couldn’t. “It’ll be your fault. Not the Corps. Not the Master. You.”

She said it quietly, and that restraint hurt more than any accusation hurled. A hotel room in a city meant nothing. This was a court, a verdict, an execution neither of them could walk away from unscathed.

He didn’t recoil. The world could hate him if it wished. It had before. But her? Her judgment carved deeper than any wound left by demon or blade.

He set his jaw, voice rough. “Nezuko hasn’t tasted human blood. Not once. Not in the entire two and a half years since Muzan turned her.” He let the truth hang—no plea for sympathy, only the certainty of fact. “My master—Urokodaki—used suggestion on her. He told her to see every human as family. She obeys. She won’t harm anyone. She’s fought beside Tanjiro. She’s saved people.”

He could almost taste her skepticism, the way she curled away from him, as if proximity alone could contaminate her. His hand twitched, but he didn’t reach for her again. “I’m not asking you to trust Nezuko,” he said. “You only have to trust me.”

Yume’s fingers twisted in the bedsheet, knuckles whitening. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I trust you to do what’s right. But this? You want me to believe a demon can love, can obey, can—” She broke off, shaking her head, lips pressed so tight they nearly vanished. “That’s asking for more than faith, Giyuu. That’s asking for delusion.”

He took the rebuke like a man accustomed to rain and thunder—let it wash over him, but didn’t flinch. “If she ever broke, ever showed a hint of hunger—” He hesitated, mouth set. “I’d kill her.”

And then myself.

She snorted, low and bitter. “You could do it?”

His answer was iron. “I would. I hope I never have to. But I would.”

The city outside was waking—hollers and bicycle wheels, the rattle of shutters, a world alive despite the rot beneath its skin. He watched her breathing, each inhale shallow.

She stared at the ceiling, jaw tight as if refusing to let any grief escape. Her eyes shone with fury and something less certain—fear, perhaps, or the wish for another ending. He didn’t touch her, only waited, breathing in the bitterness she wouldn’t voice.

He spoke, voice ragged, the words scraping out between the rocks and ruins of his restraint. “I can’t make you believe. I wouldn’t ask you to. But I need you to stay at my side. I can’t do this—any of this—without you.”

Yume turned at last, the briefest tilt of her head, lashes clumped and wet. Her mouth twisted, uncertain. “That’s not fair, you know.”

He nodded, the ghost of a smile flickering—dry, without comfort. “Nothing about this is fair.”

She let out a sound, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “You idiot. If you’re wrong, I’ll never forgive you.”

Giyuu pressed his face to the sweep of her hair, breath trembling where it spilled against her temple. The sharpness of her bones beneath his hands, the trace of her pulse fluttering along her throat, felt fragile and immense all at once.

He pressed his lips to her brow, then her cheek, then the ridge of her jaw—each kiss less a plea than a silent tally of what he’d nearly lost. His mouth mapped the geography of her face, reverent and hungry, as if by repetition he could memorize the shape of her and make it permanent.

For a moment, she allowed it. Allowed him. Her hand slid up, threading into his hair, the other splaying over his heart as if to test whether it still beat for her.

He drew back only a fraction, his eyes searching hers—deadly serious. His voice, when it came, was so flat it might have been mistaken for boredom. “We should finish what we started,” he intoned.

The silence that followed lasted just long enough for Yume to process, and then a snort burst out of her, equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement. She let her head fall back on the pillow, laughter breaking loose. “That was the least seductive thing I’ve ever heard, Tomioka,” she managed, voice catching around the edges.

Their mouths met. Her lips tasted of sleep. He kissed her slowly, deeply, until her breath hitched and her spine arched beneath his hands. His grip was almost punishing, he needed her even in this too-soft bed in this too-bright city.

But when he moved to tug her closer, Yume broke the spell with a palm pressed firm to his chest, pushing him away by a sliver. “Not here,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Not in this foreign hell. I want—when we get home.”

Giyuu stopped, letting her set the boundary. He dropped his forehead to hers, eyes shuttered. “Home, then,” he agreed.

For a long moment, they simply breathed together.

Giyuu woke to the muffled thunder of knuckles on wood, pulling him from the deep, uneasy sleep of the hunted. He sat upright in an instant, years of training burning off the haze. For a breath, he forgot where he was. His hand went first to the nichirin blade at the bedside, only then glancing at the tangled warmth beside him.

Yume murmured, half-resentful, half-pleading, as his arm slipped from around her waist. A sound escaped her—a small protest. The sight ached. He wanted to stay. You always want to stay. Until duty calls you out again. Shaking off the longing, he crossed to the door.

Opening it just enough to block the view behind him, Giyuu found Tanjiro in the hall—hair wild from sleep, Nezuko’s box lashed to his back. Morning spilled through the corridor—gray, grimy light speckling the floor, turning Tanjiro’s silhouette pale and uncertain. He looked impossibly young, an earnestness so sharp it almost hurt to see.

“Sorry, Giyuu-san,” Tanjiro whispered, bowing out of habit more than necessity. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but I got word. Someone’s gone missing by the river. The Master sent orders for me.” He hesitated, eyes flickering past Giyuu, a question unspoken. “Thank you…for coming. And for—” He rubbed at his nose, sheepish. “For making sure your wife didn’t kill Nezuko.”

Wife? The word hovered, absurd and perilous, but Giyuu only inclined his head. “Be careful. If you find Muzan’s scent, send the crow.” He didn’t promise more.

Tanjiro’s eyes shone. “I will. I hope we see you both again soon.”

Closing the door quietly, Giyuu crossed to the bed and slid back beneath the coverlet. The mattress dipped; Yume rolled toward him on instinct, eyes slitted open, a line of drool shining at the corner of her mouth. Her hair splayed in wild rivers across the pillow, her expression a puzzle—resentful, sleepy, beautiful.

She didn’t open her eyes all the way. “What?” Her voice was sandpaper and sake, thick with sleep.

“Tanjiro. New orders.” Giyuu’s answer was little more than breath. “He’s leaving with Nezuko.”

Yume snorted, turning her face into his collarbone. She curled against him, her foot seeking his calf beneath the sheets, cold toes pressing into his skin with a kind of proprietary mischief.

He grunted, shifting to make room, pulling her closer against his chest. She nestled there. Silence unfurled between them, an easier quiet made of familiarity and exhaustion.

After a while, Yume’s voice floated up, thin and sly: “Your wife, hm?”

He looked down at her. “It’s not the worst thing you’ve been called,” he said, dryly. He pressed a kiss to her hair, letting his lips linger, breathing her in. “Sleep.”

Yume made a dissatisfied noise, but her body yielded. He stroked her spine, the repetition lulling them both.

The house had been scoured by the Kakushi until it gleamed. Where blood had streaked across the tatami, now only a faint, sour tang lingered—a ghostly trace beneath the odor of fresh rice-starch and lye. Tatami fibers lay flat as rice fields after rain, their weave unmarred by the savagery that had painted this place crimson only a day ago. Even the genkan, where shoes once sprawled in a child’s panic, was meticulously arranged, as if waiting for a polite guest.

Giyuu stood just inside the threshold, Yume’s hand in his. Her fingers were warm, but her grip had grown loose in his palm, her body swaying, caught between waking and dream. He watched her—lips parted, hair sliding over her cheekbones, gaze vacant. She let go, drifting across the floor.

A faint tension threaded through Giyuu. Scanning the room, he found nothing wrong. No demonic ki, no malign pulse beneath the walls, only memory’s aftertaste lingering in the air. The Kakushi had promised they touched nothing outside their work—no curious hands, no careless eyes. Still, suspicion edged his senses. Muzan was gone, scrubbed away, but Giyuu knew better than to trust a spotless floor or a polite promise.

He let Yume drift, watching her trail her fingertips along the wood of the hall, pausing at the threshold to the parlor where the woman’s blood had once pooled. Her shoulders rounded, her head cocked as if listening for something only she could hear. He marked every movement, reading for danger—an old habit. When she didn’t falter, he turned to his own task.

From room to room, Giyuu moved. He opened sliding screens, inspected corners with the patience of a hunter in winter, peeling back tatami mats to check for hidden hatches. In the kitchen, he examined the firebox—still warm from recent use, its embers crusted with ash and a faint hint of roasted barley. Grain jars held nothing but order; every lid sealed, every sack knotted.

He lingered in the parlor by the shoji. Sunlight filtered through the paper, scattering city sounds—street vendors’ shouts, the clack of geta on stone. His fingers moved over wood, the spines of imported books. A single comb—black lacquer, tooth snapped—lay forgotten in the groove where floor met wall. Nothing useful. Nothing that spoke of Muzan.

Each room held only absence, a shrine to what was erased. The child’s doll still sat on the windowsill, face turned toward the street, glass eyes empty. In the master’s quarters, he found a shallow divot in the futon, the depression faintly warm to the touch—though it could have been his own invention, a ghost of unease.

He bent, running his hand over the seams of the floorboards beneath the futon, feeling for a catch or secret spring. Nothing gave. No hidden letters, no blood, no talisman to ward off evil.

Muzan’s escapes were always immaculate, always two steps ahead. He’s not a man who leaves souvenirs. He’s a disease—spreading, adapting, vanishing before the fever breaks. Giyuu’s jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath his skin.

Circling back to the main corridor, he glanced through open doors. Yume stood in the kitchen, bathed in a slab of late morning sunlight. She was running water over her hands, letting it drip from her fingers, her eyes half-lidded and distant. He watched for a moment, longing and vigilance twisting together.

He moved to her side, the wood groaning beneath his weight. Opening a cupboard, he ran his palm along the inner edge. A splinter caught at his skin—a tiny, jagged protest, the only violence left here. He stared at the bead of red welling on his thumb, wondering what it would take to stain this house again.

Yume had slumped at the table, hair spilling around her shoulders, her posture strung between two worlds.

In the end, Muzan left nothing. Not a clue, not a mark. Only the hollowed rooms of other people’s tragedy.

“We’re missing something,” he muttered. “We have to be.” Giyuu crossed to Yume, cupping her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, then lower, grazing the fullness of her lip. Her head tipped, leaning into his touch. She made a low, plaintive sound. In that moment, Giyuu felt a pang of envy for her—how she could vanish into oblivion, wrapped in sleep and free from the weight of decisions that would haunt him.

He lingered there, studying her features softened by sleep. For a moment, he wished he could join her, let the world go silent, lose himself in dreams. But that was never his privilege. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “Let’s go home,” he murmured, though she couldn’t hear.

His other hand slipped to hers, fingers threading through. Her hand was limp at first, but as he squeezed, her muscles remembered, folding around his. He coaxed her upright.

Everyone who could have pointed them toward Muzan was dead, every answer erased. The Master’s orders echoed in Giyuu’s mind, each word heavy as a knell: Remain until all leads are exhausted.

He had just begun to guide her toward the door, when everything turned. The world stuttered—one second, the house was only too quiet, the next, the floor itself buckled under them. Yume’s arm shot out, shoving Giyuu sideways with the last, uncanny reflex of her warrior’s body. Her push sent him reeling into the hallway wall. He barely had time to recover before a sound split the silence—a rending, splintering shriek as if the earth itself was gnashing its teeth.

Two hands—thick as roof beams—erupted through the floorboards where he’d been standing. Jagged, hooked talons seized Yume by the legs. Her back arched, and a guttural grunt tore from her chest. Blood misted the air, catching the sunlight in crimson flecks, before gravity dragged her under. Her body thrashed once, her hand groping blindly for his. Giyuu lunged, fingers scraping against her wrist—he caught her, felt the slick warmth of her blood, then her skin slipped from his grasp. She vanished, snatched beneath the floor with a violence so sudden it left his ears ringing.

The air in the hallway shuddered with the echo of her name. “Yume!” His voice cracked, torn from a throat raw with panic—a sound he hadn’t made since childhood, since loss had first dug its claws into his life.

For a single, paralyzing heartbeat, Giyuu hovered over the torn floorboards, unable to breathe. He stared into the gouged blackness, his mind a cyclone of calculation and horror. He couldn’t follow blindly—not with the stench of demon blood already fouling the air, not knowing what nest of vipers or traps lurked in the darkness below. Every instinct screamed to dive after her, to abandon all reason and tear the world open until he got her back.

Instead, he forced himself upright, every muscle straining with the urge to disobey reason. He cast about, eyes scouring the hall for any sign of a hatch, a seam, anything—anything—he might have missed in his earlier search. If there was a way down, he’d find it, or die ripping the house apart trying.

Giyuu drew his blade, the steel cold in his hand, and drove it through the tatami nearest the spot Yume disappeared. The floor groaned, then buckled, splinters flying as he slashed and pried at the boards. Nothing. The earth below was packed hard, stained with a slick, dark residue that smelled of rot and fear.

He spun, tearing through the parlor, the kitchen, the empty bedrooms—his movements raw, animal. Cabinets crashed to the floor, screens shattered under his hands, rice paper floating down like ruined snow. He battered at walls, listening for hollow echoes, the telltale sigh of empty space. The clean, neutral emptiness the Kakushi had left behind was obliterated in minutes—he left the place looking as if it had weathered a siege.

All the while, his mind reeled with Yume’s absence—her blood on his fingers, the image of her being dragged below, the silence that followed. She was gone, stolen into darkness, and every second that ticked past was a fresh wound. He swore under his breath, fury and terror burning at the back of his throat. Coward, he chastised himself, but even that self-directed venom was cold comfort. He couldn’t help her if he died before finding a way down.

He scoured every inch—shoving aside tatami, upending storage chests, testing floorboards with the butt of his sword. Sweat dripped down his face, salt stinging his eyes, but he didn’t stop. Behind the parlor’s cabinet—a place he’d dismissed as too shallow, too obvious—he caught the faint outline of a seam, a place where dust had settled differently than the rest of the room. Hope clawed at his chest. He pried the panel free, revealing a rough-hewn hatch, its edges blackened with old scorch marks.

Giyuu fell to his knees, shoving the hatch aside with a grunt. Cold air rushed up to meet him, heavy with the stench of blood and bile. He braced himself, teeth bared, heart hammering a brutal rhythm against his ribs. The blade felt like an extension of his arm, his last tether to everything that mattered. He took a breath, tasting the copper tang of his own fear, and plunged into the darkness after her.

Somewhere down there, Yume was bleeding. Maybe alive. Maybe not. But she was his, and he wouldn’t let the world take her without a fight.

Chapter Text

Yume came awake in a riot of pain—a full-body scream torn from her throat before thought could separate itself from sensation. The darkness pressed in, thick and fetid, stinking of blood, bile, and something older—a reek woven deep into the house’s very bones. Dazed, she wavered on her feet, her mind clawing at consciousness, memory swirling with nightmare. Light from the ragged hole above bled into the basement, catching dust motes in its thin grip.

Her body burned. Every limb felt misaligned, nerves shrieking beneath her skin. She staggered, vision doubling—then quadrupling—before snapping back to a single, nauseating image: she was standing, barely. Something heavy and alien pinned her in place. She looked down. A jagged plank of wood, punched clean through her stomach, nailed her to the earth. Her uniform was shredded, ribbons of black fabric glued to her skin by blood. Her legs—gods, her legs—were a butcher’s map, skin and muscle flayed, crosshatched with demon claw marks.

The only reason she still drew breath was sheer, animal momentum. Dream breathing was impossible. She could barely remember how to inhale, let alone shape her breath into a weapon.

Above her, the monster loomed. In the murky half-light, it looked less like a demon than a fever dream—a tangle of talons, all hooked and glistening, every limb a weapon. Its body was a patchwork of armored chitin and warped muscle, stitched with old scars. It didn’t have a face so much as a collection of teeth and slits, each opening dripping with saliva, all of it spiraling toward her. Whatever it had once been—a man, a child, a mother—had been devoured by Muzan’s blood and centuries of blood. It filled the basement, so massive its limbs had to fold and double beneath the beams.

A claw whistled down, aiming for her skull. She jerked sideways, adrenaline splintering through her. The wound in her stomach tore wider, fresh blood pulsing out, hot and slick down her thighs. She landed in a crouch, broken glass and splinters biting into her palms. Her blades—where? Gone. Her hand closed on nothing.

A second talon punched through the dirt at her feet. She lurched back, one leg folding. The pain was white-hot, blinding. Each movement sent fresh agony crawling up her spine, but she refused to give in. The demon’s bulk slammed into the wall, masonry cracking, loose earth raining down from above.

Somewhere, she heard Giyuu—his voice, ragged, calling her name. It sounded distant, warped by panic. She almost answered, but her throat refused. Blood bubbled between her teeth; all that escaped was a wet gasp.

The demon lashed again, a hook of bone missing her by inches. She twisted, half-falling, using the momentum to wrench the wood from her stomach. The pain was a nova—her knees buckled, vision tunneling, blackness closing in. She dug her fingers into the muck, willing herself to stay present. Not like this. She wouldn’t die crumpled in the dirt, just another corpse in Muzan’s wake.

She pressed a trembling palm to her wound, fighting the flood. Blood slicked her fingers, hot and sticky. The demon hissed—a sound like boiling water poured over rust, claws scrabbling for purchase. Its hunger pressed against her, searching for the softest, weakest place.

The world shrank to the space between one breath and the next. Yume felt her mind tilting, the edges of reality smudging as shock tugged her under. Stay awake. Move. Anything. She forced her eyes open, searching the ruin for something—anything—she could use. The demon’s attention faltered, its head cocking as if it could hear something beyond her. Giyuu. It heard him. Feared him. Or simply hated to share.

A slash of movement—Yume rolled, dragging her body across the dirt as another claw gouged the ground where she’d been. She grit her teeth, a guttural sound tearing out. Pain, terror, exhaustion—all sharpened into a single, feral intent: survive.

The sound was thunder—a shattering crash that punched through Yume’s fading consciousness. The basement door imploded, wood exploding in a cloud of dust and fragments. Giyuu stood in the breach. He took in the scene with a single, razor glance—her broken body, the demon’s bulk, viscous trails of blood soaking into the dirt. He staggered, the world pausing for a heartbeat. Then something ancient snapped behind his gaze, and when he moved, it was with a purpose forged in agony.

The demon, all instinct and hunger, ignored him. Its gaze fixed on Yume—half-dead, bait bleeding at its feet. The air thrummed with its hunger, claws stretching, shadow blurring as it lunged again. Yume barely shifted, her body dragging a ribbon of blood. The pain was cataclysmic—her vision narrowed, the world dissolving into red and black.

She tried to breathe, to summon her technique, but her lungs caught on wetness, each inhale slick with iron.

Giyuu was already moving, blade flashing in a rush of Water Breathing. The demon’s claws sliced through nothing; Giyuu’s katana sang through bone and sinew, arcs of black blood painting the ruin. The demon shrieked—a sound that vibrated through Yume’s molars—then spun, swinging for the Hashira’s throat. He parried, every movement a current. Blue light traced the walls, water ghosting in his wake.

Yume watched, feverish and distant, as the duel erupted—too quick for mortal eyes, too brutal for hope. The demon fought with wild, erratic strength, talons and teeth flying. Giyuu moved with relentless precision, blade meeting every strike. For all its rage, the demon was already finished; its blood pooled black and steaming.

She tried to focus, to hold on. The world kept tilting, graying at the edges. Her hand pressed her stomach, uselessly. Her body felt light, untethered. Her heartbeat—slow, then frantic, then far away.

The demon faltered. Giyuu was on it in an instant, katana gleaming, water surging. He drove his sword through its throat—Nichirin edge biting deep, severing bone and sinew. The demon’s eyes widened, black ichor fountaining from its neck. It staggered, claws grasping, a gurgling rattle echoing from its ruined mouth.

Giyuu twisted the blade, severed the head with a practiced finality. The body toppled, spasming, limbs flailing in a grotesque parody of life. The head rolled, mouth working as if to scream, then dissolved—flesh collapsing into ash, the stink of old blood thickening the air.

The demon hadn’t finished dissolving when Giyuu dropped to his knees beside Yume. His hands shook as he pressed them to her wound, voice shredded with fear. “Yume. Yume—look at me. Stay with me.”

His voice broke on her name, the edge he reserved for battle lost. He pressed down, trying to stem the bleeding. His face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes wild—nothing left of the Water Hashira, only a man terrified of losing what he couldn’t replace.

Yume’s vision blurred. She managed to turn, searching for him, the blur resolving into those sharp, beloved lines. His hands moved over her—her stomach, her throat, her cheek—desperate to keep her here.

“Giyuu…” Her voice was a ruin, breath rattling in her chest. Blood trickled from her mouth.

His hands tightened. “Don’t talk. Breathe. Stop the bleeding like I taught you.”

She tried. The pain was a furnace, but she clung to his voice, the weight of his hands. The demon was gone. Giyuu was here. She could taste the salt of his tears, feel the tremor in his grip.

“I have you. Yume. Please.”

Her eyes fluttered, her body slackening as exhaustion pulled at her. He was still talking—words tumbling out, fierce and pleading. The world spun, cold seeping in. The last thing she saw before darkness took her again was Giyuu’s face, bent over hers—mouth moving, voice breaking, refusing to let her go.

Chapter Text

Giyuu’s world constricted to the span of Yume’s body—slick with blood, trembling, her skin colder than the dirt beneath their knees. He screamed for Kanzaburou, the word shattering in his throat—desperate, hoarse. The crow dove through the jagged hole above, wings stirring a storm through the fetid air, circling with frantic caws.

“Kanzaburou—go! Find help! Now!”

The crow arrowed skyward in a blur of shadow, his call echoing up the tunnel.

Yume’s eyes rolled white, lips parted in a gasp, blood bubbling at the edges of her mouth. No time for panic—only movement. He stripped off her uniform shirt with shaking hands, the fabric stiff with gore. He wadded it into a rough pad and pressed it to the wound in her abdomen, shoving aside the splinter of wood as gently as he could manage. Her body jerked, an involuntary shudder that nearly undid him.

He tore the remainder into strips, wrapping them around her waist, knotting them tight enough to keep her insides from spilling out. His own shirt followed, ripped to tatters and twisted around her legs, binding the furrows where the demon’s claws had flayed her. Each knot dug into his palms; each tremor of her body translated through his fingers. Every heartbeat measured itself against the oncoming dark.

The basement was a pit—dirt walls sweating with damp, the packed earth reeking of old blood and rot. No windows. The air pressed in, thick with copper and dust. There was nothing here to save her. Only his hands, and the relentless tick of her pulse growing fainter.

Giyuu gathered her into his lap, cradling her like something half-claimed by loss. He pressed his forehead to hers, silent now, breathing her in. He had seen men die—slayers and innocents. He had never begged for any of them. He found himself begging now: Don’t go.

Time passed, viscous and uncertain. He rocked her, whispered nothing, tried to hold her blood inside with nothing but will. Then, above—a new sound: the scuff of silk, the scrape of sandals, a hissed order.

A shape dropped through the opening—Tamayo, landing with uncanny lightness. Her sleeves trailed, eyes hard as obsidian. Behind her, Yushiro’s voice: “Here!” The medical kit landed with a thump, nearly bursting open, vials clinking within.

Tamayo moved immediately, hair swinging over her shoulder as she knelt at Yume’s side. “Tomioka-san, don’t let go of her. Keep pressure here.” Her hands were quick, sure, almost dispassionate as she opened the kit—alcohol, thread, curved needles gleaming in the gloom.

Giyuu nodded, voice cracking. “Tell me what to do.”

“Hold her head up—there, like that. Do not let her swallow any more blood. Yushiro—lights!” A flare of eerie blue danced down from above, lighting the dirt walls with a ghostly glow. Tamayo probed the wound in Yume’s stomach with slender fingers, then glanced up. “She’s lost too much. We must stop the bleeding or she won’t make it to morning.”

Giyuu’s hands shook as he braced her upright, cradling her skull in his palm. Tamayo’s voice cut through his panic, clinical and cold: “You will need to hold her still. She may seize. When I tell you, press here—hard. Don’t hesitate. If you let go, she dies.”

Yume’s body shuddered as Tamayo pulled the wood from her gut, blood pouring hot and black over Giyuu’s hands. He didn’t flinch, only pressed where Tamayo’s hands guided, feeling her pulse flutter and fade. She worked quickly—thread through skin, pressure, bandages stained brown before she could finish wrapping them. The room stank of burnt flesh as Tamayo cauterized the worst wounds with a heated iron. Yushiro above gagged at the scent.

Giyuu held Yume through it all. Her weight was barely more than a ghost in his arms. He spoke, rough nonsense: her name, fragments of promises, apologies. He listened for any change in her breathing, clinging to the ragged edge of hope.

Tamayo’s face was grave. “Give her to me, Tomioka. Quickly.”

Giyuu’s arms tightened around Yume, desperate. The urge to refuse Tamayo, to carry Yume himself, to shield her from further hands—even gentle ones—burned through him. But Tamayo’s gaze left no room for argument.

For an instant, his body rebelled. Every instinct snarled against the notion of surrender. Yet he saw the certainty in Tamayo’s posture, the way she gathered her sleeves, bracing for the leap. If he hesitated now, Yume might bleed out between heartbeats. He nodded, voice stuck in his throat. Gently, he transferred Yume to Tamayo’s arms.

Tamayo gathered Yume close, balancing her like a sleeping child, then coiled her legs beneath her. With a fluid surge, she sprang, robes snapping in the updraft, vanishing through the torn mouth of the ceiling. Giyuu stood blinking, the afterimage of white silk lingering in his vision.

Above, Yushiro’s voice cut down, clipped and imperious: “Hurry up, Tomioka! Bring the med kit. Don’t get lost.”

A bolt of fury flashed through him—not now, he wanted to shout, but there was no time. Giyuu snatched up the blood-speckled kit, fingers slick with Yume’s life, and slung it over his shoulder. He cast one last, hard glance at the pit. The darkness below seemed to breathe, hungry for what he’d almost lost. He tore his eyes away.

He scrambled back up the dirt tunnel, slipping on loose earth and congealed blood. Roots snagged at his uniform, slick mud dragging at his knees. Every muscle burned, but he forced his way upward, lungs aching, ears ringing with Tamayo’s warning. The house above was an empty husk—floorboards raw and clean, silence where violence had lived.

They reached the ruined safehouse. Yushiro hurried ahead, flicking open lanterns. Tamayo spread Yume out on a low table, already unspooling bandages, snipping blood-soaked fabric from her wounds. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with glass jars and steel implements: a doctor’s arsenal.

Giyuu hovered, trying to find a place for his hands, his presence. Battle had clarity—this was something else, a helplessness gnawing at the bone.

Tamayo’s eyes flicked up, unreadable. “She needs surgery. I can stop the bleeding, perhaps. But she is not out of danger. You must prepare yourself, Tomioka-san. She may not survive this.”

He flinched at her cold precision. “Do it,” he said, hoarse.

Yushiro reappeared, arms full of towels, vials, rags. He moved with clinical efficiency, clearing the next room and lighting another pair of lamps, preparing a tray with instruments. Tamayo’s hands never faltered—already threading the needle, stripping off her outer kimono to bare her arms, scrubbing her hands in a basin Yushiro thrust beneath her.

“Now. I must move her,” Tamayo said, lifting Yume with care. Giyuu moved to follow, but Yushiro stepped in, face severe, voice knife-sharp.

“Don’t. Lady Tamayo needs the space. You’ll only distract her. Stay here.”

Giyuu’s breath stuttered, rage and dread tangling in his chest. He tried to push past, but Yushiro’s eyes stayed wild, unwavering. “You want her to live, don’t you? Then let Lady Tamayo work. You’re a swordsman, not a doctor.”

The words struck deep. Giyuu’s hands curled into fists, blood flaking at his knuckles. “If she—” He couldn’t finish.

Yushiro didn’t soften. “If you go in there, you’ll get in the way. You smell of blood and panic, and Lady Tamayo can’t afford distraction. Sit down. Do not interfere.”

The door closed, leaving Giyuu stranded. His world shrank to the thin partition between rooms, Tamayo’s voice steady and unhurried, the clink of steel, the distant staccato of Yume’s breaths.

He sat, knees to chest, face in bloodied hands. Yume’s blood—half-dried, sticky between his fingers. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her pulse shuddering beneath his palm. The ache of her weight pressed into his lap.

The clinic felt suffocating. The only light came from beneath the door, thin and flickering. Now and then, Yushiro slipped through, cleaning instruments, swapping towels, never meeting Giyuu’s gaze.

Time lost all shape, measured only by the grind of Giyuu’s teeth and the frantic beat of his heart. He mouthed silent prayers, not sure who he addressed—his master, the gods, Sabito, even Yume herself. He would settle for one more sunrise with her.

The hours dissolved—no sun, no moon, only the ache of waiting. Giyuu wore a path in the tiled floor, every step a prayer, every turn a silent curse. Tamayo’s warning rang in his ears: Prepare yourself for the worst. He had always braced for loss, but this—this wasn’t a death he knew how to shoulder.

The door creaked, hinges protesting. Yushiro stood there, face shuttered and pale, flecks of blood across his collar. He said nothing at first, just stared at Giyuu with the gravity of a priest before a funeral.

Giyuu’s pulse leapt, then plummeted. He surged to his feet, hands clenching so hard his nails carved half-moons into his palms. “No,” he rasped, voice raw with the shape of loss. “No, please—”

Yushiro’s eyes flickered, troubled, faintly pitying. “Lady Tamayo says…it isn’t looking good. She’s lost too much blood. Her body might not hold. There’s—” He hesitated. “There’s another way. But it’s not human. You understand?”

The words cracked something inside Giyuu. His knees buckled, back slamming against the cold wall. Air wouldn’t come. The shame bit hard—not for the world’s cruelty, but for his own failings: If I had been stronger. If I’d stayed longer, listened harder, found the hatch… Accusations poured through him. If I had sensed the demon’s hunger, she wouldn’t be dying now. I could have—should have—

Before he could beg for more, Tamayo’s voice cut through the closed door. “Yushiro—now! I need your hands!”

Yushiro vanished, the slap of his sandals echoing through the stone corridor. This time, Giyuu followed—he couldn’t, wouldn’t stay behind. He forced his way into the low-lit room.

Yume lay exposed beneath the lantern’s pallid glow, her skin leached of color. Tamayo’s hands were buried deep, wrists slick with blood as she worked to staunch the latest arterial surge. Yushiro pressed bandages to her side, movements practiced and brutal.

Yume shuddered, the tremor small but unmistakable. Her eyelids fluttered. For a moment she seemed lost—then she jerked, a thin, animal whimper escaping her throat.

He dropped to his knees beside her, heedless of the blood pooling around them. “Yume,” he choked, fingers threading through her damp hair, cradling her face. Her skin burned. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

She blinked, eyes wild, searching his face for an escape. “Giyuu—? I—I can’t—” Her breath hitched, panic spilling into her voice. “It hurts. I don’t want—don’t let me—” She sobbed, the sound thin, desperate.

He stroked her cheek with shaking hands, lowering his head until their foreheads touched.

Tamayo’s voice cut through. “Hold her. Keep her still.”

He obeyed, one arm curling behind Yume’s shoulders, the other securing her waist as Tamayo plunged a needle deep into flesh. Yume flinched, then let out a sound that split Giyuu’s heart. His tears came—hot, silent, spilling onto her blood-streaked cheek. He pressed his lips to her brow, willing strength into her fragile body.

“It’s all right,” he lied, again and again. “I’ve got you. I swear.”

Yushiro’s hands hovered near a tray of vials, quick as a conjurer. He leaned in, voice clipped and urgent. “I’m putting her under again. She can’t take this pain.” Already he pressed the needle to her skin, and Yume’s frantic gaze met Giyuu’s, searching, pleading.

Giyuu didn’t move. He held her as Tamayo worked, feeling each stuttering breath as if it were his own. Blood slicked his hands, his uniform, every inch of skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t weep aloud, only held her with everything he had.

Every moment blurred, stitched together by the scrape of Tamayo’s needle and Yushiro’s murmured counts as he changed vials. Giyuu held Yume’s face close to his own, feeling the warmth leave her skin, daring the universe to steal even a single breath more from her.

Tamayo made a sound—a low exhale, a wordless note between relief and exhaustion. Her eyes—sharp as a surgeon’s blade, but rimmed in bruised fatigue—lifted to meet Giyuu’s for the first time in hours. “I’m closing the last bleed,” she announced, her voice hoarse but steady. “Yushiro—more blood, slowly. Watch for shock.”

Yushiro opened the next flask, his expression furrowed with something perilously close to hope. “Her pulse is weak, but it’s holding. Lungs clear.”

Giyuu bent lower, brushing hair from Yume’s brow, ignoring the streaks of blood across his knuckles. “Will she live?” he asked, voice nearly unrecognizable, sanded raw by hours of dread. He didn’t look away from Yume.

Tamayo only nodded, needle flashing as she finished another suture. “Yes,” she said, calm and certain. “She will live.”

The word hit Giyuu with such force it left him trembling. He pressed his forehead to Yume’s, salt tears sliding down his nose to streak her temple. In that moment, the room was silent but for the drip of blood, the whisper of thread, and the sound of Giyuu’s breath escaping his chest.

Time drifted. Nobody spoke—Yushiro focused on the transfusion, Tamayo bent to her patient, Giyuu still as stone with his face pressed to Yume’s hair. Only the ritual tasks of survival continued: gauze pressed, arteries tied, thread looped and knotted.

After what felt like an eternity, Tamayo leaned back, posture slackening as the tension left her spine. She wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, leaving a crimson smear. “I’m closing her up,” she announced softly. The last suture slid home, the wound bound and sealed with cotton and herbs.

Yushiro adjusted the last vial, then let out a sigh, his face streaked with sweat and dust. Tamayo dabbed away the blood, arranging blankets around Yume’s body with gentle hands. For the first time since the nightmare began, Giyuu let go—if only for a breath—his hands shaking as he brushed hair from Yume’s slack face.

Tamayo stepped back, her presence settling over the room. “She’s stable now,” she said, voice threaded with relief that nearly cracked.

Giyuu sagged beside Yume, chest rising and falling in great, uneven gasps. There was nothing left to say—no words for this kind of gratitude, no apology for the blood on his hands, only the frail tether of Yume’s pulse beneath his fingers.

Chapter Text

Yume’s lungs ached with stale air, limbs prickling with pins and needles, her mouth dry as sand. The world was muffled, gauzy, as though she lay beneath a thin layer of cotton. For a breath, she lingered there—adrift in the blue haze of half-sleep—before the ache in her ribs flared and pulled her all the way back.

Her eyelids cracked open. Daylight pressed through the shoji screens, painting bars of pale gold across the ceiling above. The air carried the clean, earthen tang of the Water Pavilion: distant incense, moss, faint traces of well water and boiled rice. She lay on her back, shrouded in a blanket, her body registering complaint after complaint—soreness, tightness, an invisible weight pinning her down. For a moment, she catalogued her discomfort with clinical detachment. Everything hurt. Her bones felt splinted by sleep. Even the simple act of turning her head drew a groan from somewhere deep inside.

A chair scraped the floor; a silhouette shifted into view. Murata’s face materialized, worry etching new lines into his features. He looked older—stubble on his chin, shadows beneath his eyes, his hair unkempt as if sleep and grooming had lost out to some private war.

Yume tried to sit up. Pain shot through her abdomen. Murata pressed a palm against her shoulder, guiding her back with uncharacteristic firmness. “Don’t. Idiot. You’ll tear something,” he muttered, voice rough with fatigue but threaded with affection.

She blinked, searching for clarity. Her tongue felt thick. “Murata…? What happened?”

Murata let out a breath, scrubbing his face. “You’ve been out for a long time. Over a month. You…you almost died.” He tried for nonchalance, but the words wobbled, barely held together by bravado.

A month. The number landed with a dull, icy thud. Yume stared at the ceiling, mind struggling to catch up, but memory slipped through her fingers—blood, pain, the stink of earth and iron, a voice screaming her name from above. She winced, trying to piece together the last shreds of that night, but the images wouldn’t resolve.

She turned her head, studying him. “Where’s Giyuu?”

Murata hesitated, his expression sliding sideways into discomfort. “Don’t know, exactly. Off on a mission, I think.” He paused, then added more softly, “He’s been gone a lot since you got back.”

Yume’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense.” The answer didn’t fit. Giyuu—distant, yes, but never careless with her. Not once. If she’d been wounded, he would never leave her side.

Murata shifted again, gaze sliding away. “He’s the one who told me to stay with you. Sat right there, told me not to leave you alone. Then he left.” Murata’s mouth twisted. “Didn’t say much else. Just…disappeared. Hashira business, I guess.”

She scanned the room, searching for evidence that Giyuu had been there—an extra haori folded on the bench, an untouched bowl of rice. But there was nothing, only the neat severity of the Pavilion’s infirmary: spare futons, a low table stacked with medical scrolls, a vase of faded wildflowers in a chipped cup.

“How did this happen?” she asked, not sure if she wanted the answer.

Murata grimaced. “Nobody knows. Giyuu—he wouldn’t say. Just sat with you, or went off to…who knows what.” He shrugged, fidgeting with the edge of her blanket.

“You’re telling me I nearly die, and nobody will explain why?”

Murata’s voice dropped to a murmur. “He told me to watch you. That’s all. I’ll keep doing that, as long as you need.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You’ll see him soon. He always comes back.”

Yume didn’t answer. She stared upward, tracking the old spidering lines in the plaster, letting the silence stretch. Her mind raced, cycling through memory and absence, her fingers knotting in the blanket.

Without preamble, Murata took the chipped bowl from the tray—a watery broth, flecked with scallion, the aroma medicinal and faintly bitter—and nudged a spoon toward her mouth.

“Come on, you’ve barely got blood in you. You need food—actual food, not just stubbornness and air.” He spooned up a meager portion, trying to guide it toward her lips.

Yume jerked her chin away, glare sharpening. “I’m not an old woman, Murata. And I’m not dead yet. Give me that.” She snatched the bowl from his grasp, broth splashing onto her wrist.

He made an affronted noise, as if she’d struck him with a wooden sword. “Would you let someone help you for once? I swear, you’re as difficult as Tomioka.” But the lines of tension on his face softened as she fought through the stiffness and propped herself up against the futon’s frame. Every muscle protested, her breath came short, but she forced herself upright, refusing to show how much it cost her.

Murata hovered, hands twitching as if to steady her, but she fixed him with a look that froze him mid-motion. “Don’t. I’d rather crawl to the well than have you spoon-feed me like a child.”

He threw up his hands. “So stubborn. Most people wake up grateful. You wake up ready to bite the first hand that gets close. I’m starting to think you missed me less than I missed you.”

Yume managed a crooked smile, lips pale and dry. “That’s because you never stop talking. If you spent as much time fighting as you do fussing, you’d be a Hashira by now.”

He snorted, slumping back into the chair. “Please. I value my life. I’ve seen what happens to Hashira—half dead or half mad.” His tone was light, but she caught the relief in his gaze as he watched her sip the broth. It was bland, but it warmed her from the inside out.

She swallowed, rolling her shoulders, grimacing at the tight pull of stitches beneath her yukata. The Pavilion’s infirmary felt both familiar and impossibly distant, as if she’d returned from a season away.

Murata watched her, posture wound tight. “You shouldn’t be sitting up yet. Shinobu’ll have my head if you tear something. And Tomioka—well, he’d just stand there and glare, but that’s somehow worse.”

Yume rolled her eyes, drawing her knees up beneath the blanket, breathing through the flare of pain. “You going to tattle on me to Giyuu, then? ‘She disobeyed orders, Sensei, please punish her.’” The words came out sharper than she intended, but Murata only shook his head, a tired grin touching his mouth.

“Right, because you always listen to him.” He mimed Giyuu’s stoic frown, flattening his voice. “‘Reckless. Impossible. You’re banned from patrol until you can walk straight.’ He said that once, you know.”

She let out a short, rough laugh. It hurt—a little more than she’d admit. “He’d ban me from breathing if he thought it’d keep me alive.” Her smile faded. The taste of broth lingered.

Murata grew quiet, watching her from beneath his fringe. “You’ve got me for now, and you’re going to eat every drop of that broth, or I’ll tell Shinobu you tried to walk to the bathhouse alone.”

She arched a brow, defiance flickering, but didn’t protest. Instead, she sipped, letting the warmth settle in her belly. The hunger was distant, thin, but she ate—if only to silence Murata’s scolding.

He watched her, chin in hand, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll have you know, I’m a better nurse than Tomioka. He just sits there, staring at you. At least I bring conversation.”

Yume leaned back, closing her eyes. “Just don’t sing,” she murmured, her voice thin.

Murata grinned. “No promises.”

Yume ate. She let Murata fill the silence with gentle, idiotic noise that had carried them both through worse. But inside, every swallow tasted of absence—of the person who wasn’t there, and the thousand things left unsaid.

Yume’s first attempt to walk ended in humiliation—a betrayal of muscle and bone that sent her sprawling back into the futon, face burning, Murata’s hands already reaching to catch her before she fell. He fussed, brow knotted in concern, scolding her with every failed attempt. But Yume, stubborn, wouldn’t stay down. Each time, she forced herself upright, hands trembling, jaw set against the pain lancing up her legs and stitching through her stomach.

Murata hovered, alternating between nurse and sentry. “You’re going to split your stitches,” he warned, voice pitched between threat and plea. “Do you want Shinobu to flay me alive? Because she will. And she’ll use your kama to do it.”

Yume ignored him, white-knuckling his arm as she levered herself up. The room spun—a nauseating swirl of wood grain, paper walls, and afternoon light. She steadied herself, drawing in a breath that rattled in her chest. Her vision darkened at the edges, but she pushed it down.

Murata moved in behind her, one palm braced gently against her waist, the other clasping her hand in a grip that belied his usual flippancy. “You fall, I’m dragging you back to bed by your hair,” he muttered. Beneath his humor was fear—a quaver in his words.

Yume managed a crooked smirk. “Try it. I’ll take your hands off at the wrist.”

They shuffled, inch by inch, across the tatami, each step a challenge. The pain was a dull roar beneath her skin, radiating from her abdomen and crawling down her legs. Sweat beaded at her brow, cold and sticky. Twice, her knees gave way; twice, Murata caught her, steadying her with a whispered, “Easy. Breathe. You’re not in a race.”

When they reached the shoji, Yume’s strength flagged. She gripped the frame, chest heaving, refusing to let Murata see her falter. Outside, the Water Pavilion’s garden shimmered with dew.

It was then that Giyuu appeared, silent as a shadow at the threshold. His presence altered the air—cooled it, sharpened it, as if a storm had entered the room. His gaze zeroed in on Yume, lingering on the bandaged lines that mapped her body, the tremor in her hands, the way she leaned into Murata’s hold. His face remained unreadable, but something in his posture—spine rigid, mouth a thin, hard line—radiated anger.

Murata cleared his throat, letting go of Yume as if caught in the act. “I tried to keep her in bed. She wouldn’t listen.”

Giyuu’s eyes didn’t leave Yume, but the words were for Murata. “If you are scared of an injured woman, you have no business hunting demons.” His tone was frigid—devoid of sympathy, the words clipped and cold.

Murata bristled, ears pinkening, but he said nothing, shifting his weight awkwardly.

Yume, hand still braced on the doorframe, fixed Giyuu with a look that should have scalded. “I’d rather crawl to the garden than rot in bed.”

There was something brittle behind his eyes, a strain that made him seem both present and impossibly distant. “You’re not healed,” he said, low, as if the words tasted bitter. “If you open your wounds, they might not close again.”

Yume’s lips twisted. “Then I’ll bleed on your floors. Maybe it’ll give you something to scrub.”

Murata’s nervous laugh sputtered and died. Giyuu’s jaw ticked, hands balled at his sides, knuckles white. For a long moment, he stood utterly still—unyielding, letting the world rush by. When he finally spoke, it was only to Murata, voice flat and final.

“Take her back. If she tears anything, it’s on you.”

“Giyuu,” Yume called, reaching—not just with her voice but with the whole weight of herself, as if the syllables might catch him, pull him back from the edge of whatever silent punishment he’d consigned himself to. But Giyuu didn’t turn, didn’t even slow. His form receded, all sharp lines and unfinished shadow, slipping between sunlight and shoji—an absence traced in negative space.

She tried again, louder now, panic needling her voice. “Giyuu!” It hung in the air for a moment, then nothing—just the soft click of the gate, the hollow ache left behind as he vanished from the Pavilion.

Murata cleared his throat. “You should rest,” he offered, voice small, heavy with guilt.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. She’d made herself into a fortress, warding off pity and comfort alike.

Yume’s recovery was a daily war, as much with her own body as with the silence Giyuu had pressed like frost over the Water Pavilion. Each morning, she forced herself upright, dragging her battered limbs through stretches in the yard—tendons screaming, wounds tugging, every joint rusty from disuse. The grass was damp beneath her palms; cicadas buzzed above, and the sun burned through mist as if determined to sear away her hesitation.

Murata sat on the porch, arms looped around his knees, making himself a fixture—offering advice she didn’t need, teasing her about her form, passing idle commentary on the angle of her stretches and the progress of her wounds. “If you keep making faces like that, your wounds will heal crooked,” he’d chime, and she’d glare at him, teeth gritted, sweat shining on her brow. She was grateful for the noise, for the banter; it filled the hollow where Giyuu’s voice should have been.

By the seventh day, the stitches in her stomach and legs had dissolved into scabs.

That evening, Yume sat cross-legged, reaching for her toes with trembling hands, her hair sticking to her temples. Murata tossed her a damp towel and snickered, “You’ll pull a muscle before you manage a full bow, Tsuguko.”

She flicked the towel back at him. “Go away.”

Before Murata could reply, the front gate rattled. The crunch of gravel at the edge of the compound drew her gaze. Giyuu had returned, his presence colder than the morning dew still clinging to the cypress trees. He didn’t glance at her or Murata. Without breaking stride, he crossed the yard and stepped onto the engawa, disappearing behind the sliding screen.

Seven days since he’d looked her in the eye. Seven days of silence thick enough to choke on. Every morning he left before sunrise; every night he returned after dark, wordless and distant, as if the house itself might catch whatever curse she carried.

She couldn’t stand it.

Yume pushed herself upright, every muscle protesting. Murata’s hand shot out, but she shrugged him off, anger pulsing through her. “Don’t,” she snapped, her voice sharp. “If he thinks I’m that fragile, he can say so himself.”

She limped after Giyuu, ignoring the white-hot ache that pulsed with every step. She found him in the hallway, already turning away. He didn’t even pause when she called his name—just kept walking, as if her voice was another inconvenience to endure.

She forced herself forward, catching his sleeve. “Giyuu, stop—” Her grip was feeble but insistent, her breathing ragged. “You haven’t spoken to me in a week. You refuse to look at me, you won’t tell me what happened in that house, you—”

He wrenched his arm free, turning to face her at last. His eyes were cold, unyielding, the blue of ice beneath winter clouds. “Enough.” The word landed between them like a blow, laced with the authority of a Hashira, not the man she’d die for. “You’re my tsuguko. You will recover as you’re told, and stop this.”

She stared at him, hurt boiling over into fury. “That’s all I am to you? Just a subordinate? Because it sure hasn’t felt that way—”

His lips flattened into a line, voice dropping. “Don’t mistake what happened for anything more than duty. I protected you because it was my responsibility as your master. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The words hit harder than any wound. For a moment, the world wobbled out of focus; Yume blinked, swallowing the urge to shout, to weep, to throw something and watch it shatter. Her pride wouldn’t let her show how much he’d hurt her, but her hands shook all the same.

She met his gaze, refusing to look away. “If you want to be alone so badly, you should have just said so.”

She turned on her heel, forcing her feet to carry her past the pain, past the humiliation that burned in her cheeks. In her room, she grabbed a bag, stuffing it haphazardly with uniforms, scrolls, spare kama. Her hands were clumsy, numb with anger, but she didn’t stop until the room was stripped of anything that belonged to her.

Murata stood in the doorway, anxious, understanding passing between them in a glance. She shouldered the bag, refusing to let him see her falter, and walked out of the Water Pavilion.

Behind her, Giyuu watched from the hallway, face unreadable. He said nothing. He didn’t move to stop her, not even when the door slid shut, not even as her footsteps faded.

Chapter Text

He didn’t watch her go.

Giyuu remained in the hallway, every muscle rigid, thoughts unraveling at the threshold of her room. She’d stripped the space bare. All gone. Yet on the low shelf by the window, she’d left one thing behind—a silver hairstick.

He stared at it, heartbeat pounding, lungs aching for breath that wouldn’t come. The walls warped inward, the wood of the floor swelling beneath his feet. His hand lifted—trembling—to the doorframe, as if to steady himself against an oncoming tide.

Why would she leave that? The question slid through him, scraping against memories he couldn’t lock away. It should have been nothing—just a trivial object, a trinket. Yet it was the only thing that remained. A monument. A rebuke.

His breath came rough in his chest, each inhale a blade slicing. His throat constricted—no air, only panic. He pressed a fist to his sternum, as if he might crush the tremor out of his own heart. His vision blurred at the edges, shapes doubling, the world tipping as if he stood at the edge of a black well.

The silence of the Water Pavilion grew oppressive—less a refuge than a prison. Even the windbells outside mocked him, their discord a hollow comfort.

He forced himself to breathe, but the air tasted of failure—metallic, mingled with the distant memory of blood on his hands. Hands that hadn’t been fast enough. Strong enough. If you had paid attention, you would have seen the demon waiting below the floors. If you hadn’t hesitated, if you had been sharper, she wouldn’t have had to push you aside. Sabito would have seen. Sabito would have saved her. Sabito should be standing here. Not me.

The weight in his chest intensified, pressing him down until his knees buckled. He sank to the tatami, forehead pressed to the chilled floorboards. Fingers curled into the mat, nails biting grooves that would vanish by morning. He fought for control, clinging to discipline, but the panic was a riptide.

His mind replayed the moment—Yume’s blood, slick on his palms, the sound of her body striking the earth beneath the house, the way she had reached for him and slipped through his grasp. She had saved him. Not the other way around. He had failed her, as he had failed everyone else.

You let her get hurt because you were too slow, too blind. You weren’t meant for this life. You’re only good at being alone.

A thin, ugly noise escaped him—half-breath, half-choke. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, grinding pain against pain. The room swam, the world narrowing to the silver curve of the hairstick glinting in a stray sunbeam.

He was a magnet for disaster, for loss. He’d watched too many die to believe he could keep anyone close.

It was better this way. She was free of him. She could heal, find peace, become more than the sum of the wounds he’d given her. She’ll hate you. It’s safer that way. Let her go. Let her live.

Eventually, he rose—unsteady as a man walking through water—and crossed to the shelf. His hand hovered above the hairstick, fingers trembling. He ran his thumb along the curve, as if he could conjure the shape of her hand, the ghost of her pulse beneath his skin.

Sabito would have told her to stay.

Three days had come and gone, each one marked by sleepless patrols and the ceaseless ache behind Giyuu’s ribs. He returned to the Water Pavilion late, after the kind of hunt that left blood ground into his palms and metal on his tongue. A thin film of sweat clung to his skin, too cold beneath his uniform, the night’s damp settling into his bones.

He paused at the bottom step of the engawa. The house exhaled darkness—no lamplight behind the shoji, no spill of voices from the kitchen, not even the low murmur of the Kakushi’s midnight game. This place has turned against me.

When he entered at last, his steps sounded too loud. He slid his sandals off, lined them up, and let his gaze drift down the hall. The Kakushi had already retreated to their room, their presence reduced to the faint rattle of sleeping breaths and the distant clink of medicine jars.

In the kitchen, the hearth yawned cold and empty, ashes pale as bone. A tray waited on the counter, left by dutiful hands: rice, miso, pickled daikon, a wedge of tamagoyaki hardening at the edges. A bowl of barley tea, gone tepid. The smell had faded, leaving only the dull, cloying tang of overcooked starch. He sat at the low table, the wood pressing splinters into his palm, but didn’t touch the food.

Giyuu closed his eyes, elbows braced on the table, head bowed. This kitchen—he’d once hated its disorder, the way Yume left things half-chopped, scrolls rolled out beside bowls, laughter tangled with the smoke. Now it felt gutted, each surface scrubbed sterile, nothing left but the outline of her absence.

The kettle rested cold beside the hearth. He poured the tea anyway, letting it sluice down his throat, each swallow tasteless.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

The gate to the Water Pavilion was old—iron hinges spotted with rust, wood weathered. Giyuu hadn’t even slid the latch free before Yume barreled past him, her sandals flapping, hair a streak of silver. She seized the gate and flung it wide with a grunt, childish energy jangling the bells in protest.

Her breath caught as she took in the sight. The low stone wall encircled the compound, half-choked with wild violets and dew-heavy ferns. Lanterns bobbed from the eaves like small moons. Somewhere, a frog called out from the direction of the empty pond.

Yume spun to face him, cheeks flushed with triumph. Before he could speak, she hurled herself at him, arms winding tight around his waist, face tipped up with a grin broad enough to seem reckless.

“Giyuu! We really get to live here? Just us?”

He nodded, voice low and awkward. “Yes.”

She let out a whoop that startled a pair of crows from the roof tiles. “We’ll have our own house. Our own kitchen. Our own garden! You have to plant radishes!” With that, she tore away from him, bounding down the stone path, arms spread wide, fingertips brushing every surface—shoji screens, rain barrel, even the well, peering down with the hungry curiosity.

Giyuu lingered at the threshold, caught somewhere between amusement and awe.

She vanished inside, sandals abandoned at the step. He followed. Yume’s voice called from somewhere deeper in the main hall—

“Giyuu! Hurry up! You’re slow.”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, invisible to anyone but the ghosts shadowing him. Kakushi had cleaned everything, but the place bore the memory of the previous Water Hashira in its careful order: futons folded, a training rack lined with battered wooden swords, incense still lingering in the air from the last prayer at the family altar.

He was halfway down the hall when Yume reappeared, sliding out of a side room and launching herself at his sleeve. She caught his hand in both of hers—small and stubborn, her grip a challenge.

“You’re not looking fast enough,” she chided, tugging him forward. “Come on, I want to show you.”

He let her lead. Her pace was reckless, heedless of the careful lines he’d been taught to walk. She pulled him into a room where the walls opened wide to the garden, then darted to the far corner, spinning with hands on hips.

“This one’s mine.” She planted her feet, chin tipped up, the declaration absolute. “I want the sunlight in the morning, so I can see the fish. You have to take that one—” She pointed across the narrow corridor to the room opposite, the sliding door half open, revealing a futon already unrolled.

Giyuu blinked. “Why that one?”

Yume scoffed, rolling her eyes as if the answer was obvious. “You need to be close. What if I have nightmares? What if there’s a demon? I can’t spend all night hunting for you.” She said it with matter-of-fact certainty.

“You’re too old for nightmares,” Giyuu replied, voice soft, teasing but edged with affection he couldn’t hide.

She shot him a look “You’re seventeen and you still get nightmares. So you can’t say anything.”

He shook his head, letting her win. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll stay close.”

Yume grinned, triumphant, and immediately began plotting the arrangement of her new domain—where the futon would go, which corner would best hold her collection of haori, how many charms she could fit along the windowsill before the Kakushi complained. She darted back out into the hall, trailing laughter, her footsteps ringing through the house.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

“Yoohoo, Tomioka-san~!”

Giyuu looked up, not startled so much as dislodged—his focus splintered, the half-finished cup of tea left sweating against his knuckles. Shinobu’s face hovered in the small window above the kitchen sink, her smile bright. She rested her chin on her hands, elbows balanced.

“Good evening,” she sang, voice mild. “You do realize your Tsuguko has abandoned you, yes? That Water Pavilion seems terribly lonely tonight.”

He said nothing, expression ironed flat, gaze dropping to the lines scored into the tabletop. He refused to offer her a foothold, though his fists had gone white-knuckled around the cup. It wasn’t in Giyuu’s nature to give voice to his misery, especially not for Shinobu’s benefit. She always knew where to prod.

Her smile flickered, a touch more feline. “Well, if you truly don’t mind—if it’s no loss to you—would you kindly discharge her? I could use another promising Tsuguko.” Her tone was syrup-thick, but the glint in her eyes promised she was measuring every reaction, every hesitation.

He didn’t answer.

“How strange. I thought you might at least ask where she’d gone. Or maybe you really are ready to let her go?” She cocked her head, the playful lilt undiminished. “Shall I draw up the papers, then?”

He bristled—just a twitch in the jaw, the ghost of anger sliding behind his eyes. “Do what you want,” he said, low, the syllables ironclad. “It doesn’t matter.”

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed. “Yume-chan’s already rejected my supervision. She claims she only takes orders from the Master—or the Water Hashira.” Shinobu tilted her head. “She refused to start rehabilitation training. Did you know? She told me she’d be more useful chasing Murata than convalescing under my roof. And then, off they went—off to be heroes.”

Giyuu stared at the floor, the bones of his hand ridged beneath the skin. He bit back the urge to ask where—exactly—Yume had gone, what mission, what threat. The words built pressure behind his teeth, but he swallowed them, locking everything tight. If I ask, I’ll want to follow. If I follow, I’ll drag her down again.

Shinobu watched. “If I can’t have her, I suppose the crows will have to send me someone less interesting.” She drummed her fingers against the sill. “But if she tears her stitches, Tomioka-san, I’ll be sure to tell the Master it was your fault, not mine. That’s what comrades are for, isn’t it?”

He still didn’t speak. The ache in his chest gnawed deeper—an ache so old he almost mistook it for hunger. The shame of it, the helpless, ugly pride, the knowledge that he’d failed her not once but again and again. Even now, after everything, he couldn’t say the words she might have needed. Not to Shinobu, not to Yume, not even to the empty rooms of his house.

She let out a sigh, the sort one makes over a stubborn child. “Suit yourself, Tomioka-san. I thought you might care, but perhaps I was mistaken. You’re so strange. Always losing what you’re trying to protect.”

She vanished from the window as swiftly as she’d appeared. Giyuu remained at the table, breathing shallowly, bitterness thick on his tongue.

Two more days passed, the Water Pavilion gripped by an inertia that matched the leaden silence in Giyuu’s bones. The summons arrived at dawn: Kanzaburou swooping down, talons rattling the veranda’s edge, a scroll knotted with midnight blue. The ink bled through the paper—his presence required at the Master’s estate, without delay.

When the Master called, you came—regardless of whether you carried wounds invisible and unhealed.

The estate emerged, grand yet somber—an expanse of gravel and lacquer, the stones swept but the air heavy with omens.

Shinobu awaited him at the gate. “Tomioka-san,” she greeted. “I worried you might still be brooding at your lonely Pavilion.”

He gave no reply, only the barest nod, falling in step beside her.

Inside, the Master’s audience chamber unfurled—tatami raked and golden, the scent of pine resin threading the air. Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat, skin luminous, the lines of his robe as delicate as brushwork. His hands cradled a crow—its plumage iridescent, eyes like ink. Children, silent as statues, knelt nearby, their heads bowed.

Shinobu and Giyuu dropped to their knees, folding themselves, heads bowed in respect.

“You are both aware of the reason I’ve called you here. Many of my beloved children were dispatched to Natagumo Mountain. Most have not returned. There are reports of monstrous deaths—threads of flesh torn from bone, bodies left as offerings in the trees. The last crow to escape reports that one of the Twelve Kizuki may be present.” He paused. “Giyuu. Shinobu. You will go together. Eradicate this threat. Recover any survivors. The demon responsible must be destroyed, no matter the cost.” His gaze rested upon each of them in turn. “This is not a request. It is a burden I must place on you, for the sake of all.”

“Understood, Master.”

The Master’s smile flickered. “Go. Bring my children home.”

They retreated, moving in silence. The world outside felt thinner, light filtered through clouds, gravel shifting beneath their sandals. Shinobu lingered at the edge of the path, her expression playful.

“Well, Tomioka-san,” she murmured, lowering her voice, “Isn’t it strange how fate weaves its little patterns? That mountain. That’s where Murata went for his mission, Yume in tow.”

Giyuu’s face didn’t betray him. “She’s a Kinoe now,” he replied. “She can handle it.”

The answer felt foreign in his mouth. The words were armor—thin, brittle. Inside, the thought of Yume climbing that blood-soaked mountain, wounds fresh beneath her uniform, twisted in his gut. Panic uncoiled under his breastbone—cold, merciless. He wondered if she’d already been counted among the lost, another offering to the Kizuki’s appetites.

Shinobu watched him, head tilted. “Hashira must look after their own—or perhaps you prefer your house empty.”

He looked away.

Chapter Text

There were ten of them, maybe more—faces half-glimpsed in the gloom, names shouted back and forth. Murata recognized most: Nishitani the braggart, all wind and elbows; little Suzume with her cropped hair and anxious smile; Fukuda, who walked with a limp from an old wound, still pretending it hadn’t slowed him down. Beyond them, the familiar faces of Kitayama, Matsuda, even a quiet boy called Kaito. Beside them, three strangers—rookies, all nerves, their eyes huge. In the ranks too: Saburo, Sato, the fidgety girl Haruko.

Murata had Yume’s hand clasped in his, her fingers slack with sleep. Her eyes half-open but vacant—dreaming, he hoped, of anything but this cursed mountain.

They moved in a loose cluster up the winding, root-choked trail. Here, the trees grew so tightly together they strangled the sky. Mist crawled low, spiderwebs trembling between the trunks. Somewhere above, a crow screeched—a brittle warning that set teeth on edge. Beneath it all, the forest floor pressed damp against their feet.

Most of the group masked their fear with bravado. Nishitani nudged Murata’s shoulder, voice pitched to carry: “Oi, Murata, what’s a Kinoe like your friend doing with a bunch of grunts like us? The Corps must be desperate—maybe she’ll carry us all up the mountain?”

“Shut it, Nishitani,” Suzume chimed in, her nervous giggle a little too loud. “If we’re lucky, she’ll sleep through the whole mission and let us have all the fun.”

Kitayama snickered, elbowing Fukuda. The tension coiled beneath the banter, each laugh a shade too sharp.

Murata’s own unease prickled along his spine, worry lingering in his gut; he watched Yume’s feet, half-expecting her to stumble. Yet her body threaded between roots and hollows with unerring certainty, as though she moved through a different world. Does she dream the path ahead of us?

One of the new recruits—Natsuo, or maybe Taichi—sidled closer, voice low. “Murata-san…you’ve fought with her before, right? What do we do if…y’know, something happens? Are we supposed to follow her lead or—”

He trailed off, anxiety crackling between them, but Murata only opened his mouth—no answer ready.

He didn’t get the chance.

Suddenly, Yume’s hand slipped from his. She lunged forward, no hesitation, body slicing through the mist. Murata blinked, startled, just as she reached past Suzume, her arm flicking up. She made a strange, grasping motion—snatching at empty air above Haruko’s head. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Haruko yelped, spinning around, clutching the back of her neck. In Yume’s fist, several glistening strands dangled—white, impossibly fine, like a skein of silk plucked from a spider’s belly. Murata’s breath caught.

“What—?!” Haruko shouted, her voice breaking, raw with panic. “What did you—?”

But her words shriveled on her tongue. All around, slayers froze, eyes darting, as a low groan shuddered through the undergrowth—unsettling, inhuman. A sickly sweetness crept in, threading the air. Murata’s skin prickled. He tasted something metallic and wrong, each breath thickening the dread.

Without warning, Kitayama lunged at Nishitani, blade flashing in the gloom. Nishitani reeled back, mouth gaping. “What the hell—?!” His sword came up too late; Kitayama’s blade punched through his shoulder, splintering bone. Blood splattered the path in a violent arc.

Suzume shrieked, stumbling back as Fukuda tackled her, eyes vacant, teeth bared. Another slayer—Saburo—turned on Haruko, who barely managed to parry the first wild slash. The air exploded with the metallic clash of blades, the wet sound of bodies striking earth, voices cracking and howling.

Murata staggered, heart hammering against his ribs. “Stop! What’s wrong with you—stop it!” He reached for Yume, but she was already moving—no longer drifting, but gliding, a phantom among the chaos. Her kama flashed, severing a white thread curling from Suzume’s sleeve. She twisted aside, spine arching in an impossible motion, her face slack but eerily focused.

The others began to notice—panic kindling, all eyes flicking to Yume. “Kinoe! What do we do?” Natsuo cried, blood already staining his uniform.

But she was beyond language—dreaming, fighting in silence, her movements impossible to follow. She snatched another thread from Fukuda’s collar, her free hand carving a crescent in the mist.

A voice from somewhere behind—Matsuda, maybe—splintered into sobs. “She’s cutting the strings! She’s saving us—!”

Fear and awe tangled inside Murata, his pulse ringing in his ears. Yume’s body wove through the carnage—limbs flickering, blades dancing. For a moment, he almost believed she might turn the tide alone.

But the slayers kept falling—swords biting flesh, eyes glassy with confusion, each one caught on a silk leash. The mountain seemed to drink their screams, roots curling hungrily around the fallen.

Murata drew his own sword, sweat stinging his eyes. If she can fight half-asleep, then so can I. Don’t die—just keep moving, stay close.

He pressed near Yume’s side, slashing at the threads, every nerve braced. Stay ahead of the nightmare.

Blood stained the undergrowth, dark drops painting the roots and bark in grotesque calligraphy. Three slayers lay crumpled, eyes glassy, mouths frozen in silent question. The rest lurched and spun, blades clashing, breath coming in ragged bursts—caught in the frenzied ballet of puppets and strings.

Yume moved with an elegance so uncanny it felt inhuman—hair swirling, face slack, uniform plastered to her ribs with sweat and something darker. Murata’s heart clenched at the vivid stain soaking the front of her jacket. Her wound had torn open again, fresh blood seeping down her abdomen. She moved as if it meant nothing, as if pain belonged to another life.

Something brushed against Murata’s wrist—a thread, slick and almost invisible. He jerked back, sword ready, but his muscles locked, seized by a will not his own. Limbs jerked, puppet-like, blade lifting, trembling. No. No— His mind screamed, but his arm wouldn’t obey.

Yume flickered past, her silhouette a blur. She lunged for Haruko, snatching a thread from the girl’s shoulder. Haruko collapsed to her knees, sobbing, suddenly released.

Murata’s arm rose, blade arcing toward Yume’s side. He fought it, teeth gritted, every muscle straining for release. “No—please—” The sword bit fabric, slashing open her uniform, exposing bloody flesh. She twisted, motion fluid, blood welling brighter against her skin.

Still his body refused him. The blade rose again, hungry for another strike. Then Yume was there—so close he could see the blue veins at her temple, the sweat above her brow. Her hand snapped up, cold and decisive, fingers locking around his wrist. The contact jolted through him—shocking, a sharp current that broke the spell. The sword halted. Her grip was iron.

He met her gaze—eyes wide open now, irises glowing faintly in the gloom. Not vacant, not lost in sleep, but sharp, all-seeing. Pupils dilated, as if she peered through layers of dream and nightmare. For a moment, their breathing synchronized—slow, threading control into the chaos.

Her voice cut through the uproar, low but resonant, an authority that felt too old for her years. “Breathe. All of you—now.”

The slayers hesitated, blades stilled by her tone. Even the possessed among them paused, eyes flickering with the struggle for control.

“Focus on your breathing—count it. Remember your forms. Use your senses—feel for the thread against your skin. Cut it—on yourselves, on each other. Don’t look at me. Look at what binds you.”

Murata gasped, the vice on his chest loosening. The aftermath of possession left his nerves raw, limbs trembling as he forced a ragged inhale, rhythm faltering, then settling. “Listen to her!” he barked, voice raw. “Do what she says!”

Suzume, trembling, pressed two fingers to her throat, blinking away tears. “It’s so faint—I can’t—”

“Don’t panic,” Yume replied, voice eerily calm, detached. “Slow down. Let your breathing techniques lead your sword.”

Kitayama staggered, eyes rolling. “I see it! There’s a line—” He brought his blade down, slashing at his own arm. The thread parted; relief crashed through him.

All around, the slayers fumbled, fighting for control. Some still turned on each other, movements wild. Yume darted between them, slicing threads as she went. Blood seeped from her side, her uniform ruined, but she pressed on, undaunted.

Haruko whimpered, crawling toward Yume. “Are you…are you awake?”

For a moment, Murata saw something that was neither dream nor waking—a place between, both here and elsewhere. “No,” she murmured, voice soft, almost otherworldly.

The last of the threads slipped away; control returned to Murata’s limbs, leaving him shaken. He dropped to his knees, sword clattering to the soil. He looked up at Yume, nerves still shuddering from what he’d done. “How—how are you doing this?”

She glanced down at him, and for a heartbeat, something like a smile curved her mouth—crooked, aching, not quite real. “Because I have to.”

Her attention snapped to the next danger, body twisting, kama glinting. She wove through blood, the nightmare’s tide breaking against her will.

Murata scrambled after her. Above them, the mountain swallowed every scream. Still, Yume pressed forward—half asleep, half awake, more alive than anyone Murata had ever known.

A shudder rippled through the underbrush, and then—impossibly—the three dead slayers rose, limbs jerking under invisible force, like marionettes manipulated by some cruel will. Blood glazed their uniforms, lips twisted into rictus grins, eyes rolled back to milky slits. They advanced with grotesque obedience, swords dragging at their sides, heads lolling on broken necks.

Suzume shrieked, stumbling behind Murata and seizing his sleeve as the corpses lurched closer. The living slayers broke formation, terror scattering their ranks—one retched in the brambles, another whispered a prayer that vanished on the wind.

Holding her ground, Yume raised her voice. “Don’t panic. Stay close—blades up. If they move, sever the threads.” She pressed forward. Though blood soaked her side, her presence drew the group together, shaping chaos into something purposeful.

Murata tightened his grip on his nichirin, falling in behind her. Others mirrored him, watching Yume with wide, desperate eyes—starving for orders. The puppeted dead staggered closer, swords swinging in wild arcs. Kitayama ducked, a blade nicking his ear, breath catching in his throat.

Threads flashed as Yume moved between the corpses, kama slicing through the air, her precision unnervingly calm. One by one, she cut the strands, sending bodies crumpling into the mud, mouths left hanging open in mute protest. Around her, the slayers pressed forward, breath ragged, feet squelching in the rot.

Higher up the slope, the mountain’s air changed. The scent of copper and mold stung every inhale; Murata’s throat felt scraped raw. Trees crowded closer, their branches netting overhead, muffling sound. Silence thickened—alive, pressing in from all sides.

Each breath burned as Murata followed Yume. “How many demons?” he managed, voice thin with strain.

Her reply was eerily flat. “Multiple. At least four. The kizuki is near.” She didn’t slow, only moved faster, each step a victory over pain.

When any slayer faltered, Yume intervened—destroying threads, shouting reminders: “Focus your senses! Breathe—form one!” Murata clung to her instructions, his world narrowing to the pulse of her voice and the silver flash of her blades.

They reached a plateau veined with roots and bone. Ahead, violence knotted: two boys fighting at the center, swords flashing as they clashed with three puppet-like slayers. One, a redhead with blood streaking his face, forehead-mark burning through grime. Beside him, a boar-masked figure hurled a slayer into the trees, roaring defiance.

“Tanjiro!” Yume called.

Tanjiro’s head snapped up, hope and exhaustion colliding in his gaze. “Yume—!” His relief broke through the fear, shoulders loosening for a breath. He managed a shaky grin and shot a glance at the boar-masked boy, who only snorted, hacking at another threat.

Tanjiro half-ran to meet her, dodging a controlled slayer, his sword sticky with blood. “We’re trying to save them,” he panted, gesturing at the chaos. “Inosuke and I threw a bunch into the trees, but—”

A terrible sound shattered the clearing. Murata flinched, stomach twisting. The bodies high in the canopy jerked, threads going taut. All at once, their heads twisted, vertebrae cracking like kindling.

Tanjiro’s face contorted—horror etched deep, hands shaking as he stared upward. “No. No, no, no…” The slayers in the trees hung limp, their lives extinguished in a heartbeat.

Inosuke bellowed, swinging his swords at the air, frustration boiling over. “Tch! Weaklings! Just get up already! What’s wrong with you?!”

Yume pushed forward, voice hardening. “We have to keep moving. The demons are nearby, and watching us.” She reached for him, blood trailing from her side, eyes burning with impossible clarity. “Tell me everything. Quickly.”

Tanjiro’s jaw clenched. “The demon—she’s somewhere up there. She’s controlling the corpses, the slayers… We tried to cut the threads, but they keep coming─” He drew a shaky breath, grounding himself in her focus.

Yume interrupted him, gaze shifting to the tangled canopy. “All of you—form up. Watch each other’s backs. If you feel a thread, call it out. Don’t hesitate. Nobody else is dying tonight.”

The forest quivered, every root and bough vibrating with threat. From the depths of the thicket came a monstrous figure—a mass of pale flesh, headless, moving on splayed limbs, arms ending in blades. It tore through the trees, uprooting saplings, earth shaking in its wake. The slayers froze, bravado draining into stunned, silent dread.

“Get back!” Murata shouted, voice raw with panic. Suzume stumbled, nearly tripping over a fallen sword, while the others clustered around Yume. The demon barreled closer, blade-arms slicing through the air, a shrill metallic whistle preceding its charge. It swung wide—steel catching the moonlight, the arc veering straight for the nearest knot of slayers.

Yume faced it head-on. Kama swept upward, ringing off the demon’s blades in a clash that stung the ears. She stepped in, feet nearly gliding above the churned earth, a haze of pink dust blooming in her wake, petals scattered on a rising wind.

Murata struggled to track her—only flashes of silk hair and lilac eyes, her form a fleeting apparition inside the monster’s reach. The demon staggered, limbs twitching violently, and for a heartbeat it seemed nothing had changed. But then the dust stilled.

A seam opened across the demon’s torso—clean, unassuming. With a sound like old cloth tearing, its body slid apart, the halves collapsing in slow, dreadful symmetry. One half fell backward, the other slumped forward, limbs twitching in their final protest. Pink motes whirled in the heavy air, clinging to leaves and skin.

Kitayama exhaled, ragged. “What did she—how—?”

Suzume stared, lips parted, stunned. “She just…cut it apart. I didn’t even see her move.”

The rest stared at Yume. She gave no sign she’d heard them. Blood continued to seep from her stomach, darkening the earth at her feet, yet her posture remained steady and commanding. Her gaze swept over the survivors, cold and lucid.

“We’re not done,” she said. “There are more demons ahead.”

A low, wavering moan broke from the group—one slayer had dropped to their knees, hands covering their face. Yume strode over, kneeling down, voice firm but anchoring. “You want to live? Focus. Breathe. If you can’t fight, stay behind and don’t draw attention. The rest—”

Her eyes found Tanjiro, then Murata, then the boar-masked boy, whose blade dripped sap and blood. “You three. Find the one controlling the threads.”

Murata shook his head, fear rising in his throat. “Yume—no. Your wound—if we split up, you’ll—”

“I’m giving you an order. If you stay, more will die.”

Inosuke stamped the ground, twin swords rattling. “Oi! Who put you in charge, huh? I’ll take on whatever’s up there—spiders, demons, doesn’t matter!”

Tanjiro caught his arm, glancing between Yume and Murata. “She’s right. We can’t fight puppets and demons at once. Let’s go.”

With no room for protest, Murata bowed his head. “Don’t die,” he whispered, hoping she’d hear. He turned, following Tanjiro and Inosuke up the mountain’s twisting artery, the wounded cries of the slayers echoing behind. Every root seemed to catch at his ankles, every branch murmuring loss. He risked a last look back.

Yume betrayed no uncertainty, no visible fatigue—a monument to refusal, a dream-walker holding her ground against the dark.

If I never see her again, at least she stood like a Hashira.

Chapter Text

Giyuu moved with caution, sandals sinking into sodden earth where pools of blood had thickened, the soil dark as congealed liver. Moonlight fractured on the slick ground, warping his shadow into strange shapes—shadows of children who never made it home.

Three corpses sprawled at odd angles before him, uniforms askew, faces ruined. Their hands still grasped hilts or pressed uselessly to wounds that couldn’t be staunched. But Giyuu’s gaze traveled beyond them, cataloguing more than what lay still. Spatters of arterial spray painted the roots; blood had been dragged through the undergrowth, not by feet but by flailing, panicked bodies. The mountain itself drank it in, hungrily, as if the land knew this ritual by heart.

Shinobu knelt beside the fallen, her pale fingers clinical as she traced the arc of one boy’s throat. “Not all these stains belong to the dead here,” she observed, voice too measured for the scene’s brutality. “There’s evidence of struggle. Some of them must’ve escaped. Or perhaps…more will be found higher up.”

Her tone was cold, but not cruel—simply detached, as though the reality of mutilated youth was too common to trouble her. Giyuu’s tongue felt heavy, words catching behind his teeth. He didn’t answer. He crouched, brushing blood from a girl’s torn sleeve, eyes scanning for a familiar shape. He saw nothing but strangers. The dead were faceless. Not Yume.

Shinobu straightened, dusting her hands off on her uniform. “At least your tsuguko isn’t among them, Tomioka-san. Lucky, hmm?” There was a sly edge to her words, but Giyuu only inclined his head, saying nothing. He couldn’t muster relief. The certainty of absence cut just as sharply as the fear of loss.

Without another word, they parted—she dissolving into the gloom, already scenting the air for poison and decay, Giyuu running up the slope with the implacable patience of an executioner. Each footfall was a promise, his breathing tight and disciplined, muscles wound for violence. The woods thickened, trees looming. A wind snaked through the boughs, stirring leaves sticky with gore.

A dull roar echoed from above—metal shrieking against bone, the wet crunch of impact. Giyuu quickened his pace, urgency tightening his chest. He skirted a ravine where broken swords jutted from the muck like grave markers, then scaled a steep incline by the roots. The trees thinned, their branches torn away, as if some great beast had battered its way through the wood.

He heard voices—panicked, angry. A guttural bellow, animal and adolescent, then a sound like stone splitting.

At the edge of a clearing, Giyuu halted. The air was thick with sweat and iron. Ahead, a child in a boar’s mask—a mess of muscle and reckless defiance—hurled himself at a demon that dwarfed him. The creature’s torso bulged obscenely, veined with blue, its arms grotesquely long, terminating in claws that dragged furrows in the earth. Its face—if one could call it that—was a spider’s: eight eyes glinting, mandibles twitching, a mouth brimming with fangs. The ground trembled as it lunged, swiping at the masked boy, who scrambled back, hurling obscenities—“Die, you freak!”—and refusing to yield.

Giyuu watched, body low. The boy—Inosuke, he guessed from Tanjiro’s letters—moved with a kind of brute desperation, each swing of his chipped swords more raw will than technique. He was overmatched; it was obvious. Already blood smeared his forearms, and his breathing came in ragged bursts.

The demon laughed, its clawed hand snapped out, sending Inosuke sprawling. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and sprang up, blades crossed above his head. “Come on, you freak! I’ll tear your legs off and feed ‘em to you!”

Giyuu’s hand dropped to his nichirin, knuckles pale. He should have felt something—pity, anger, even the tired satisfaction of a Hashira arriving just in time. Instead, all he felt was the chill of possibility: Yume’s body, discarded in the leaves, unrecognizable; her blood, just another stain on this glutted earth.

He stepped from the treeline.

Inosuke whirled, animal eyes wild behind the mask. “Another one?! Get lost, old man—I’ll kill this thing myself!”

Giyuu ignored him. He measured the distance to the demon, the rhythm of its swings, the way its claws dug trenches in the loam. All the while, a single, jagged thought hammered behind his eyes: If she isn’t here, where is she? How much blood will I have to wade through to find her?

The demon howled, charging. Giyuu drew his blade, Water Breathing ready on his tongue, muscles singing for violence.

Not here. The thought snapped in his mind—familiar, brittle. She’s not among the dead.

Giyuu’s patience unraveled as he watched the boy in the boar mask hurl himself at the demon for a second time, stubborn as a bad tooth. The mountain reverberated with the impact—Inosuke’s twin swords flashing, the demon’s massive limbs colliding with a sound like timber splitting. For an instant, the world was nothing but motion: claws, iron, sweat, the white flare of muscle.

“Out of my way! This one’s mine!” Inosuke bellowed, voice cracking through the trees. His bravado was nearly comical—if not for the fact it might get him killed. The demon’s mouth—a nest of fangs framed by twitching mandibles—opened wide, howling, “Stay away from my family!” Its voice rolled down the mountainside, thick with animal anguish.

Giyuu moved, cutting through hesitation with a swordsman’s decisiveness. Inosuke, wild and heedless, flung himself into the demon’s path. Too slow. The monster caught him by the skull, one massive fist closing around the boar mask. Bone groaned, the mask caving in, blood spurting from the seams.

Giyuu considered letting the child die. Natural selection. The weak get themselves killed. That’s how this has always worked. But something sharper—regret, perhaps, or duty—spurred him forward.

He moved as water does—inevitable. His sword flashed in a clean, iridescent arc. He leapt, sword slicing through the demon’s arm. Flesh parted, tendon snapped, and the severed limb fell away, Inosuke crumpling to the forest floor, gasping, blood matting his hair.

Giyuu landed, every muscle ready. He barely spared a glance at the wounded boy. The demon roared—bellowing fury and pain in a language older than hate. Its severed arm began to knit together before the flesh even cooled, veins writhing as regeneration raced along the bone.

It lunged, claws gleaming. Giyuu didn’t flinch. His breathing slowed, water pooling in his lungs, every heartbeat syncing with the old rhythm.

“Water Breathing, Fourth Form,” he murmured. “Striking Tide.”

The world narrowed. He leapt, body dissolving into fluidity, sword blurring in a lattice of motion. Blue light coiled along the edge of his blade—he became the river, cutting through everything in his path. The demon tried to block, claws slicing at air, but Giyuu had already passed through.

The mountain rang with the sound of flesh parting. The demon screamed—a wet, unholy sound—and its body unraveled beneath the onslaught, massive form collapsing in ribbons, viscera splattering the stones.

Giyuu landed in silence, sword already sliding back into its sheath. Blood spotted his uniform, soaking into the old, familiar cloth. He looked down at the remains—nothing but twitching ruin—and waited for the stink of dissolution.

Inosuke gawked, slack-jawed, every wound throbbing crimson. Then, improbably, he lurched to his feet, swords scraping against the rocks, voice raw with outrage.

“You! Fight me! Right now!” he yelled, chest heaving. “You can’t just take my kill! I almost had it, you bastard!”

Giyuu regarded him, face unmoved. “You were about to die,” he replied, tone cool, dismissive.

“I wasn’t!” Inosuke barked, limbs trembling. “You—what kind of technique was that? Show me again! Fight me!”

Giyuu’s eyes swept over him, noting the torn skin, the awkward stance, the way the boy’s body wavered between bravado and collapse. Barely alive. Still desperate for approval. Like a dog that’s been kicked but keeps coming back.

“Go find your friends,” Giyuu said, voice flat. “If you want to live, don’t get in my way again.”

Inosuke spat, gripping his swords tighter. “You think you’re better than me? Just ’cause you’re a Hashira—!”

But Giyuu was already walking away, attention drifting from the tantrum. He searched the trees for silver hair, for a haori of dreams—anything familiar. The wind carried the metallic tang of blood, but no trace of Yume. His heart—tight, relentless—hammered against his ribs. He could almost hear her voice in his head, mocking him, teasing, You really don’t have a clue what to do with children, do you, Giyuu?

Inosuke’s outrage came thundering behind him—feet grinding earth, swords scraping bark, the ragged breath of a boy who’d never learned how to lose gracefully. “Hey! You bastard! That was my kizuki! I saw it first! Get back here and fight me, you gloomy freak!”

Giyuu didn’t break stride. “That wasn’t a kizuki,” Giyuu called over his shoulder. “Or are you too stupid to tell the difference?” He didn’t bother to soften the blow.

Inosuke hurled himself forward, brandishing his chipped blades. “Fight me!”

Giyuu pivoted, quick as the snap of a reed, and his hand met Inosuke’s neck. The blow was almost gentle—almost—but precise enough to send the boar-masked boy’s body crumpling to the mossy ground, swords slipping from his grasp. Inosuke hit the earth with a grunt, limbs sprawled, snoring before his cheek met dirt.

Giyuu left him where he lay, stepping around the unconscious boy as one might avoid a half-buried trap. There was no time to linger. Blood ran in the veins of this forest, pooling in the soil, thickening the air until each inhalation stung. He pressed on, feet squelching through mud. The carnage thickened as he climbed—shredded uniforms snagged on roots, blood beading on fern fronds, the echo of vanished voices trapped beneath the canopy.

A shape snagged on a branch halted him. There—wind catching, trembling—was a strip of blue and violet silk, torn and stained dark, the cloud and moon pattern irrefutable. A sliver of Yume’s haori. His throat tightened, nausea twisting beneath his ribs.

She was here. Bleeding. Still fighting? Or…?

He crushed the thought, jaw set. He pushed upward, weaving through trunks and undergrowth. Every shadow became a threat, every gust of wind a whisper of loss. For a moment he saw her in the corner of his eye—not a memory, not a ghost, just the phantom shape absence leaves behind—but it dissolved as he moved onward.

Which of the twelve was this? An upper moon, or one of Muzan’s lesser monsters playing at godhood? Had it found Yume first, ripped her apart, claimed another life that should have never been offered?

Somewhere higher, the mountain convulsed with noise—shouts, steel shrieking against bone, the particular cadence of desperation that marked the last stand of the living. Giyuu forced himself onward, muscles taut with dread, each step a wager against fate’s cruelty.

He didn’t let himself hope. He only ran, chasing the violence.

Chapter Text

Sparks cascaded in furious arcs as Sabito’s sword caught the curve of Yume’s kama, steel glancing off steel in a flare that smelled of scorched metal. Sabito pressed in—relentless, almost brutal in his precision. Every stroke bore the weight of intent, the raw calculus of someone who had counted out his own survival on the edge of a blade.

Yume’s arms throbbed with the impact, wrists numb from parrying. Sandals grinding furrows through the ring of sand at the yard’s edge, she staggered, heels skidding. Balance threatened to slip away.

Sabito advanced, eyes tracking every feint, dismantling her tricks with a swordsman’s disdain for anything less than efficiency. She ducked the next slash. The wind of his sword shivered past her cheek—so close she felt the cut in the air. Reflex took her backward: one foot planted, the other spinning out, kama raised to guard her throat. Her heart hammered, quick as the bronze bells on the Water Pavilion wall during a storm. She grinned, breathless, sharp-edged. “Is it that kind of day, Sabito? You trying to carve your initials in my face?”

He snorted, expression unreadable beneath damp hair clinging to his brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Yume.” The sword dipped, then snapped up again, testing her stance. “If I wanted to leave a mark, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

Yume’s laugh tangled with the mist, reckless and thin. “What, no gentle instruction today? No ‘focus on your footwork, keep your wrists loose, Yume-chan’? You’re getting old. Even your pep talks are all bark, no bite.” She edged left, baiting him, inviting the next blow.

His answer was a sudden, punishing sweep—she twisted aside, nearly overbalancing, the kama scraping sparks as she caught the edge of his blade. He pressed harder, the world shrinking to the space between them, every heartbeat a countdown, every mistake a debt paid in blood.

“Again,” Sabito demanded, voice clipped, command leaving no room for disobedience. “Faster. Move like this in a real fight, and you’ll die before you even see their face.”

Steadying her breath, pulse frantic beneath her skin, Yume shifted her grip. Sabito was right—infuriatingly so. She reached for the pulse of Dream Breathing, letting the world blur at the edges. Languor seeped into her limbs: calculated softness, the veil that lulled enemies before she struck. Her kama swirled, petals of motion unfolding around her like the ghost of a dream.

Sabito didn’t relent. His sword crashed down, steel vibrating in her hands. “That’s better,” he said, though his tone stayed cold. “But you’re still dancing. There’s no place for dance on the battlefield—only killing.”

Jaw tight, resentment simmering under fatigue, Yume spun away, using the momentum to carve a crescent in the sand, opening space. Sweat crawled down her spine, uniform clinging where blood had dried from earlier bouts. “You know, you could try a little tenderness. They say it does wonders for morale.”

A corner of Sabito’s mouth curled, wry amusement flickering before the steel returned. “The demons you’ll face won’t care about your morale. Or your clever tongue. If you want to protect anyone, you have to be stronger than this. I won’t go easy on you, Yume. Not when the next one who falls could be you.” He advanced again, unflinching.

Her arms ached, but she set her stance. “So you’d rather I be a corpse than a disappointment? That’s very heartwarming.”

She feinted right, then leapt left, swinging both kama in a scissoring arc at his unguarded side. He parried, turning her own weight against her, and struck with the flat of his blade—hard enough to jar her teeth, not quite hard enough to split skin. She cursed, breath escaping in a hiss, vision tilting from the blow.

He pressed on, voice unyielding. “You can joke all you want, but the next demon won’t wait for you to get serious. They’ll come for you first—and anyone weaker than you will pay for every second you waste.”

Yume lunged, frustration sparking into violence. “Maybe if you stopped hitting me and started explaining—”

But he was already inside her guard, sword angling up, weight bearing down. “You know what needs to be done. The only difference between you and a Hashira is how much blood you’re willing to shed to do it.”

How much blood…how much of myself am I willing to spend for someone else?

She twisted, Dreamstep Mirage blooming beneath her feet. For an instant, her body flickered—afterimages spinning through the space Sabito had occupied. She came up behind him, kama poised for a finishing cut.

He caught her wrist—faster than she could see. His grip was iron, gaze steely with something like pride. “That’s better. Use everything. Trick them, mislead them—make them believe you’re weak until it’s too late. But don’t fool yourself. There’s nothing soft about survival.”

She yanked free, chest heaving, glare sharpened to a razor’s edge. “You don’t have to keep proving it. I already know. I know what it costs.”

Sabito watched her, breathing slow and even, the kind of calm born of living too long with ghosts. “Then show me. Show me how you live with it.”

He lunged—swift, cold, silent. The air fractured under the violence of his approach, the air filled with the clash of metal and breath. His blade snapped toward Yume’s temple—a flat, brutal arc. She jerked aside, the wind of it raking her scalp, the hilt rapping her shoulder.

“Move!” Sabito barked, his tone a knotted thread of anger and instruction.

She pivoted, legs burning, twisting low beneath his next strike. He drove her back with the flat of his sword, an unrelenting drumbeat against her defenses. She retaliated, one kama darting for his thigh—he deflected, foot snapping out to sweep her ankle, forcing a graceless stumble. Yume’s knees scraped raw against the sand, the taste of earth and humiliation hot on her tongue.

He crowded her space. “You’re dropping your guard. Fix it, or bleed for it.”

Yume spat grit, forcing herself upright, arms trembling. She slashed up at his chin—missed. His answer: a savage tap of the hilt against her forearm, numbing her grip. She nearly lost the kama, knuckles screaming.

This isn’t training—it’s punishment. Her mind flashed back to other blows, other lessons, none of them gentle. You don’t get to choose who teaches you in this world. Or how much it hurts to learn.

“Faster,” Sabito demanded. “If you see the opening, take it. If you miss it—” He broke off, driving his blade at her ribs, forcing another twist away.

Their weapons sang—grinding, scraping, biting. His style was relentless, unforgiving, every movement exposing her weakness. She fought for every inch, Dream Breathing coiling in her chest, vision darkening at the edges, adrenaline fusing with pain. “You said to show you how I live with it. But all I ever do is survive you.”

Sabito’s face didn’t flicker. He drove her back, step by step, each blow a test—flat of the blade raking her hip, hilt striking the crook of her arm. “Then prove you can survive something worse than me.”

Her kama swept in a vicious crescent. Sabito blocked high, pivoted, rammed his shoulder into her chest, sending her reeling. She gasped, breath knocked from her lungs, world shuddering, ears ringing.

She answered with violence, spinning into Lavender Drowse, spinning her kama in arcs around her. She slashed for his midsection; Sabito twisted, sword flickering—counter slicing air just above her scalp, ruffling hair at her nape.

“Good,” he bit out. “Now again.”

She pushed, exhaustion bone-deep, every muscle burning. Their weapons met in a hail of sparks, impact jarring up her arms. He caught her wrist—again, always faster, always one step ahead. He bent her arm behind her back, holding her immobilized.

Low and bitter, he murmured, “If you hesitate, they die. If you panic, they die. You want to be strong enough to carry their weight? Then take it. All of it.”

She twisted free, shoved him off, staggered back, chest heaving, sweat and anger stinging her eyes. Hands trembling on the kama, blood slicking her palm where the edge had nicked her skin. She let the silence stretch, teeth grit, world reduced to the ache of her own body.

At last, Sabito stepped back, blade lowering. Not sympathy, but the weary measure of a man who’s seen too many fall short. “Good.” His breathing slow, controlled, as if his body refused exertion. “Most of them are alive.”

Yume blinked, words landing askew. “Most?”

He nodded, gaze implacable. “You lost three. Didn’t even see how it happened.”

Jaw locked, pulse thundering in her ears. Bruises and rawness in her throat, nothing compared to the hollow blooming beneath her sternum. “Three.”

Sabito tilted his chin, mouth drawing tight, voice almost gentle—but only almost. “You were too slow. Or too soft. It doesn’t matter which.”

“How did they die?”

He regarded her—chin lifted, expression schooled into something close to regret, though his eyes stayed hard. “Spiders,” he said, voice cutting through the stillness.

Yume let out a sharp, humorless snort, mouth twisting. “Spiders? That’s the best you can come up with? What’s next—possessed gourds and haunted futons?” She rolled her shoulders, testing soreness in her muscles. “If you’re going to invent nightmares, at least try to be original. You owe me that much.”

He only tilted his head, the corner of his mouth tugging upward—a ghost of a smile, more cruel than kind. “You think this is a joke, Yume? That the world cares how creative suffering is?” He flicked the blade, droplets of blood—scattering onto the sand. “We’re not done.”

A muscle jumped in her jaw, irritation warring with adrenaline. “Oh, we’re back to the relentless suffering portion of the lesson, are we? That’s rich, coming from the man who once lectured me about the importance of rest.” She adjusted her grip, eyeing him sidelong. “I’m telling Giyuu you’re using me as a training dummy. He’ll be thrilled to know his friend’s gone rabid.”

Sabito’s answering laugh was dry. “Tell him whatever you want.” Then, without warning, he darted forward, sword singing an ugly, efficient tune.

Chapter Text

Tanjiro’s muscles twitched, useless. Fingers dug through the soil, hauling him forward inch by inch, his own voice hoarse, reduced to a child’s prayer: “Nezuko… Nezuko, move. Please…”

The silence rang in his ears, dense as wool. Moonlight barely pierced the lattice of branches overhead. His blade—smeared crimson—still rested at his side, useless now, the act already complete. Rui’s head had rolled, thudding softly to earth. It should be over.

But the demon’s laughter, high and cold, prickled beneath Tanjiro’s skin. Rui’s lips twisted up, blood streaming from his stump of a neck. “You look surprised. Did you really think you could sever my head? Did you believe it was that simple?” Rui’s voice slithered through the trees. “I cut my own head off. Before your little blade could touch me. It’s all tricks, all games, and you’re out of your depth.”

Tanjiro’s breath rattled in his throat. He clawed at the earth, dragging himself forward. The scent of demon—sweet, rotten—grew stronger. His heart hammered in his chest. His fingers closed on Nezuko’s sleeve. He couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t stop shaking.

Something changed—the atmosphere buckled, silence falling so sharp it seemed to slice through the air. A presence landed behind him. A scent drifted in: burnt sugar, lavender wet with rain, and beneath it, a haunting undertone—cedar and smoke. Tanjiro’s mind flickered. Sabito? For an instant, memory and reality warped. But the silhouette wasn’t the spirit child; it was unmistakably Yume—awake, hair loose and wild, eyes feral.

Her kama flashed as she twirled them in her grip—one blade reflecting moonlight, the other stained with drying blood. She didn’t look at Tanjiro; her attention belonged wholly to the demon, her posture loose, almost languid—danger coiled in ease.

Rui stilled, thread drifting from his fingertips, the moonlight giving his skin a porcelain sheen. He regarded Yume, and for a heartbeat, something like recognition flashed in his gaze. “So,” he drawled, voice slithering, “the one who butchered Upper Six. The Master speaks of you. Such a rare treat—Hashira caliber, but still so flawed.” His lips curled. “How fortunate. He’s so eager to—”

Yume cut him off with a flick of her wrist, her voice flat. “You caught me at a bad time. I’m in the middle of a terrible breakup, demon. If you have any last words, make them entertaining.”

Tanjiro, straining to raise his head, caught the play of emotion across Yume’s features—tiredness, cold purpose, and a flash of something more complicated, some shadow trailing her gaze. Her uniform gaped at the abdomen, blood soaking through, but she didn’t flinch.

Rui let out a soft laugh, head cocked. “Such bravado. I wonder if you’ll sound so amusing with your lungs torn out. I want to see what you’re really made of.” His fingers twitched, threads blooming outward. They looped, spiraled, danced for her throat, wrists, eyes.

Yume’s kama moved—a flicker, barely visible. Threads—cut, frayed, evaporated—fell to the earth. Rui blinked. “You’re quick,” he said, voice losing some of its mask. “But you bleed. I can smell it from here. You’re tired, aren’t you? It’s not fair to die when you’re already falling apart.”

Yume rolled her shoulder, lips curling in a smile. “Do you always talk this much? I told you—I’m not in the mood. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

The Kizuki’s smile faltered, threads hissing from his wrists. “Don’t patronize me!” Rui spat, voice cracking with that uncanny, childish timbre. His fingers twitched, and the threads spiraled outward, slicing the air.

Behind Yume, Tanjiro struggled upright, nails biting earth, jaw set against the agony writhing through his limbs. He planted one knee, chest heaving, body trembling with the effort.

Rui’s attention snapped toward the siblings, a new malice rippling through the clearing. With a flick, Rui sent his Blood Demon Art surging—threads thickened, weaving themselves into a lattice, a gleaming cage that arched toward Tanjiro and Nezuko. The construct yawned open, whistling through the darkness, strands sharp enough to pare skin from bone.

Yume moved, her presence rippling the stagnant air. She caught the threads before they reached the siblings—kama blurring, her blades singing a clean, bitter note. The cage disintegrated, white fibers falling in spirals, dissolving before they could touch flesh. She shot Rui a glance over her shoulder. “Try again. I promise I’ll pretend to be surprised next time.”

The insult struck home. Rui’s features warped—delight curdling into rage. “Enough!” he shrieked, and the forest answered: threads snapped from every angle, lashing the undergrowth, biting into trunks, raising a frenzy of leaves and splinters. “Die—die, die, die!”

Blood Demon Art after Blood Demon Art, threads thickened, sharpened, snapped toward her in a dozen dizzying patterns: whips, needles, nets. He spun a storm around himself, the air vibrating with danger, the stench of demon blood rising. Yet Yume advanced, never rushing, never frantic.

But Rui wasn’t only desperate—he was clever, too. Sensing the noose closing, he pivoted, his eyes flicking back to Tanjiro and Nezuko—vulnerability, raw and exposed. In a heartbeat, the threads shifted, abandoning Yume to snare the siblings.

Yume’s face hardened. “Not so fast.” She broke from her slow approach, body snapping into action—a flash of blue and lilac, kama ringing as she intercepted the net. Threads shredded around her, the effort tearing at her, blood seeping anew across her stomach.

She blocked every path to Tanjiro and Nezuko, forcing Rui to split his focus.

He hissed, retreating into the shadows. The forest seemed to close in: branches bending, shadows deepening, cold settling over the clearing.

Rui’s threads zipped out again, fanning into a maze meant to distract, divide, consume. “You care so much for these children?” he spat, voice breaking. “Then die for them!”

He poured everything into the next attack—threads dense as monsoon rain, red with his own blood, whistling through the clearing. Yume’s kama became a blur—dreams made steel, hope weaponized. Blood streaked her sleeve, but she held the line, jaw clenched, body anchored between Rui and the siblings.

Yume twisted, the world fracturing around her into angles of pain and silver. Tanjiro saw her back arch as the threads tore her open: scabs giving way, blood welling along old wounds, new lines striping her arms and cheeks. For an instant, Tanjiro tasted copper on the air.

One thread coiled toward Tanjiro, and he braced himself for the wet bite of it. But Yume was faster.

She flung herself across the clearing, intercepting the blow. The threads carved lines into her cheek, her forearm—blood beading, falling in slow, round drops that soaked the earth and spattered his face.

Rui’s laughter crashed over them, shrill and delighted, trembling with a hunger Tanjiro. “Yes, bleed for them! Suffer for them! This is family. This is love. You understand, don’t you?” Rui bared his teeth, inhaling the carnage as though it were incense.

He saw Yume sway, blood gathering under her feet, pooling in the moss. He tried to crawl toward her, but his hands slid, smeared with earth and red. Rui’s face twisted with rapture.

Yume’s voice broke through the tumult—a rough, guttural sound, nothing like the airy taunts she’d tossed before. “Dream Breathing,” she whispered, and Tanjiro saw her eyes shift—lilac irises filmed with exhaustion and something deeper, a tide pulling her under. Her grip tightened on her kama. “Sixth Form. Goodnight.”

She vanished.

Tanjiro’s eyes couldn’t follow her; not even the trained instincts hammered into him could parse her motion. For an instant, the world seemed empty of her—a blank where her presence had been, even the threads snapping against air. Rui jerked, confusion rippling across his face, threads whirling about him in a frantic cyclone.

Then she was there—behind the demon, her form materializing as though she’d been born from the night itself. She landed so softly it was as if the ground absorbed her, knees buckling under the weight of her own momentum, blood streaming down her thigh, her wounded stomach heaving beneath torn fabric.

Rui’s mouth opened. Red seams split him—a hundred paper-thin lines blooming across his skin, forehead to collarbone, wrist to throat. For an instant, he seemed untouched—an immaculate doll, caught in the silence before ruin. Then his body unraveled. Segments slid apart, the clean cuts turning him into a grotesque puzzle. Blood spattered the earth. He never finished his last scream.

Is this what it means to be a Hashira?

Yume staggered, one hand pressed against her stomach, the other still gripping her bloodied kama. For a moment, she stood, body swaying, breath whistling through her teeth. Then her knees buckled, her expression crumpled.

She collapsed.

Chapter Text

Giyuu ran. The forest split around him, trunks warping into streaks of darkness, earth a viscous quagmire under his feet. Each stride devoured the path, sandals splashing through stagnant puddles, mud splattered up his calves. Brambles scored his skin; the wind clawed at his hair. Only the echo of violence pulled him—laughter, then screaming, and then nothing, a silence sharp as a sword edge.

He crested the hill. Blood dampened the clearing, splattered on rocks and roots, mingled with the threads of dissolving demon silk.

There, at the epicenter, were three forms: Tanjiro, hunched over a battered body; Nezuko, kneeling, claws trembling as she stroked silver hair slicked with blood. Yume lay limp between them, her face streaked with red, mouth open as if mid-rebuke. Tanjiro pressed blood-soaked cloth to Yume’s stomach, hands shaking, the futility of it etched in the desperate set of his jaw.

A little farther off, the demon’s head still spewed malediction as it melted, the severed tongue blaspheming the world and the woman who had ended it. The voice faltered, cracked, then faded into silence. The mountain swallowed the last of its hate.

Giyuu dropped to his knees beside them. “What happened?” The words cut out of him, sharper than any reprimand, panic disguised as severity. His gaze swept from Tanjiro to Nezuko, then to Yume—cataloguing the ruin: her stomach wound, split and seeping, a dark pool already soaking through Tanjiro’s hands; her arms and hands crosshatched with dozens of shallow lacerations; cheeks scored, blood beading along her jaw and neck. He pressed his fingers to the side of her throat, searching for the pulse—a thready flutter, weak, but regular. Relief struck, then vanished, leaving only the ache of what almost was.

Tanjiro met his gaze, eyes red-rimmed and wild. “She—she protected us. The Kizuki—he was everywhere, threads everywhere, I—” He struggled for coherence, voice ragged. “Yume-san kept stepping between us and the threads. She was already bleeding, but she wouldn’t stop—she wouldn’t let him touch us.”

Giyuu checked the bandages. The wound at Yume’s belly gaped wide, torn clean through the layers Tamayo had sewn. Blood ran sluggishly, thick as syrup. Yume had stopped the bleeding as much as she could. His jaw clenched. “Did she collapse from blood loss?” The question was pointless. The answer was written in her body—utterly spent, bones made of lead, as if sleep had dragged her soul out by force.

But Tanjiro still answered. “She said—‘Sixth Form, Goodnight.’ She was so fast I couldn’t see her. The demon just…came apart.”

Giyuu’s breath caught, ice lancing up his spine. “Goodnight,” he echoed, voice flat. Memory flickered: the first time he’d seen her use it—twelve years old, wild and trembling, desperation written in the curve of her back. A child, cornered by a demon, slicing through the dark to save someone smaller than herself. Afterward, she had slept for six months. “Damn it,” he hissed, the word escaping before he could sheath it. “Tanjiro, keep pressure here. Don’t let up, no matter what.”

Tanjiro nodded, his mouth pressed into a grim line, words trembling. “Will she wake up?”

Giyuu reached for the pouch at his belt, finding the small vial of smelling salts Shinobu had made for emergencies. The vial uncorked with a pop, and he waved it beneath her nose—nothing. Her breathing remained shallow, eyelids fluttering but never lifting.

Nezuko made a soft, uncertain sound, her hands gentle as she stroked Yume’s forehead. The little demon’s gaze flickered to Giyuu, fear in her red eyes.

Tears streamed down Tanjiro’s cheeks. He looked at the ground, words catching, then escaping in a thin whisper. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect her. I—”

A quick shake of Giyuu’s head cut him off. “It was her job to protect you.” He glanced down at Yume. She made her choice. Always the same. She’d rather bleed out than let anyone else take the pain. Stubborn. Reckless. Too much like Sabito, not enough like me. “We need to get her off this mountain. She won’t wake for a long time—not after that form. It takes everything.”

Tanjiro looked up, searching Giyuu’s face for any scrap of hope. “What can I do?”

Giyuu’s mouth tightened. “Carry your sister. I’ll carry Yume.” He slipped his arms under Yume’s back and knees, lifting her with care. Her head lolled against his shoulder, hair streaked dark with blood and dirt. “Let’s go,” he said, voice thick, commanding. “We’re done here.”

Behind him, Tanjiro struggled under the twin burdens of exhaustion and his sister’s weight. Nezuko rode the lacquered box, legs swinging over Tanjiro’s shoulders, her hands tangling in his hair. Every few steps, she let out a tiny, anxious whimper, never taking her eyes off Yume.

Giyuu kept moving, senses on high alert for any threat the mountain might still hold, but his thoughts circled Yume. The wounds at her stomach and arms still bled through his uniform, warm and wet against his palm. Each time her breath hitched, he found himself holding his own.

Tanjiro broke the silence, his voice careful, almost apologetic: “Giyuu-san, does Yume…dream, when she sleeps like this?” There was a hopeful uncertainty in his tone, as if he wanted to believe Yume was somewhere better than this ruined, blood-soaked slope.

Giyuu shook his head, not slowing. “No dreams,” he said, voice clipped. “She told me it’s like blinking. She closes her eyes, then opens them again. No memory of anything in between.” He kept his gaze fixed forward, feet finding the surest ground, ears tuned for any change in Yume’s breath. “Sometimes she wakes up with a new bruise or wound. That’s all.”

Tanjiro fell silent for a while. Giyuu could hear the boy thinking, see it in the way his footsteps faltered. Nezuko whimpered, her voice quavering with every jostle.

Then Tanjiro spoke again. “But, Giyuu-san… When Yume sleeps, I always smell something else. Another presence, beneath her scent. Not just her. Tonight, and back in Asakusa, too.”

Giyuu’s grip tightened around Yume. Another presence? The thought unsettled him, but he kept his stride even. “She’s never mentioned that,” he said, more to himself than to Tanjiro. He studied Yume’s face—so calm, so emptied out by exhaustion it looked almost peaceful. “She never remembers. Not after her attacks, not after the long sleeps. She just wakes up and acts like nothing happened.”

Tanjiro pressed on, conviction coloring his tone. “It’s different. Sometimes it’s strong, like it’s protecting her. In Asakusa it was gentle. I wonder if maybe she does go somewhere, even if she can’t remember it. Maybe she isn’t alone after all.”

Giyuu was silent. Not alone. That would be just like her, wouldn’t it? Even her sleep is a mystery. He felt the ache in his arms, in his chest—a blend of guilt and stubborn hope he couldn’t voice. If she is somewhere, I hope it’s a place without demons. Without people like me.

Giyuu sat on the floor beside Yume’s futon, knees drawn up, arms draped loosely over them. Yume lay sleeping, one hand curled under her cheek, the other bandaged and resting atop the blankets.

Shinobu had come and gone—her hands brisk and precise, sewing Yume’s stomach wound. Smaller cuts stitched and swaddled, bruises anointed with camphor. When she’d finished, Shinobu left behind the ghost of disinfectant and a warning to keep Yume undisturbed.

He watched her breathe—shallow, even. No dreams, he reminded himself, though something in her slackened expression looked haunted, as if her spirit wandered far from her body. Outside, wind rattled the bronze bells on the boundary fence. Giyuu counted them, letting his mind drift.

A gentle weight nudged his elbow. Nezuko had taken up residence on the far side of the futon. She was curled with her knees beneath her, claws absentmindedly carding through Yume’s hair, smoothing tangled strands, then starting again. Every so often, she hummed—a thread of sound barely more than a vibration, plaintive, strangely comforting. Giyuu found her presence easy. She was quiet, purposeful. Her focus was on Yume, and it felt right to let her keep watch.

From elsewhere in the house, chaos erupted—Tanjiro and Inosuke volleyed barbed taunts and exasperated encouragement, their squabble underpinned by the nasal whine of a new voice: the yellow-haired boy, Zenitsu. His complaints rose above the others, a cascade of dire predictions about illness and death, ignored by everyone. Every few minutes, something thudded against the wall or rattled a pot in the kitchen. Giyuu’s patience frayed at the edges.

When did my house become a nursery? He listened to Tanjiro’s earnest attempts at mediation—“Inosuke, don’t put your feet on the table! Zenitsu, you’re not dying, you just need to rest!”—and wondered if anyone was truly resting. Shinobu had wanted them all moved to the Butterfly Mansion, where Kakushi could coddle and fret. But Tanjiro refused to leave, and his friends—odd, loyal—had refused to leave him.

Giyuu didn’t object. Not even when Zenitsu burst into tears over a phantom fever, or when Inosuke tried to wrestle the shoji door off its tracks. He found himself listening, measuring the cadence of their bickering, the way it filled the space Yume usually occupied. It was a different kind of noise—less intrusive than loneliness, less punishing than guilt.

His thoughts drifted, turning back to Tanjiro’s words on the descent—about the scent that clung to Yume when she slept. Giyuu’s frown deepened, gaze tracing the lines of Yume’s face.

Who do you dream of, Yume? Do you dream at all? Or do you walk somewhere I can’t follow, guided by someone stronger than me? Your mother, perhaps. Or your father. Do you ask him all the questions you never ask me?

Kanzaburou burst in through the window, his black wings beating the humidity into shreds as he landed squarely on Giyuu’s shoulder. The crow’s talons pricked through the sleeves. Kanzaburou tilted his head, beak darting for a loose strand of Giyuu’s hair and began to preen. “Master has arrived,” the crow intoned, his voice unusually decorous, as if delivering a message to a grieving family.

Giyuu froze, heart stuttering. Why now? The Hashira meeting was only yesterday. He’d seen the Master then, pale in his silks, the twin children at his side, Amane never more than a breath away. Had something been left unsaid, or—had I forgotten something?

He stood, careful not to disturb Yume. Kanzaburou hopped to the windowsill, cocking his head, satisfied. Giyuu slid the shoji door closed. Nezuko, catlike and patient, remained at Yume’s side, never glancing up from the steady, protective vigil she kept. He trusted her more than any Kakushi.

From the kitchen, Tanjiro’s earnest, frantic attempts to maintain order rose above the others: “Zenitsu, please stop crying!” Inosuke bellowed back, every word a challenge, as utensils clattered and the low table scraped against the floor. Giyuu didn’t bother with a warning. He doubted they’d hear it. Instead, he strode down the hall, gathering what composure he could, and opened the door.

The Master stood beneath the eaves, Amane by his side. Kagaya Ubuyashiki’s presence warped the air itself—soft, inexorable. His eyes, milky and nearly blind, found Giyuu at once.

Giyuu dropped to his knees, forehead nearly to the boards. “Master Ubuyashiki. Amane-sama. Forgive me, I didn’t expect—”

“Rise, Giyuu,” the Master said, voice gentle. “There is no need for formality among family. I’m simply glad to see you well.” He tilted his head. “It seems you’ve turned this place into a true home at last. It makes me happy.”

The words rang in Giyuu’s ears, awkward and unexpected. He straightened, gaze flicking back toward the house—toward the commotion, the laughter, the arguments echoing down the corridors. A home? He said nothing, only bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.

Amane stepped forward, offering her arm to the Master. “We would like to come inside, if that’s all right,” she said, her voice gentle but edged with authority.

He slid the door open wider, ushering them in, then leading them down the corridor, careful to guide them away from the worst of the chaos—though nothing could fully muffle the shouts: “Tanjiro, that’s my rice bowl!” “Inosuke, don’t climb the shelves!” “Zenitsu, stop screaming!”

They paused outside Yume’s room. The shoji screen glowed faintly, lamplight leaking around the edges. Nezuko sat inside, still as a guardian statue, her hands folded on her knees. Giyuu rapped his knuckles softly against the frame. She looked up at once, eyes wide with concern.

“Nezuko,” he murmured. She hesitated, eyes flicking to Yume, then nodded. She rose without complaint and slipped past Giyuu.

Amane waited for the Master to pass, then followed him in, closing the screen behind them. Giyuu and Nezuko stood outside, separated from Yume by a sliver of wood and paper.

Giyuu waited silently for almost an hour before Amane’s silhouette cut through the paper of the shoji as she slid the door open. “Giyuu. Please come in.”

He nodded, straightening the folds of his uniform. Entering, he closed the door behind him.

Yume lay unmoving beneath her blanket, hair fanned across the pillow. Beside her, the Master sat cross-legged, posture elegant. Amane knelt at his side, her face a mask, watchful and serene.

Taking his place across from them, Giyuu knelt, hands folded on his knees.

The Master spoke, his words slow. “Do you know, Giyuu, what your Tsuguko accomplished on Natagumo Mountain?”

Giyuu swallowed—his throat dry, jaw tight. He held the Master’s gaze, eyes never wavering. “Yes, Master. I do.”

A faint smile traced the Master’s lips. “Nearly every child I sent to that place with her returned. All but three.” His gaze moved to Yume, lingering there, sorrowful and proud at once. “You must be proud of her.”

A sensation both unfamiliar and ancient constricted Giyuu’s chest. “I am,” he managed. His voice sounded distant to his own ears, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. “She fought beyond what I expected. Beyond what was possible. She has always done more than I asked. Even when I didn’t want her to.”

“You have done well, Giyuu. You both have. You have earned that pride.” Kagaya’s gaze seemed to search Giyuu’s face, reading what lay beneath the silence. “There is something you wish to ask.”

Giyuu hesitated. “Tanjiro mentioned something.” The words faltered, but he forced them on. “When Yume sleeps, he says he smells another presence. Two, sometimes. The night she fought the kizuki, and in Asakusa before that. He wondered if she goes somewhere when she sleeps. I—” A glance at Yume. “I didn’t know if it was possible. If…someone could linger like that. Even after death.”

Kagaya inclined his head, thoughtful, hands folded in his lap. “Yes,” the Master said at last. “It is possible. Have you ever heard of The Bridge of Dreams? In ancient tales, it is said that certain souls—especially those marked by tragedy, or extraordinary fate—may cross from this world into another while they sleep. The bridge is neither entirely of the living nor of the dead. It is a liminal space. A soul on such a bridge may meet lost loved ones, spirits, even guardians long departed.” He paused. “Some say the bridge appears only to those who cannot rest in this life, or who carry burdens that the waking world cannot relieve.”

A chill slid down Giyuu’s spine. “And Yume—”

“She may be one such traveler,” Kagaya said gently. “Especially if she possesses a rare sensitivity—an opening, born of suffering and devotion. It would not surprise me if someone from the other side watched over her. Or even fought beside her, in ways the rest of us cannot see.”

Giyuu’s throat felt scraped raw, but he forced the words: “Is it safe for her?”

“I do not know, Giyuu. But she is not alone on that bridge. And neither are you. The dead are never truly gone. They linger for those who cannot yet put their burdens down.”

He heard himself ask, voice low and rough-edged, “Is it her parents, then? The presence with her?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Kagaya answered at last. “There are stories of parents crossing the bridge, drawn by grief or unfinished love. But in this case…” He let the thought trail, words thinning like smoke. “I have a feeling the soul that walks with her is someone you know very well.”

Sabito.

Before he could voice it, the Master exhaled—a breath full of foreboding. “There is something more urgent I must speak to you about, Giyuu. Forgive me for not coming sooner. I wished to speak of it in person.” A glance at Amane—she gave the faintest nod of encouragement. Kagaya continued, voice low. “It has come to my attention—both through crows and direct testimony—that after you and Yume defeated Upper Six, Kibutsuji Muzan himself has taken an interest in her. This was confirmed by the words of Lower Five, before his death.”

Giyuu’s chest filled with cold dread. “Why?” He managed, the word a rasp—worse for being honest.

A ghost of a smile flickered on Kagaya’s lips, sad and weightless. “We do not know for certain. Muzan is not careless, but neither is he infallible. I suspect—though I cannot yet prove—that it has to do with Yume’s sleep. Her condition. Or, more accurately, the ability that blooms inside it.”

Giyuu’s pulse hammered in his throat. He looked to Yume, so still. What does he want from you? What does he see that the rest of us can’t? The urge to shake her awake, to demand answers she’d never be able to give, seized him.

He clenched his hands. “If Muzan—”

“If Muzan wants her, he will send everything at his disposal,” Kagaya said, not unkindly. “This is not a fate she can evade by running, nor can you shield her from it by standing between them. The best protection you can offer her is to help her grow stronger still. Not just in sword, but in mind. In will. In the bridges she builds—in both worlds.”

“There is a woman I trust,” Kagaya continued, gaze turning inward, as if studying the knots of fate themselves. “She has spent many years devoted to the paths between our world and the one that waits beneath dreams. The Kakushi will come for Yume at first light. You will go with her, Giyuu. You will both remain with her as long as is necessary. The Water Pavilion will be safe; your comrades will be watched over here.”

Tension wound tighter across Giyuu’s shoulders as he nodded. Another unknown. Another battle for which no training could prepare him.

Kagaya leaned forward, his eyes fixed on something beyond the dimness, beyond flesh and memory. His words slowed, heavy with purpose. “Whatever Muzan seeks—whatever he believes Yume is, or might become—he must not have her. Not alive, not whole, not even in spirit. Do you understand me, Giyuu?”

Amane’s breath catched beside him.

Giyuu stared at his hands, the blue veins threading beneath pale skin, knuckles still nicked from battle. The idea of losing Yume, not to the jaws of a demon but by his own hand, carved out a hollow so profound he nearly doubled over from the weight. But this was the truth of their world. Mercy, here, could be its own cruelty. He met the Master’s gaze. “Yes,” Giyuu said. His voice trembled, just once. “I understand.”

“Say it plainly,” Kagaya urged, not with harshness, but with the demand of one who loved his children too well to leave them to confusion.

Giyuu’s jaw locked. He forced the words, each syllable torn from some place he would never show another soul. “If Muzan comes for her… If he gets close—if he tries to take her—I will kill her. I will not let him have her. No matter what.”

A tremor passed through him—anger, grief, terror, all indistinguishable beneath the discipline of his Hashira’s mask. There was no rescue in this promise, only a cold, exacting love. The only kind he had ever learned.

Lines softened across the Master’s face, mingling sorrow and trust. “I do not ask this lightly, Giyuu. It is the burden of those who love most fiercely to risk becoming what they hate, for the sake of those they protect. Yume is not a weapon. She is not a tool. But in this, she is a threshold. And you—her guardian. I pray it will never come to that.”

Giyuu wanted to say he would find another way. That he would fight fate itself. That he would save her, as he’d failed to save Sabito, to save Tsutako, to save all the ones who’d vanished. But lies tasted sour in his mouth. There was no defiance left in him tonight. Only the vow, ugly and necessary.

“I will not fail,” he whispered.

Kagaya inclined his head. “That is all any of us can promise. Rest, Giyuu. Tomorrow, you walk to Mount Osore.”

Amane rose, touching Giyuu’s shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort as she led the Master out. Giyuu stayed behind, the echo of the Master’s command burning inside him.

Kakushi moved in procession, hands deft and eyes averted as they bundled Yume into the litter, her limbs tucked beneath blankets, her face slack in a sleep too deep for comfort. Giyuu made sure the covers were arranged just so, careful not to jostle her bandaged stomach.

Feet pattered, fast and urgent. The door rattled open. Nezuko came flying, kimono loose at the shoulder. She barreled into him, clutching something close, eyes wide as coins. Latching onto his leg, she thrust her prize up for inspection: a haori, new-stitched, half-folded, the colors unmistakable. For a moment, Giyuu blinked, unsure if this was dream or waking. Then Tanjiro and Inosuke barreled in behind, breathless and beaming.

“We finished it, Giyuu-san!” Tanjiro announced, voice thick with pride. “Well, Nezuko did most of it. The other half was just hanging there, getting faded in the sun, and we wanted to do something for you, since you’re leaving.”

The fabric felt familiar—the right side, a perfect geometric pattern, stitches so precise they vanished against the weave. Yume’s handiwork, unmistakable. The left half was coarser, the threads a little wild, the color just off from the original. Nezuko’s work, then—her determination showing in every uneven seam, every bright mistake.

He slipped it on, letting it settle across his shoulders. For a second, something inside him eased. “Thank you,” he said, voice rougher than intended. Kneeling, he patted Nezuko’s head, careful not to muss her hair. She preened at the praise, hands clapping together, then returned to her place near Yume’s litter, her eyes fixed on the sleeping girl, brow furrowed in concern.

Tanjiro lingered, a question lurking behind his smile. “How long will you be gone?” he asked, his eyes flicking to Yume, then back to Giyuu’s.

Giyuu paused. “I don’t know. However long the Master decides. But you and your friends can stay here. The Kakushi will look after you. You’ll walk to the Butterfly Mansion every morning for your rehabilitation training.” His gaze sharpened. “If you don’t, Shinobu will drag you all by the ankles herself. She’ll make certain you regret it. And—” he let the words settle, pointed, “—keep Zenitsu out of Yume’s room. If he tries, tell him I’ll take his eyes.”

Inosuke barked with laughter. “Oi! I’ll do it if you won’t. That crybaby has no guts.”

Tanjiro grinned, bowing his head. “Understood, Giyuu-san. We’ll do what you say. I promise.”

For a moment, as he glanced from the children to Yume, Giyuu thought maybe the Master was right. There was more than duty binding them here.

Chapter Text

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

She has survived Final Selection.

The chill of early spring stung her cheeks, raw and windburnt. Pine sap’s sharp scent mingled with blood, festering beneath the ragged bandage on her thigh. One sandal was gone. Toes curled in the damp earth. Still, Yume pressed forward, teeth gritted so hard her jaw ached. Drizzle clung to her eyelashes, smudging the world into an uncertain watercolor of ash trees and distant lanterns.

Above her, perched like a charm against misfortune, Tsuki fluffed her pale wings and muttered encouragement. “Just a little more, Yume. See? Home’s not so far—don’t fall asleep”

Exhaustion tried to drag her down; sleep gnawed at the base of her skull, seductive as a lullaby, promising release from pain.

The gates of headquarters rose ahead, blurred by mist and distance. Lanterns cast pale halos in the gloom, swaying in the wind that carried faint voices and the peal of another Kasugai crow.

The bandage around her thigh felt wet, slick, warmth leaking from under the knot. Fingers twitched with fever. She tripped, caught herself, staggered up the incline.

Outside the gate, a figure waited. Even at this distance, she knew the set of those shoulders, the stubborn line of the jaw. Giyuu—older than her by three years, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Always on the fringe, always half-turned toward the dark, waiting for someone who might never return.

He didn’t give up on me.

Tsuki cawed, triumphant. “There! See, Yume? Told you he would be here!”

And there he was—arms crossed, gaze relentless, scanning every shadow for movement. His uniform was too big, sleeves bunched at the wrists; his hair—unkempt, wind-tangled—fell over his brow, nearly hiding the way his eyes narrowed as she stumbled into view.

Kanzaburou flapped his wings irritably atop Giyuu’s shoulder, squawking, “Late, late, she’s late!” but the words vanished, insignificant, as Giyuu’s entire posture changed.

She barely registered it. One moment he was stone, the next—a flash of feet pounding over gravel. He was running, reckless, as if every god and ghost in the mountains were at his heels. Yume’s legs buckled. Her knees hit the ground. Pain blossomed, but she barely felt it past the searing mix of shame and relief.

Tears spilled, streaking through grime.

She tried to stand. Failed. The world tilted. Tsuki fluttered down, pecking at her ear, indignant. “Don’t you dare collapse now!”

But Giyuu was already there—sinking to his knees in the mud beside her, the motion so abrupt she startled. His arms closed around her, awkward but fierce, the press of his chest both armor and sanctuary.

She pressed her face against his collar. “I’m sorry,” she choked, the words tumbling out, raw and ugly. “I’m sorry, I— I couldn’t avenge— Sabito— the hand demon, it—” Her voice faltered, splintered by guilt. “I ran. I ran away because I wanted to come home. I didn’t want to die out there—I didn’t want to leave you here, not by yourself. I wasn’t brave. I’m— I’m—”

The rest dissolved into sobs, small and desperate, the sound swallowed by the wind and the rain.

Giyuu’s breath was ragged. He held her too tightly. “You came back. That’s all that matters.” Leaning away just enough to look at her, his eyes—dark, rimmed with sleeplessness—scanning her face. “You’re not a coward, Yume. You— you lived. That’s what Sabito would want.”

Her shoulders shook. She wanted to tell him about the way the forest looked in moonlight, twisted with corpses. About the blood that wouldn’t wash off her hands, no matter how long she scrubbed in the river. About the nightmares. But the words tangled. Instead, she pressed closer, breath shuddering.

Tsuki hopped down to perch on Yume’s knee, shaking rain from her wings with a little scoff. Kanzaburou landed beside her, all pomp and bluster, but his voice was uncharacteristically soft: “Thank goodness.”

Giyuu tightened his grip, burying his face in Yume’s hair for the briefest instant. His voice was so quiet she almost missed it. “I waited every night. I kept thinking—if you didn’t come back—” He bit off the sentence, as if naming the possibility would give it power. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Yume’s sobs faded to hiccups. “You look awful,” she managed, voice quivering. “Did you even sleep while I was gone?”

He snorted. “Couldn’t. Kanzaburou kept pecking me awake.”

“That’s a lie!” Kanzaburou bristled, feathers puffing. “Master Giyuu refused to come inside. Slept by the gate.”

Giyuu ducked his head, one hand fisting in the damp fabric of her uniform. “I had to be here. Just in case.”

Yume’s breathing had steadied, but the tremors in her limbs lingered, making her hands clumsy where they clung to him. “Giyuu…I’m so tired. My legs feel like someone filled them with rocks. Maybe…maybe just let me rest here, in the mud. Wouldn’t mind, really.”

Tsuki fluffed her feathers indignantly, as if scandalized by the very idea. “You’ll catch your death, lying there like a stray dog! Up, up!” she barked, pecking insistently at Yume’s arm. Kanzaburou clacked his beak in agreement.

Giyuu didn’t argue, only slid his arms beneath her, one hand bracing her back, the other hooking beneath her knees. “I’ll take you inside,” he murmured, tone more command than comfort. “You can sleep now.”

“I…I wasn’t brave,” she mumbled, her voice drowsy, stripped of any pretense. “I kept thinking of home. Of you. Maybe that’s why I lived. Maybe it was the only reason.”

Giyuu’s answer was a silence so profound it became a kind of shield, a refusal to let anything in—shame, regret, the black water of despair lapping at both their feet. He walked on, sandals squelching in mud, face set and eyes forward. “You don’t have to be brave all the time,” he said at last, voice low. “Just alive.”

Just before the darkness claimed her, she murmured, “Don’t let go, okay?”

“I won’t.”

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

(yume and giyuu)

Chapter Text

Mount Osore didn’t so much rise from the earth as it bled through it—sickly, each slope reeking of old grievances and minerals that left a briny scum on the tongue. Giyuu led the small procession up the incline, sandals leaving tracks in the fine, bone-white ash. The world here seemed pared back to essentials: stone, wind, sulfur.

He hated it. Every step on this terrain made him more aware of his own body: the damp between his shoulder blades, the tightness in his calves, the ache gathering in his lower back. It was as if the air itself was a stranger—too thin, but also oddly heavy, pressing against his lungs. The taste of sulfur clung to the roof of his mouth. Even the wind felt off, threading through his hair with a static charge, raising the fine hairs on his arms. What kind of place is this, that even the weather feels contaminated?

They had walked for nearly a week, crawling through the worst the north could offer: unbroken forests, then the ragged switchbacks that carved through the heart of the peninsula. Each day stretched into a slow ordeal of necessity—Yume’s wounds demanded attention, and he permitted no other hands to touch her unless absolutely required. He learned the precise angle at which she breathed easiest, the way her jaw tensed when her fever threatened to return, the measured increments in which rice water could be coaxed between her lips without hurting her. The Kakushi murmured polite suggestions—Giyuu accepted none. He didn’t trust them, not with her.

Now, at the mountain’s foot, he paused, taking in the basin beyond: the ashen plain, punctuated by grotesque rocks, the earth scarred and pitted by ancient violence. A river of sulfur wound its way through the landscape, the water curdled and opaque, exhaling a breath that scalded the nostrils. Lake Usori sprawled beyond—a palette of sick blues and milky turquoise, reflecting a sky streaked with bruised clouds.

The air was colder than it had any right to be for late spring. He draped his haori more tightly around Yume’s frame, checking the wraps at her abdomen. Her face, gaunt and slack in sleep, was nearly colorless, only a pulse of fever-pink at her throat betraying the ongoing struggle inside. The mountain’s silence gnawed at him—not peace, but a kind of vacancy, an emptiness that pressed at the back of his skull.

The Kakushi—faces drained by the journey, posture folded by exhaustion—lowered their heads as they guided the litter to a small hut’s threshold. The hut looked as if it had crawled out of the lake itself: rain-warped wood mottled by ash, shimenawa dangling with soggy paper shide. One Kakushi, the eldest, dipped into a bow so deep his hands pressed to the earth. “Tomioka-sama. We will return to headquarters now, unless you command otherwise.”

Giyuu nodded. The words of gratitude tangled somewhere in his chest and died unspoken. He watched them go, their sandals scraping over pumice and mud, black uniforms vanishing into the tangle of cairns and sickly pines.

He turned toward the hut, rapping his knuckles against the frame, the sound vanishing into the interior, swallowed by straw and darkness.

Giyuu hesitated, fingers tightening on the litter’s edge. His hand drifted to the hilt of his blade, not quite drawing it, but not letting go. He bent low, peering through the half-opened door, searching for movement.

Movement.

He spun, blade clearing its sheath before the thought had fully formed.

An old woman stood over Yume’s pallet, one knobby hand cupping Yume’s jaw, the other resting at her pulse. Her hair was wild, bristling with dried mugwort. The lines etched into her skin looked almost volcanic—cracked by years of watching over the grief-stricken. Her eyes, clouded opal, saw nothing and everything at once.

He advanced, blade at the ready. “Don’t touch her.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at the sword aimed inches from her spine. Instead, she let her palm linger on Yume’s brow, thumb brushing her throat. “Put your blade away, Hashira,” she murmured. Her tone was not unkind, but it bore the weight of someone who’d seen swords drawn for reasons far less noble. “Steel won’t change what’s already been bought and paid for.”

He moved closer, a growl hidden in his voice. “You weren’t here when we arrived.”

“And you weren’t there when she was promised to the dead,” the old woman countered, letting her hand fall. “You think this mountain needs permission to keep its own? She’s been claimed since the day she was born. The rest of us just walk in circles, pretending we get to choose who the earth keeps and who it spits back out.”

Giyuu held his stance, uncertain. No demon’s presence clung to her—just the faintest echo of incense, sulfur, and crushed leaves. Her hands had the deftness of a healer, but no healer he trusted. He didn't lower his blade.

She pushed past him—small, stooped. She moved with a limp that sounded like old bones protesting. “Well? Are you going to stand there gawking, or will you carry her in? If you’re waiting for a ceremony, you’ll die waiting. The dead here aren’t patient, and neither am I.”

He gritted his teeth, but scooped Yume up. The woman’s blindness made her bold; she stepped aside only at the last moment, her rosary of river stones clicking as she moved into the gloom of the hut.

Inside, the space was cramped—straw mats curling up at the corners, dried mugwort and red cloth swaying from the rafters, shelves crowded with talismans and cracked bowls. A battered brazier squatted in the center, exhaling thin threads of smoke, perfuming the air with camphor and something bitter—wormwood, perhaps.

Giyuu lowered Yume onto the futon, careful to arrange her limbs as he’d done a hundred times in the past week. She made no sound. The old woman leaned over, fingers tracing the lines of Yume’s bandages, not with reverence but with a brisk, critical impatience.

She made a low sound in her throat. Her fingers peeled back a corner of gauze, revealing the bruised, puckered skin beneath, the stitches pulled too tight in places. “Hashira. You’re in my house now. While you’re here, you’ll earn your keep. There’s no room for brooding, and I won’t have husbands sulking around.”

He stiffened. “What do you want from me?”

She straightened, rubbing her hands together as if brushing away a distasteful memory. “The living don’t get to lounge on the mountain’s edge. You’ll work—patrol the paths, split firewood, keep the wind from rattling my bones at night. Some nights, you’ll guide the lost to the lake. Some mornings, you’ll ferry their regrets back from the shore. If you don’t like it, you can walk back to wherever you came from.” She glanced over her shoulder, milky gaze fixing him through the half-dark. “The dead here have more pressing business than your pride.”

He looked from her to Yume, unsure whether to argue or kneel.

The old woman, apparently satisfied, sat beside Yume and began unwinding the bandages. “I am Yoriko. You’ll call me that, not ‘old woman’ or ‘itako-sama.’ Don’t test my patience. And don’t think I owe you explanations for anything you see or hear here. The mountain listens. The lake remembers. You’d do well to listen too, before it forgets you.”

She glanced down at Yume’s exposed wounds—a scowl twitching at the corner of her mouth. “You’ll fetch water and bring the mortar. I’ll show you how to make something that doesn’t insult the body trying to heal.”

He rose, retrieving what she asked.

The days blurred together—uneventful only in the way hard labor and vigilant waiting could be. Giyuu surrendered to the rhythm Yoriko set for him, a cadence measured in firewood split, water fetched, endless circuits patrolling the barren caldera and the labyrinthine cairns at the lake’s edge.

He never lost the sense of being watched. Sometimes, while walking the thin trails that twisted through the sulfurous wastes, he glimpsed movement among the stones—a flash of white, the afterimage of a face, the weight of a gaze that vanished when confronted. Shadows lingered at the periphery, never quite bold enough to resolve into threat or comfort. When he returned to the hut each dusk, he couldn’t decide if the silence that greeted him was relief or warning.

Yoriko cared for Yume’s wounds with a brusque efficiency, never coddling, never explaining what she saw or felt beneath her fingers. When Giyuu tried to intervene, she snapped at him: “Your job is to fetch and watch. Mine is to mend what can be mended. Don’t confuse the two.”

He resented her for it. He respected her for it more.

Each night, as the wind battered the hut and the lake hissed with unseen vents, he watched Yoriko slip away, staff in hand, bells chiming their thin, metallic warning. He saw her among the cairns—sometimes kneeling, sometimes wading knee-deep in the ashy shallows, always murmuring to the emptiness. Once, he heard her voice cut through the dusk, not chanting but scolding—fierce and unafraid, as if the dead were stubborn children she refused to let sulk their way into oblivion.

He had questions. A hundred, at least. About the souls she guided, about the threshold Yume hovered on. He bit them back, jaw tight with discipline.

On the fifth evening, the air soured with rain. Giyuu returned, shoulders aching, hands cracked and red from hauling logs. The hut exhaled its usual fug of smoke and medicinal rot. Yoriko hunched at the brazier, a pestle in hand, crushing something dark and pungent—mugwort, camphor, wormwood. Her movements were brisk, practiced, but there was a ceremony to them, a ritual cadence that prickled the hair at the back of his neck.

She didn’t look up when he entered. “Her wound’s closed. Stubborn thing. The fever’s gone, for now. She can wake, if you want her to.” Her voice dropped, uncharacteristically soft, then rebounded, bristling. “Sit down, Tomioka. Try not to glower at me like a dog guarding a bone. If I meant her harm, you’d know it.”

He lowered himself beside Yume, wary, folding his legs beneath him. His knees cracked. He ignored it. He watched as Yoriko prepared a dish of crushed herbs—gray-green paste, slick and malodorous. She lifted a small, chipped bowl of ash from the brazier, swirling it as if divining answers in the shifting soot.

Yoriko muttered, half to herself. “Not the first girl this mountain’s tried to keep. Not the first I’ve argued with the river over, either.” Her hands worked fast, nimble despite the crooked fingers. “Some are too quick to go. Others, like this one, won’t give up the body without a fight.” She fished a length of red cord from her robe, shaking it out, then began braiding it deftly into Yume’s hair, her touch unexpectedly gentle.

Giyuu scowled. “What is that supposed to do?”

“Same thing your haori does for you,” Yoriko replied, not missing a beat. “Tells the restless ones to mind their business. Tells her to stay put. It’s a reminder—she belongs to the living. For now.” The knot was complicated, the color harsh against Yume’s pallor. Yoriko finished it with a sharp tug, as if daring the world to contest her claim.

Ridiculous old witch. He looked at the cord—at how it lay against Yume’s temple, bright as a bloodstain, incongruous and strange. All these rituals. You can’t bind a soul with thread. Can you? Doubt gnawed at him, but he stayed silent, hands folded tight in his lap.

Yoriko dipped her fingers into the ash and began smearing it across Yume’s eyelids, marking her with quick, decisive strokes. “Don’t look at me like that, Tomioka. You think I’m mad, painting your Tsuguko like an offering? The dead on this mountain don’t care for your reason. They respect signs. They know what a mark means.” She leaned in close, eyes unfocused but unerring. “You’d do well to take a lesson. Sometimes the only thing that keeps a soul from wandering is being reminded it’s wanted.”

Giyuu bristled, the urge to snatch Yume away flashing through him—a fierce, childish impulse. “If you hurt her—”

Yoriko snorted, amused. “What do you think I am, boy? A demon? You’re not the only one who’s lost people. I do this to keep her. Not to lose her.” She glanced at him, face suddenly grave, all playfulness vanished. “You think the only way to protect someone is with a sword. That’s your mistake. Sometimes it’s a cord. Sometimes it’s a word. Most often, it’s nothing you can see.”

He absorbed the rebuke in silence, watching her work. The brazier guttered, smoke curling up around Yume’s face. Her chest moved—a shallow breath, the kind that hinted at a dream not yet relinquished. Giyuu’s stomach twisted. He felt, for a moment, as if he were the one waiting to wake, lost on the wrong side of some invisible river.

Yoriko finished the ritual with a final touch—her hand cupping Yume’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “There. If she’s got any sense, she’ll come back now. If not—” The old woman shrugged, as if the rest hardly mattered.

Giyuu’s eyes flicked between Yume’s slack face and Yoriko’s lined, inscrutable one. If she doesn’t wake, what’s left for me?

He watched the slow, steady rise of Yume’s ribs. Her face, too pale even in the amber wash of the brazier, remained slack. Her hand lay cold beneath his—no twitch, no resistance. He tried to count the breaths, hoping for some sign she hovered closer to waking.

Giyuu turned to Yoriko, irritation flickering through his restraint. “How long is this supposed to take?”

She didn’t bother to look at him, just wiped the last streak of ash from her thumb and busied herself at the mortar. “You’re impatient for a man used to waiting for death,” she muttered. “What’s the longest she’s ever slept for?”

He thought back, jaw tensing. The memories surfaced, sour and tangled—how long had he waited last time, counting the days by the shadows crawling along the walls? “Nearly seven months,” he answered, voice clipped, a note of disbelief leaking through. “She was twelve.” He remembered the way the Kakushi had tiptoed around the sickroom, the way Shinobu had stopped talking about prognosis and started whispering about ‘lost causes.’

Yoriko grunted. She leaned forward, knuckles bracing on the futon as she peered at Yume’s chest, as if squinting through the skin itself. “She’s got the mark of death, this one. Spirits don’t like it when someone gets away. Makes them greedy, makes them spiteful.” Her tone turned wry, but her mouth was set in a grim line. “You should count yourself lucky. Most don’t come back at all.”

Giyuu narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” He hated the way his voice thinned with uncertainty—an edge he couldn’t grind away, not even now.

But Yoriko only shook her head, mouth pulling sideways, as if the answer was a riddle he’d failed to solve. “You’ll understand soon enough. For now—call her. Sometimes a soul just needs to be reminded where it belongs.”

Giyuu hesitated, staring down at Yume’s sleeping form. “Yume,” he said, his voice low, all the force of a confession hidden in its weight. “Stop being stubborn.” He swallowed, jaw locked, the words clawing at his throat. “If you don’t come back, I’m giving your room to Tanjiro.”

At last—a flutter. Her eyelids trembled, lashes shifting through the dusting of ash. She made a low, reluctant sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “That’s fine,” she murmured, her voice thready, edged with something sharp and almost playful. “I don’t forgive you anyway.”

Relief struck him, dizzy and hot. He nearly missed the return of her wit—sarcasm as a lifeline, not a weapon. He let out a short breath, barely a laugh, but it tasted unfamiliar on his tongue. “You can be as mad as you want,” he said, voice rough with more feeling than he’d ever admit. “So long as you stay awake to complain.”

Yume’s mouth twitched at the corner, a fragment of her old smirk surfacing. She didn’t open her eyes right away, but her hand flexed beneath his, clumsy, tentative—a living thing returning to itself after too long away.

Yoriko clucked her tongue. “Good.” She pressed a bowl of water into Giyuu’s free hand. “Let her drink. She’ll need it. Waking up on this mountain is never gentle.”

Giyuu nodded, silent, as he helped Yume sit, supporting her. Her head lolled forward, hair falling over her brow, the red cord a bright, defiant scar. He offered the water in careful increments, watching each swallow.

She came back to me.

Chapter Text

She barely had time to inventory her own discomfort before the old woman descended upon her. Yoriko’s hands probed her jaw, peeled back her eyelids, pressed down on her tongue with a splintery thumb. Yume gagged in protest, but Yoriko ignored it, muttering to herself in a dialect as old as the mountain.

“Look at me,” Yoriko ordered, fingers tilting Yume’s chin toward the window’s sickly daylight. “Follow my finger. Good. Now open wide. Wider. You have all your teeth, at least. And your color’s back. That’s more than most manage.”

She shut her mouth with a click, gaze darting sideways. “If you’re looking for demons, I left them all back on the mountain. Nothing’s nesting in me.”

Yoriko snorted, poking her ribs with calloused fingers. “No demons, just plain human stupidity.” The old woman pressed a thumb to the pulse at Yume’s wrist, nodding in vague approval. “If you’d been slower by a single breath, I’d have needed to carry you across myself. Lucky for you, I don’t like ferrying slayers.”

Giyuu hovered nearby, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the narrowed sliver of blue beneath his lashes. He watched every movement with an edge of vigilance, as if one wrong touch would pull him forward. It might have been funny—if she wasn’t still upset at him.

Yoriko finished her inspection. “Now. Tell me what you saw while you slept. Was it water or fire? Did you walk alone, or did someone keep you company?”

“I never dream,” Yume replied, eyes fixed on a knot in the floor. “It’s just sleep. Blackout. One moment I’m here, the next I’m here again. Nothing in between.”

A frown pinched Yoriko’s brow. “Liar,” she pronounced, as if it were a simple diagnosis. “Everyone dreams. You just don’t remember. You’ll train until you do.” Without warning, she smacked Yume on the forehead—hard enough to sting.

Giyuu’s hand twitched toward his sword, his glare sharpening. “Don’t do that.”

Yoriko waved him off, unconcerned. “If you’re so delicate, boy, go gather moss or count stones. This isn’t your battlefield.”

He grunted, silent and unamused.

Yoriko straightened, brushing her hands on her robe. “She needs fresh air. The dead in this hut will steal her breath if she lingers. Carry her outside.”

Yume tensed, digging her heels into the tatami. “I can walk.”

Giyuu’s face hardened. “I’ll carry you.” There was no room for argument in his tone.

She started to protest again, but he bent, lifting her from the futon. His hands were warm beneath her knees and shoulders, steady in a way that sent a dull ache through her chest. He carried her, the futon bundled against his hip. It irritated her, how safe it felt.

Giyuu set her down beneath a crooked pine. The air outside was sharp with sulfur, tinged by the faint sweetness of incense.

She stared straight ahead, watching the weird blue of the lake, jaw tightening. Giyuu sat beside her, folding himself into stillness, but the silence between them was brittle. She ignored him, eyes fixed on the mountainside. You want to keep me close, but you push me away. I can't decide which stings more. Her fingers picked idly at the thread of the futon, refusing to yield the first word.

The silence dragged on, scraping across her nerves. Yume made a small game of refusing to look at him, tracking the wind’s movement across the surface of the lake instead. If I speak first, I lose. He’s waiting me out, just like always. When did this start to matter so much?

But then Giyuu shifted—the faintest motion—shoulders squaring, hands bracing on his knees. His stillness felt different now, as if something inside him had given way. His gaze fixed not on her but on a cairn half-sunken in the pale sand, as if confessing to stone.

“You…shouldn’t have done it,” he said at last, the words ragged and low, pried out with the same care he used to handle a blade. “In Muzan’s lair. That night. You put yourself between me and a demon. If you hadn’t—” His breath snagged; he pressed a knuckle to his mouth as if to stop the words, then forced them on. “That wound—that’s because of me. I was too slow. Too weak. You nearly died because of it.”

Yume turned her head, just enough to watch his profile. There was something raw there—startling, more real than any wound. The mask he wore around others had slipped; she saw guilt written clear, deep as a scar.

She scoffed, the sound dry, almost bitter. “Is that your idea of an apology? Or are you just looking for permission to keep sulking?”

His eyes flicked toward her. She caught the faintest quiver in his hand before he folded it into a fist. “It’s not sulking,” he muttered. “You’re my… You shouldn’t have—” His voice splintered. “If anything happened to you, I…”

Her irritation softened—a little. The wind whipped the cord in her hair, making it flicker in the periphery. Yume measured her words, letting a trace of anger linger between them. “Giyuu. Our job isn’t to survive each other. It’s to fight back to back. You think you’re the only one who gets to make decisions? I don’t want to be protected if it means watching you die. I’d rather take a wound for you a hundred times than live without you.”

He looked at her then—really looked. She watched him swallow, his throat working with a struggle he seemed to resent. “I don’t want that from you,” he said, every word deliberate, as if he were weighing them for the first time. “I don’t want… I don’t want you to be the one who bleeds for me.”

Yume leaned back, hands braced behind her, gaze drifting from the cairns, from him. “You don’t get to choose for me. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. If you want me to fight, I’ll fight. That’s what trust is, isn’t it?” Her lips curled, just a little. “Or do you only trust me when I’m safe?”

His silence sat between them—tight, charged, full of all the things he’d never say. The sun pressed lower on the horizon, turning the lake’s surface a strange, impossible blue.

She let the bitterness ebb, her voice lowering to something close to gentle. “I’d do anything for you. Even if it kills me. You know that, right?” She tried a laugh—thin, but real. “But I’d summon your ghost forever if you let yourself die on my account. I’d make your afterlife miserable.”

Giyuu’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. He glanced away, shoulders loosening by a fraction. “You already make this life difficult enough.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she said, her voice turning breezy with mischief. “I’m not moving back in. I’ve decided the Butterfly Mansion is much more to my taste. Quiet. Elegant. Food’s better.”

Giyuu turned sharply, disbelief cutting through his usual composure. “You’re not funny,” he said, the accusation oddly earnest—almost pleading.

She kept her eyes forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her full attention. “I’m not joking.” There was a lilt in her tone—a veiled challenge, daring him to press, to call her bluff.

He shifted closer, the futon groaning beneath his weight. “You’re not,” he echoed, more to himself than her, as if testing the taste of the idea and finding it sour. His voice tightened, a thread of frustration winding through the words. “The Water Pavilion isn’t just…a place to sleep. It’s your home. Our home.” The last words slipped out in a lower register. He looked away, brows drawing tight together.

“Tanjiro will be thrilled with his new room. He’s always so polite—he might even sweep for you.”

A muscle jumped in Giyuu’s jaw. His expression darkened, the air between them thickening. “He can sweep somewhere else. I said—” He bit off the end of the sentence, exhaling hard. “Don’t give away what’s yours.”

She couldn’t resist any longer. The laugh that broke from her was warm, slipping through the space between them and dissolving the last of her own resentment. “You’re so easy, Giyuu. After all this time, you still fall for it.”

He scowled. “I don’t—”

“—because I’m staying with you,” she finished. “Not in my old room. With you.”

Giyuu simply stared at her, as if caught between shock and relief. She could see the conflict play out across his face—duty, decorum, and old habits of self-denial flickering in his eyes, colliding with a more urgent want he could barely disguise. For once, he seemed to have lost his script.

She leaned in, voice lowering, eyes half-lidded. “You’re terrible at pretending, you know. I never wanted walls between us. Not at the Pavilion. Not anywhere.” Her tone gentled, the edge falling away. “I’m tired of being alone, Giyuu. I want to be where you are. If you push me away again, I’ll seriously hurt you.”

He said nothing for a moment. Then his hand drifted closer to hers, close enough that their pinkies brushed. There was a flush high on his cheekbones. The wary hope in his gaze made her chest tighten. “You can stay,” he said at last, voice so soft the wind nearly stole it. “If that’s what you want.”

Yume pressed her palm to the back of his hand. “It’s always what I want. Even when I’m angry.” She watched tension slip from his shoulders, posture easing as if some great weight had shifted. “Then it’s settled. You’re responsible for me now, Giyuu.”

He closed his hand around hers. “I already was.” Giyuu leaned in, slow, each breath a question.

Yume bridged that distance, feeling the hunger in his touch, the softness beneath his usual restraint. His lips brushed hers—tentative at first, as though he half-expected her to push him away. Even when he pulled away, he didn’t let go.

Giyuu’s gaze searched her face, looking for something—resentment, anger, forgiveness. She gave none of those, only a slow smile. His thumb swept across her knuckles.

After a moment, he spoke, voice pitched low, careful not to let it carry beyond the space between them. “Do you remember what happened? On the mountain?”

Yume met his eyes. “Yes. Most of it.” The taste of blood, the screech of threads—Tanjiro’s terror. Pain. Her own hands, slick and shaking. I remember not wanting them to see me afraid.

He hesitated, tension flickering in his jaw. “You did well,” he said, blunt and awkward, as if the compliment itself was a dangerous thing to wield. “You…saved them. Most of them.”

She arched an eyebrow, her lips twisting in challenge. “Careful, Tomioka. If you start complimenting me, I might get the wrong idea. Next thing you know, I’ll be asking for praise every time I don’t die.”

He looked away, the tips of his ears tinged pink, mouth flattening into a frown. “That’s not… It’s just the truth.” He shifted, trying to gather himself, but her laughter tugged at his composure.

She nudged his arm, feigning innocence. “You realize I’m going to tell everyone. ‘Tomioka Giyuu praised me.’ You’ll never live it down.”

He scowled, but there was no heat behind it. “Don’t.”

She let the joke hang, savoring his discomfort, then her tone gentled. “Thank you.”

Giyuu cleared his throat, gaze dropping. He studied the line where her hand met his, thumb tracing the curve of her palm. When he finally spoke again, his voice was careful, businesslike, but she caught the tremor beneath.

“We’re not here just to recover.” He paused, the words coming out slow. “The Master sent us. After…after the fight, he said Muzan took an interest in you.” He met her eyes again, searching her face for any sign of fear. “Lower Five confirmed it before he died. Muzan knows your name. He wants you for something. I don’t know what. No one does.”

Yume’s heart tightened, a fear slipping beneath her confidence. She masked it with a tilt of her head, forcing her voice light. “Well. That’s flattering. Most men just send flowers when they’re interested.”

Giyuu didn’t laugh. His features remained grave. “This isn’t a joke, Yume. Yoriko—she’s an itako. She can guide souls between this world and the next. The Master thought…she could teach you how to walk the bridge. To keep you out of Muzan’s hands. Or at least give you a way back if he tries to take you.”

“What’s she like?”

A rare flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. “I don’t know. Difficult. Sharp. She tells me to split wood or chase off ghosts. She said the dead have owned you since the day you were born.”

Yume plucked at the edge of the futon, considering the strange turns fate always seemed to take with her name. “That actually makes sense,” she murmured, as if musing to herself, but her gaze lingered on Giyuu’s face, gauging his reaction. “I was born dead, you know.”

He frowned, a ripple of confusion passing over his features. “You…what?”

“My mother told me once. When I was little. I wasn’t breathing when I came out. No heartbeat. Nothing. The midwife wrapped me up and handed me over, said there was no point. I was dead for…a whole minute. Maybe longer. My mother said she screamed so loud the roof beams shook.”

Giyuu’s jaw tightened, his expression sharpening in the twilight. “And then?”

She shrugged, lips twisting wryly. “And then I came back. Cried so hard she nearly dropped me.”

Giyuu watched her, wary at first. He didn’t speak, but his grip on her hand grew firmer, thumb moving slowly along her knuckles in silent reassurance.

She smiled, small and self-deprecating, not quite meeting his eyes. “Maybe Yoriko’s right. Maybe the dead have been following me all along.” She nudged him. “If they want me, they’ll have to fight you for the privilege.”

He grunted, probably in agreement.

Chapter Text

Giyuu lay on his side, the futon beneath him thin, seams pressed with the heat of two bodies. Yume’s hair fanned out against the mat. One hand rested over the bandages on her abdomen; the other knotted in his shirt, her grip dogged, fierce even in sleep. If he shifted, she only clung tighter, refusing to let him leave.

Outside, the wind carried the chime of Yoriko’s staff, echoing over the sullen waters of the lake. It threaded through the paper walls, jangling his thoughts. He found himself listening for it—each ring a reassurance that someone else still kept vigil here, straddling the gap between the living and the dead.

He studied Yume’s profile, skin nearly colorless in the half-light. She’s so stubborn, even in sleep. His gaze lingered on the bandages, the ugly swell beneath the cloth a grim reminder of her sacrifice. He knew the shape of that wound by memory now, the way her skin split at the edge, the angry stitch-marks.

She was born dead. Is that why she crosses that threshold? Is that why the spirits can’t let her go?

He pressed his palm lightly over her fist. What does it mean, to be claimed by the dead before you ever belonged to the living? He pictured it—the midwife’s hands, the colorless child, the scream of a mother. He wondered if Yume’s soul had always known the way across; if, somewhere in that first, failed minute, she’d bargained with something on the far shore. Was that why Sabito found her so easily, waiting at the margin between worlds? Did the dead mark her because she’d already been theirs once?

The idea filled him with a cold, inarticulate anger—a sense of theft, as if fate itself had robbed her of rest before she could even cry out. He resented it: the crossing, the spirits, even Sabito, for keeping her halfway between. If you’re watching her, you’d better not take her from me. Not unless you want me to cross after.

Yume murmured in her sleep, brow twitching as if troubled by some dream. Giyuu watched her lips part, a word forming and dissolving on her tongue. He wished she would tell him what she saw, if she saw anything at all.

A shudder ran through her. Giyuu pressed his forehead to her temple. He closed his eyes, counting the rhythm of her breath, forcing his own to match.

If I could stand between you and every ghost, I would.

A breath grazed his cheek. Lips traced the arch of his brow, drifted down to the tip of his nose. Warmth pressed against his eyelids, a whisper of a kiss, and then her mouth found his—gentle, coaxing him from the grey edges of sleep.

Yume’s hair tickled his jaw. He blinked, senses unspooling all at once. Her hand—still fiercely fisted in his shirt—tightened. He shifted, instinctively careful, cradling her body in the crook of his arm. His other hand rose, fingers ghosting over her waist, cautious around the bandages, but eager all the same.

She laughed softly—a sound that barely disturbed the silence of the room, yet rippled down his spine. Her mouth returned to his, lingering, then trailed down the line of his jaw, grazing his throat, over the pulse that hammered traitorously beneath his skin. Each kiss left heat. She found the hollow at his collarbone, let her teeth drag gently across sensitive flesh.

He sighed. The futon creaked under his shifting weight as he moved, careful not to jar her wound, but unable to keep from closing the distance between them. He rolled, one palm bracing her ribs, mouth pressed to hers, open and hungry now, tasting sleep and salt.

This was wetter, messier, hungry. Tongues met, tangled, tasted. Her breath hitched against his lips when he suckled her lower one into his mouth, teeth scraping teasingly before letting go with a soft pop.

Her body arched, rolling her hips into his with grace that felt like invitation. She moved against him as if she already knew the rhythm of his body, reading tension in his muscles and answering. Her thighs parted, knees curling around his hips, guiding him in closer.

His mouth trailed down her neck again, slower now. He traced the long tendon with the flat of his tongue, let his lips drag against the sensitive crook where shoulder met throat, then nipped. A sound spilled from her lips, sharp and gasping as he sucked a mark deep into her skin.

Her fingers found the back of his head, nails tangling in hair, a wordless command that he obeyed without hesitation. He kissed his way down her collarbone again, letting his tongue flick into the hollow, then drew another mark there—one that would last. One no one else would ever see but him.

She writhed beneath him, hands clutching his back now, knees hugging his sides. He slid a thigh between hers, grinding slow, drawing a breathy whimper from her throat. “G-Giyuu…”

Her voice—raw, half-broken, pleading—sent a pulse straight to his cock, already thick and aching. He rutted against her gently, caught between caution and need, and her body yielded to him, slick heat meeting him through the thin fabric of her yukata.

Then the door slid open, the wood groaning in protest.

Yoriko strode in, her staff thumping against the tatami. She paused at the threshold, fixing them both with an unimpressed look—equal parts grandmotherly censure and battlefield fatigue. “I said I didn’t want any corpses on my mountain. I meant babies too. If you want to rut, do it in a barn, not in my house. I’m too old for this nonsense.”

Yume buried her face in Giyuu’s throat, laughter muffled but unmistakable. Giyuu felt a flush spread up his neck and into his ears. He pulled the blanket up over Yume’s shoulder, half-shielding her, half hiding himself from Yoriko’s acid gaze.

Yoriko didn’t wait for apologies. She strode to the hearth, dropping a bundle of dried fish and foraged greens with a thud. “Eat. When you’re done slobbering all over each other, we begin.”

Yume only grinned, the mischief in her eyes clear even as she tried to mask it behind a cough. She untangled herself from Giyuu, pushing upright with careful movements—still wary of tearing her wound.

Yoriko laid out rice gruel in bowls, rough-edged and steaming. She set a smaller dish by Yume, lined with slivers of salted plum and fern tips, and another by Giyuu, brimming with pickled roots and fish.

Giyuu sat cross-legged beside Yume, his presence at once awkward and fiercely attentive, eyes flicking from her face to the wound, then to Yoriko and back again—never quite settling, never fully at ease.

“Breakfast, then we begin with cleansing and self-awareness. You’ll sit by the lake. Quiet. No bickering, no sleep.” Yoriko skewered Giyuu with a look. “You’ll carry her. After, you chop wood.”

Yume didn’t even try to hide her amusement. “You hear that, Giyuu? Back to your true calling—beast of burden and woodsman.”

Giyuu’s face betrayed nothing, but the tension in his shoulders sharpened. He set down his bowl with more force than necessary, chopsticks angled precisely as if to compensate for the chaos she summoned just by existing. “If you’re strong enough to mock me, you’re strong enough to eat.”

Yume snorted, spooning up the bland porridge. “Yes, Hashira-sama. Maybe after you finish your chores, you can help Yoriko with the laundry. If you’re very obedient, I’ll give you a kiss.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. Even her taunts sound like invitations.

Yume ate like someone reclaiming lost time. Each spoonful disappeared almost as soon as Yoriko set it down, the steam still curling in the morning chill. She didn’t pause to savor, only to breathe, and even then her breaths were shallow, hurried.

Giyuu had seen her eat plenty of times before—meals half-forgotten between naps, delicate portions she picked at until her energy failed—but this was different. She tore through her bowl until the bottom scraped, then reached across with the shamelessness of a thief. Her chopsticks slid into his portion, plucking fish and greens.

He let her.

For a moment, he simply watched, bowl cradled loosely in his hands, half-amused, half-impressed. Normally, he was the one accused of eating like he hadn’t seen food in weeks, finishing her servings along with his own, unthinking in his hunger. Now the roles had reversed, and there was something startling about her determination.

By the time she finished the last of his porridge, Yume leaned back with a faint groan, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. A small fleck of rice clung to the corner of her lip.

Giyuu’s hand moved without thought, thumb brushing the grain away. His calloused finger lingered a fraction too long, dragging lightly against the softness of her skin.

Yume’s lashes lifted. She smiled at him, her mouth curving as if the whole world had finally agreed to be kind.

Beautiful. She was beautiful—bandages, pallor still clinging to her cheeks, the exhaustion she refused to acknowledge etched in faint shadows beneath her eyes. Even so. Especially so.

Giyuu pulled his hand back, settling it rigidly in his lap. His gaze drifted away toward the pale light seeping in through the slats. Anything to keep from staring at her too long, lest she see too clearly what moved behind his silence.

Yume tilted her head, studying him with the same intent she reserved for enemies and puzzles. The corners of her smile didn’t falter. “What?”

He shook his head, but the heat in his ears betrayed him.

She laughed, low and knowing, as if she had already read the thought he hadn’t dared to speak.

Yoriko gathered the empty bowls, clattering them into a basin. Giyuu watched her out of the corner of his eye, his attention divided between Yume’s lazy contentment and the old woman’s staccato movements.

“Lie back,” Yoriko instructed, her voice flinty as gravel. “I want to see what sort of mess you’ve made of yourself now.”

Yume complied, stretching out across the futon. She didn’t flinch when Yoriko’s hands lifted the hem and unwound the bandages from her stomach. The wound beneath was a jagged, angry seam, the stitches puckered and taut, the skin around mottled. Some of the thread looked ready to snap, a few knots already fraying.

Yoriko clucked her tongue. “Stubborn thing. You heal by spite alone.” She leaned closer, nose nearly brushing the swelling, and prodded at the perimeter with a bony knuckle.

Giyuu stiffened, every muscle bracing for a protest, but Yume only rolled her eyes, resigned.

“The stitches will fall off soon,” Yoriko declared, straightening with a huff. She fished a wooden pot from her sleeve and pried it open, releasing a sharp, loamy aroma—peat and crushed roots, something half-fermented and wholly unappealing. She scooped a smear of dark, viscous paste with two fingers and spread it over the wound, working the mud into the skin with slow, circular pressure.

Yume twisted her head, searching for Giyuu’s face, arching an eyebrow. “Is that…mud?”

“Yes,” Giyuu deadpanned.

Yoriko shot him a look as cold and flat as the lake. “It’s not mud, it’s medicine. If it was mud, I’d have thrown you both in the lake and left you there to stew. Hold still.”

Yume snorted, but the sound held more relief than mockery. “Your bedside manner is terrifying, you know that?”

“Good. I’m not here to coddle you, girl. I’m here to see you don’t rot from the inside out.” Yoriko secured fresh linen over the poultice, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she tied the knot. “If you’re lucky, the scar won’t ruin that pretty belly of yours. If you’re not, maybe next time you’ll let someone else be the hero.”

Giyuu bristled at that.

Yume’s lips curved into a crooked smile, catching his gaze with a sideways glance. “She’s meaner than Shinobu,” she muttered.

“She’s older, too,” he replied. Amusement and small smiles flickered between them.

Yoriko’s command snapped through the hut: “Enough lounging. Boy, carry her to the lake. If she walks, I’ll break your kneecaps and you’ll both be useless.”

Giyuu rose, already moving to gather their things. He reached for Yume’s haori and draped it carefully over her shoulders. She blinked, surprised by his tenderness, and let her arms slip into the sleeves.

As Giyuu turned to fetch his own haori, Yume’s hand darted out, catching the fabric. She traced the seam with her fingers, attention snagging on the left half. “This color’s wrong,” she mumbled, her pout deepening and eyes narrowing as if the garment itself had betrayed her. “It’s supposed to be brighter. This is more like dried persimmon. Or an old plum.”

He didn’t look at her, folding the futon and blanket. “Nezuko finished that side,” he murmured. “Tanjiro helped. I told them it was fine.”

She glanced at him sidelong, not quite mollified, still rolling the sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s not fine,” she insisted, but her voice lacked real bite.

He balanced the futon and blanket beneath one arm, and lifted her, cradling her slight form against his chest as he stepped into the light.

Giyuu set her down with at the lake’s edge, arranging the futon so she could settle without aggravating the stitches.

Yoriko trailed after them, staff digging into the black volcanic sand, shooing Giyuu aside with a flick of her wrist. “She sits. You work. This is not a honeymoon resort.” Her eyes flicked between the two of them, as if daring either to object.

Giyuu ignored the barb, brushing a stray lock of Yume’s hair behind her ear. She huffed, glancing away, but made no move to stop him. He lingered at her side, unwilling to pull back, as if distance alone might allow the spirits to reclaim her.

“Go on, then,” Yoriko snapped. “Chop wood. Gather kindling. If I find you lurking around here again, I’ll set the Jizō to watch your every step.” The staff rapped against his shin for emphasis.

He relented, stepping away only when Yoriko brandished her staff like a drawn sword. He shot one last look at Yume, reading the shadow of annoyance that masked her exhaustion. She looked small beside the lake, dwarfed by volcanic slopes and the emptiness that hummed in the air.

Giyuu forced his feet to carry him up the slope, the wet ground sucking at his sandals. With every step, he resisted the urge to turn back.

Behind him, the old woman lowered herself onto the futon beside Yume. The lake reflected nothing, not even the sky.

The dead, it seemed, always preferred their secrets.

Chapter Text

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

The house was always lonelier in the dusk. Evenings arrived slowly, as if the day itself feared waking something best left asleep—shadows, long and blue, slid beneath the veranda. Cicadas had vanished with the heat; now, a low whirr of wind pressed against the shoji. It was the hour when children were meant to be indoors, yet Yume lingered—feet tucked beneath her, hair half-tamed with a violet ribbon.

Her mother sat behind her in the house, back straight, hands never idle. She drew the needle through black cloth, threads of the city catching the last light. Father’s kimono, torn at the sleeve, lay across her knees. The fabric shone with a pattern of cranes in flight—one she had embroidered herself in the first year of marriage, back when laughter rose easily in the evenings.

“Come inside, little moon,” her mother murmured, never pausing in her work. Her voice carried both tenderness and warning. “The night isn’t for dreaming girls. You’ll catch a chill.”

Yume wrinkled her nose. “Okaa-chan, just a little longer. I want to wait for Otou-chan.” She drew the word out—half a plea, half a dare. “He always comes home at sunset. You said so yourself.”

Her mother’s mouth curled, not quite a smile, not quite defeat. “Otou-chan is in the city. He sent a letter—he’ll be away for days yet. Grown men aren’t blown home by wishful thinking.”

“I know he’s coming.” Yume’s voice was certain. She picked at a splinter in the porch, pressing the rough grain into her palm. “I dreamed he’d be home tonight. I felt it.”

Her mother’s hands slowed, then resumed, needle flashing. “Dreams are tricky things, Yume. Sometimes they’re just echoes. Don’t trust them to tell the truth.”

Okaa-chan never remembers her dreams. I do.

Yume was already watching the path that ran down through the rice paddies, the narrow stones gleaming where the moon had begun to rise. The fields themselves were a labyrinth of pale reeds and water.

She didn’t see him at first—just the brush of movement beyond the gate, the faintest catch of footsteps against packed earth. She bolted upright, slipping past her mother’s grasp. “Otou-chan!” she called, her voice tearing loose into the dark, carrying farther than she’d expected.

The shape in the field straightened—a tall, slender figure, black curls untamed about his shoulders, patterned kimono swirling with shadows. His eyes—strange, dark red in the lamplight—found her, and his mouth broke into a crooked, familiar smile.

“My little dreamer,” he called, pitching his voice low as if sharing a secret. “Still awake at this hour?” He crouched as she tore down the porch steps, legs pumping, sandals forgotten on the wood. She launched herself at him, arms flung wide.

He caught her easily—lifting her high, the fabric of his kimono smelling of tobacco, rain, and something rusty. His laughter was muffled, almost embarrassed.

“I told Okaa-chan you were coming,” Yume insisted, breathless, cheeks red from the sprint. She clung to him, examining the wild tangle of his hair. “I saw it in my dream.”

Her father tapped her nose. “What a clever little dreamer I have. But even clever girls shouldn’t wait alone in the dark—do you know what lives in the night, hmm?” His voice dropped lower, the cadence turning somber. “Demons are always hungry for wandering children. If you see eyes in the reeds, you must come inside at once.”

Yume grinned, unconcerned, her fingers threading into his hair. “I wasn’t scared. Not even a little. Okaa-chan said you wouldn’t be home, but I knew.”

He smiled, the expression shadowed by rueful affection. “You always know, don’t you?”

Behind them, her mother stood, half in lamplight, half in the long, encroaching dark. She watched the pair—her face unreadable, the thread still tangled in her hand.

Yume’s father carried her up the steps, the grain of the wood creaking beneath his feet. He inclined his head to his wife, a brief, formal bow—still remembering the rules of his own father’s house.

“I brought trouble home with me, as usual,” he murmured, voice teasing, but his shoulders slumped with fatigue. “And—if the gods are kind—something sweet to mend my sins.”

Her mother sighed, her hands finally relaxing. “If it’s more lacquerware, you’ll have to build another shelf.”

He knelt, settling Yume onto the porch, and reached into his sleeve. From the inner fold of his kimono he drew a small, paper-wrapped bundle—clumsy, stained from travel. He handed it to Yume, who opened it with eager fingers, expecting chestnuts, or perhaps a sweet potato. Instead, a strange, dark wedge tumbled onto her palm, heavy and glossy.

“It’s called chocolate,” her father said, watching her with amusement. “Imported from the West, or so the merchant claims.”

Yume sniffed it, wrinkling her nose at the bitter, unfamiliar scent. “It smells funny,” she declared, half-suspicious. She broke off a piece, popped it in her mouth, and blinked—her face twisting from confusion to joy. “It’s sweet!” she crowed, eyes wide.

Her father’s hand darted, quick as a fox, and pinched the largest piece of chocolate from her palm. “That one was for Otou-chan, wasn’t it?” he said, voice pitched mock-solemn. Yume squealed, laughter bubbling up as she lunged to snatch it back, but he popped it into his mouth whole.

“You thief!” she accused, pressing her lips together in feigned outrage, though her cheeks still carried the flush of happiness. “Okaa-chan, did you see? Otou-chan’s a robber.”

Her mother’s reply floated through the paper screen as she gathered the sewing. “That’s what happens to little girls who refuse to go to bed when they’re told.” She didn’t look up, but there was warmth in her scolding. “You’ll grow up spoiled, Yume.”

“Only a little longer,” her father cut in, waving away the rebuke with a slight, apologetic tilt of his head. “Let her be awake. She’ll be old enough to ignore us soon, won’t she?”

Yume grinned, the remnants of chocolate smudged across her palm. She pressed herself against his side, hungry for the rough wool of his sleeve and the unfamiliar city-scent that still clung to his hair. “Where did you find it, Otou-chan?” she asked, peering up at him. “Does everyone in the city eat chocolate?”

He made a thoughtful noise, running a finger over his lower lip as if weighing his answer. “Only the luckiest, I suppose. It’s rare out here. Most city folk prefer wagashi, anyway. They think chocolate is too bitter—too much like medicine. But I thought you’d like it. You always did have strange tastes.” He raised an eyebrow at her, as if sharing a secret between conspirators.

“Okaa-chan says my taste is broken,” Yume replied, mimicking her mother’s sternest frown, though her voice couldn’t conceal its glee. “She said, ‘that girl would eat salted plums in her sleep if I let her.’”

Her father snorted—a low, brief sound, gone as quickly as it came. He reached for her, his fingers surprisingly gentle for their size. “Come on, yume-chan. Let’s walk a little. The moon is out, and you need to stretch those legs after so much waiting.”

Her mother’s voice called after them, soft and resigned. “Don’t let her drag mud through the house again, or you’ll be washing her feet yourself.” But Yume caught the smile in it, the way her mother’s words curved at the edges.

Hand in hand, they left the porch behind. The grass at the edge of the paddy was slick, breathing up the memory of afternoon rain.

Her father’s stride was easy, languid, each step placed with the caution of a man who had learned to avoid leaving tracks. The two of them walked past the rows of early rice, blades shivering in the night breeze. Lantern light from the house glinted behind them.

Yume gazed up at the moon, its thin white coin caught in the nets of passing cloud. “Are there demons out here, Otou-chan?”

He stopped and knelt until his eyes were level with hers. His gaze was grave now. “There are demons, yes. Some hide in shadows. Some wear the faces of men. Some walk so quietly you never hear them coming. But none would dare touch my little yume-chan while I’m here.” His fingers tightened on hers, not as comfort but as certainty.

She hesitated, chewing her lip. “If you weren’t here, would they come for me?”

His answer came careful and slow. “If I wasn’t here, your mother would keep you safe. And if, one day, you have to walk alone, you’ll remember how to listen for the dangerous things. You’ll know when to fight and when to hide. But tonight—” He rose, pulling her up after him. “Tonight you are safe. Even the worst monsters know better.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’re not scared of anything, are you, Otou-chan?”

He looked away, as if the question were too large to hold between them. “Everyone is afraid of something,” he said. “Some just hide it better. Some learn to live with their fear, and some…” He trailed off, watching the darkness gather at the edge of the world. “Some forget why they were afraid in the first place. That’s the most dangerous kind.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek—nervous, earnest, determined not to let the big things go unsaid. “Otou-chan…are you afraid of the sun?”

He stopped again. For a second, he didn’t answer. The silence sharpened between them. Then, he crouched low, careful not to spatter her with mud. “No, yume-chan,” he replied, voice edged with something wry, almost secretive. “I’m not afraid of the sun. The sun is just a thing the world spins around. It doesn’t care about me, and I don’t care about it.” He tapped her nose, quick and gentle.

She blinked at him, unsatisfied. “But it hurts you,” she insisted. “Your arms get all red and bumpy.”

He traced a finger along the thin blue veins at her wrist, as if considering what should be told and what should be left for another night. “Lots of things hurt, yume-chan. Rain, if it’s cold enough. Smoke, if you breathe it too deep. Even being away from home.” He offered a lopsided smile, one she recognized from the mornings he’d return from the city—face drawn, hair tangled, smelling of far-off rain. “Hurt isn’t always the same as fear.”

She tugged at his sleeve. “So, what are you afraid of?”

He studied her small hand, tracing the whorls of her knuckles. The moon glazed the path ahead, making ghosts of their shadows, their outlines blurring into one another.

“What am I afraid of?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. The sound was rough, edged with exhaustion. “I fear dying, yume-chan. I fear not coming back to this house. Leaving you and your mother alone in a world too quick to forget the names of the dead.”

Yume’s brows knitted, mouth twisting with childish defiance. “You said you’d always come home though.” Her voice wavered, betraying the brittle hope she’d clung to since the day he first left for the city—since she’d learned that fathers could vanish for days, for weeks, sometimes forever.

“Wanting and promising aren’t the same, little dreamer. The world is full of things that don’t care about wishes.”

For a heartbeat, she wondered what it would be like—dying. Did it hurt, like when she lost her tooth?

Chapter Text

“Otou-chan, what are you doing?”

“Go back inside, Yume.”

“But, Otou-chan—”

“Go. Now.”

Yume jerked upright, a shriek ricocheting through her skull—a relic dredged from the depths of an old well. The world tilted: the hiss of the lake, a sky strangled blue with storm, Yoriko’s hunched form beside her, lips pressed thin as thread. Her breath snagged, ragged, each inhale stolen from some other life.

Yoriko seized her chin with fingers hard as broom roots, yanking Yume’s gaze to meet her own. “Tell me what you saw.” The demand cut sharp, not gentle. Yoriko’s nails pressed into Yume’s cheeks, her breath thick with mugwort and old smoke. “Don’t lie to me. Speak before it rots in your head.”

Yume tried to answer, but the memory twisted inside her skull. Pain spiked behind her eyes, boring through bone, as if trying to split her open from the inside.

She clutched at her own face, nails dragging through skin, blood welling beneath her fingertips. She didn’t feel the sting—only the desperate urge to escape, to tear free whatever had taken root behind her eyes.

Yoriko’s grip didn’t waver. “See it, girl! Don’t run. You’ll never outrun what’s yours.” Her tone landed like a mallet, crushing any hope of retreat. “Let it come. Let it through. You hear me?”

A child’s voice, shrill and breaking: “Okaa-chan! Okaa-chan!” The world folded inward. Blood slicked Yume’s wrists, streaking the white of her kimono. Iron flooded her mouth.

She might have bitten her own tongue—she couldn’t tell. Everything was pain, radiating outward, shattering her sense of self. The air was thick with lake brine and smoke, but beneath it all lingered the stench of blood, burned rice, her mother’s hair.

A hand—larger—Giyuu, wrenching her hands from her face. His grip held fast. “Stop—Yume, look at me.” His voice sliced through the screaming.

She twisted against him, wild-eyed, her vision burning at the edges. “Let go!” she snarled, unsure who she even spoke to—herself, her father, Giyuu, the woman with clouded eyes.

Yoriko’s command cracked across the storm: “Get her in the water. Now.”

Giyuu didn’t hesitate. He swept her up, arms iron around her back and knees, pressing her to his chest with a force more desperation than tenderness. She struggled, but weakness betrayed her, muscles trembling.

Giyuu plunged in, sandals lost to the silt, his uniform soaking through in seconds. He waded deeper, the water rising to his thighs. Yume’s body convulsed in his grip, eyes rolling back. The scream echoed inside her, refusing to die.

“Hold her under!” Yoriko barked from the shore. “Don’t let her come up until it lets go!”

Giyuu’s arms tightened. He locked eyes with Yume, willing her to see him through the haze. “Come back,” he whispered, almost pleading.

Yume’s senses frayed, the world dissolving into salt and pain. The water closed over her head.

Yume lay swaddled in the futon, body rigid, breath shallow. Outside, the storm rattled the walls, an arrhythmic drone intent on grinding the hut to powder. The straw mat beneath her prickled with every shift. Somewhere close, an iron pot sizzled, filling the air with the bitterness of mugwort.

Giyuu sat beside her, close enough that she felt the weight of his presence before her eyes found him. He perched at the edge of the futon, posture tense, haori slung about his shoulders. A faint nick marred the bridge of his nose—a souvenir from her flailing, perhaps.

He noticed her stir and leaned in, voice soft. “You’re awake.” His hand found her wrist, thumb pressing gently to the pulse there. “How do you feel?”

She tried for a wry smile, but it faltered into a grimace. “Like someone split my head open and stuffed it full of old nails.” The words came out brittle, her tongue heavy and slow.

Giyuu’s mouth twitched, a shade of relief flickering through his features, but his eyes stayed dark with concern. “You were…screaming,” he murmured, the memory of it lingering between them. “I tried to stop you from—” His gaze dropped to her hands, already wrapped in rough linen, faint blood blooming beneath the makeshift bandages. He squeezed her wrist tighter, as if he could keep her from breaking again.

Yume blinked, forcing her vision to clear. “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, splintered. “Why do I feel like someone tried to drown me and then wrung me out?”

From the irori, Yoriko’s voice rasped. She crouched by the embers, coaxing the fire with a length of split pine, her silhouette humped. “The mountain’s digging up what you’ve buried. That’s what happened.” She stabbed the fire with her poker, sending a spiral of sparks up. “Your mind’s not your own here, girl. Not while you walk on Osore’s skin. Trauma hides, but it never vanishes. This place—it’ll haul up whatever you’ve stuffed down. Sooner or later.”

Yume pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, fingers trembling. “It felt real.” The memory threatened to surge up, salt and iron on her tongue, but she bit it back, letting only the exhaustion show.

Giyuu bristled, steel sharpening his voice. “She shouldn’t have to do this.” He glared at Yoriko, jaw clamped tight, each syllable clipped. “Look at her. You’re hurting her.”

Yoriko didn’t bother turning. “That’s the point, boy. Pain is memory’s gatekeeper. You want to keep her safe? Fine. Put her in a box. Let her rot. But if she leaves this mountain with her head stuffed full of ghosts, Muzan’ll carve her open just to see what leaks out.” She stirred the pot. “Better she meets it here.”

Giyuu’s hand slid from her wrist, folding tight against his knee. He stared at the wall, fighting for composure. “What could she have buried so deep?” he asked, low. “She’s seen worse than most slayers twice her age.”

Yoriko snorted, tossing a twist of dried herbs into the flames. “You think the worst thing that ever happened to you is the one you remember best?” Her laugh was short, ragged. “No. It’s the thing you can’t remember at all. The thing that stains every other memory after.”

Yume sat up slowly, spine creaking, fingers knotting in the blanket. The headache lingered—sharp, persistent. Her skin crawled with the ghost of a child’s scream.

Yoriko’s gaze flicked up, catching Yume with the efficiency of a physician who’s seen every brand of self-destruction. “You know you nearly clawed your own eyes out, girl?” she said, words blunt as a hammer. “Lucky for you, his hands are quicker than yours. Still, it’ll scar.”

Yume drew her knees up, chin settling atop them, blanket wrapped close around her shoulders. She traced the bandaged line under one eye, half-grimace playing at her mouth. “Well, I always thought I was missing that little extra something. Maybe this is what’ll finally make me memorable.”

Giyuu’s expression tightened. His jaw flexed, muscle jumping in his cheek. “Even if it does scar, you’ll still be beautiful,” he said, the words flat, almost stubborn. He spoke with the same seriousness he reserved for weathering storms or drawing a blade—the kind of gravity that brooked no argument. “No mark would ever change that.”

Yume rolled her eyes, but her mouth trembled. “You’re a terrible liar, Giyuu. But I’ll let it slide if you promise to tell everyone at headquarters I fought off a demon bare-handed. Preferably an Upper Moon.”

He didn’t answer, but a reluctant half-smile touched his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game they always played.

Yoriko snorted, unimpressed. She shuffled over and set a bowl in Yume’s lap—gruel thickened with mountain greens, a few limp pickles scattered on top. “Eat, before you faint again. I haven’t got the patience to haul you out of the lake twice in one day.”

Yume tried to lift the chopsticks, but her hands shook. Giyuu noticed immediately; he took the bowl and settled beside her. He offered her a mouthful. “Open,” he murmured, gentle as if coaxing a wild animal.

She eyed him, a flicker of resistance showing through her exhaustion.

Giyuu didn’t flinch. “Eat.”

She complied, letting him guide the spoon. Each swallow sent a dull, hot ache through her jaw.

Yume paused between bites, gaze sliding to Yoriko. “Do I have to do that again tomorrow?” Her tone was almost light, but the question clung in the air, heavy with dread. “Or is this a one-time offer? I’d like to get back to nightmares I actually choose.”

Yoriko barked a laugh. “You’ll do it every day you’re here. Every morning until you stop flinching at your own shadow. And you’d better watch your hands. Keep clawing and you’ll go blind. Can’t slay demons if you can’t see your own feet.”

Giyuu bristled at that, his voice hardening. “Enough. She’s not—” He broke off, wrestling down whatever protest threatened to rise. Instead, he set the bowl aside, wrapping her bandaged fingers in his own, gentle but firm. “She’s not going to hurt herself again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Yoriko shrugged, the lines of her face softening, just barely. “That’s your job, isn’t it? To keep each other in one piece.”

Giyuu brushed a thumb across her knuckles, his eyes fixed on her face, watchful as a shrine fox.

Yume broke the spell, lips quirking into her familiar, sideways smirk. “Hm, well, at least if I lose an eye, I’ll have an excuse to wear an eyepatch. Very intimidating.”

Giyuu’s response was certain. “You’re not losing anything.”

Yoriko stirred the pot again, impatient. “Eat, sleep, remember. That’s your life until the mountain says otherwise. Try not to bleed everywhere.”

“No promises, Yoriko. But I’ll try to keep my blood to myself. For tonight, anyway.”

Giyuu helped her settle back against the futon. As the fire guttered and the wind gnawed at the edges of the hut, Yume closed her eyes, bracing herself for whatever memory the mountain might next dredge from the depths.

Chapter Text

Giyuu surfaced from sleep to the unholy sensation of breath on his face and a shadow looming much too close. He opened his eyes to find Murata crouched over him, grinning like a cat who’d found a bird with a broken wing.

“Tomioka-sama! You sleep with your mouth open,” Murata announced, voice pitched just shy of gloating.

Giyuu sat up fast, hand automatically searching for the hilt of his blade. He scowled, rolling his shoulders, eyeing Murata with as much warmth as a wolf afforded a trespassing dog. “Why are you here?” he snapped, voice hoarse from sleep.

Yume’s voice floated over from the low table, already bright with mischief. She was cross-legged, a chipped bowl of rice between her knees, her hair pulled into a crooked knot. “You’re scaring Giyuu, Murata.”

Giyuu’s irritation smoldered—Is this how today will start? With Murata’s noise and Yume’s teasing?—but he forced his focus back to the intruder.

Murata ignored her, far too pleased with himself to care about boundaries—physical or otherwise. He rocked back on his heels, producing a folded letter from inside his uniform. “Actually, I’m here on official business. Special delivery.” He waggled the envelope, careful to show the mark of the Master’s seal. “For you, Tomioka-sama. From the Master himself.”

Giyuu snatched the letter out of Murata’s hand, breaking the seal with a flick of his thumbnail. He recognized Kagaya’s handwriting at once.

Giyuu.

You are receiving this letter because I have determined you will need another swordsman beside you. I chose Murata. I know the three of you are close, and I trust you to judge his abilities honestly. There is movement beyond the mountain. One of you must always remain in the village. No exceptions. You may choose to cycle the patrols as you see fit, but I have a sense, call it a father’s premonition, that something stirs in the dark. Be cautious. All three of you are precious to the Corps, and to me.

The final lines were underlined, the brushwork firmer.

Giyuu folded the letter, lips tightening. The silence between the three of them stretched, rope-taut. He felt Yume’s eyes on him, measuring the shape of his frustration. Murata rocked on his heels, self-satisfaction radiating from every pore.

Giyuu glared at Murata, voice stripped of ceremony. “You’re here to patrol, not to get in the way. Don’t talk to Yoriko. Don’t interrupt Yume’s training. Try to wake me again, and I’ll break your fingers.”

Murata’s grin faltered, but only for a moment. He straightened his back. “Understood, Tomioka-sama. I can take the day patrol. I’ve already scouted—no sign of demon activity.” He glanced at Yume, searching for approval.

Yume’s laughter was dry. “Murata’s going to charm all the local spirits and come back with half the mountain in love with him. Be careful, or Yoriko might put him to work ferrying souls.”

Giyuu shot her a look, warning—enough to check her teasing, but not quite stern. He turned to Murata, unwilling to waste time on pleasantries. “Do not touch anything you don’t understand. Don’t make offerings. Don’t answer voices that aren’t mine or Yume’s. Patrol, then report back. That’s it.”

Murata gave a quick bow, jaw tight with the effort of holding his tongue. “Right. I’ll check the village, then circle back at noon.” He paused, eyes flicking once more to Yume, expression softening. “If you need anything—”

Giyuu cut him off. “She doesn’t. Go.”

Murata lingered at the threshold, as if about to speak again, then thought better of it. He slipped out, the morning air swallowing whatever optimism he’d carried inside.

Giyuu watched Yume, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. She held his gaze, her smirk edged with challenge. “You’re very possessive in the mornings, Giyuu-chan.”

He grunted, refusing to rise to her bait. His hand brushed hers as he reclaimed his seat beside her, the movement almost tender. “He’ll be useful if he stays out of the way.”

Yume slid her half-finished bowl into Giyuu’s hands. “Finish it, or Yoriko will decide I’m wasting food and start boiling mushrooms again.” She punctuated the threat with a faint curl of her mouth, chin tilted in challenge. Giyuu took the bowl, not protesting. He ate in quick bites, gaze lingering on her face.

Light crept across the tatami, yellow as bruised yuzu peel, illuminating the aftermath of the morning. The bandage had vanished from Yume’s cheek, leaving the wounds raw and newly scabbed, thin red furrows fanning beneath her eye and down her jaw. Yoriko’s handiwork lingered—her cleaning rough but thorough, the skin beneath scrubbed until it gleamed.

Giyuu’s eyes traced each line, cataloguing every mark as if he could memorize them into oblivion. Yume caught the direction of his stare. Her expression faltered—confidence slipping, a fragile uncertainty surfacing. She looked away, the curtain of hair veiling her cheeks. “Don’t,” she muttered, reaching for her discarded haori beside her as if it might shield her from his attention. “They’re ugly.”

He set the rice bowl aside, closing the distance. “Don’t look away from me.” His voice was even, but the command beneath it was unmistakable. He reached out, thumb brushing across the angriest scratch beneath her eye, slow and careful. “They’re not ugly. You’re not ugly.” He let the pad of his thumb linger at her cheekbone, tracing the memory of pain with something softer.

She let him, though she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. “You’re hopeless, Giyuu. I could come in here missing half my face, and you’d still say I was beautiful.”

He huffed, almost a laugh. “You’d still be you.” The words came out blunt, but their weight lingered. “I’d know you anywhere.”

Her hand crept over his, fingers curling until her nails pressed faintly into his wrist—a silent thank you, or maybe a dare to keep going. Giyuu bent, lips brushing hers, gentle at first, then hungrier. The taste of rice and salt and old, persistent longing. She answered with a low sound, mouth coaxing him closer until the ache in his chest eased.

He pulled back, breath soft against her skin, thumb still stroking the edge of her jaw. “We should bandage your hands,” he said, the words tinged with reluctant amusement. “Just in case I’m not fast enough to stop you next time.” He shot her a look—half-serious, half-teasing. “If you scratch your face again, Yoriko will blame me.”

He reached for the roll of linen bandages Yoriko kept beside the medicine chest, hands careful as he wrapped her fingers, looping linen over Yume’s palms. “What did you remember?” The question hung in the air. He kept his eyes on her hands, not pressing, but not offering her a way out.

Yume flexed her fingers, gaze drifting past his shoulder, drawn to the patterns of soot curling along the rafters. “It was…loud.” Her voice held an edge. “I was screaming for my mother. My throat hurt—like I’d swallowed thorns. My father was there. He told me to go back inside.” Her mouth twisted, uncertain, as if speaking the memory made it even more distant.

Giyuu stilled, hands settling on his knees. “You’ve never really talked about your father before.” His tone was flat, but beneath it lay a question. “Except that once, when you were brushing my hair. You said he had curls too.” He remembered the moment—her fingers in his hair, the way she’d spoken as if memory might be summoned by touch.

She managed a faint smile, eyes going unfocused. “I don’t remember much. Just his hands—always gentle. He’d pick me up so carefully, or tuck me in when I’d sleepwalk to the porch. His hair, too. He hated it. Said it made him look like a foreigner. I used to brush it for him when I was little, and he’d fall asleep right there on the floor.” Her words slowed. “But when I try to remember his face…it’s like looking through steam. The shape is gone. Even his eyes. There’s nothing.”

The admission landed heavy, filling the space between them. Yume’s jaw set, stubborn against the emptiness threatening to hollow her out. She pressed her bandaged hands together, movement restless, almost defensive.

Giyuu searched her features for some remnant of the girl who always had a retort, some flicker of that untouchable spark. He found it in the set of her mouth, the stubborn angle of her jaw. He reached out, catching her chin between thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face toward him. “The things that stay,” he murmured, “are real enough. Even if you can’t see his face.”

She swallowed, meeting his gaze. “Sometimes I think I remember you better than I remember them.” Her words trembled with irony, as if surprised by her own admission.

“You remember the things that matter.” His tone brokered no argument, but the shadow in his eyes gave him away. Even now, I wonder what I’ve forgotten. Who I left behind when the blood started pooling at my feet.

For a moment, neither moved. Giyuu felt her tension ease beneath his hands, a shiver passing through her—a ripple of fear, relief, or some unnamed emotion.

“Come on,” he said quietly, after a moment. “We should get ready. Yoriko will be looking for us.”

Yume straightened, rolling her shoulders, the ghost of a smirk returning. “You’re right. She might actually be annoyed if I don’t bleed on her tatami again. Wouldn’t want to upset her routine.”

He grunted, but his thumb lingered at the corner of her mouth, tracing away the last of her fear. “Let’s go.”

At the water’s edge, Yoriko waited, her silhouette starker than any demon’s: all sharp elbows, spine rigid, her staff planted firmly in the muck.

She didn’t wait for ceremony. “Boy. I see you’ve multiplied.” Her tone was all vinegar, not even pretending at courtesy. “Another slayer on my mountain, another mouth I never asked to feed.” She jabbed her staff toward the village below, lips curled in disgust. “Tell your crows I won’t be brewing extra rice for strays. This isn’t an inn, and you aren’t guests.”

Giyuu set Yume down with care, ignoring her muttered curses. He squared his shoulders, matching Yoriko’s glare. “It wasn’t my decision,” he snapped. “Complain to the Master. He sent Murata. Not me.”

Yoriko’s gaze narrowed, pale eyes clouded but unyielding. “You always have an excuse, Boy. A man who drags his burdens up the mountain shouldn’t be surprised when the mountain grows heavier.” She turned on her heel, beckoning Yume with two fingers. “Girl, wash. Hands and feet. Be quick, before the water decides you’re another ghost.”

Yume scowled, but obeyed, kneeling at the shore. The water hissed around her, swirling with cold eddies, fine grit rasping at her skin. She dipped her toes, shivering as the chill bit bone-deep.

Giyuu watched her, arms folded across his chest, expression stony. He stood apart—guarding, measuring the air for threats that never came, unwilling to show even a flicker of doubt. Still, his gaze tracked every movement: the way her shoulders tensed, the way she hesitated before dipping her fingers in the shallows.

Once Yume finished, she settled cross-legged on a flat stone, arms braced on her knees. Yoriko approached, hand deep in the folds of her robe, withdrawing a fistful of ash—fine, chalky. “Close your eyes,” Yoriko commanded. “Hold still. If you flinch, I’ll start over.”

Yume obliged, lashes lowering, breath shallow. Yoriko rubbed ash across each eyelid, thumb tracing quick, practiced circles. The ash left pale streaks on Yume’s skin, dulling the silver of her lashes, lending her an otherworldly, statuesque stillness.

“Empty your mind,” Yoriko intoned, voice thinning to a ritual cadence. “Let go of your clever words, your defenses. The mountain won’t listen to lies. If you want the truth, you must strip yourself down to the bone. Sit with what you find. Don’t run.”

Giyuu’s eyes narrowed further, arms crossing tighter. The old woman’s words made the hair on his arms prickle. He hated this—this passive surrender, this invitation to pain. He wanted to shield Yume from all of it, but the rules here weren’t his. Osore belonged to Yoriko and her dead.

He cast glances at the hills beyond, scanning for demon presence or the errant footfall of an unwanted guest—old habits that refused to die, no matter how safe a place might seem. Osore’s emptiness had a way of playing tricks on the mind, conjuring dangers from silence. He listened for the scrape of Yoriko’s staff, for the hollow moan of wind through the shrine’s prayer flags. Every so often, the lake’s surface rippled, disturbed by nothing visible.

When he turned back, Yume sat obediently on her flat stone, bandaged hands splayed on her knees, posture straight but taut. Ash caked her eyelids, giving her an appearance half-goddess, half-statue left to mourn at the water’s edge. Supposedly meditating, she was anything but tranquil—her lips pressed in the suggestion of a smirk, shoulders betraying a barely suppressed restlessness. He caught her peeking, one eye cracked open, gaze sliding sideways to where he stood, only to snap shut again when she noticed him looking.

He said nothing, merely arched a brow, lips pressed into a line of silent reproach. She tried again—another slitted glance, this time bolder, flicking from his face to the set of his shoulders, testing how long she could get away with it. Her mouth twitched as if on the verge of laughter, then stilled. A moment later, she peeked again, and once more after that, each glance more daring—an irreverent rhythm. She was a child testing boundaries, or a fox circling a snare, wholly herself in the act of disobedience.

He shifted his stance, letting a breath out slow as if to say, I see you.

Yoriko’s staff came down—a sharp tap to the crown of Yume’s head. The crack rang out, scattering a pair of gulls from the shoreline. “Enough! If you look again, I’ll throw you into the lake and let the spirits deal with you.” She leveled her staff at Yume’s nose, knuckles white on the carved wood. “Meditate, girl. Empty your head. Or I’ll empty it for you.”

Yume’s mouth curled with unrepentant delight. “You can’t blame me, Yoriko. He’s standing right there looking very handsome. It’s distracting.” Her tone was shameless, delivered with the deadpan coolness that always managed to shake anyone’s composure. She made no attempt to lower her voice, either—every syllable carried on the sulphur-laced breeze.

Giyuu scowled, heat blooming on his ears despite the chill. He felt exposed, as if she’d stripped away every armor in front of this old witch and the watching lake. “Don’t start,” he muttered, but the edge in his tone was dulled by a trace of exasperation. She never missed an opportunity to disarm him, even in ritual humiliation.

Yoriko, for her part, looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “If you’re so easily distracted by a face, you’ll never survive what the mountain shows you,” she spat.

Yume grinned, audacious even as she rubbed the spot on her skull. “You know, Tomioka’s good for my concentration. I have to work twice as hard not to stare.”

Giyuu met her gaze, letting his eyes narrow further—equal parts warning and invitation. Beneath the brittle humor, he saw the flash of nerves, the way her fingers curled tight against her knees. She was afraid, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But she’d never admit it; she’d simply meet fear with laughter.

He softened his stance—fractionally—and jerked his chin in a silent order. Focus. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Yume drew in a breath, squaring her shoulders as if she could armor herself with stubbornness alone. She closed her eyes for real this time, lashes settling on ash-darkened cheeks. Yoriko resumed her slow, rhythmic chanting.

Giyuu swept his gaze along the horizon, searching for movement. The stillness here was not gentle, but restless, crowded with ghosts pressing at the edge of reason. Osore wasn’t a place where a man could ever be truly alone. There’s always something watching. Even the dead can’t mind their own business.

A sudden prickle crawled up the back of his neck. Instinct flickered, quick as a blade at his belt. Shifting his weight, he scanned the treeline, half-expecting Murata’s mop of hair to appear between the cairns—Murata, with his endless chatter and misplaced confidence, always finding the worst possible moment. Giyuu’s jaw set, preparing a reprimand.

But the path was empty. No footfalls in the pumice, no ripple of uniform through the stunted grass. Just the silent congregation of Jizō statues, blank-eyed, watching, forever impartial to the living and the damned. Yet the sensation persisted: a presence, not hostile but intrusive, as if the mountain itself had leaned in to eavesdrop.

Clenching his fists, irritation simmered beneath his restraint. Every inch of him ached for a threat to cut down, something to blame for this constant gnaw of vigilance. Instead, he stood helpless, surrounded by the sort of danger that couldn’t be cleaved by steel—dread in the bones, anxiety in the blood.

Chapter Text

Two weeks slipped by in an endless loop. By then, the lake had become another prison. The colorless water reflected nothing, the air so heavy with anticipation it made her teeth ache. Even Murata, usually insufferably cheerful, had grown subdued, his jokes faltering, his laughter quieter. The tension had settled into all of them, a fourth presence that pressed into their little hut and suffocated the warmth from the fire.

That night, the sky was a stretched canvas of indigo, clouds low and swollen. The hut felt impossibly cramped. Giyuu sat to her left, hands idle, unreadable as always. Murata hunched over his food, quick eyes darting between them, as if weighing how much trouble he’d be in if he spoke.

Yoriko broke the silence with a single strike of her staff against the floor. “Enough,” she declared. “This is pointless. If you keep coddling her, we’ll all die of old age before she remembers a thing.”

Yume set her bowl down, pulse leaping with unease. “If you have a better idea, I’m listening,” she shot back, but the bravado sounded thin even to her own ears.

Yoriko’s smile was all teeth. “You’ll spend the night outside. Alone. By the water.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Murata was the first to object, nearly upsetting his rice in his haste. “You can’t be serious, Yoriko-sama! What if something happens? There’s demons out there—spirits—whatever else lives on this mountain. At least let one of us stay with her—”

Yoriko’s stare silenced him. “If she’s ever going to remember, she has to face it alone. No distractions. No one to run to.” Her gaze fixed on Yume, implacable. “The mountain won’t let her go otherwise.”

Giyuu’s jaw tightened. “No.” He said it with the finality of a verdict. “She isn’t ready. I won’t allow it.” His hand found Yume’s beneath the blanket, grip almost bruising. “You can’t force her.”

Yoriko turned her attention to him, patience burned down to the wick. “You’ve tried protecting her. How has that worked?” Her voice rang with a kind of cruel wisdom. “If you want her to live, let her bleed a little. That’s the only way you learn what you’re made of.”

Yume wanted to protest—wanted to say she was fine, that she could handle it, that it was just another night. But her chest tightened, her mouth dry, every inch of her clamoring against the idea of being left alone on that black shore. She saw the doubt flicker in Murata’s eyes, the storm gathering in Giyuu’s. For once, she had no joke, no clever retort. She simply folded her haori over her shoulders, then reached for the blanket, gathering it in the crook of her arm as if she’d been preparing for this exile all her life.

Murata half-rose, scattering rice across the tatami. “Yume, you don’t have to— This is crazy, you know that, right? What if something happens? What if—”

She cut him off with a tilt of her head, letting a wry, faintly crooked smile do what words couldn’t. “If something tries to eat me, Murata, I’ll scream. You can come rescue me and they’ll have to carve your name into a shrine.” Her voice stayed light, even as unease ran under her skin.

Giyuu’s displeasure was colder, the kind that needed no words to fill the room. He watched her with an intensity that pressed in from all sides, jaw clenched. He didn’t argue. He just stood, gaze flickering from Yoriko to Yume and back again. She felt resistance in every line of his body.

Yoriko was already rummaging through the medicine chest, drawing out a pinch of ash and a length of red cord. The old woman’s hands were steady, all ceremony stripped bare. She pinched Yume’s chin, painted the grainy ash in a swift, unyielding line across each eyelid, then braided the red rope tight through Yume’s hair. “If you want to keep your spirit in your head, you’ll do as I say. Stay put. Don’t answer to anyone, no matter who calls. Not even me. You understand?” Her blind eyes seemed to pierce Yume, daring her to argue.

Yume only nodded. Yoriko’s fingers lingered at her temple. “If your head’s missing in the morning, I’ll leave you. Don’t make me fetch what’s left.”

She swallowed, sliding a sliver of humor into her voice. “I’ll try not to misplace anything important.”

Yoriko made a noise like a disapproving crow and turned away.

The air outside pressed thick with mist and mineral vapor, the moon a blurred silver shape above Lake Usori. Yume set her jaw and stepped out. Giyuu followed, shadowing her to the shore. She didn’t protest, but his silence hovered close—a presence at her back, impossible to ignore.

He stopped when she did, standing sentinel beside her as she unfurled the blanket over the thinnest strip of dry ground she could find. She settled onto it, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the obsidian water. Her throat constricted; her heart ticked in her chest like a prayer bead being thumbed raw.

He crouched, knuckles grazing the edge of her blanket as he checked the corners, fussing in that surreptitious way he had—never overtly tender, always a little too rough. “You don’t have to do this. Tell Yoriko she’s senile and I’ll drag you back in.”

Yume couldn’t look at him. “If I don’t, we’ll be here forever. You want to split firewood until your hair turns white?”

His hand settled at the small of her back, thumb sweeping beneath the layers of fabric as he arranged the blanket around her shoulders, tucking it close. “If anything happens, I’ll know. Scream, and I’ll be here before anyone else can touch you.” He bent, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. His breath lingered, warm against her scalp. “Don’t be brave just for her sake. If you’re scared—call for me.”

She tipped her head back, letting her gaze meet his in the dark. “If you come running, Yoriko will make you scrub the latrine for a month.”

He almost smiled, a flicker in the gloom, then leaned in, mouth capturing hers with a force that belied his usual restraint. It was brief, hungry, everything he couldn’t voice packed into that single kiss. When he broke away, his fingers lingered at the curve of her jaw.

“Stay awake if you can. Don’t trust anything you hear.”

Yume nodded.

He stood, his silhouette distorted by shifting moonlight, and strode off toward the distant smear of torches marking the village. Yume listened to the crunch of his sandals fade, the night closing in around her, dense and damp.

Left alone, she sat, breathing in the sour air. Her fingers worked at the hem of the blanket, the scent of Giyuu still clinging to the weave. Every nerve urged her to run after him—to demand one more kiss, one more promise. But she stayed, spine braced, jaw set, watching the darkness ripple across the water.

At first, there was nothing.

Yume’s senses stretched into the silence, letting it fill her ribcage until even her heartbeat felt too loud. She fixed her eyes on the far side of the water, every muscle tense beneath the blanket. The moon hung low and strange, clouded in deep haze, its light warping the world into something both threadbare and alien.

Her mind felt like a shallow well—echoing, bottomless, perilous if she leaned too far. She tried to empty it, as Yoriko had commanded. In, out. Nothing but air and blood and the weight of her own body.

Then a voice slipped from the darkness. What are you doing out here?

It was a child’s voice, unfamiliar and yet uncomfortably intimate, as if it had learned her secrets while she slept. The words seemed to unravel in her ear, pulling at some nerve just beneath the skin.

She jerked, head snapping toward the voice—no one there. The wind carried only the hiss of water licking black sand.

A second voice called from across the lake, older, hoarse, a cracked and broken echo: Don’t you know it’s dangerous here?

Then another, nearer, whispering from the roots of the nearest pine: Come closer. We’re so cold. Come closer—come see us—

Their tones multiplied, blossoming into a clamoring chorus, questions and commands weaving together, tugging at her with unseen force.

Did you bring us something?

Why are you alone?

Where is your mother?

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be—

Yume pressed her hands to her ears, but the voices only drilled deeper, a low whine vibrating inside her skull. Her breath hitched. Fingers crawled up to cover her eyes, nails digging into her brow as if she could claw the sounds from her mind. Every muscle trembled. She curled in on herself, knees pulled close. Pressure built at the base of her skull—sharp, blinding, pain lancing between her temples.

“Stop it. Stop it, stop—”

Her own voice barely reached the air, rasping and unsteady. The questions tangled around her, growing bolder, crueler.

Do you remember what he did?

Why did you let her die?

The metallic tang of blood pooled under her tongue where her teeth pressed too hard. She dug her nails in deeper, wishing for pain sharp enough to drown out the noise. Her head felt stretched tight, as if something ancient and furious pressed against her skin from within.

And then, above the cacophony, another voice sounded. Softer, warmer, braided with heartbreak and sunlight: Little moon, listen to me. They aren’t real. Do you hear me? The words, impossibly gentle, threaded through the violence of her thoughts. Say it. Say they aren’t real.

Yume knew that voice. She would have known it in the dark, at the end of the world. Her mother’s voice—close enough to touch, close enough to ruin her.

Tears burned her cheeks. She bit down a sob.

Yume.

“They aren’t real,” she whispered, voice scraping out of her throat. “They aren’t real. They aren’t—” The words piled over themselves, frantic and raw. “They aren’t real! They aren’t real!”

And suddenly she wasn’t on the mountain anymore.

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Yume tumbled through the sliding door, bare feet smeared green with grass, her nightrobe clinging to her legs. “Okaa-chan! He’s in the garden again! He’s got a sword and his hair’s red like the sun, and the foxes followed him, but they didn’t bark at me—”

Her mother hovered by the iron kettle, steam fogging her lashes, her body taut with a vigilance that had nothing to do with cooking. The ladle paused in midair. “Little moon.” Her mother’s tone carved the air, low and fierce, a warning wrapped in endearment. “Come here. Now.”

Yume obeyed, heart tripping wild, the afterimage of the tall man—firelit, eyes dark, haori drifting—dancing in her mind. She clutched her mother’s sleeve, the worn cotton soft beneath her anxious grip. “Okaa-chan, he isn’t scary. He just looked at me, not like I was trouble—like he was sad. He said the foxes don’t bite. He let me hold his sword for a second—”

Her mother seized her arm, the sudden pressure startling, fingers digging in. She crouched. “Listen to me.”

Yume’s mouth opened, but the words stuck, pinned by her mother’s ferocity.

“They aren’t real. Do you hear me?”

“But—” The protest slipped out, confused and pleading.

“No.” Her mother’s voice cracked, threadbare and raw. “Say it. Say they aren’t real.”

Yume stared past her mother’s shoulder, where the garden waited, wild and half-lit, where she half expected to see a glint of crimson in the grass. But the swordsman had vanished, leaving only the memory of warmth, a sense of something left unfinished.

Her mother’s voice came again, tighter, shaking: “Say it.”

Yume’s gaze dropped, toes kneading the tatami, words bitter on her tongue. “They…aren’t real.” Each syllable cost her something, a coin paid to a ferryman she couldn’t see.

Her mother’s grip loosened, but not entirely. “Louder. Again, Yume.”

Tears blurred her vision. She scrubbed at them with her fist. “They aren’t real,” she whispered, louder, but no stronger for it. The lie felt heavy, dragging through her.

Her mother cupped her cheeks, brushing away the tears with her rough thumb, her face drawn tight with exhaustion. “Good girl. You must never speak of them. Not to the neighbors. Not to your father. Not to anyone. Do you promise?”

“But—”

“Promise me, Yume. Tell him you don’t dream anymore. Tell him you don’t remember.” Her hands trembled, her voice bruised with desperation. “You must promise me.”

Yume nodded, the movement stiff. “I promise.”

Her mother crushed her close, barley and sweat and old tears in her hair, a hold too tight to be only love.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

The world recoiled, and Yume vanished with it—pulled beneath the weight of her own exhausted body. The lake, the cold, the ache in her hands—all dropped away as sleep took her whole. She fell into darkness so complete it felt for a moment like drowning. But then, as if she had breached the surface after a long submersion, air rushed back into her lungs, and she opened her eyes to a place unrecognizable.

Mount Osore was transfigured.

Gone were the ashen wastes, the bruised haze, and the charred bones of trees. In their place, wild, impossible green flourished. Ferns curled along the banks, and the pines reached taller than any temple spire, their needles jeweled with dew. Sunlight spilled across the caldera, pure and unbroken, filling the world with a clarity she hadn’t felt since childhood. The sulfur stench evaporated, replaced by petrichor and wild lilies. Even the lake had changed, its turquoise deepened to opalescent, reflecting the sky with a sharpness that made her eyes water.

But what struck her most was the bridge—a pale arch spanning the water’s breadth, built from wood and strung with shimenawa, paper shide fluttering like restless spirits in the gentle wind. It looked as if it had always been there, yet she knew it belonged to no place in the waking world.

On the far side, a figure stood waiting. The sight pulled her upright, breath unsteady.

Her mother.

She wore a simple kimono—blue as deep river water—her silver hair unbound, spilling in shining waves over her shoulders. She smiled, radiant, dimpling at the cheek, her hands cupped to her mouth as she called across the expanse: “Yume! Come, little moon! Hurry, now—come to me!”

Yume staggered forward, drawn by instinct, her pulse pounding so hard it nearly made her dizzy. She set her foot upon the bridge and felt its boards flex, each step vibrating up through her bones. Her mother’s laughter rippled across the lake—soft, urging, a sound Yume thought she’d never hear again.

But before she reached the midpoint, pain struck through her head, sudden and sharp as a blade. She reeled, clutching her scalp, breath hissing between her teeth. Her vision swam. The light fractured around her, stained with a cruel red glare.

She tried to force herself onward, every step heavier. Her mother’s figure blurred at the edges, voice sharpening with urgency: “Come, Yume. You must cross. It’s time now, little moon. Come home—”

The ache doubled, then surged again, as if something inside her skull was splintering, prying her apart. Yume crumpled to her knees, fingers threading through her hair. When she drew her hands back, they shone wet and scarlet, blood beading in her palms and streaking her nails.

“I can’t—Okaa-chan, I can’t—” she gasped, vision streaked with tears and red fog.

Two strong hands settled on her shoulders, lifting her. Yume blinked through the blur and saw him: Sabito.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked down at her, grin crooked, mouth as wry as the day. “I told you I’d come if you needed me,” he said. His voice was rough, teasing. “You always try to do everything yourself. Idiot.”

She sagged against him. “You came,” she whispered, and the pressure in her head receded with every word he spoke.

Sabito slung her arm over his shoulder, bracing her weight. “I’ll carry you, then. Just this once, since you’re hopeless.” Each step he took eased the pain. On the far side, her mother waited—arms outstretched. When Sabito set Yume down, her mother enfolded her in an embrace that filled all her empty spaces.

Yume’s voice trembled, uncertain, as she asked, “Are you real?” Her words, usually so steady, faltered under the weight of longing.

Her mother cupped her cheeks, thumbs gentle at the corners of her eyes, her expression bright with love. “Yes, my moon.” As her mother’s kiss lingered, everything unraveled—color, sound, sensation, all slipping into darkness.

But in the depths of that final blackness, somewhere at the edge of waking, a new sound intruded—a ragged, desperate cry, cutting through the silence. “Yume!” Giyuu’s voice, raw with terror, calling her back from whatever shore she’d crossed.

She tried to answer, but the darkness swept her onward, and there was nothing left.

Chapter Text

A restless pulse thudded beneath Giyuu’s collarbone—a primitive warning, the kind that had kept him alive when reason failed. He prowled the village perimeter. Every house felt emptied of its warmth, paper screens stained blue by moonlight, each window a blind eye turned inward. He could taste the unease in the back of his throat.

Something was wrong.

He’d left Yume by the lake, as instructed. He’d obeyed the old woman, forced himself to believe—if only for an hour—that this ritual was necessary, that pain could carve a path to clarity. Yet as he circled the silent lanes, the feeling grew—a barbed hook lodged behind his ribs, tugging him backward, up the slope toward the caldera.

It wasn’t worry. Worry was a gentle poison, a slow rot. This was a demand.

Giyuu abandoned his post. Let Yoriko dock his meals for a month. Let her curse him blind. He would rather face her scorn than the possibility that he had trusted the mountain with something he couldn’t afford to lose.

He cut through the abandoned shrine yard, shadow fractured by brittle moonlight, sandals splintering tufts of late wildflowers. The wind clawed at his sleeves. The path to the lake was alive with the memory of old griefs—Jizō statues lined the way, each draped in red bibs, their features smoothed to blankness by centuries of supplication.

When the lake finally unspooled before him—flat, lightless, a slab of obsidian split by the pale arch of the bridge—he searched the shore for her blanket, the glint of silver hair.

Nothing.

An emptiness opened up behind his sternum. He scanned the shoreline, called her name—once, twice—voice cracking in the stillness. “Yume!”

No reply. Only the water slipping over stone, the sibilant sigh of wind through the stunted pines. He strained to catch the smallest sound—a muffled cry, the shudder of cloth, a breath pulled too sharply. The mountain returned nothing but its indifference.

A scatter of bubbles disturbed the lake’s surface, far from the shore—too far for anyone who couldn’t swim. They burst in slow succession. Giyuu’s mind raced ahead, conjuring all the worst possibilities: sleep attack, a fall, the mountain reclaiming its debt.

He stripped his haori, discarding it at the water’s edge. “Yume!” He plunged into the lake, the water seizing him in its frigid jaws.

Each stroke dragged him deeper into unnatural chill. Arms sweeping, breath ragged, he fought through water thick as resin. Head above water, eyes burning, he scanned for any sign—hair, cloth, a pale hand. The bubbles had vanished. Only a faint, shifting shadow lingered below.

Panic flared, sharp and consuming, eclipsing his training. She can’t swim.

Giyuu dove, lungs compressing under the sudden pressure, cold slicing past his bones. The world shrank to a blur of greens and blacks, hair swirling like kelp. Vision fractured.

Something cold seized his ankle.

Fingers—clammy, jointed, relentless. They curled around his leg, slick with the chill of centuries, nails bitten blunt by the teeth of the dead. Another hand caught at his calf, tugging him downward. He kicked, breaking the grip, only for a third hand to close over his knee.

His sword—forgotten on the bank.

Fool.

Even a Hashira can drown in a lake full of ghosts.

Twisting, he wrenched free with a strength born of terror and fury. The hands multiplied, more insistent—grasping wrists, ankles, clawing at the fabric of his uniform, the scarred skin of his thigh. His chest constricted. He forced himself upward, broke the surface with a gasp, only to be yanked under by another fist.

In the dark, something brushed past his face—a lock of hair, impossibly soft. He reached for it, desperate, closing his hand around emptiness.

The voices started, a babble just beneath the surface—whispers clawing at the edge of reason. You’re too late. You always have been. Why save her, when you couldn’t save the rest?

He snarled against the pull, summoning every ounce of strength left. “Let go!” The command erupted, bubbles scattering upward. He drove his elbow down, dislodged the hand at his ankle, kicked hard for the surface, muscles screaming.

A pale face flickered in the gloom—no eyes, only a suggestion of features carved from fog. It grinned, mouth full of river stones, and vanished, leaving bitterness on his tongue.

He surfaced, dragging in air, arms already numb. Somewhere to his left, a shape bobbed—a flash of blue, a streak of silver. Yume. Her body floated just beyond the reach of the ghost-hands, face upturned, eyes closed, lips parted as if singing to the moon.

Giyuu clawed toward her, pulse hammering. Three violent strokes brought him to her, catching her beneath the arms, hauling her against his chest.

Her skin was cold, slack, all resistance leeched away.

Giyuu locked his arms beneath her shoulders, but as he turned for the shore, the water thickened, not with silt or weed, but with malice. Something coiled beneath.

Fingers gripped, nails digging, tugging with hunger. The chill raced up his bones, panic igniting beneath his sternum. For an instant, his own body was a stranger: numb, unresponsive, heavy with fear.

He kicked, dragging Yume’s head above water. The lake refused to let go. Hands multiplied, wrapping around his thighs, knees. Some fingers were slick with algae, some cracked with age, others small as a child’s—a ghostly parliament, each determined to claim him.

Voices rippled through the water—disembodied, dissonant, whispering in dialects he barely recognized. Some accused, some pleaded, some simply mocked.

You can’t save her.

This isn’t your river to cross.

You left us behind—why not her?

The water writhed, no longer a lake but the Sanzu-no-Kawa itself—a borderland between suffering and oblivion. Each step forward dragged him three steps back, as if the world itself would see him drown beside her.

He forced himself onward, jaw clenched tight enough to splinter bone. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he snarled, voice ripped raw by wind and water.

A hand—child-sized, impossibly strong—latched onto his knee, yanking hard. Balance slipped. His foot found no purchase. He twisted, kicking with everything left, Yume’s name lodged in his throat.

“Let me go!” he spat at the darkness, fury and terror welded together in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

The lake replied in laughter—a bubbling, sulfurous mirth. The dead didn’t care for swords or titles. They only wanted company.

His fingers cramped around Yume’s collar, nails digging into her skin. Her head lolled, lips blue, hair slicked across her face in streaks of moonlight and silt.

He lunged, finding impossible strength—a last desperate heave, born of guilt and need and all the silent prayers he’d never spoken. The hands tried to drag him down, grip burning, then freezing, then numbing. A thousand old wounds reopened in his mind: Sabito’s laugh, Tsutako’s voice, the unmarked graves of children who had never grown old enough to hate their own shadows.

Giyuu refused. He became all blade and breath and will. The surface broke around them, sand scraping his knees as he half-crawled, half-dragged Yume from the water’s clutches. The hands slipped free at the last possible instant, claws raking his calves. For a single, hallucinatory moment, he imagined himself back at Final Selection—Sabito reaching for him, pulling him out of the blood-soaked grass. The memory fractured, swallowed by the present.

He sprawled across the shore, Yume slack in his lap. The night howled around them, wind strafing the cairns, prayer flags snapping like banners of defeated armies. Giyuu pressed two fingers to her throat, desperate for a pulse—there, faint, fluttering—no, gone again, slipping away.

“Yume,” he gasped, voice shredded, “don’t you dare—”

He pressed his mouth to hers, breathing life into her, counting out the rhythm. His hands shook as he pinched her nose. He pressed the heel of his palm to her sternum, remembering Shinobu’s cold instruction.

He counted: one, two, three—thirty. Breathed into her again. Water trickled from the corner of her mouth, streaking her cheek with a trail of blood and lake-silt. Her chest remained still. Rage and panic tangled in his chest, blinding him to everything but the desperate need to keep her here.

“Yume!” He slammed his fist against the ground, pebbles biting his knuckles. “Wake up! If you don’t—if you leave me here—I’ll—” The threat splintered, too raw for speech. What could he offer? What bargain could he strike with a mountain that had never known mercy?

He bent, forehead pressed to hers, whispering words he would have drowned before saying aloud to anyone else. “Come back. I need you. I need you.”

Another breath, another round of compressions—his body moving on instinct, powered by something beyond hope. He wouldn’t let go. He would drag her from Yomi-no-Kuni itself, if he had to.

The sky exploded in a storm of feathers and shrieks. Tsuki plummeted from the gloom, landing beside Yume’s body with wings splayed, shrieking in a cracked, childish tenor. “Giyuu! Yume is dying! She’s not breathing! Help her, help her!”

He barely registered the words. His focus narrowed—air in, air out, the count of compressions blurring into a silent prayer. But Tsuki’s cries kept escalating, each caw raking across what was left of his composure.

Kanzaburou slammed down onto his shoulder, claws digging through wet cloth, voice booming, ragged with a fear Giyuu had never heard before. “Giyuu! Demon inbound! Upper rank! Upper rank! Approaching village! Danger, danger!”

“No,” Giyuu rasped, denial scraping from his throat. He bent again, breath to Yume’s lips, her skin colder than anything left in the world.

Movement shattered the edge of the scene—a pair of sandals skidding, Murata’s silhouette tearing through the reed-choked shore, his crow flapping in tow, shrieking warnings of its own.

“Tomioka—!” Murata’s voice cracked, panic warring with obedience. He dropped beside them, knees splashing in the shallows, eyes wide and wild as a hunted animal. “What happened—? Is she—? She’s not—?” Hands hovered, desperate to help and terrified to touch.

“Go,” Giyuu barked, jaw set so tight he tasted blood. “The village. There’s a demon—upper rank. You have to—”

Murata’s face twisted. “By myself? You want me to hold off an upper rank? Tomioka—if I go alone, I’ll die. I’ll be dead before I even see it. You know that!”

Giyuu’s hands didn’t stop. He pressed again, every push a denial of the world’s cruelty. “I can’t leave her—” His voice split, raw and helpless.

Murata grabbed his wrist, voice pleading. “If you don’t go, the whole village—everyone will die. I can’t do it. I’m not you.”

Yume’s chest refused to rise. The crows screamed, wings battering the air. Duty pulled Giyuu one way, love the other—a torment that felt singular, unendurable.

He stared at Yume’s face, lips pressed bloodless, hair tangled over her brow. He couldn’t remember life before her—couldn’t imagine the world without her. If he left, if she slipped away while he was gone—

“Murata.” His voice was iron. “You stay with her. Don’t leave. Don’t let anyone—anything—through. If it comes, you run. You take her. You don’t look back.” He shoved Murata’s hands onto Yume’s chest, forcing them to replace his own. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Murata’s breath stuttered. He stared at Giyuu, eyes rimmed red with fear, but nodded, determination flickering through the panic. “I won’t let her go. I promise. I’ll stay. I’ll—”

“No promises,” Giyuu snapped, hating himself for every heartbeat that carried him farther from her. “Just do it. Don’t stop.” His hands hovered over Yume’s cheek for a moment—one final touch, thumb sweeping the grit from her skin. He memorized the curve of her mouth, the scratches on her eye.

And then he was up, body moving before his mind could call him back, legs churning, sandals lost in the black muck. Kanzaburou launched skyward, shrieking orders and warnings, his voice swallowed by the hungry dark.

Giyuu thundered down the mountainside, each stride jarring through his bones. The village ahead was unraveling—paper doors slamming, lanterns snuffed with frantic hands, silhouettes vanishing behind reed screens. Mothers herded children into cellars, old men dragged talismans from dusty drawers. He glimpsed a pair of boys clutching each other in the alley, eyes wide and glassy, too frightened even to weep. Above, crows wheeled and screamed—warnings sharp as the cut of a whetstone.

He slowed only when he saw the figure on the road.

The demon didn’t walk so much as glide, each motion a violation of the living. Bare-chested, skin pale as bone and tinted with blue; beneath the surface, veins moved like river currents under ice. Long hair—black at the roots, white toward the ends—floated in a wind that wasn’t there. At his hip, charms and shattered rosary beads clinked together, burned talismans and broken graves. A sword orbited him, blade down, spinning through air unguided. Its edge glowed blood-red, obsidian shadow flickering against the dark. Red paper ofuda trailed at his neck. Across his brow, a halo of black cracks radiated from the corner of one blank, silver eye. That gaze—depthless, impenetrable, nothing of madness or glee. Only silence.

Spirits clung to him. Not illusions—these weren’t the flickering afterimages of a guilty mind. They clustered at his back, faceless and pallid, some weeping, others watching Giyuu with blind, feverish hunger. Their voices drifted on the wind, swelling and folding into each other—a chorus of warning, or accusation, he couldn’ tell.

Giyuu didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the street, feet planted in the loose gravel, sword drawn in a single motion—steel flashing cold and blue beneath the night sky. His blade cut a thin arc of moonlight. He exhaled, letting the world shrink: demon, blade, breath.

The demon stopped.

Giyuu measured the distance. His heartbeat drummed in his teeth, every muscle poised to leap or kill.

The demon inclined his head, expression almost polite. “Good evening,” he said, voice as smooth as river stones beneath rain. “You are…the Water Hashira, are you not?”

Giyuu’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds to leave this place,” he spat. “Or I’ll send your head down the mountain before your body can beg for it.”

A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—passed over the demon’s mouth. He tilted his head, as if considering Giyuu for the first time. “I am Kugetsu. Upper Rank Five, in service to my Lord. I was told to expect more courtesy from a Hashira.”

Giyuu’s grip tightened. “I don’t waste words on monsters. Shut up and draw your sword.”

Kugetsu’s smile widened. “I am not here for you. Nor for these villagers. I require only the Dreamer. Bring her here, now—and you have my word: I will leave you and these trembling souls untouched. I am not without mercy.”

A pulse of rage surged through Giyuu, so pure it scraped his bones. “She isn’t yours to claim,” he growled. “If you want her, you’ll have to carve a path through me. Try. I dare you.”

Kugetsu’s gaze never left him. “It does not have to be this way. You could keep your life, keep your pride, keep the adoration of your Master. All for one simple sacrifice.”

Giyuu spat at the demon’s feet, eyes flat with hatred. “Your word means nothing. Your mercy means less. Come any closer and I’ll cut you apart.”

The spirits circling Kugetsu drew in tighter, voices swelling, a surge of warnings and half-remembered prayers. Kugetsu lifted a hand, fingers bloodless, almost delicate. The obsidian sword floated free, orbiting him like a star dragged out of place.

He smiled. “So be it. Let’s see if the tales of the Water Hashira are worth the ink.”

Giyuu needed no further invitation. He slid forward, breath settling into that singular, disciplined rhythm. His body remembered this kind of hatred, this necessity.

Sabito. Tsutako. Yume.

I won’t lose anyone else.

“Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!”

Steel met spirit, blue against black, and the world snapped into violence.

Chapter Text

❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Yume woke with a start, not from a nightmare but from a silence so unnatural it pressed against her ears, a silence that seemed to swallow the ordinary murmurs of wind, frogs, even her own breathing. The futons beside her—the ones that should have held the warmth of her mother and father—were empty. Blankets thrown back in careless folds, the indents left by bodies already fading. The cold crept up from the floorboards, climbing her calves, prickling her skin with gooseflesh.

The house felt wrong—hollow, as if someone had come through and scooped out all the air. The only movement came from the shoji, left half-open. A night wind tumbled through the kitchen, lifting the edge of a fallen towel, scattering millet husks across the floor. The smell of the outdoors—raw earth, moss, the faint metallic breath of distant rain—seeped through the gap.

Yawning, she pushed herself upright and rubbed the sleep from her eyes with a knuckle, frowning at the emptiness. “Okaa-chan? Otou-chan?”

She slid her feet into her sandals, careful not to trip on the pile of unfolded laundry, and padded toward the door. At the threshold, a chill licked at her bare arms. With a shiver, she stepped over the sill. “Where did you go…?”

Peering out across the yard, past the bamboo washstand and the crooked row of hydrangeas, she searched for any sign of movement. The fields stretched outward—black water glinting, the rice stalks shivering in the breath of the night. Her breath came in pale puffs, nearly invisible, vanishing as soon as they left her mouth.

The hairs on her arms stood up. She felt the familiar prickle of being watched, a sensation she had tried to banish, had told herself again and again was only her imagination.

Her heart stuttered, but she remembered her mother’s lessons—chanted like a prayer until the words lost all meaning. They aren’t real. They aren’t real. She hugged her elbows, trying to rub the cold from her bones. “I’m not scared,” she whispered, though the lie scratched her throat.

Drawn by a wrongness—an absence that hummed in her gut, pulling her like the tide—she pressed forward. Past the first row of stones, where her father sometimes left offerings—coins, bits of rice, an old comb for spirits that might wander too close. She scanned the fields, hunting for footprints, for any sign that someone had passed by in haste. But the earth lay undisturbed, the water in the paddy still as glass.

Something tugged at her, insistent, toward the dirt path that snaked into the woods at the edge of the property. The trees stood, branches tangled, black against the paler sky.

I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not—

Each step further from the house peeled away comfort.

Courage ebbed, dissolving in her veins. Where are you? Her throat ached to call, but fear knotted the sound behind her teeth. She hugged her arms to her chest, fighting a tremor.

Up ahead, something pale hovered—not far now, nearly lost to shadow. A shape she recognized even in the unkind dark—her father, tall and rigid, back to her, the sweep of his haori billowing like the wings of a great black bird. Draped against him, was her mother. Her head lolled on his shoulder, hair obscuring her face, arms dangling uselessly at her sides. The world dropped away beneath Yume’s feet.

She wanted to run. Instead, her legs buckled. She staggered forward, pebbles biting into her soles. “Otou-chan, what are you doing?”

He didn’t turn. His grip tightened around her mother’s waist, holding her upright as if she were nothing but a doll stuffed with memories. His voice came back flat, distant, the edge of command slicing away all gentleness. “Go back inside, Yume.”

Yume froze, staring at his back. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, so loud it seemed to fill the forest. “But, Otou-chan—” Her voice splintered on his name, confusion filing the trembling syllables.

His answer was the crack of a whip: “Go. Now.”

A step back. Then another. Her eyes fixed on her mother’s bare feet, toes brushing the dirt, dragging furrows through the leaves. Something was wrong. She should answer.

Yume’s voice shot up, shrill with terror: “Okaa-chan! Okaa-chan!”

Her father’s spine jerked. In a motion so abrupt it seemed inhuman, he spun to face her.

The face was almost the same, but the eyes had gone slit and bestial, pupils narrowed to molten threads. His mouth, parted, showed fangs—long, needle-sharp, slick with something dark that glistened in the moon’s mean light. Hands, no longer human, were tipped in talons, sunk deep into her mother’s back, the flesh warping, devoured from within. He was drawing her mother’s form into himself, the skin at their point of contact writhing, fusing—her mother’s mouth open in a voiceless scream.

Yume’s knees folded. The earth rolled beneath her, nausea lurching up her throat. Her vision fractured—a thousand shards of horror slicing at her mind. The only sound was the wet, sucking noise as her mother’s body was consumed—a sound that would haunt the secret corners of her dreams forever.

She screamed.

Toppled backward, the world tilting, cold mud soaking through her clothes as her body met the earth with a dull, boneless thump. Panic surged, every instinct shrieking to run—but her legs wouldn’t move, frozen by the monstrous thing that wore her father’s face.

He stared down at her, head cocked, the remnants of her mother vanishing into his skin. Blood—black in the moonlight—slicked his jaw, staining his lips and chin. His eyes, slitted and bottomless, tracked her with the lazy malice of a cat toying with an insect. He didn’t come for her. He just watched.

“If you had just stayed asleep, Yume,” he said, his voice almost gentle—bored—soaked in a weary inevitability. “You would have woken up alone. Without a mother, yes. But you—always so curious, always meddling. My little dreamer.” He almost sighed. “But you’re not my dreamer anymore, are you? Your mother took your dreams away, didn’t she?”

He took a step toward her, the ground seeming to wilt beneath each tread. Panic scalded the inside of her mouth as she pushed herself backward, heels scraping ruts in the earth.

She tried to scream, but her voice came out raw and broken, useless.

Her eyes locked with his, pleading for some scrap of the familiar. There was nothing left of the man who had taught her to whistle with blades of grass, nothing of the soft hands that had plaited her hair. Only hunger, amusement, and a patience that belonged to something ancient and unfeeling.

He leaned forward, the moon catching on the bloody gleam of his teeth. “You should have stayed inside, Yume. You aren’t ready. A few more years...but now…”

The air shifted. A brittle cold shivered across her skin, the silence in her ears growing absolute.

Between her and the demon, a shape shimmered—half-formed, burning blue at the edges, faceless and immense. The presence radiated cold, so intense it made her teeth chatter. The thing in her father’s skin halted mid-step. His mask slipped, a flicker of pure fear twisting his features. He recoiled, the hunger gone.

Yume didn’t look to see who had saved her. She didn’t care.

All at once, her limbs remembered how to move. Lurching upright, knees knocking, she bolted. Dirt streaked up her arms and face. The scream tore out of her, raw and desperate, echoing through the sleeping fields. She sprinted, stumbling through roots and stinging weeds, heart jackhammering in her chest.

She didn’t dare look back—not at the demon, not at the flickering figure. Branches tore at her skin, the wind howled in her ears, and her lungs burned, but she didn’t stop. Not until the familiar lines of the house loomed up through the gloom, door gaping like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole.

She threw herself inside, slammed the door, and collapsed against the wood, sobbing, pressing her hands to her ears as if that could keep out the nightmare.

The moon, impassive, watched through the paper screens as Yume’s world dissolved into shrieking, unbearable white. Her mother’s name ripped itself loose from her throat again and again, a prayer and a curse, until even that was gone, lost to the darkness yawning open inside her.

Chapter Text

Steel clanged, spat fire. Giyuu pressed forward—heel digging into the earth, blade arcing. Sparks burst where his katana met Kugetsu’s floating sword, each collision a snarl of metal and will. The obsidian blade spun—untouched by hands, unfazed by weight. It danced between them, parrying, slashing, turning every opening into an illusion. Kugetsu himself stood perfectly still, head cocked, eyes watching Giyuu with a lazy, almost condescending interest.

Giyuu gritted his teeth. His arms shook with the effort to close the distance. He wanted the demon’s throat beneath his blade, not this endless duel with a weapon wielded by an absent hand. Every attempt to force an opening was met with supernatural precision. It infuriated him. There was no sport, no mutual risk. The demon simply observed, as if Giyuu was a puzzle to be solved or a wind-up toy meant to amuse him before supper.

Get closer. 

He feinted left—let the obsidian sword sweep past his ribs—then lunged, trying to pin Kugetsu’s arm. The demon’s mouth curled, faintly. His floating blade flickered down, kissing Giyuu’s forearm, drawing blood in a fine, stinging line. 

Kugetsu smiled. “You bleed well.”

Giyuu bared his teeth, eyes burning. “Come here and I’ll show you what real pain feels like.”

The spirits behind Kugetsu eddied—faces blurring, whispers twisting through the cold air. They chanted, their words a lattice of envy and warning. Giyuu ignored them, forced all his focus onto the demon.

Kugetsu didn't attack. He simply watched. “You fight for her, don’t you? The Dreamer. The last of the Getsurei line.” His voice was calm, conversational, as though they discussed the weather, not a girl’s life. “Even the spirits speak her name with reverence. Tsukuyomi’s child. I suppose you know nothing of that. You slayers are always so proud—so sure your swords keep darkness at bay. But you have no idea what’s buried beneath your own feet.”

Giyuu slashed, hard, his blade singing a note of pure fury. “Shut up.”

Kugetsu’s sword spun, turning the blow aside without effort. “Ignorance suits you. Shall I tell you what you’re protecting?” His eyes narrowed. “Her mother was the last one before her. The spirits begged for her. Even Tsukuyomi claimed her—though she was…diluted. By the time my Master devoured her, she was little more than a shadow.”

Giyuu’s next strike staggered him. His heart rattled against his ribs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kugetsu shrugged, hands open in mock apology. “You didn’t know? The Master consumed her mother. She was a disappointment. Her blood, her power—so thin, so useless. Master gained nothing. But your Tsuguko—ah. She overflows with Tsukuyomi’s blessing. She’s the river, not the stone. The Master will be pleased when I bring her back.”

A ringing in Giyuu’s skull—Consumed. The world recoiled, every fiber in him bristling, black anger coiling beneath his ribs. The tip of his blade trembled with wrath he couldn’t cage.

“You lying bastard,” Giyuu snarled, each word carved from venom. 

Kugetsu’s sword swept in, nearly catching Giyuu’s hip—he twisted away, sweat and blood stinging his eyes. Fury burned away all cold calculation. He launched himself forward, slamming the demon with a shoulder, following with a savage, two-handed cleave—no art, no form, just rage.

Kugetsu’s expression flickered—briefly, faintly impressed. “Now you fight like a man worth killing.”

“Come and try,” Giyuu hissed.

He pressed the attack, relentless, body and mind united by fury. His blade became an extension of his will—a river at flood, smashing everything in its path. The blue glow along the nichirin edge throbbed, echoing the pulse in his throat.

Every strike, every step forward was a promise: You will never touch her. You will never take another thing from this world. Not while I breathe.

Spirits screamed in the wind, Kugetsu’s laughter low and chill, the village trembling under the force of their collision.

Kugetsu’s eyes shone with lunar contempt. “Blood Demon Art: Rite of Desecration,” he intoned, voice echoing strangely—as if layered with voices not his own.

He slammed the sword’s hilt into the dirt. The ground beneath Giyuu’s feet fractured, blood-red kanji blazing outward in a perfect circle, seething with corrupted energy. From the cracks, ghostly hands erupted—skeletal, clawing, their grip icy. They seized Giyuu’s ankles, yanking him half-down, intent on dragging him through the earth. The air hummed, thick with the electric stench of spiritual violence.

Giyuu grit his teeth, severed the grasping fingers with a flash of steel, pushing forward—always forward—his rage carving a path through the grasp of the dead. He flung himself at Kugetsu, sword first.

Kugetsu barely seemed to notice. He lifted his hand, blade floating, and murmured, “Blood Demon Art: Moonlit Rejection.”

The blade detached, circling Kugetsu in a whirring halo—faster, impossibly fast—deflecting every strike, every breath of Giyuu’s offense. Around him, the ghostly moon circle bled into existence, within it the fleeting images of swordsmen long dead—echoes, broken, twisting as they spun. Every step closer Giyuu took was countered by a sweep of that spinning sword, each parry more infuriating than the last.

The demon regarded Giyuu with distant amusement. “You’re good, Hashira. But not good enough. You fight like a man with everything to lose. Tell me, is it love or guilt that makes you reckless?”

Giyuu grunted, teeth clenched, sweat sliding down his brow in bitter rivers. “You talk too much,” he growled. His next strike was savage—nothing measured, all intent.

Kugetsu’s blade clashed with his, force meeting force. “Let’s see you dance, Hashira.” He raised his arm, voice slicing through the hush: “Blood Demon Art: Rain of Hollow Blades.”

The sky ruptured. A rift of shadow cracked open above them, a wound in the night itself. Dozens—no, hundreds—of spectral swords poured down, trailing red-gold light like meteor shards. The falling blades shrieked, each one humming with the agony of the souls they’d claimed.

Giyuu’s heart slammed against his ribs. There was no room to run, no time to think—just the knowledge that if he faltered, he’d be impaled, cut to ribbons before the demon’s eyes.

Water Breathing: Eleventh Form─Dead Calm.

Everything slowed. The world fell silent, each breath drawn into stillness, his heartbeat the only sound left. He moved—clean, decisive—his blade a ripple through water, slicing down every falling sword, never pausing, never breaking form. Steel on steel rang out, each cut guided by a discipline beyond fear, beyond anger.

Blades shattered, rained down in pieces, their ghostlight flickering out on the ground at his feet. When the last of them fell, Giyuu’s lungs burned, his arms numb. The silence that followed rang louder than the storm.

Kugetsu watched, faintly impressed. “Remarkable. Most men would’ve been carved to bone.” He flexed his fingers, recalling his sword. The moon circle dissolved, spirits peeling away, wailing as they retreated into the gloom.

Giyuu pressed the advantage, crossing the space between them with a blur of motion. His sword found Kugetsu’s, clashing—once, twice, again—the force shuddering through both bodies.

Kugetsu’s lips curled in something close to delight. He lifted a finger, almost playful. “You’re not dull after all.”

A pulse of corrupted energy exploded from the ground—Kugetsu’s sword, pivoting, slammed Giyuu square in the chest. The impact sent him hurtling, body smashing through the brittle wall of a nearby house. Tatami split, rice paper shredded, and the stench of mold and old incense filled his lungs.

Villagers screamed, scattering like startled crows. He glimpsed a woman huddling a child behind a stove, another old man scrambling beneath a table, eyes wild with terror. Giyuu forced himself up, blood trickling from a split lip, ribs singing with pain.

He staggered through the wreckage, shaking plaster from his hair, refusing to yield.

Kugetsu stood in the street, arms outstretched, basking in the carnage. “You care for these insects? All this suffering, just to keep a single girl breathing. You could’ve spared them.”

Giyuu spat blood into the dust, advanced without hesitation. “I warned you,” he rasped. “You’ll pay.” His grip tightened.

Their swords met again—harder, faster, the world shuddering with the violence of their will. Spirit and flesh, neither giving an inch.

Kugetsu’s voice carried across the ruin-strewn street, a caress of silk dragged across broken glass. “I wonder,” he mused, the words slipping through the midnight haze, “if my Master will permit me even a taste. She’s rare, isn’t she? Perhaps, if I beg, he’ll let me have a bite before he devours her. Or maybe I’ll take it anyway.”

The words didn’t echo; they infected. Something inside Giyuu snapped—a fissure running straight through the core of his restraint, severing the last thread of patience. He charged, every muscle screaming. His blade blurred, each cut a promise carved from rage and terror. Kugetsu’s sword spun in answer, but this time Giyuu fought not like a man, but a beast driven to the edge of extinction.

He closed the distance, unrelenting. His sword sought the demon’s throat—over and over, each strike closer, hungrier, until Kugetsu at last met his force with his own. The demon’s arm swept in a brutal arc, a shockwave rolling off his sword that splintered the road beneath their feet. Giyuu’s body went airborne, flung like a rag doll through the wall of another house.

Plaster and timber caved around him. Tatami split beneath his weight. His lungs seized, air torn from his chest. For a moment, the world was only pain and dust, the taste of blood flooding his mouth. But there was no pause—Kugetsu advanced, the demon’s steps soundless, trailing wisps of cold vapor and the stench of old graves.

Villagers screamed—shrill, frantic, the raw noise of survival. He glimpsed their faces: terrified, wild-eyed, some with hands pressed over children’s mouths, others scrambling on hands and knees, praying the demon would overlook them.

Giyuu forced himself up, every joint aflame. Kugetsu stood framed in the ragged hole of the wall, his silhouette a mockery of humanity. Moonlight caught on his blade, rimmed in crimson. He raised it, almost in reverence. “Blood Demon Art: Rain of Hollow Blades.”

The sky split open once more. The rift above them vomited swords—hundreds, all spectral and black, their descent slow and inevitable as judgment. Every blade sang a shrill, high note, like a funeral bell for the condemned. Giyuu’s eyes flicked to the villagers cowering in the dark behind him—helpless, doomed if even one sword slipped past.

He dropped to one knee. Water Breathing: Eleventh Form─Dead Calm. He became the only barrier between oblivion and the innocent.

When the last blade fractured against his edge, Dead Calm ebbed. The agony came rushing back—his arms burned, muscles torn, wounds leaking warmth into the cold floorboards. Every heartbeat threatened to split him open.

Kugetsu stepped closer, smile broadening. He looked at Giyuu not as a threat, but a curiosity—a samurai from some half-remembered tale. “Ready to die?” The demon’s tone was light, almost bored. “You must realize by now—no one survives an Upper Moon. Not alone. Not for long.”

Giyuu dragged himself upright, one hand pressed to a bleeding flank. His breathing was ragged, vision edged with red. But he didn't yield, nor flinch. He met Kugetsu’s gaze—unblinking, absolute.

“Go to hell,” he croaked. Each word cost him, yet his voice never wavered.

Kugetsu considered him for a heartbeat—then laughter, low and cold, like wind whistling through a graveyard, spilled from his mouth. “You’re still clinging to hope. It’s almost admirable.”

Somewhere deep inside, a voice—Sabito’s voice—rasped through the pain: Hold the line. Even when it’s hopeless, especially then.

I promised her. 

He set his feet, every nerve screaming, and raised his blade once more. The only way out was through—through pain, through rage, through the demon. He would not give Kugetsu another inch.

If he died, he would die facing forward, with steel drawn and her name burning in his mouth.

Chapter Text

Yume paused on the porch, feeling the wood warm beneath her bare feet, the faintest whisper of wind threading its way through the open doors. The house—her old house, impossibly whole—breathed in the light, every paper screen aglow, every shadow gentle. A memory made real, or perhaps a dream so dense she could no longer tell the difference.

She stepped inside, hesitating at the threshold. The scent of steamed barley, faded soap, the faint musk of old tatami. Somewhere, a kettle whistled. A lazy cat sprawled beneath the irori, tail twitching in contentment—that cat had died when she was seven. It didn’t matter. The place pulsed with absence and presence, woven together so tightly she couldn't pry them apart.

Near the sunken hearth, her mother sat cross-legged, a faded yukata folded about her knees. She worked a needle through cloth—her father’s old kimono, the paisley pattern now threadbare at the elbows, colors washed to the softness of memory. Light caught in her hair,  her face younger than Yume remembered, but her eyes unchanged. Eyes that saw straight through to the marrow.

Unease curled under Yume’s ribs, rooting her to the spot. Her tongue felt thick, as if it belonged to someone else. “Okaa-chan…?” The word quavered, heavy with too much longing.

Her mother looked up, needle poised, and smiled—not the thin, careful smile of duty, but the one from Yume’s earliest mornings, when the world still felt safe. She beckoned. “Come here, little moon.”

Yume obeyed, folding herself down beside the irori. Sewing set aside, her mother’s hand brushed a stray lock of hair from Yume’s cheek. There was gravity in her touch, a trembling urgency that caught Yume’s breath. “Do you remember what I told you? What you had to say, no matter what you saw?”

Yume’s throat tightened. The words rose by reflex, bitter as old medicine. “They aren’t real. The spirits. The dreams.”

Silence, thick as wet wool. Her mother’s lips pressed into a line, then softened. She shook her head once. “No, Yume. That was a lie. I had to tell you that. But not anymore.” Her mother’s fingers trembled as she found Yume’s hand, pressing their palms together. “They are real. The spirits you saw, the dreams that found you—all of it. You need to remember now.”

A shudder rolled through Yume, as if the ground beneath the house had shifted. She looked at her mother, searching for a sign of deceit, a trick, anything to root her back in certainty. Only sorrow, and something fierce—a resolve shaped by terror.

Her mother leaned closer. “I had a dream, Yume. He was there—your father. He wants you to speak to the dead for him. That’s why he came into our lives. That’s why he stayed.”

The words rang through Yume, every syllable burning. She tried to speak but nothing came, her mouth filled with ashes.

Her mother’s grip tightened, urgent. “You must never give him what he wants. Not for any reason. Do you understand? Promise me, Yume. On everything—your name, your blood, your dreams.”

Yume nodded, unsteady. “I promise, Okaa-chan. I promise.”

Relief flickered across her mother’s face. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Yume’s brow. The touch was a benediction, soft and searing all at once.

As her mother kissed her, light burst behind Yume’s eyelids—all-consuming, white as lightning. She tried to cry out, to cling to her mother, but she was already falling, the house dissolving, her mother’s warmth fading into black.

Chapter Text

Giyuu lunged—no thought, only violence, the memory of Yume’s lifeless weight burning in his arms. Steel clashed, sparks spat like angry hornets. Each blow reverberated up his battered arms, pain blooming beneath his skin. Kugetsu’s blade met his at every turn, but Giyuu pressed closer, every inch surrendered measured in blood and teeth-gritted resolve.

For a moment—a sliver of eternity caught between heartbeats—he saw something flicker in the demon’s eyes. Not arrogance. Not even satisfaction. Fear. It passed almost too quickly to name, washed away beneath Kugetsu’s lazy smile; the demon spun his sword in a slow, taunting arc, but Giyuu saw it all the same. The realization snagged in his chest, sparking something savage. He can be afraid.

He pressed his advantage, movements turning reckless, wild. Footwork blurred. His blade tasted flesh—shallow. He ignored the agony in his shoulder, the ache gnawing at his ribs, the blood trickling down his arm. There was no room for pain. 

Kugetsu’s patience snapped. A ripple ran through the demon’s form, and he hissed, voice dropping to something guttural. “You fight like a beast cornered. Let’s see if you die as easily.” He lifted his blade. “Blood Demon Art: Rite of Desecration.”

The ground split, kanji blooming red-hot at Giyuu’s feet. Phantom hands clawed upward, fingers digging into his legs and arms, pinning him with the spiteful strength of the vengeful dead. Giyuu snarled—no dignity left, only desperation. His blade whirled, severing spectral wrists, hacking at the shadows that dragged him under. For every hand cut loose, three more clung, nails biting through muscle to bone.

Kugetsu loomed above, sword poised for the killing blow. Moonlight traced the demon’s face, stark against the black cracks along his cheekbone. He didn’t look at Giyuu. His eyes shifted, focusing on something above them, higher up the debris-strewn road.

He smiled—thin, lascivious, anticipatory. “Ah. The guest of honor arrives.”

Giyuu twisted, seizing the demon’s distraction to wrench himself free of the grasping spirits. He rolled, agony flaring as a splintered fence post pierced his shoulder, grating against bone. He bit down on a curse, teeth cracking through the pain. Shinobu would murder him for what he was about to do, but he gripped the splinter and yanked—flesh tearing, the world spinning on a whorl of pain. Blood soaked his sleeve, running hot down his ribs, but he forced his breathing to steady. Focus. Seal the wound. Move.

He pushed upright, vision blurring. The world sharpened around a single sight: Kugetsu advancing up the slope toward the figure now outlined in dirty moonlight.

Yume stood at the mountain’s foot, Murata’s sword slack in her hand, arms limp at her sides. She looked half-drowned—hair plastered to her skull, yukata torn and clinging, mud and lake-rot stippling her skin. Her eyes were huge, unfocused, rimmed in bruised purple, making her seem less alive than the spirits still writhing at Giyuu’s ankles.

Kugetsu paused, tilting his head, gaze sharp and appraising, like a naturalist eyeing a rare specimen. “Yume Getsurei.” The demon’s tone was reverent, almost tender, a twisted mimicry of affection. “You should have stayed asleep. But perhaps this is better. I’ve never met one so close to the border. Tell me—do you feel Tsukuyomi watching? Does your blood burn with his voice?”

Yume blinked, her gaze slow to focus, as if surfacing from some unfathomable depth. She gave no answer—just that hollow, animal stare. Kugetsu stepped closer, one hand outstretched. His sword hovered behind him, orbiting his body with a mind of its own. “Come to me, little dreamer. No one will hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it. All you have to do is reach out.”

Giyuu’s rage shuddered through him, raw and physical. He staggered up the slope, breath coming in ragged bursts. “Get away from her.”

Kugetsu turned, smile peeling wider. “Still breathing, Hashira? Impressive. Not many could withstand that much blood loss.”

“I’m not most men,” Giyuu snarled, spitting blood, blade raised, stance set. 

Every time Kugetsu dared a step toward her, Giyuu blocked his path—sword drawn, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with the kind of resolve that only came from standing at the precipice of loss. The demon circled, never quite smiling, but amusement simmered beneath his gaze. He moved as if the outcome had been decided long before the battle began.

And Yume—she didn’t move. She stood at the edge of the muddy track, her posture eerie in its emptiness. Water dripped from her hair, tracing slow lines down her throat. Even the spirits that swarmed Kugetsu seemed to recoil from the strange, unnatural aura that clung to her.

Kugetsu’s lips curled in a parody of pity. “Do you see them, Tomioka? The souls crowding her shoulders—look, how the veil thins for her. You protect something you don’t even comprehend. The last vessel of the Getsurei. The one blessed by Tsukuyomi. A bloodline fit for gods, wasted in rice fields and ash. The Master will savor every drop. Unlike her mother. Pitiful thing, not even worth the memory of pain. But this girl—she is different. She—”

Behind them, a guttural, animal noise slashed through the night. Not human—raw and cracked, dragged from somewhere deeper than the lungs. Yume’s head snapped up. Her eyes, once cloudy, focused with a violence that made the world feel smaller.

“What did you just say?” Her voice grated out, broken glass on stone.

Kugetsu didn’t even glance her way; with the casual flick of his wrist, he hurled Giyuu aside, sending him skidding through gravel, feet tearing furrows in the mud. The demon placed himself between Yume and everything else—one elegant, monstrous step, barring the path with his body.

He smiled at her now, as one might to a stray animal. “Surely you know. Surely you’ve always known. The Master ate your mother. Picked her bones clean. Useless woman, no power left. Not like you. You’re a banquet.”

The effect was instant and volcanic. Giyuu, choking on air and pain, watched something ancient and feral seize hold of Yume’s frame. Her own bones seemed to rebel—spine arching, face split by a rictus of grief and rage, hands curling so hard the sword trembled in her grip.

A scream ripped the air in two. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, do you hear me—I’ll fucking kill you!”

Yume surged forward, a snarl tearing from her throat. Her form blurred—none of the grace he’d seen in her before, no poise, no strategy. She hurled herself at Kugetsu with the wild, brute force of an animal driven past the edge. Blade crashed against blade. Every strike landed with such ferocity that, for a heartbeat, even Kugetsu’s polished veneer shattered.

He staggered, parrying her blows, laughter bleeding through the cracks in his mask. “Yes! That’s it! Give it to me. I want to taste it!”

But she didn’t hear him. Yume’s attacks came without rhythm or mercy—shoulder first, then blade, then fists when the sword was batted away. Each word she screamed was ragged, tears cutting dirty lines down her cheeks. “I’ll tear your heart out—do you hear me, demon!?”

Around them, the air warped, growing dense and unsteady. Kugetsu’s spirits, usually obedient, reeled away, their hands outstretched as if to shield themselves from the storm she’d become. Her blade struck his cheek—demon blood spattered her face. Yume didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. She pressed harder, each strike more reckless, her voice fraying.

Giyuu, stunned, had never seen her fight this way. Usually, she moved like wind over water—deceptive, elusive, every step calculated. But now? She was nothing but raw fury, her movements fueled by hate, every flaw eclipsed by the force behind them.

Kugetsu’s composure slipped. He matched her, blow for blow, but she was driving him now—forcing him back with nothing but the weight of her grief. Her sword clanged off his, slipped past to slice his forearm. Again. Again. Her scream grew hoarse, words dissolving into primal sound.

Giyuu dragged himself upright, vision tunneled. He saw only Yume—her ruined yukata, the mud on her legs, blood smeared across her hands. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back, but knew if he did, she’d turn that rage on him, too.

Kugetsu tried to parry, to regain his rhythm, but Yume slammed into him—body, blade, grief, and hate colliding. “You’re nothing! NOTHING!”

Her sword stuck deep in his side. Kugetsu howled—an ugly, inhuman sound, his hand closing on her wrist, crushing.

She didn’t falter. Leaning in, she spat blood in his face. “I’ll send you straight to hell. And I’ll be waiting for you there.”

Kugetsu twisted Yume’s wrist until bone threatened to give, then flung her aside with a contemptuous flick. She flew—limp, a streak of dirt and blood through the mud. Giyuu’s body responded before thought, pain forgotten; he caught her in the crook of his arms, both of them tumbling backward, skidding through gravel. She landed across his chest, breath knocked out of her, wild eyes unseeing for a heartbeat.

Kugetsu stalked after them, eyes lambent with hunger. “You’re both pathetic,” he spat, syllables warping as his jaw split too wide, predator’s maw gleaming. “I’ll devour you together. The Hashira’s marrow, the Dreamer’s soul—what a feast.”

His hands swept through an arcane gesture. The air twisted, pressure mounting as a ring of specters unfurled around him, their shapes gaining weight and edge. “Blood Demon Art: Death by 1000 Cuts,” Kugetsu intoned, voice echoing like a curse. The spirits surged forward, their swords flashing—a blur of impossible steel, closing from every direction.

Giyuu barely had breath to curse. He shoved Yume beneath him, wrapping his body over hers—every nerve burning, strength ragged and stretched thin. Bracing for the onslaught, he was determined to absorb every blow if it kept her alive. His arm swept for his nichirin, but the fatigue in his muscles screamed—he couldn’t summon Dead Calm again, not with his blood leaking, not when his heart pounded a hole in his chest.

But Yume thrashed beneath him, rage undimmed by pain. She tore herself free, throwing Giyuu off with a strength he’d never felt in her before. She staggered upright, hair pasted to her face, eyes shot with red. The phantoms bore down—dozens of swords poised to carve her to ribbons.

Her voice cut through the chaos, hoarse but unyielding: “Dream Breathing: Seventh Form─Floating Bridge of Dreams.”

Kugetsu faltered, cold amusement replaced by something closer to reverence. Giyuu’s heart stuttered in his chest. There was no Seventh Form. She only created six.

Around them, the world seemed to tilt. The air thickened, as if something ancient and immense stirred just out of sight. A haze, moonlit and shimmering, bled from Yume’s skin, turning the night to silver and violet. A bridge shimmered into being—arched, ethereal, strung with paper shide that fluttered in a wind. The dead spirits recoiled, howling, as a presence more profound than their master’s took shape atop the span.

A figure strode out of the mist: tall, clad in a white haori, fox mask askew over a mane of peach hair wild as rivergrass. Sword drawn, posture loose and deadly—Sabito.

Giyuu’s mind reeled, memory, grief, and awe tangling together. He’d spent years picturing Sabito in dreams, haunted by what-ifs. But this apparition—this spirit—left footprints in the mud.

Sabito’s voice rolled out, deep as thunder and edged with steel. “Yume. Together.”

She nodded. For the briefest moment, she was only a girl again—trembling, but not alone.

Sabito raised his blade. “Water Breathing: Eleventh Form—Crimson Torrent.”

Everything erupted. Sabito became a storm; each swing an avalanche, waves of slashing steel that carved through the wall of spirits Kugetsu had summoned. Wherever he moved, blood and mist burst in his wake. Yume darted beside him, Dream Breathing flowing into Water, her footwork impossibly fluid—each strike blurred into the next, afterimages swirling, drawing Kugetsu’s attention one way before vanishing to strike from another.

Kugetsu bellowed, fury and fear twining in his voice. “You dare bring the dead to my doorstep? I am Upper Five! I’ll—” He lunged, wielding his blade in a wild spiral, unleashing another barrage—“Blood Demon Art: Rain of Hollow Blades!”—swords screaming down, spectral and deadly, threatening to split the earth.

Sabito laughed, the sound wild and alive. He and Yume whirled through the maelstrom, blades flashing, knocking phantom swords aside as if slicing through tall grass. Steel screeched against steel, each impact cracking the air, echoing off ruined rooftops.

But Sabito’s eyes flicked to Giyuu, still sprawled, clutching his ruined shoulder, face smeared with blood, watching in shock. “Now, Giyuu! Get up! She needs you.”

Yume’s voice joined his—a ragged cry. “Giyuu!”

The sound cut through his daze. Adrenaline roared in his ears, drowning out pain. He rolled, hand closing on the hilt of his nichirin. Every muscle in his body trembled. With effort, he forced himself upright, gaze narrowing to Kugetsu’s neck, the path Sabito and Yume had cleared now visible.

Breath in—focus. All the pain, all the anger—he poured it into the shape of water. Feet silent, he lunged, sword arcing up. “Water Breathing: Sixth Form─Piercing Raindrop.”

For a heartbeat, the world funneled to rain and moonlight, all of it gathering in the perfect point of his blade. He shot forward, faster than grief, faster than rage, blade piercing the whorl of spirits, slipping through Kugetsu’s guard.

Sabito and Yume hammered Kugetsu from both sides, forcing him to rear back, arms pinwheeling, too slow to defend.

Giyuu’s blade bit into Kugetsu’s neck—nichirin flashing in the unnatural moonlight. “Die,” he snarled.

He drove the blade clean through, severing spine, windpipe, unholy sinew. Kugetsu’s head tumbled, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth still open in the beginnings of a curse, body turning to ash.

A shockwave rocked the village—spirits torn loose and scattering through the night. Yume staggered, chest heaving. Sabito flickered, his mask crumbling away in the moon’s pale glare, smile soft, proud, before dissolving into mist.

Giyuu collapsed to his knees, sword slipping from his grip, staring at the place Sabito had vanished, hand outstretched.

Yume sank in front of him, knees pressing into blood-soaked earth. Arms winding around his shoulders with a desperation all raw knuckles and grief. Her face pressed into his throat, breath hot and ragged, her sobs breaking against his collarbone, soaking his ruined uniform.

“I remember—Giyuu, I remember—” The words came out in fragments, torn by hysteria and something deeper. Fingers dug into his back—not seeking comfort, but anchoring herself to the one reality left that hadn’t betrayed her.

He pulled her in, holding her tightly. Questions tumbled behind his teeth: How had she conjured Sabito’s ghost, how did she know the seventh form, what bargain had been struck between her blood and the dead? Did she know what she’d summoned? Could she bring him back again? The words burned, but he swallowed them. Now wasn't the time to chase answers—not while she was shaking, wild with memory, voice breaking apart in his arms.

He let her sob, burying his face in her hair.

Around them, the village sat in ruins—broken beams and abandoned prayers. Somewhere, a child’s cry echoed.

Yume drew back, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, breath hiccuping in her chest. Mud and tears streaked her cheek, and his thumb wiped them away—rough but gentle, leaving smears neither of them cared about.

She searched his face, something wild flickering in her gaze—a fear untouched by demons or spirits, but by the obliteration of innocence. Her mouth opened, words trembling at the edge. “Giyuu—” Her voice cracked. “It’s him. Muzan. He’s—he’s my─he was my father.”

Everything seemed to narrow, sound falling away, as if a blow had stunned his senses. Breath caught, heartbeat lost its rhythm. Muzan. The master of all monsters. The root of every nightmare. And this—this secret at the center of her suffering. 

What answer was possible for this kind of violation? His palm pressed to the back of her neck, thumb tracing the tender skin beneath her ear. “Yume,” he managed, voice nearly swallowed by the rush of blood in his head.

“He was there—he was in our house,” she choked, the memory tumbling out in shards. “My mother tried to warn me, but I—” Her whole body shook, teeth chattering as if plunged into snowmelt. “He killed her, Giyuu. He ate her and I watched—” Her voice failed, a strangled gasp escaping as her shoulders curled inward.

Giyuu’s arms tightened, jaw set in an expression more lethal than any blade. Rage pooled under his skin. Muzan’s cruelty wasn’t content to consume the flesh of strangers—it had reached into Giyuu’s world, taken what he’d dared call precious, and twisted her lineage into a weapon. “I’ll gut him. I’ll burn his name from the earth.”

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered. “You can’t protect me from Muzan.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “I don’t care. As long as I’m breathing, he’ll have to kill me first. I won’t let him touch you.”

Her shoulders sagged, breath easing.

He rocked her, slow and silent. Around them, the world crept back in. From behind shattered shōji and broken walls, villagers peered out—half-shadowed faces drawn, eyes wide with the afterimage of terror. A child clung to his mother’s sleeve, both dusted in soot. Doors creaked open as survivors gathered in knots of disbelief around the wound in their village.

Giyuu cradled Yume, chin pressed to her crown. Every heartbeat felt stolen, bought with the coin of everything they’d lost tonight. He barely noticed the blood oozing from his shoulder, or the splinters biting his knees. The world could burn, and he still wouldn't let go.

Erratic footsteps pounded down the stone path behind them. Giyuu looked up as Murata appeared, breathless and wild, careening down the slope. His uniform was torn, mud streaked across his jaw, and a swelling the size of a goose egg blossomed on his brow. Murata skidded to a halt before them, knees buckling in a graceless collapse.

He sucked wind, hands on his thighs, eyes bugging in outrage and panic. “Tomioka! She—she knocked me out!” he bellowed, each syllable loud enough to rouse the dead. His finger stabbed at Yume, voice hitching, indignant. “You—you should be punishing her! She left me up there! If a demon had come, I’d be—” Murata’s face crumpled, the words dissolving into silence as the weight of what had happened hit.

Yume stayed where she was in Giyuu’s arms. Her head lolled back, hair tangled and slick, eyes shining with a haunted kind of exhaustion. Yet a glimmer of mischief surfaced. “He tried to keep me from coming down the mountain. Wouldn’t move. I warned him.”

Giyuu blinked, an old thread of humor twitching to life in his chest despite the agony. He glanced down at her, mouth tugging in a line that wasn’t quite a smile. “Is that why you have his sword?”

She shrugged, the old bravado flickering through exhaustion. “He wouldn’t hand it over. I didn’t have time to be polite.”

Still catching his breath, Murata spluttered, “You could have—could have waited! What if you’d collapsed again? What if he’d gotten you, Yume—? I—” His hands shook, knuckles white. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, not lying facedown in the moss while you go running into an Upper Rank’s jaws.”

Giyuu regarded him, something like gratitude—a rare, unspoken thing—passing through his eyes. “You did your job. She does what she wants.”

Murata gaped, disbelief wrestling with pride and frustration. “That’s it? She knocks me out cold, and that’s your answer? You two—”

Yume’s fingers tightened at Giyuu’s sleeve, steadying herself as she sat up. Mud caked her wrists, blood streaked down to her nails. Her laugh was brittle. “If you’d seen your own face when I came at you.”

Giyuu snorted—actual laughter, if he could manage such a thing. He reached out, hand closing over Murata’s shoulder, the squeeze carrying both apology and thanks. “Go help the villagers. And get someone to fetch Yoriko.” Giyuu’s voice was all gravel, but the command steadied Murata, gave him purpose.

Murata stood, muttering under his breath, but his eyes swept the ruin for anyone in need.

Yume leaned into Giyuu’s side, spent but unbroken. Her head tipped against his, breath finally even. “I think I need to sleep now,” she whispered.

Giyuu glanced at the bruised sky, dawn creeping in, then to the villagers still whispering prayers into their sleeves, and pulled her close. “I’ll keep watch,” he said.