snow, moon, and flower

by nyxomniax

Shinazugawa Sanemi does not believe in fate. People do not ask for the lives they lead; they work, they fight, and they die for their beliefs. For the sake of his family, Sanemi will sin, lie, and kill. For the happiness of those he loves, Sanemi would give his life. [Shinazugawa Sanemi x OC] [Rengoku Kyoujurou x OC]

3. maai - the distance between

through times of spring (1908)

間合い; maai; the distance between

For as long as demons disrupt the peace of the land, the distance between endless night and the dawn of tomorrow grows ever greater – and from the desire to bridge this divide, demon slayers are born.

chapter cw: there is extremely detailed and potentially disturbing gore / sadistic violence in this chapter

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"You're ready for Final Selection," Yoake tells him.

"I don't feel ready," Sanemi says, frowning. He continues to twist and swing his katana in well practised motions. "I've barely mastered two forms."

"Most do not master even a single form when they enter Final Selection, Sanemi-san," Yoake continues sternly. Her arms are crossed, and she stares him down with a look he has become all too used to. "And many have several years of training to their name before they go at all."

He huffs at her as he rolls his shoulder and cracks his neck. She doesn't get it.

"Again," he says with a shake of his head, and Yoake rolls her eyes at his demands.

They've been at this for hours, since just after dawn, when Sanemi made his way to the training grounds and found Yoake already there as she practised her forms like a well-timed dance. He had grown accustomed to the sight of her hakama fluttering like a water wheel in the wind. Her long black hair is tied back with a low red ribbon that sits by her waist, and it moves as she dances in a way like the branches and petals of a plum blossom tree would rustle in the wind.

Another month of Sanemi's training passes, and in this time, he feels he has learned much, yet also nothing. In two months' time, Sanemi has learnt to wield the sword with deadly expertise, mastering the first two forms. In two months' time, Sanemi has committed the other seven forms of wind breathing to memory. In two months' time, three masters in their own rights have proclaimed him exceptional; but to him, it is not enough.

"...please," he adds when Yoake makes no movement. She shakes her head and relents, picking up a log from the ever dwindling pile that Sanemi has been splitting into finer and finer pieces.

"Since you asked so politely, Sanemi-san," she quips with a teasing smile that he's come to be quite fond of. She tosses the log at him, and Sanemi lowers himself to the ground, breathing deeply.

"Wind breathing, sixth form," he whispers as he exhales. "Black Wind Mountain Mist!"

He unleashes his blade, slashing into the air with a powerful uppercut that seems to mimic the ferocity of a hurricane. Sanemi twists his body mid-leap, letting the momentum of his jump control the trajectory of his swing – he intends for a vertical slash down the length of the log – but the angle is all wrong. His hips and waist don't move the way he wants them to. His twist is too strong, too powerful, and the uppercut instead splits the log diagonally, two uneven halves clattering to the ground with a dull thud shortly after his own feet meet the earth once again.

"Damn it," he curses beneath his breath.

"I'd loathe to be the demon on the receiving end of such an attack," Yoake tells him.

"Don't humour me," Sanemi snaps. "My form was wrong. The angle was wrong. All of it, wrong."

Yoake shakes her head at him, clicking her tongue.

"Yet before me lies another log, split in twain alongside some two dozen other fallen brethren. Be happy with the progress you have already made, Sanemi-san. No one becomes a master overnight. Many do not become masters at all."

"It's not enough," he argues. Yoake scoffs at him, and her movements betray more than her words.

Yoake seems to have near endless patience for him, Sanemi admits. Though Akihito is his master, he is also the Wind Hashira and master of the estate, and is often called away on important missions and duties. In his place, his tsuguko should be training Sanemi; however even Masachika has struggled with the early mornings and Sanemi's relentless pace. So on days like today, where Masachika has opted instead to sleep in, Sanemi finds himself in Yoake's hands as she runs him through their now familiar routine.

Every day, they meet in the training grounds by the chashitsu tea house in the estate. Every day, she guides his hand, works his body, moves through forms and exercises and drills with him before Masachika or Akihito appear to take over. Every day, long after he finishes with the other two, Yoake stays to guide his hand – but even she has her limits.

"Your determination is admirable, but your patience is lacking," she tells him as she strides closer to him. "And therein lies your problem."

"Patience has nothing to do with this! The fact that I'm up at dawn and here until nightfall proves that, doesn't it?" he argues, but Yoake shakes her head.

"You misunderstand me. I do not mean you lack the patience to commit yourself to practise – I mean the patience you lack for yourself, for your body. You can't accept that you haven't attained mastery yet."

"Of course I can't!" Sanemi is yelling now, that familiar fury rising in his gut. "How am I supposed to improve if I just accept I'm not good enough?"

"Calm yourself," she says, voice firm. Her brows are knitted together as she stares him down with barely contained frustration reflected on her face. Suddenly, Sanemi feels her hand at his chest.

Her touch is firm, yet also gentle in a way that reminds him of his mother. She does not push him; simply lays her palm flat against his chest, near his heart, which beats heavily from the anger that swirls within. Sanemi wants to back away. He wants to slap her hand away from his body and retreat to a place where he does not need to speak or feel or think of anything except his training.

But he understands that to do all that would be to admit she is right.

"I never said to accept such a thing. I said to accept that you haven't obtained mastery yet – not that you will never obtain it. You push your body beyond its capacities. You are a prodigy, yes, and your natural talent shines through – but do not forget that you have only been training for two short months. You have the body of a boy who has never known the guarantee of a meal until recently, and it shows. Be patient. Your muscles need time to catch up to your ambition."

Sanemi feels his hands tighten around the tsuka of his katana, his grip so firm his knuckles are a pale white. Yoake's hand remains on his chest, and Sanemi remembers to breathe.

She is right, he relents. He is strong now – stronger than ever before – but his body has limitations that he cannot forget. His steady breaths calms his heavy beating heart.

"Good," she says gently to him, and Sanemi feels the warmth of her palm through the fabric of his jinbei as he focuses on his breathing.

He struggles with the sixth form in a way he does not with the others. The sixth form was the first he ever saw, the very same one Masachika executed with expert precision to slay the demon Sanemi had entangled and suspended in the air two months ago with nothing but steel chains and sheer dumb luck. He's grown, figuratively and literally, in a hundred different ways since that day.

Once, Sanemi was an undisciplined, skinny boy with stick-thin arms who killed demons with obsessive fury but walked through life each day with less determination than the dying. Now, Sanemi is different.

"I'm sorry," he whispers softly after his heart beat steadies to a slower pace. "For yelling."

"I forgive you," she tells him, her voice sweet and gentle. "You've done well."

When Yoake smiles at him and retracts her hand, that once burning rage drains from his chest like water from a well. He is left only with the unfamiliar warmness that follows praise, and Sanemi feels his cheeks flush when a lone, stray thought crosses his mind; he briefly wishes Yoake did not remove her hand at all.

Somewhere along the line, life began to find meaning again. That obsessive fury he nurtures still lingers, and he reaches for that anger and hatred to channel into each swing of his sword so that he may fight harder and stronger against demons. Sanemi still struggles sometimes, in the morning or late at night, when thoughts and memories of everything he lost that fateful day two years ago haunt him like a vengeful ghost – but slowly, that shadow of pain is dissipating. Slowly, Sanemi finds himself seeking out the companionship of those in the Spring Estate. Slowly, Sanemi begins to look forward to what tomorrow brings.

He will never admit it, of course. Words are stiff and feelings are awkward. Sanemi prefers the quiet. He lingers in what is unsaid.

But shared meals with the household are not events he dreads or forces himself to attend. Akihito's teachings are strict and hard, but his encouragement and praise are rewarding in a way Sanemi never got to experience from his own father. Masachika's incessant whining continues to rattle in his ears, but the sound of his voice becomes as comforting to him as it is annoying. The Doumae girls regard him with a warmth and kindness he had forgotten the feeling of; the kind of affection he thought only his siblings were capable of giving him.

And then there is Kakutani Yoake, the heir of the Spring Estate, who treats him not as a sad orphan boy who has lost his lot in life. She does not look at him with the same kind of pity or remorseful sorrow that he sometimes finds in Master Akihito's or Masachika's eyes. She does not treat him any less or any more than who and what he is – a boy named Shinazugawa Sanemi, whose ambition to slay demons matches her own.

Since he met her weeks ago, Yoake has, for the most part, remained at the Spring Estate. Her last mission had taken her far from the walls of her home for months longer than anticipated, so Oyakata-sama, the master of corps, had granted her additional leave to rest and recover with her family. She does disappear a small handful of times when her crow, Kouya, flutters to her in the early mornings to relay short missives or troubles in her region – but she returns within days, and Sanemi has grown used to her presence.

She is not loud like Masachika, but she wears his smile, as if they are two halves of one whole. She is dutiful and firm like her uncle, but where Akihito wears a veil of cool stoicism, Yoake's encouragement is warm like the sun. She is kind like the Doumae girls, but her words are not prettied or buttered by the assumption that he is or deserves more.

She treats him like he is her equal, and that is a feeling Sanemi has never known before.

"I was very much like you, once," she tells him, snapping his attention back to her voice. "I never took to wind breathing like the others in my family did. I lacked the natural talent. I had to accept at a very young age that I would never master the art. It is only because I accepted that fact, however, that I was able to work around my limitations. Of course, my mother and aunt had a hand in helping me as well."

Sanemi nods silently as she speaks and looks up at her. She's staring into the distance, watching the plum blossom petals fall in the wind. She is the same age as Masachika, only a year older than he is – and she stands only a few inches taller than him – yet somehow, she appears much older and wiser than her age would imply. It's to be expected of a hashira, he supposes. He watches the wind blow and rustle the fabric of her uniform, her black and golden haori billowing behind her. When she turns back to him, she rests her hand delicately on his shoulder.

"You must learn to be kind to yourself, Sanemi-san."

It feels like she is asking for the impossible, he admits to himself. Her touch and her words infuriatingly fluster him, so instead of replying in any meaningful manner – instead of lying to her that he will try – he grunts and changes the topic.

"You never taught me that move, you know."

"Hmm?" She tilts her head.

"The way you flipped me," he explains.

Yoake shakes her head with a fond smile.

"On the contrary, I have been teaching you. We're moving towards it with every exercise we undertake when we practise your breathing and posture. Juujutsu isn't something one learns overnight, and Masachika and Uncle have already filled your plate with their own training regimen. Shall we move away from your swordwork for now and return to some ki exercises to strengthen your control over total concentration breathing?"

"Sanemi-kun, Yoake!" Before Sanemi can reply, a familiar voice calls out to them.

It is Masachika, who bounds around the corner of the estate and towards the training grounds with a skip in his step.

"Masachika," Yoake turns to him with a smile as she chides him. "So good of you to join us so bright and early this morning."

Masachika laughs nervously as he scratches his cheek.

"It's not that late," he stammers. Sanemi scoffs at that.

"We've been here since dawn. Three or four hours, at least," Sanemi tells him.

"Already?" Masachika looks as shocked as ever. "You push yourself too hard, Sanemi-kun!"

"I don't need the lecture." Sanemi waves him off.

"He's already gotten one from me, after all," Yoake interjects with a soft chuckle that makes him roll his eyes.

"Hardly. You're not nearly as annoying as Kumeno, or as lazy. It's not a lecture if I can actually stand to listen to you…unlike someone else."

"You're so mean, Sanemi-kun… isn't he so mean to me, Yoake? I'm his senpai and he's such a bully to me! He calls me lazy! I'm not lazy, am I?"

Yoake chuckles at their banter, shaking her head.

"Well, you could start by waking up at a more reasonable hour, Masachika. Perhaps Sanemi-san will pay his teacher a little more respect if he's not always waiting for his arrival."

"Not you too!" Masachika whines, and he hunches over, back curved and arms outstretched towards the floor in defeat.

Sanemi watches the two trade conversation, and while he is exasperated that their training has paused, he can't help the fond feeling of affection that floods his heart when he watches the way Masachika and Yoake interact.

Masachika is different around Yoake, but only slightly – he whines still, acts like a child half his age as he bemoans his 'belligerent' kohai – but she listens to his every word with rapt attention, even when she pretends not to. She listens, and he knows, because in turn, he treats her with a familiarity and respect that transcends friendship. They are like siblings in their bond.

Sanemi noted very early that they do not address each other by title or honorifics – in fact, Yoake addresses no one by title or honorifics except for himself and her uncle. It is a testament to the familiarity and affection she holds for the household. Sanemi had recognised it very early.

The Doumae girls adore the household's heir. While Daichi is ever polite and respectful, even she seems to be more relaxed around Yoake, occasionally referring to her directly by her first name instead of her family name. Behind the well practised bows and mannerisms of a household servant, Daiya looks to Yoake as one would look to an elder sister, and their affections for one another is outshined only by the innocent and unfiltered love that little Miharu shows the Kakutani heir.

It is so very different from the way they treat Master Akihito.

Yoake resembles her uncle greatly, from their fair complexion to their stark black hair and even their mannerisms, which are poised and purposeful. As the last two living members of the Kakutani family, their place as members of one of the five great families of the corps offers them more respect than others. Whenever a member of the corps asks for permission to train at the estate, it becomes very clear that Yoake is afforded high respect for her station.

Sanemi is no fool though; he is perceptive. Though they may call her by her first name in her presence, Sanemi does not miss the flash of an uncomfortable grimace from Yoake every time one of the Doumae girls refer to her as "Lady Kakutani" in the presence of others.

"There's no need to call me Lady Kakutani," he had heard her say many times.

For as many ways that they are alike, Sanemi finds that there are just as many ways that Yoake and Master Akihito are so very different.

When Akihito shares their company, the household very much feels like that of master and servant. Akihito has a traditional air about him that beckons silence and respect that is wordless yet firm. To refer to the man in any terms that do not carry the degree of respect which his title and position demands would be an act even Sanemi would fear the repercussions of. Compared to her uncle, however, Yoake's presence is like a spring breeze – her smile and laughter come naturally, and through her, Sanemi feels the divide between the two stations of the household narrow into nothing.

"I hope Sanemi-kun has not been causing any trouble for you, Yoake," Masachika says, snapping Sanemi's attention back to the two. "You're right, I am the one who's supposed to be training him. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"It's no trouble at all, Masachika," Yoake's waves away his worries with a smile. "I need to train as well, after all. Though, I hope you've not found my company to be a bore, Sanemi-kun. I know I'm not as talkative as your senpai."

"What?" Sanemi quickly interjects. "I think I prefer it, to be honest. You don't talk my ear off."

Yoake chuckles when Masachika bemoans Sanemi's cold comment. The elder boy throws his arm around Sanemi's shoulders, pulling him close as he gently shakes him. He rolls his eyes. Before, Sanemi would work to bite back his smile; now, he chuckles freely at Masachika's antics.

"You're too easy to rile up," Sanemi says. "I don't believe that you're older than me."

"Well, it's the undeniable truth! I'm mad at you now, Sanemi-kun. I won't go easy on you for our training session today – every drill is going to work you to the bone!"

He's not really mad. Sanemi knows this, even if that goofy smile wasn't plastered on his face. No matter what he says or does, there's no hiding the overwhelming light and warmth that radiates through his actions. So when Masachika pointedly pokes a finger to his chest and claims he'll punish his 'terribly rude and improper kohai', Sanemi can only let a rare grin escape through the cracks of his stoic mask.

"Fine then," Sanemi says smugly. "Let's start with a spar to wake your ass up. I won't hold back, so try to keep up."

At his challenge, Masachika baulks. He holds his hands up and waves them furiously.

"A spar? With you? Right now? B-but I just woke up!" the boy whines. It earns him an endearing chuckle from Yoake.

"Come on, Kumeno. I'll even go easy on you. Fists only, what do you say?" Sanemi grins deliciously at the idea of a fist fight with his elder, and he cracks his knuckles out of habit alone.

"Now, now! Sanemi-kun! Let's not get too hasty, I would hardly call a fist fight against you a fair fight…"

"I guess it isn't fair to go toe to toe with your kohai, huh? Well, you could try your luck against a hashira," Sanemi says with a smile as he gestures towards Yoake. "Pick your poison."

Yoake smiles at that and turns back to Masachika with a nod.

"It has been a while since we sparred, Masachika," she says to him. "In fact, I remember someone else who liked to wake you up with a challenge on the training grounds."

Masachika's demeanour shifts.

It's so very subtle, but Sanemi notices. There's a tense moment where he stiffens, almost shocked; as if a cold winter breeze he did not expect brushed against his neck. It's gone as soon as it comes, but in its wake, Masachika seems almost… gentler. His shoulders loosen and lax. His expression – usually petulant and jovial – shifts to something nostalgic and warm that makes him look older and wiser. Masachika's brown eyes look at Sanemi with such affection, he feels a flush creeping to his ears at the sudden shift.

"You're right," Masachika muses to Yoake. "But this time I'm the senpai, not the kohai."

"Some things never change," she replies fondly. "Though somehow Kousuke always did manage to drag me into your shenanigans as well."

Masachika laughs at that, a hearty one from his gut that echoes through the courtyard.

"To be honest, I don't think you and I have sparred together since more than a year ago."

"Has it really been that long?"

"Yeah," Masachika muses with a nod. "It was when you were still kinoe. We had a sword fight, and I disarmed you quite handily. Did you know that, Sanemi-kun? I disarmed a hashira. I'm quite amazing, aren't I?"

Yoake scoffs as Masachika beams at Sanemi, desperate for acknowledgement and praise from the younger boy.

"You just said she was kinoe at the time," Sanemi makes a face that reflects his distaste. "So you didn't disarm a hashira."

"A-ah!" Masachika falters, but shakes it off. "Well, did you know that out of all our duels, I have Yoake beat several dozen times over? Not that I'm keeping track of our score, or anything!"

"Wrong!" The screeching squark of a crow echoes across the training grounds. "Utterly incorrect!"

With a flutter of wingbeats, three crows swoop down from the rooftop of the estate where they had perched in eagerness, watching. Masachika shirks at the sight of them, covering his head as the shouting crow swoops down and angrily swipes its talons at him. Yoake raises her arm as the other two stop to perch atop her, one on her shoulder and another upon her arm.

"Lies! Lord Kumeno is a liar!" the crow who attacks Masachika calls. This crow is nothing like Masachika's, whose voice is lower pitched and who speaks softly. This one is loud and speaks rapidly, barking each word like a sharp command. A red ribbon is tied to its right talon.

"Lady Yoake is in the lead! Her score against Lord Kumeno is one-hundred-and-twenty-six to ninety-four!"

"W-what? What are you talking about, Kouya?!" Masachika shouts as he swipes his arm at the crow.

"One-hundred-and-twenty-six! One-hundred-and-twenty-six! I have kept count from the very beginning! One-hundred-and-twenty-six to ninety-four!"

"Kouya is right," one of the other crows perching upon Yoake calls – Sanemi recognises her deep voice. It's Yousato, Masachika's crow – his eyes glance down at her left talon to confirm her familiar golden ribbon. "It's unbecoming to lie, master."

"Yousato! You're supposed to agree with me!"

"Kouya tells no lies," the crow says delicately. "You cannot make me choose between my brother and my master, especially when one is flagrantly wrong."

"Yousatoooo!" Masachika bemoans his crow's staunch refusal, which earns a chuckle from Yoake.

"Kouya, you're going to hurt Masachika," she calls to the crow that is attacking him. "Come now, it's quite alright."

The crow makes a final swoop at Masachika, pecking at his head before he flaps back to rest upon Yoake's still outstretched arm. She's quite the sight; arm raised with three black crows perched upon her like a tree. She doesn't seem perturbed at all by their new company.

"I am protecting your honour, Lady Yoake!" The crow named Kouya proclaims. "I have staunchly counted each victory and loss since the day I hatched in the Spring Estate!"

"Thank you, Kouya," Yoake coos as she scratches Kouya's cheek. He fluffs up immediately, feathers ruffling in a way that makes him look softer and twice as large. He makes a trilling noise that sounds almost like a purr. "Such a dutiful little crow, you are."

"I will always protect you from liars!"

"H-hey! I just forgot the count, that's all!"

"LIAR!"

Masachika wilts as Kouya flaps his wings and takes off to sweep at him again, earning a scoff from Yoake as she calls her crow to return. Sanemi watches them curiously.

The kasugai crows are unlike any other animals he has ever seen. They are deceivingly intelligent, with boisterous personalities in a variety of colours that outmatch even humans. Still perched upon Yoake's shoulder, Sanemi catches the eye of the third crow, who he spies has its own ribbon of leaf green tied to its left talon. The crow tilts its head, and Sanemi suddenly realises it is staring at him with peaked curiosity. He blinks, and in an instant, the crow has taken wing – it flies towards Sanemi quicker than he can process the thought. He can only yelp with surprise as he jumps back, and the crow lands shockingly lightly upon his shoulder.

"Oi, oi!" Sanemi shouts.

The crow eyes him with a discomforting degree of interest. It leans forward silently, as if it is appraising him, and Sanemi cannot help but feel unsettled. He is so focused on the crow that he doesn't notice the way Yoake, Masachika, and their respective kasugai crows have halted and fallen into a curious silence.

"What's wrong, brother?" Yousato calls.

"Oh my," Masachika says. "That's a bit odd."

"W-what's odd?" Sanemi stammers.

He very much wants to break away from this crow's unsettling gaze, but there is something about the way their eyes have locked that makes Sanemi feel strangely enraptured. It is almost as if the crow is staring directly into his soul. Silence befalls the group, when suddenly –

"You have kind eyes," the crow says calmly, as though it is only speaking facts and plain truths. His voice is deep as well, but while Yousato speaks gently, this one speaks slowly and with purpose, as though tempered with untold wisdom one would not expect from a black feathered bird.

"The same eyes as him," the crow continues. "How very curious."

Sanemi feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end as the crow speaks. It doesn't break away from his gaze, sending shivers down Sanemi's spine.

"Brother?" Kouya is the one who calls now, his barking voice tinged with curiosity. He receives no reply, and there is stagnant silence that befalls them once again that Sanemi very much mislikes.

"Lady Yoake was right," the crow says. "You and Lord Kousuke are much alike."

Finally, after what feels like hours, the crow breaks its gaze away from Sanemi. It raises its wings and pushes off from Sanemi's shoulders, and in an instant, disappears across the rooftops faster than he can blink.

"Brother!" Kouya calls, and the crow with the crimson ribbon takes wing after his brother. Yousato rustles, her feathers fluffing as she takes on a shape twice her size.

"Master Kumeno," she nods to Masachika. "Lady Yoake. My apologies for the intrusion."

And with that, the crow with the golden ribbon takes to the air as her black figure disappears beyond the rooftops after her retreating brothers.

"It's been a while since I've heard Sorai speak… He's never been fond of strangers," Yoake says once the crows have left. "He seems to have taken a liking to you though, Sanemi-san."

"Whose crow is that?" Sanemi asks. "Masachika has Yousato, you have Kouya, and Master Akihito's crow is named Mitsuki."

"Ah, my apologies," Yoake says softly. "Sorai was Kousuke's kasugai crow. He stays here at the estate with us."

Sanemi grunts in reply, then considers his next words carefully. He presses his lips into a thin line, and it is only when Masachika and Yoake give him a curious look as they notice his silence that he speaks.

"Who's Kousuke?" Sanemi asks gently.

He's careful with his words and his tone, which is not something he's known for. He speaks slowly and tentatively, as though he's scared of the answer, or of the pain it may bring. Sanemi has an idea of who Kousuke could be. He's heard the name a handful of times now; in passing hushed conversation, where his name is dropped like a sombre reminder of their cruel reality. He remembers Yoake's words from a month ago, the barely concealed shock that coloured Master Akihito's face when her gentle voice whispered his name like a ghostly reminder.

"He reminds me of Kousuke," she had said.

It's only in the comforting presence of Masachika and Yoake that he can find himself daring to ask exactly who the man is.

Masachika shuffles and looks to Yoake for an answer, but unlike him, she is smiling – warm and bright, as if awash in fond memories and as if she is glad he had asked.

"Kousuke was Uncle's tsuguko before Masachika and I," Yoake tells Sanemi. "He had great potential, and his prowess with the blade was unparalleled. He was seven years my senior, and I was quite young, so I never saw him train until he was already very much a master in his own right – but Uncle told me that when he first lifted a sword, he took to wind breathing as if it were more natural than breathing air itself. He taught Masachika and I a fair deal once we took to training, and prepared us for our own Final Selection. In many ways, he was to us what Masachika is to you now, Sanemi-san. He was our teacher."

Sanemi notes the ways she speaks about Kousuke – like he is a memory. There is a pregnant pause in the air, as though they've all held their breaths as Yoake contemplates whether or not she will say more.

And she does.

"He was also my brother," she says.

Was.

The world they live in is so very cruel, he thinks.

Sanemi bows his head and nods in acknowledgement, but says no more. The weight of the unsaid washes over him like the tides – brisk, cold, and cruel – as he's taken back to the horrors of before, now almost two years past.

He's twelve again, skin and bones and all the things his godforsaken father wasn't. No strength in his arms, no bile in his words, no needless cruelty in all that he does. He's everything his father wasn't, and everything his mother was – dutiful, protective, and determined. For every way she could not provide, Sanemi stepped up upon the empty pedestal that stood at the head of their household after his father's death and worked until his skin cracked and his fingers bled. He worked and he cried and he bled, so the precious smiles of his family could continue to light the rundown wooden hut they called a home when his hard earned coin bought rice and vegetables and whatever catch was left from the markets for their dinner table.

He remembers the tender, sweet smile of his beloved Teiko when she snatched the basket of vegetables from his blistered hands – the way Sumi's eyes twinkled with delight when he managed to bring home fresh sea bass instead – how Koto squealed at the return of the boy he knew only as a father, not as a brother – how Hiroshi drew his chest up and boasted of all the dutiful ways he followed Sanemi's example by helping their mother – the way Shuya balanced upon the tips of his toes to reach the countertop to help wash and peel potatoes for dinner –

Sanemi thinks of Genya, whose kind eyes and gentle smile welcomed him home each and every day with unspoken affection and love, and the way he would nod to let Sanemi know, "I did it, aniki. I kept our promise."

They were his world – and he lost all but one. But when Sanemi tries to remember Genya – tries to remember those kind eyes and his gentle smile – he can only feel the broiling pain of betrayal and hatred burning into his heart.

Genya was his brother, too.

"I see," Sanemi says, voice low and sullen. They hear it; he knows that they do, can tell by the subtle way the corners of Masachika's smile weaken, or how Yoake's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.

Yoake claps her hands, and it's like the looming fog that weighs them down disperses at her command when her voice rises like the sun.

"I think I am owed a spar," she proclaims, snapping her head to Masachika with a wry grin. "And you shall be my first target!"

"T-target?" Masachika baulks at the intensity of her gaze, knees shaking in a way that draws a laugh from the Crane Hashira.

And Sanemi is grateful – grateful to be given due respect with the truth, grateful to be trusted with it – and grateful for the careful and gentle tact his two elders display as they guide him away from the hurts of the past by teaching him to fight for the future.

For every life taken by a demon, the world grows colder, and the distance between endless night and the dawn of tomorrow grows ever wider. There are only so many hardships one can take before happiness seems like naught but a distant dream. A single smile can make the difference between a life worth living and one not. Sanemi knows this all too well the day he lost his.

So Sanemi grips the borrowed nichirin blade in his hand as he watches Masachika and Yoake take to the field. He feels his knuckles whiten as his eyes focus carefully on each movement, each sidestep and swing that his elders make. He watches, and he learns, and he swears to do better.

---

When the time to leave for Final Selection comes, Sanemi is alone.

It's nothing unfamiliar to him – being alone, that is. He has spent the last two years wandering in perpetual solitude, with only the fleeting company of wild animals who might make shelter in the same abandoned homes as him when he liberated them from uninvited demons.

The past few months, however, have given him something he no longer knew he craved; companionship.

Sanemi no longer watches the world pass him by as he blends into the scenery like a forgotten brushstroke on a painting. Instead, he has become a part of the process, an essence of the artist itself. When he speaks, people listen, and far too frequently Sanemi finds that people pause in conversation without a second thought to allow him time to interject his own thoughts. It is a type of consideration that feels so foreign to a boy who has spent years being ignored, becoming as small and insignificant as possible to spare him the rage of an unkind father.

He was spoiled, he admits, to have the attention of two hashira on him over the last month. The longer he spends time with other members of the corps, whether on errant chores to the Sunrise Estate or when fellow trainees request use of the Spring Estate's two training grounds, the more he begins to understand the sheer exceptionality of his position. It's not every day that one of the five great families would take in a boy like him; feed him, clothe him, train him with the same respect granted to the tsuguko who are expected to succeed them.

So he understands when Master Akihito, in his position as the Wind Hashira, is called away on missions so frequently he can only spend a few sparse hours with his new student. He understands when Yoake, the young and newly made Crane Hashira, disappears for the better part of a month with only an errant letter from Kouya to appraise the estate that she yet lives when her additional allowed leave meets its end. And he understands when, a week before his Final Selection, an apologetic Masachika leaves him as well to attend to his own assigned missions.

"I suppose I am kinoto," he had said in reference to his rank. "And I am also a tsuguko. Oyakata-sama can only allow so much leeway in the time I spend away from missions…"

He had scrunched the missive written in the master's hand as he informed Sanemi he would not be able to accompany him to the starting grounds on Fujikasane-yama. The pretty wax seal of the great family of Ubuyashiki, a hexagonal loop of eternal wisteria blooms, glistened in the sunlight as he did.

"I'm not a child, Kumeno. I know how to follow a map."

But there was a sadness in Masachika's eyes that Sanemi did not miss – and there was the unfamiliar feeling of disappointment that painted his own words.

Sanemi found it hard to believe that he still had the capacity to feel so forlorn.

It's the early morning, and the dawning sun has only just broken over the horizon, its peachy golden rays painting the skies and casting a soft glow upon purple clouds. Sanemi stretches as he throws his covers off and rises from his futon. His joints crack slightly, stiff from a night of stillness. It's only after a few minutes of stretching and squats that Sanemi begins to feel awake. He folds his bed sheets and rolls his futon to return them to the cupboard in the corner of his quarters.

His room remains quite bare, despite the months that have passed since he settled into the estate. As each day passes, his stay seems less transient and more permanent, and the feeling of familiarity and comfort when he steps through the doors of his quarters feels ironically unsettling. It has been far too long since Sanemi has stayed in one place long enough to even consider it something akin to a home.

A lone furin wind chime hangs by the shoji screen door – his gift from Sado. The tokonoma alcove in his room has only three decorative items, two of which furnished the shelves long before he arrived – a wall scroll of intricate calligraphy and a vase, once empty, but now regularly decorated by Daichi's ikebana. Beside it sits the delicate, golden-laced lacquerware box Sado entrusted him. These two items that were gifted to him by Sado are the sole objects that differentiate this room from one of the many empty quarters of the estate. Sanemi has never lived in excess, so the bare features do little to bother him.

Today, he will begin the week-long journey to Fujikasane-yama. Final Selection will take another week, and then the return journey on top means he will not see the estate again for close to a full cycle of the moon. While he welcomes the upcoming journey, eager to return to the wilds of the land, Sanemi finds himself on edge at the idea of leaving the Spring Estate for so long. Such is the effect this place has on him – whether willingly or not, he has come to consider it a home.

Sanemi shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, which stands messily on end. He'll dress and freshen himself before he goes to the locked shed by the primary training grounds where his borrowed estate nichirin blade rests. Perhaps then he can make way to the mess hall and kitchens – Daichi is an early bird, just like him, and she will no doubt have prepared something for his final day at the estate.

In an hour, he will be gone.

Sanemi nods to himself as he picks up the yukata he wears casually around the estate and throws it across his shoulders, then approaches the hanging looking glass on the far wall. When Sanemi spies himself in the mirror, he finds he is almost unrecognisable.

No longer are his cheeks sunken, his eyes dark and baggy, or his arms and legs thin like twigs. His skin is no longer the sickly pale tone that reflected his poverty. Even the quality and texture of his hair and nails have improved, and Sanemi cannot help but stare at the unfamiliar boy who mirrors his every movement in the looking glass.

All this and more because he chose to walk the path of a demon slayer.

To some people, the cost of such an opportunity would not be worth it. Sanemi has been elevated from homelessness, from poverty, from the brink of death – and in exchange, he will dedicate his life to slaying demons. He will go and climb the summit of Fujikasane-yama as he fights and kills countless demons, fully aware of the risk of death, so that he may truly become a member of the corps. It's lucky then, he supposes, that it was always his intent to fight demons until his dying breath; the corps only provided him the means to further this goal.

Sanemi does not begrudge those who would turn away from such a life. There are people who value living too much to dedicate themselves to such a duty; those with family, friends, and loved ones they cannot bear to leave behind in the wake of their dying breaths. To them, the risk is not worth the reward, and it is for them that the demon slayers wage their war.

"Excuse me," a gentle voice calls from behind the shoji screen door to his quarters. "Shinazugawa-sama?"

He can recognise her voice now – but even if he couldn't, there's only one person in the estate who insists on addressing him so. He quickly grabs his obi sash and secures his yukata more modestly.

"Come in, Daichi-san."

She's not alone. When the shoji screen doors slide open, Sanemi turns and sees Daiya and Miharu kneeling on either side of the eldest Doumae. His brows raise in surprise at the sight of all three of the estate servants bowing their heads politely at him.

"What is…" he starts, but then he sees what they hold.

Daiya sits to her sister's left, and he spies neatly folded robes the colour of pale leaf green and deep forest upon her lap. Her purple hair is neatly braided and pulled away from her face, and she wears a proper kimono that tells him she's been awake for a while. To her mother's right sits Miharu, eyes sleepily half lidded, as she clutches a brown leather satchel between her hands. Though her face is sluggish and sleepy, her black hair is neatly brushed and tucked behind her ears, so Sanemi knows she has been awake before dawn as well.

Between them, Daichi is the ever perfect picture of grace, her lavender hair coiled into a delicately braided bun. She is already fully dressed in a finely decorated wisteria print kimono. She is kneeling in perfect seiza, and held delicately with both hands across her knees is his sheathed nichirin blade.

"Good morning, Shinazugawa-sama," Daichi says with a gentle, motherly tone of voice that makes Sanemi's throat tighten from its warmth. "You've a long journey ahead of you, and we would be remiss to see you off without proper ceremony."

"I packed these, Sane-tan – ah, Shina– zu– gawa–sama," Miharu says as she places the satchel in front of her. It's only after a reproachful glance from her mother that she switches from her affectionate nickname to a more proper title, and she trips over the pronunciation of his surname spectacularly.

Sanemi finds himself smiling.

After her, Daiya bows her head as she places the folded robes on the tatami mat floor of his room.

"Lady Kakutani had these made for you, Shinazugawa-sama," the girl tells him, mimicking her sister's more formal address. "She bade me deliver them to you in her absence."

"Yoake-san," Sanemi finds himself whispering before he can stop the words from tumbling out his lips.

"Hmm?"

Daiya makes a curious noise as she raises her head, and Sanemi feels a flush creep to his cheeks as he shakes his head.

"You know she doesn't like being called Lady Kakutani."

It's Daichi who laughs in reply. Daiya and Miharu share a glance as they smile at each other.

"My, my," Daichi says, amusement in her tone. "She's not even here, but I can feel her chastisement through you, Shinazugawa-sama."

Her teasing words only make his cheeks grow redder. Her laughter fades and her smile softens as she lifts the blade from her lap.

"Your blade, Shinazugawa-sama," Daichi says with a perfect bow, arms still as she holds it above her head.

She doesn't move, and Sanemi knows she will keep her perfectly executed bow for hours on end if she had to. Tentatively, Sanemi steps forward and takes the sword, and in perfect unison, all three of the Doumae girls fall into bows so deep their heads touch the tatami.

"Although the master Kakutani-sama as well as Lady Kakutani and Lord Kumeno are unable to see you off before your journey to Fujikasane-yama, I hope you would still join the remaining household for a meal together, Shinazugawa-sama."

Sanemi grips his sheathed katana with both hands and pulls it close to his chest, touched by the heartfelt gesture the three girls have made for him.

"Of course," he says. "It would be my honour to join you."

"Yay!" Miharu, in all her boisterous and jovial ways, is the first to raise her head and throw her hands into the air. "I'm going to miss you, Sane– ah – I mean, Shina– zu– gawa– sama!"

"You can't call me that, though," Sanemi adds with a smile. "None of you. Call me by my first name or not at all. There's no need to stand on ceremony with me."

Daiya laughs, a faint little giggle she hides behind her fingertips.

"As you wish, Sanemi-san. Though I believe you will be hard pressed to convince sister."

Daichi shakes her head, hiding a barely contained scoff that so very rarely breaks through the cracks of her formality and grace.

"It's not proper," she insists. Sanemi shakes his head, but the fond smile he has never leaves his face.

"Please," he presses. "Just for today."

"I –" she opens her mouth to protest, but Miharu's fingertips gently reach out to pull at the fabric of her mother's kimono. Sanemi sees her mouth something he cannot hear – sees how Daichi's expression softens – and the elder woman sighs and smiles.

"As you wish, then… Sanemi-sama," she relents, shaking her head. It's not much of a step down, but it is improvement, he thinks. She stands as she nods to Daiya and Miharu, waving her hands to urge them up as she shoos them. "Go on, you two. Set the table in the mess hall. The stew should be done now – Miharu, do as Daiya instructs, understood?"

"Yes, sister," Daiya says with a polite bow. She reaches out to take Miharu's hand.

"Yes, mother! Thank you, mother! Sane-tan, mother let me help prepare food! Please hurry and join us soon!"

The two disappear through the halls of the estate, their footsteps faint but rapid as they excitedly make way to the kitchen. It is easy to forget that, despite her poised and proper manner, Daiya is only nine years of age. Like the first creeping rays of the sun finding its way over the horizon, Sanemi sees the childish side of the young girl erupt from her smile.

Daichi reaches for the neatly folded pile of clothes that Daiya had presented and lays them out before Sanemi. First, a pale leaf green kimono decorated with simple floral motifs. To match it, Daichi lays out the dark forest green hakama. The final accessories are white tabi socks, a pair of patterned kyahan, and a delicate white haori with the Kakutani family kamon crest embroidered into the front of both collars.

"Lady Kakutani had these specially made for you, Shina– Sanemi-sama."

Sanemi steps forward and kneels in front of the garments, carefully examining them. He holds his blade with one hand while he runs the fingers of his free hand across the fabric.

The make is pristine. Cool to touch, but thick enough to provide warmth; material that is sturdy and well made. His fingertips circle the embroidered crests of the Kakutani family.

It feels too much for him.

"Lady Kakutani insisted," Daichi says, as if reading his mind. "And Kakutani-sama agreed. The master has chosen to take you under his wing as your cultivator. By sponsoring your success, it is only fair that you be given leave to wear the family's emblem."

What can he even say? It doesn't feel proper to accept such a high quality garb – but he feels it would be remiss for him to decline such a carefully crafted gift. Before he can say anything further, Daichi reaches for the satchel that Miharu had packed, carefully opening it to reveal the contents.

"There is only so much one is allowed to bring to Final Selection, and there is only so much that can help you regardless. The test is about your skill, not your goods or equipment. Nonetheless, Miharu and I prepared essentials for you.

"I brewed these poultices myself; this is a common recipe the kakushi use, so it should help with any cuts by numbing and slowing the bleeding. These balms, I made as well; use them to prevent infection. There are bandages here too, for heavier lacerations – and a waterskin, as there will be plenty of opportunities to collect fresh water."

"You – you made these?" Sanemi asks as he examines a jar of thick, yellow-white cream.

"I did. Many years ago, I served the corps as well as a kakushi," Daichi explains.

"You were a kakushi?"

"Once, yes," she says with a faint smile. "But that is a story for another time. You should get dressed and join us in the mess hall – I don't want to waste your daylight hours."

Daichi looks up at him with a smile, and Sanemi feels at a loss for words after being given so much more in a single day than he ever had before. It takes him a while to process his thoughts, but Daichi is ever patient with him, never rushing. When Sanemi finally swallows his pride and nods, she looks pleased.

"Thank you, Daichi-san," he says.

"Of course. Let me know should you require any assistance."

The lavender-hair woman bows deeply to him before she steps out, sliding the shoji screen door behind her. Through the translucent paper film of the door, Sanemi can see her standing on the engawa patiently, waiting for him to change.

Sanemi runs his hands against the material of the clothing once again. It feels far too good to be true – he doesn't feel worthy of such attire. But he brushes those thoughts aside. Yoake had these made for him, with express approval from Master Akihito to emblazon them with their family crest. The thought of it warms Sanemi's heart so thoroughly that the thought of not wearing the garbs leaves him feeling bereft.

He will not disgrace the gift they have so kindly given him. Sanemi stands and disrobes, neatly placing the yukata back on his shelves, and begins to dress in his new fineries.

The kimono is heavier than what he is used to, a thicker material than his usual jinbei or yukata. It isn't cumbersome, however. He ties the dark green obi low on his waist to secure the kimono. He carefully picks up the dark green divided umanori hakama and ties the front panel securely before he loops the himo straps of the back panel into a tight knot on his stomach. He carefully puts on the white tabi socks and kyahan, securing the cords. Finally, Sanemi reaches for the simple white haori decorated only with the Kakutani family's kamon – the symbol of a rising sun encircled by blooming plum blossoms. He threads his arms through carefully, and runs his hands against the fabric to straighten them.

Just like before, Sanemi makes his way to his mirror and stares at the near unrecognisable reflection it displays. He can't help the faint, fond smile that blossoms on his lips at the feeling of belonging that grows in his heart.

"Sanemi-sama?" Daichi calls from behind the shoji screen. "Do you need any assistance?"

"No."

He tears himself away from his reflection and crosses the room, opens the sliding door, and reaches for his zori that sits neatly against the wall in the hallway. When the shoes are secured, he straightens to see Daichi staring at him with a look so affectionate, the creeping pink flush of embarrassment inadvertently climbs back up his cheeks and ears again.

"W-what?" he stutters in a way that embarrasses him even more.

"You look very handsome, Sanemi-sama," Daichi says without pause. Sanemi has to tear his eyes away to stare at the grain of the floorboards as he unsuccessfully tries to will his blush away.

"...thanks."

Daichi sighs suddenly, a heavy and sad sigh he did not expect. When he glances at the elder woman, her eyes are downcast - her smile is fond, but her aura feels lost in unspoken memories that Sanemi feels is more bittersweet than affectionate.

"It was only three years ago that I dressed and prepared… that I dressed and prepared Yoake and Masachika for their own Final Selection," she whispers. Sanemi tries to catch and suppress the surprise that blossoms on his face when Daichi calls his two elders by their first names only, with no titles or honorifics. He thinks he has failed – but Daichi is so lost in her memories, she does not notice.

"Now that I think of it… it's been ten years since my mother and I tended to Kousuke's selection. And six years before that I had seen off Zenshirou with her as well… I was only a little girl of five years then, barely older than Miharu is now, but I do remember it clearly. The years go by so swiftly."

"Daichi-san…"

"My apologies," Daichi snaps out of the fog of memories that have captured her in their tight embrace. "I didn't mean to bring up the past."

"No," Sanemi steps forward, frowning. "I don't mind. You've been in service to the Kakutani household your whole life, and I've only been at the estate for a short few months. I'm… happy that you trust me with your memories. Please do not feel like you cannot talk to me."

The smile that the elder woman gives him is filled with a motherly warmth and affection that melts Sanemi's heart as much as it pierces it like an old, aching wound. She reminds him of his mother. He misses her so terribly.

"I have dutifully seen off four scions to the Kakutani household for Final Selection in my lifetime," Daichi says as she reaches forward to pat down the shoulders of Sanemi's haori. "Saikawa Zenshirou, Kakutani Kousuke, Kakutani Yoake, and Kumeno Masachika… you will be my fifth, Shinazugawa Sanemi."

"I am honoured," Sanemi says softly. "I'm not familiar with Saikawa Zenshirou."

Sanemi does not recall the name Saikawa, but he is sure that, if he combed through the memories of all of Masachika's ramblings, perhaps he would remember a mention or two of the name. The estate's history could be storied over countless volumes, though – he would struggle to recall it all.

"A former adopted ward to the estate; Yoake and Kousuke's grandfather had taken him in. A bright lad, hardworking and full of laughter… he rose up the ranks quickly. He was a hashira himself – the former Sound Hashira – though another young man now holds that mantle. We lost him in that massacre three years ago… the same day we lost Kousuke, and…"

Daichi's voice trails away into a broken whisper. The memory obviously pains her deeply.

Sanemi has never pried into the affairs of the household's darker past. When these topics arise, he speaks when spoken to, listens when invited to conversation, and picks up the pieces and arranges them where he can to fill in the puzzle that is the history of a household that has roots stretching back to the Sengoku period. Sometimes, if the conversation is light enough, he will ask for elaboration – most times, when it is not, he says nothing out of respect.

Tragedy struck this family three years ago. He knows it and can see it in all that they do; from the circumstances of Master Akihito and Yoake's relationship as master and heir to the household, to the frenzied shock that Daiya spiralled into when Sanemi had mistakenly worried her over Masachika's health.

Massacre is not a word he had heard used to describe the event – and yet, massacre is the only word he needs to hear to understand the unspoken depths of their shared trauma.

"The loss we experienced that day…" she says gently with a shake of her head. "Although it was three years ago, it still feels fresh. Kousuke… I miss him every day of my life."

Sanemi understands; he empathises with Daichi wholly, feels her pain as deeply as he feels his own. He thinks back to his broken family, to the cold and lifeless bodies of his mother and fallen siblings – every day, every night, no matter how many cycles of the moon have passed, Sanemi has to claw his way out of the pit of despair that was left in the wake of their deaths.

"I'm sorry," Sanemi says, finally, after a pregnant pause. "Were you…close to Yoake's brother, Kousuke?"

Daichi's sharp inhale pains him. She shakes her head, as if to chase away old demons, and he swears he can see a glassy quality to her eyes.

"My apologies… It only strikes me now that no one has told you the circumstances of our families. I was close to Kousuke, yes. More than close. He is Miharu's father."

The pieces fall together slowly, but not well enough to solve the puzzle or answer all his questions. Unlike her mother and aunt, Miharu's hair is stark black, more like Yoake's and Master Akihito's. Her disposition is not poised or proper like Daichi or Daiya – where Sanemi had assumed her age to be at fault, in reality, he sees now the complex position the young girl has as the daughter of a servant family with a father from the master household.

And then there is her name – Doumae Miharu – and the implication is enough to tell Sanemi the relationship between Daichi and Kousuke was more complicated than what can be said in only a few hushed whispers.

"Oh," is all that Sanemi can say.

It doesn't feel proper to ask about the nature of that relationship – just as well that it does not feel proper to ask of the tragedy that struck three years ago. Sanemi is at a loss for words when, once again, the violet-haired woman saves him from his own silence.

"My apologies, Sanemi-sama. I did not mean to steer our conversation to such sombre places. Daiya and Miharu are waiting for us. Miharu was so very happy to be a part of this process, you see. You are the first of the household she has seen off to Final Selection. Usually, I perform kiribi, however she insisted on being the one to pray for safe travels for you. I hope you will allow her the honour."

Her words catch him by surprise, and it shows on his face. No one has ever performed kiribi for him before – the blessing of good luck performed by striking flint sparks upon one's back. The thought of sweet and young Miharu fervently begging her mother to allow her to perform the honour for him… it fills his heart with untold fondness and affection.

"Yes," he says, smiling. "Of course."

"Come then, let us not keep them waiting," she says. She kneels down to pick up his satchel, and Sanemi retrieves his nichirin blade and secures it to the himo straps of his hakama.

They make their way down the halls of the estate in comfortable silence. When Daichi slides the doors to the mess hall open, Sanemi is immediately assaulted by the young, black haired girl who throws herself at his legs.

"Sane-tan!" Miharu calls out as Sanemi steadies himself. "Come, come!"

She is dragging him by the hem of his hakama. Daichi sighs at the sight. The sun has now risen surely over the horizon, its bright rays cascading across the land and lighting the estate. Daiya has opened the mess hall doors and pulled back all the windows to let the fresh morning air filter into the rooms. In a well lit corner of the hall, where the natural light of the sun casts them in a faint and warm glow, Sanemi kneels with the three Doumae girls as they serve him dishes of rice, pickled vegetables, and a miso-base stew made with fish and mushrooms.

It's only now that Sanemi realises this is his first meal alone with the Doumae family. In the months he has stayed at the estate, he usually dines with Masachika – and lately, Yoake as well. In the rare few occasions when neither have been present, Sanemi had taken his meals in the solitude of his quarters.

But dining with the Doumae girls does not feel odd or unusual. In fact, dining with them feels comfortable; like a returning habit that is both familiar and pleasant. He is so lost in the domesticity of their shared meal; in the playful way Miharu abandons her zabuton to instead bounce around Sanemi as she questions him on his new articles of clothing; in the lighthearted banter he shares with Daiya about the most recent books she's perused; that when Daichi begins to pack away their now empty dishes, the sun is several hours higher in the sky than he had planned.

"I need to go now," Sanemi says. He tries to pay no mind to the way Miharu whines with distaste.

"Come now, Miharu," Daichi says, kneeling beside her daughter. "Don't you want to strike sparks for Sanemi-sama before his journey?"

Her attitude shifts immediately. It's enough motivation for her to quickly bounce onto her feet and help Daiya carry all the plates and dishes back into the kitchen. When Sanemi tries to help, Daichi stops him.

"Shoo," is all she says as he swats away his hands, and though the act is so simple, so mundane, it is the casual nature of it that brings a smile to his face as the layers of perfect poise and form melt away from Daichi's exterior.

They gather with him by the front of the looming estate gates. He has tied back the haori with a white tasuki cord to afford him freer movement. On his back, he has secured the brown leather satchel that Miharu and Daichi had so carefully packed for him. Sanemi rests his left arm against the nichirin blade on his hip. He looks up, shielding his eyes with his right hand as the ever climbing sun shines brightly through the petals of the wisteria and plum trees that thickly enclose the estate like a second fence.

It is with fondness that he smiles at the memory of when he first came to the estate. Though it has only been a few short months, in that time, Sanemi has changed – he is stronger, more skilled, even taller – and it was only possible due the kindness that one Kumeno Masachika had shown him when he threw everything Sanemi thought he knew back into his face and urged him to do better.

Sanemi turns his back and kneels when Miharu comes scrambling out, two thick pieces of flint in her hands. He smiles and waits patiently as the young three-year old girl strikes them again and again at all the wrong angles so that no sparks fly. He can only hear the haphazard sound of two clattering rocks. He listens to Daiya's gentle direction – like this, Miharu – no, I'm not trying to do it for you, silly – you need to strike them at an angle, Miharu – and finally, after a handful of minutes, Sanemi hears the sharp click of the two stones striking together at just the right angle as he catches sparks flying over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Miharu," he says, standing. "I'll carry your blessing of good luck on my journey."

The glowing beam that the young girl gives him reflects the light of the sun itself.

Daichi dips into a low bow that her sister mimics; after a fleeting moment, when Miharu notices, she too drops her head into a low bow that reminds him despite everything, she has been taught well. Daichi raises her head and smiles at him.

"Come back alive, Sanemi-sama," Daichi says.

"I will," Sanemi promises.

---

Sanemi was not the first to arrive at Fujikasane-yama, but he was also not the last.

He stands near the massive, looming red and black torii gates that signify the starting point of Final Selection, where only the hundred-year old wisteria trees which blot out the sun can rival its height. He is the only one who is still training – the only one who seems to understand the weight of the task at hand as he performs crunches, squats, and push ups that no one else seems to care for.

There are about a dozen others at the precipice of the mountainside. Some of them are chattering idly as they wait for the arrival of the selection's facilitator. Others are laughing, showing off their borrowed nichirin blades, gossiping with excitement about receiving their own and what shades of rainbow the famous 'colour-changing swords' may take for them. Several times, an unfamiliar student attempts to make conversation with him, but Sanemi would rather focus on his training than engage in meaningless chatter. He recognises only one other trainee in passing from the brief interaction they had when the young, red-haired girl had requested use of the Spring Estate's training grounds – Sanemi had relegated the request to Masachika instead and returned to his exercises. When the girl waves at him, Sanemi does not return it.

It's only when the familiar sight of blonde hair that rivals the rising sun comes into view several hours later that Sanemi stops. Kyoujurou, heir to the Chrysanthemum Estate, has not come to Final Selection alone. Behind him, Sanemi spies two others following in his speedy wake – a dark haired boy who he does not recognise, and Kochou Kanae of the Butterfly Estate. Under the cover of the growing night, he can see their faces illuminated only by the chochin lanterns they carry with them.

"Shinazugawa-san! You made it!" Kyoujurou calls out to him and waves. The boy breaks into a jog as he makes a beeline for Sanemi. The other students around them gossip at his arrival and curiously wonder aloud why he'd rush to a no-name commoner like Sanemi. He pays them no mind. Kyoujurou's kimono and hakama flow in his wake, bright and vivid mixes of red, orange, and gold that shimmer and shine as the light of his lantern bounces off the fabric.

"Rengoku," Sanemi says in reply.

"I thought I told you to call me by my name?" the fiery haired boy says with a wide grin before shaking his hands dismissively. "No matter! It is good to see you again!"

"You as well," Sanemi says, reaching out his arm as Kyoujurou grabs his wrist for a hearty and firm shake.

"You look good! The attire suits you!" Kyoujurou gestures to Sanemi's clothing. "So the Spring Estate has adopted you, then?"

"What?" Sanemi frowns slightly, forgetting how loud the other boy was. His ears are already starting to ring a little, but not enough to miss what he said. "No one has adopted me."

"But you wear their kamon!"

"Yoake-san had these garbs made for me," Sanemi shuffles uncomfortably. "I'm not adopted. They're my…benefactors."

It's an uncomfortably stiff explanation that poorly explains the relationship he has with the household that has taken him in – but for all intents and purposes, it is the truth. He lives under the protection of their estate's walls, but there has been no offer of adoption, and even if there was, Sanemi would not be eager to take it. Before he is the child to any estate, he is his mother's son, first and foremost – he would not cast aside her good name.

"Ah, I understand! How kind of Yoake to have such garbs made for you. You are in a position much like Obanai, then!"

"And why exactly are you speaking of me to strangers, Rengoku?"

While Kanae has disappeared into the throngs of students and trainees, the dark haired boy who had followed after Kyoujurou appears quietly by his side. The boy's voice is muted by bandages that cover his mouth completely – a curious detail that catches Sanemi's eye. The sleeves of his kimono and haori are far too long for him – when he raises his hand, the sleeves spill over them entirely. Sanemi is stricken by the sight of his eyes – one is bright teal, and the other, a piercing gold. Unlike Kyoujurou, who is dressed in fine garbs the colour of the sunset, this boy is dressed mostly in black and dark, muted violets. The only other thing that Sanemi would describe about him as bright is the red and gold kamon that is embroidered into his haori – an elongated oval that depicts a blossoming chrysanthemum beneath the boughs of a zelkova. The symbol matches the one on Kyoujurou's own haori, and Sanemi recognises it as the Rengoku kamon.

"Obanai! Let me introduce you to Shinazugawa Sanemi!" Kyoujurou lightly taps the boy's shoulder, as if to push him forward.

"Ah," the boy named Obanai muses. "The stray that Lord Kakutani has taken under his wing."

"Stray?" Sanemi scoffs, but Kyoujurou blazes ever onwards.

"I was just telling Shinazugawa-san that he is much like you!"

"Is that so? How terribly uninteresting," Obanai turns and appraises Sanemi, looking him up and down with disdain. "I can't say that there's anyone here who is much like me."

Obanai's voice is dry and sarcastic, and the way he rolls his eyes is as infuriating as it is dismissive. Sanemi feels his jaw clenching as he tightens his fist. Though Kyoujurou and Masachika are far too familiar for his taste, he prefers that over the dark haired boy's prickly attitude.

Sanemi doesn't expect it when Kyoujurou breaks into a bark of a laugh as he heartily slaps Obanai's shoulder. The boy, who is shorter than Kyoujurou and Sanemi both, staggers under the weight.

"You will never make friends with such a dour attitude, Obanai! Father and I have been trying to tell you that for years now!"

"Get your hands off me, Rengoku," Obanai hisses as he slaps the boy's hands away.

Sanemi blinks – did he hiss, though? Truly hiss? Sanemi spies something scaly and white slithering beneath the collar of Obanai's haori and staggers backwards as the distinct outline of a snake slithers beneath the folds of the boy's clothes.

"What the fuck–"

"Kaburamaru and I have had quite enough of this," Obanai turns on his heels abruptly and disappears from their sides, slinking off into the shadows of a nearby wisteria tree before either of them can comment any further. Sanemi can't help the way his face twitches in annoyance as he stares at the retreating boy's back.

"Who the hell does he think he is? Was that a snake?"

"That is Iguro Obanai!" Kyoujurou announces, tone oblivious to the fact that Sanemi didn't want any further elaboration at all. "And yes, that is a snake! It is his faithful friend named Kaburamaru!"

Kyoujurou speaks as if his words are simply facts, nothing outrageous at all about the idea of a snake accompanying a young boy to a mountainside wherein they mean to test their strength and fortitude as swordsmen against the horrors of the night. Before Sanemi can say much else, Kyoujurou blunders ever onwards.

"As I said, he is much like you! He was taken in as a ward to the Chrysanthemum Estate just two years ago and has trained beside me ever since – he is quite the skilled swordsman! Although, I suppose we both would pale in comparison to you, Sanemi-san – you come to Final Selection after only a small handful of months!"

Sanemi feels his cheeks redden from the unexpected compliment, and returns it only with a grunt of dismissal. He is very similar to Masachika indeed – what is it about these two that makes them so prone to unabashed praise? It feels ridiculous, Sanemi thinks, because usually it would feel forced or ingenuine; but the way these two pour their true feelings into their words leaves little room for Sanemi to doubt their intentions.

"Alright, alright! Gather 'round!" Sanemi hears two loud hand claps as a deep, barking voice suddenly calls, booming across the mountainside and silencing the chatter of some two dozen prospective demon slayers who have gathered.

Sanemi and Kyoujurou both turn from their places to spy the sudden arrival of a tall woman in the familiar corps uniform, flanked by two kakushi.

"Ah! So Yanagizawa-san will facilitate this selection!" Kyoujurou says, his voice somehow both a whisper and a shout.

"Yanagizawa?" Sanemi whispers back. Around them, some of the trainees lean into each other as they whisper and point at the arrival of the demon slayer.

"Yanagizawa Yoriha is the Dragon Hashira," Kyoujurou explains with a nod as he crosses his arms and straightens his back. "She is currently the eldest serving hashira. She is even senior to my father."

Sanemi straightens as he peers through the throngs of trainees and wisteria trees.

Yanagizawa Yoriha is a tall, imposing woman with warm terracotta skin and a wry smile. Her hair is blonde; not like the raging, fiery shade of sunlight that Kyoujurou has, but a more muted and lighter tone that looks stark against her sun-kissed bronzed skin. One side of her head is shaved short while the other is grown out and covers her left eye completely. Sanemi can see the corners of a scar creeping out from beneath her fringe when her hair sways in the wind. From afar, she looks well enough toned, but as each of her long strides brings her closer, Sanemi can see the bold definition of an expertly trained body. She is not lean or lithe the way Ritsunoko or Yoake are – in fact, she may well be more muscular than any of the trainees gathered at Fujikasane-yama, Sanemi himself included. Her uniform is sleeveless, so Sanemi can see exactly how toned her arms are as she approaches. Her intricately patterned orange and gold haori is tied to her waist by a low obi, but she wears it loose so it might drape across her hips instead.

When Yoriha reaches the far side of the clearing they are gathered in and steps up upon a stone pedestal beneath the torii gates, silence falls across the group before she can even clap her hands together. The two kakushi accompanying her kneel on either side of her, shining the light of their chochin lanterns before her and illuminating her figure in a way that cuts an even more striking figure than before.

"Good evening, and welcome to Fujikasane-yama," her voice booms again across the clearing, loud and clear. She has a low, deep voice that commands much respect. "You all come tonight to partake in the Demon Slayer Corps' Final Selection – and for that, brave students and trainees, you have my most heartfelt gratitude."

When the hashira bows, Sanemi hears soft and disbelieving gasps echoing through the gathered crowd, as if they cannot believe the deference shown to them by someone of such a rank.

"Beyond the boughs of these wisteria trees lies countless imprisoned demons, captured alive by swordsmen from the corps. As you well know, wisteria is a poison to demons; whatever haunts the summit of the mountain will die only by your hands. Though the wisteria may provide you with a degree of safety here, know that no trees bloom beyond this point on Fujikasane-yama. Beyond here, you will be afforded no assistance by the corps. There will be no safe haven for you to hide in – no kakushi to tend to your wounds or master to correct your form. You can rely only on your own skill.

"You must survive the mountain for seven nights and seven days. Climb and cross the summit and descend on the other side of the mountain, where I will await your return. You must reach your destination before sunset on the seventh day. Heed my words now, students; not all of you will return, and it will not be by choice.

"Do not be fooled into complacency by my presence. No demon slayer or hashira will cross the boundary drawn by the wisteria of this mountain, no matter how much you may beg or cry for it. You will be afforded no assistance, no counsel, no rescue beyond this point. If the risk of death is too great, then leave now and return another day. None will judge you for such a choice."

The silence she leaves in the wake of her words is deafening. Tension clings to the air and all eyes focus on the Dragon Hashira and her careful warning. From the corner of his eye, Sanemi can see one or two trainees fidget as they glance around the group. He turns his head to scan through the faces of the students who have gathered.

For the first time since she arrived beside Kyoujurou, Sanemi spies Kochou Kanae and her familiar green and pink butterfly hair pins on the far side of the clearing. Though another girl is shaking nervously beside her, Kanae herself stands tall and proud, chin up as her hand hovers over the guard of her nichirin blade. There is no fear in her heart.

Sanemi eyes flicker through the crowds again, and he spies Obanai leaning alone against the trunk of a wisteria tree. Though his stance is relaxed and his arms are crossed, Sanemi can see his fingertips hover over the handle of his own blade. He eyes Yoriha with a determination that outshines the others – and hidden away behind the cover of the blossoms, Sanemi sees that his white snake, Kaburamaru, has emerged from his kimono and entangled itself around his shoulders. Even the snake watches Yoriha with rapt attention.

Beside him, like a bird, Kyoujurou somehow seems twice his size. He has puffed his chest out, straightened his posture, and stares forward at Yoriha with such determination that he no longer looks like a boy Sanemi's age who is only a swordsman in training – no, Rengoku Kyoujurou looks like a true demon slayer already, and his confidence shines and pierces through the night like the rising sun at dawn.

Sanemi turns his attention back to the Dragon Hashira. When the rest of the crowded trainees have steeled themselves and no one makes any movement to leave, Yoriha continues.

"Should you wish to retreat from the selection, return to this point, and the wisteria will guard your escape. I advise anyone who might have second thoughts to do so within the first night. The deeper you climb towards the summit, the harder it will be to leave."

Yoriha claps her hands twice again, and the kakushi beside her rise to their feet. She stretches out her arms and gestures to the group, a wry smile gracing her features.

"Now then," she says. "Go."

To Sanemi's surprise, Kanae is the first to shoot across the clearing and disappear behind the line of wisteria trees. She spares no passing glance or word to any of the others as her figure dissipates into the flowers as if she were made of petals and buds herself. Before any of them can even react, Sanemi sees Obanai take off in her wake as he too disappears into the night like fog.

"Shinazugawa-san," Kyoujurou says beside him. Sanemi looks over to the boy, his lavender-hued eyes locking with Kyoujurou's own vibrant yellow and red.

"I will see you at the end of the road," the boy says to him as he crouches, and Sanemi smiles.

"Yeah," Sanemi says, crouching down to match him. "You will."

And in an instant, they both disappear beyond the boundaries of the wisteria trees' protection, leaving in their wake bewildered students who have only just managed to pull themselves together, and a laughing Yoriha, whose eye twinkles with delight as she turns and watches them climb the mountain.

---

"Wind breathing, second form; Purifying Wind Claws!"

A rush of blood pounds in his ears like drums as Sanemi glides across the grass like it's ice. He pushes strongly off the ground, twisting his upper body and heaving his sword into an uppercut as four jagged claws of razor-sharp wind slices the demon into five parts. The bug-eyed demon with a jaw filled with a hundred razor teeth splits apart as blood sprays across the grass like summer rain.

"You–!" the demon detached head gags, choking on its blood. "You fucking bastard!"

"Shut up!" Sanemi steps over its discarded torso, stomps his foot down on the exposed larynx that is still connected to its decapitated head, and stabs his katana through its tongue until the blade sinks into the earth. There's a final, pathetic gurgle of a gag before its eyes roll back and the demon fades away like cinders from a flame.

Sanemi pulls his katana out from the earth and twists it, running the blunt end of the blade between the folds of his sleeves until it is clean. He is loath to dirty the garbs so expertly crafted for him, but he knows better than to dull his blade and allow demon blood to eat through the layers of folded metal.

Before Sanemi sheathes his sword, however, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Sanemi plants his heel firmly into the dirt, grounds himself, and twists his body as he swings his sword in a horizontal slash. The whistle-like sound of air as he breathes in and releases pierces into the night.

"Don't think you can fucking sneak up on me!"

Behind him, the bewildered demon that had leaped into the air with jaw distended and talon-like claws outstretched can only utter a haggard gag as Sanemi's blade cleanly splits it in twain. He feels its lifeblood splatter across his face and his chest, warm coppery liquid that paints his robes a blackened red. The rage inside his belly broils like an unwatched pot, and the bile that Sanemi hides in the deepest, darkest part of his heart spews forth.

"Fucking demon!"

Bifurcated at the waist, the demon claws its upper body across the forest floor, away from Sanemi. When he approaches, its disconnected lower body twists and lunges for him, but the young white-haired boy easily cuts it into half a dozen parts. The demon throws its head around, staring wide eyed in fear as Sanemi approaches, its talons desperately scraping at the earth in an attempt to drag itself away.

Sanemi slashes his sword twice, cleaving the demon's arms from its shoulders. The feral thing screams in pain as he kicks it against a tree, a mutilated sound that Sanemi twists into a reverent chord. Sanemi's world is awash with colours; all vivid shades of red that scream out in anger, excitement, and pleasure.

"S-stop!" the demon screams. "Mercy! Mercy!"

"Mercy?!" His voice is shrill and mad as laughter taints it. "Is that what you want? Mercy? How pathetic, how loathsome – you maim and you kill and you devour countless humans, and now you beg for mercy?"

It's funny, actually – genuinely funny. The laughter that erupts from his throat is real, because he's never heard something so utterly pathetic before. This demon is a foul murderer, an unnatural mutation of the divine order, yet it can't even embrace being a creature of evil. What kind of devil cries for mercy?

Sanemi rends another chunk of flesh from its chest with his sword, finely cuts the thing into three more pieces, prolongs its death and relishes in its suffering.

"Kill me!" it begs. "Just kill me!"

"And why should I grant you a swift death?" Sanemi's voice drops into a venomous whisper, eyes wide and mouth twisting into a grin. "How many humans have you granted such mercy?"

Sanemi kicks the demon again. It gags, coughing blood as it flops onto its back. He brings his heel down onto its chest, strong enough that he hears the cracking of ribs. He pierces the tip of his blade into the demon's gut, and slowly, painfully, achingly drags its intestines from its body inch by suffering inch.

Its screams are incoherent and foul… but somehow, sickeningly, Sanemi finds it rapturous. When the demon starts crying though, tears seeping into the earth as readily as its spilled blood, Sanemi finds that he's had enough. Without ceremony or warning, he pulls his blade from the demon's guts and runs it through its neck. He stands, smashes its fading head in with his heel so the sick squelch of crushed bones and brain matter rattles through the forest, and cleans his blade once more before he sheathes it.

It's been three days since Final Selection began. Sanemi has killed thirteen demons – he is sure to count each and every one. They don't leave anything behind except their blood. No bodies, no organs, no regrets or sorrows – just the thick, warm ichor that smells like coppery rot and rust. The grin fades from Sanemi's lips and the world returns to its usual dull, monotone shades.

There's something wrong with him. Sanemi knows there is something wrong with him. He knows he's not right, not well, not sane for the joy and pleasure that he seems to only derive from the suffering of demons.

But every time a demon lies helpless beneath his heel, squirming, screaming, and pleading, Sanemi can only see the shadows of his father beneath his weight, and whatever sense of reason he has splits like a rope pulled too taut.

"Quite the sickening display," a muffled voice calls from behind the trees.

Sanemi swiftly turns, right hand hovering over the handle of his katana, before he spies Obanai lingering like a serpent from a nearby tree branch. Though he removes his hand, Sanemi feels no less tense at the presence of the dark haired boy and his unsettling white snake.

"Iguro," Sanemi spits. "What do you want?"

"I was admiring your sword work," the boy says languidly as he stretches out on the tree. Even his movements are snakelike, and Sanemi only feels a little bit unsettled. "Aren't you the morbid type?"

"Don't tell me you pity these things," Sanemi snarls, brows knitting together as his eyes widen.

"I've never met someone who quite liked to drag out the pain and suffering of demons so… contemptuously. So cruelly," he jumps down from the bough of the tree, lands expertly into a crouch before he straightens and walks towards Sanemi. "You know they were once human, don't you?"

That rope of rationality in his mind feels like it's being pulled taut once again.

Sanemi knows he is sick – knows that what he does is cruel and terrifying – but he holds no regret. They are not people. They are not human. They reflect nothing of the souls that they once were. Demons are born from the evils of the earth; unrepentant things that lie and sin and kill to gain an upper hand and survive when they deserve nothing of the sort. It doesn't matter what they were before – before has no bearing on the creatures they become. Sanemi has seen it countless times, watched people filled with hope and kindness deviate and twist into ungodly beings before his eyes.

A husband, dutiful and doting, will rip the arms from his wife and devour her heart once turned.

A child born from a home of love and warmth will quickly pluck the eyes of his own mother out when his mind is corrupted.

A mother of seven – whose small, frail body was broken in a thousand different ways to protect her children from the wrath of a useless, drunken husband – will turn on them and rip the life from their throats in a single fleeting moment that Sanemi is powerless to stop.

"What does it matter!?" Sanemi shouts back at the boy, fists balled as he strides closer and closer. "Does it bring back the lives taken for me to pity them, to give them mercy? Do the gods smile down upon me for granting them a swift death instead? What do I care if you should judge me for being cruel or contemptuous toward the scum of the earth?!"

He doesn't even think when he reaches out and grabs Obanai by the collar of his haori. His rage blinds him. Kaburamaru, the snake, hisses at his sudden movement.

But to his shock, Obanai does not stagger back. He lets Sanemi scrunch the fabric of his robes as he lifts his too-long sleeve to his bandaged mouth and laughs.

"Perhaps you are much like me," he says. Sanemi does not miss the hint of approval that colours his tone.

A high pitched scream splits across the forest as Sanemi releases the dark haired, serpent-like boy from his grasp. He whips his head around in the direction of the cries, his hand hovering over his blade as he crouches. Another scream rings through the air, and Sanemi pushes off the ground and sprints towards its owner, the thought of Obanai forgotten in his wake.

When Sanemi bursts from the foliage of the bushes and into a nearby clearing, he spies three figures through the darkness of the night.

There is a crying red-haired girl convulsing on the forest floor as a horrible, spindly demon with long, black, string-like hair and disjointed limbs looms over her, one hand sunken into her bloodied chest. It's focused on the third figure that stands not even ten feet away; another demon with a low, hunched back and stocky upper body that drags itself on its knees and knuckles like a sordid boar.

"She's mine!" the spindly demon hisses. "I found her first!"

"Just try to keep her from me, bastard!"

So absorbed into their possessive argument over the dying girl as they are, they fail to even notice Sanemi unsheathe his blade and draw a long, slow inhale.

Sickening monsters; vile fiends; foul heathens. He will kill every last demon that walks this earth.

Sanemi lets the air he breathes in fill every inch of his lungs. He breathes with his diaphragm, channels and pumps each cell of oxygen into his arms and his thighs as anger and fury colour his vision in a blinding red.

"Wind breathing, sixth form," he utters with an exhale, and pushes his body forward to swoop towards the long-armed demon that pushes the gasping, convulsing girl deeper and deeper into the earth.

"Black Wind Mountain Mist!"

Sanemi barely comprehends the simultaneous whispers of the boy who has followed him.

"Water breathing, tenth form," Obanai's muffled voice calls calmly beside him as he pushes off the ground and barrels towards the boar-like demon in tandem movement with Sanemi. "Constant Flux."

Their movements dance and interplay together like a raging, violent storm at sea; an entangled display of vicious wind beside turbulent waters. Sanemi's body twists mid-lunge as he pushes off the ground, letting his momentum guide his hand as his uppercut cleanly cleaves the demon in two in a perfect display of form. Across the clearing, Sanemi spies the harrowing charge of the dark-haired boy, whose movements are elegant as they are deadly. In a spiralling flux of sword strikes, Obanai has expertly severed the boar-demon's head.

The two demons barely have a moment to blink or comprehend what has happened. Their heads bounce on the forest floor and roll as their bodies crumple to the ground. To his distaste, the demon he beheaded sprays him with even more of that thick, coppery ichor he so despises the smell of, and it covers the red-haired girl in its vile stench as well.

"Wh-what the fuck?!" the head of the boar-demon screeches.

"You insolent little brat!" the string-haired demon spits at Sanemi. "How dare you! How dare you! I haven't eaten in months, I was going to enjoy devouring that stupid little wor–"

"Shut up!" Sanemi dives at the demon's head, crushing its jaw under his heel. It can only gurgle pathetically as – like all the other demons he had slain upon the mountainside – it dissipates into nothing in the wind.

Sanemi whips back around to the girl who has fallen silent and still. He rushes over and kneels over her half crushed body.

Sanemi is too late.

He gently places a hand beneath the girl's neck as he lifts her up. Her brown eyes stare lifelessly up into the forest canopy, bloodshot and clouded with tears that streak down her cheeks. Her face is contorted into an expression of fear and suffering. Her fingers are crushed and snapped, nails caked in bloodied mud from her fruitless attempts to claw away from the demon that trapped her. Sanemi does not linger on the gaping hole in her chest, where the sight of exposed muscle and ribs unsettles him far more than the sight of anything he's done to the demons he's slaughtered.

The worst thing is that he recognises her.

It's the red haired girl who waved at him under the torii gates at the starting point of Final Selection. The one he has no memories of beyond the nervous way she had asked permission to train on the Spring Estate grounds. The one he ignored in favour of tending to his own training.

There's nothing he could have done in the past to change this fate, he knows this. What would a few extra exchanged words beneath the wisteria blooms have done to prevent her death? Yet somehow, the thought of what if plagues his mind.

Sanemi reaches down to close the girl's lifeless eyes.

It's easier… when he does not know the people who have fallen to demons. It's easier when they are unfamiliar faces with smiles he does not remember and voices he cannot recall. And although he does not even know this girl's name, the memory of her face haunts him as the thought of what if rings like a distant bell; faint, but constant.

"Shinazugawa…" Obanai's voice hisses. "Drop her."

"What?" Sanemi turns around to the boy, who he sees has dropped into a low crouch.

"Drop her!" he yells. "Now!"

Time moves in slow motion.

Sanemi hears the sound of a gurgling hiss, as if someone – something – with a caved-in chest is trying to scream. He snaps his head back down at the girl in his arms, whose bloodshot eyes are now bright orange and open, staring at him in a way that is not at all human. Sanemi's breath hitches in his throat.

He's not on Fujikasane-yama anymore. He's not fourteen anymore, strong and capable with a sword in his hand ready to strike down a demon. He doesn't have the lifeless corpse of a red-haired girl whose name he never learned in his arms anymore.

He's twelve, he's skinny, he's cold, he's desperately scared and confused, and it's his mother in his arms; or at least, it's a thing who wears her face and her skin like a grotesque suit of armour, it's crazed, wide eyes that glow in the moonlight piercing into his skull like a dagger, and he can say nothing and hear nothing and do nothing as it unhinges its jaws, filled with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth that lunge at his neck like a starving man and –

Sanemi falls backwards as the red-haired girl dives at him. He falls onto his back, raises his arms to shield his face as he pushes his foot against her gaping chest and kicks her off him.

Obanai says… something – he can't hear anything except for the sound of rushing wind beating against his ear drums. A sharp, high pitched tone of white noise overtakes his senses and the world is overwhelmingly bright and flooded in light. Sanemi only sees the near instant flash of Obanai's sword as he dives towards the demon in mid air, her head cleanly removed from her shoulders as all three fall to the ground in achingly slow motion.

Dawn breaks over the horizon as the first rays of light filter through the forest canopy.

Sanemi can't bring himself to stand. He sits, hands behind him, legs outstretched but numb, as he stares at the girl's decapitated head. She's crying, her eyes fading back to a warmer, brown tone. She stares at Sanemi, who can't bring himself to tear his gaze away from her.

"...ry… I…"

She's muttering something Sanemi can't quite hear, the ringing in his ears still far too loud.

"...I…or…y…"

Light cascades down the mountainside as the sun climbs higher and higher. When rays shine upon her body, her skin starts to sizzle and peel back as it is illuminated in fire. The ringing in Sanemi's ears grows fainter as he pushes himself up to his knees. His soft lavender eyes never once break away from the sad, tear-soaked brown eyes of the nameless girl. The sunlight creeps forward, beyond her headless body, and casts her face in blinding light.

Instead of the red-haired girl with brown eyes, Sanemi sees the face of his mother, kind and gentle, whispering to him.

"I'm… sorry…"

She fades away into the sunlight, leaving behind no body, no organs, but the lingering sentiments of sorrow and regret.

---

Seven nights and seven days pass. Sanemi waits beneath the towering white and black torii gates on the eastern side of Fujikasane-yama in silence as the sun begins to retreat beneath the horizon.

He is the first to arrive at the gates, descending the mountain alone on the dawn of the sixth day. He busies himself while waiting by counting the falling petals of the wisteria blossoms, one by one. He stops and restarts every time the blossoms rustle and he looks up, eager to see another soul join him, but disappointed by only the shadows of the trees.

When he reaches three-thousand-and-twenty just before dawn on the final day, Sanemi spies Rengoku Kyoujurou's fiery red hair descending from a distance.

"Shinazugawa-san," the boy calls out to him as he approaches.

He is smiling, but his tone is dampened by hardship. Sanemi can see the sluggish slouch of his shoulders, no longer tall and proud. His hair, tied back into a messy ponytail, still has that familiar red-tipped hue to it – but Sanemi can also see the matted, cakey, dry splotches of blood that cling to it.

"You made it," Sanemi says.

"Just like I said," Kyoujurou returns with a weak smile. "And so did you."

Sanemi stretches out his hand, and it's only after a brief pause that Kyoujurou takes it and returns a firm handshake. Sanemi pats the blank surface of the elevated step he's nestled himself on, urging the boy to sit next to him. Kyoujurou's shoulders seem to lighten a little at the gesture, and he bounces to take the seat beside him.

"You're the first one here," Kyoujurou says.

Sanemi grunts in reply as he stares down at his dirty hands. He's long since washed away the blood that soaked them, but whenever he looks down, he can only see the vivid crimson that poured from the nameless girl's chest. There's a dry, cracked blister on his right palm that he's long since popped, and he picks at it thoughtlessly as a means of distraction.

"I'd ask if you ran into any troubles, but…" Kyoujurou's voice trails away. "Father says troubles always follow demons and their slayers."

Wise words, Sanemi thinks. He doesn't need to be the Flame Hashira to hear the truth of it; but a man several decades his senior knows the intimate truths of what it means to pursue this life.

"Ran into Iguro," Sanemi tells him.

"Did you, now?" Kyoujurou brightens a little at the mention of the black-haired boy. "He's an excellent swordsman."

Obanai is a dry and sarcastic boy with a nature so very unlike the Chrysanthemum Estate scion, yet Kyoujurou seems so very fond of him regardless. But after their encounter on the mountaintop, Sanemi feels he understands the snake-boy's nature a little better.

"He is," Sanemi says. "Saved my ass, actually."

"He is a good person," says Kyoujurou with a smile. "I admire him greatly. His life has not been easy, and the path he has chosen will be no better. Trouble follows us all… and yet here we are."

"It's not an easy path," Sanemi finally replies.

"No," Kyoujurou says, lifting his head to stare into the sky. "But the dawn far outweighs the troubles along the way, wouldn't you say?"

Sanemi has to tear himself away from the sight of his dirty hands. Instead, he raises his chin up and stares into the skyline with Kyoujurou.

It's dawn, and the sky is painted with beautiful bleached tones of peach, violet, and cream. Sanemi spies the distant outline of a flock of birds retreating into the horizon. Here, next to Kyoujurou, basked in the warmth of the morning sun, Sanemi feels oddly at peace. It's warm and the first gusts of the summer winds sweep through his hair like a welcome respite from the seven days of hunting and killing he went through.

"Yeah," Sanemi finally replies.

They wait out the last day in relative silence. Kyoujurou seems pensive; lost in thought at whatever occurred on the mountaintop that seems to have sobered him. He still retains his bright exuberance and jovial nature, still chimes in every now and then with a stray observation for a few short exchanged words of conversation, but it's subdued. Despite this, though, Sanemi thinks it is a comfortable silence.

Fellow students and trainees slowly make their way down the mountainside as the hours pass, but not nearly as many as the group that had gathered on the other side. Sanemi wonders how many retreated back behind the safety of the wisteria blossoms on the first night… and how many did not.

Obanai slinks through the wall of wisteria only a few hours after Kyoujurou, the same dour expression clouding his eyes, but with a limp in his step that was not there before. Kyoujurou excuses himself, but not before Sanemi grabs his wrist and motions to his satchel. He rummages through the contents to find his half empty container of numbing poultice and the wad of bandages that remain untouched.

"Take these."

"Thank you, Shinazugawa-san!"

Sanemi shakes his head; "Thank Daichi-san from the estate. She made these."

"We will send our gratitude!" Kyoujurou nods, and he runs off to tend to Obanai, who tries to shoo him away to no success.

Sanemi watches and counts as more and more of the trainees arrive. There's only a little more than a dozen who have arrived, and after another hour, Sanemi hears a familiar, loud and booming voice calling from the shrouds of the purple blossoms.

"Gather 'round!" Yoriha's voice cracks through the clearing like thunder. "Gather 'round!"

She emerges from the wisteria trees like the petals are naught but fog, cutting a silhouette against the sea of purple like a glowing orange beacon of guidance. The two kakushi who had arrived with her on the other side accompany her still, carrying something between them. She scans the faces of the worn and weary, a sombre expression gracing her features as she counts much fewer on this side of the mountain than the other.

"This is everyone?" she asks.

Sanemi scans through the faces of the crowd. Kyoujurou and Obanai make their way through the group towards him, Kyoujurou supporting the shorter, black-haired boy against his arm (seemingly against Obanai's will).

"Do you see Kanae?" Kyoujurou asks once he's rested Obanai against a nearby tree trunk and the boy has swatted him away.

Sanemi feels something sinking in his gut as he scans the clearing again. Including the three of them, he counts fourteen heads – none of them wear the face of the kind, lavender-eyed medic who tended to Masachika's wounds months ago. Kyoujurou seems to deflate next to him when he realises she is not there.

"I see," Yoriha whispers, then nods to the two kakushi, who bring forth between them an elaborate lacquer-coated kago litter covered in intricately patterned silk.

"Congratulations," Yoriha says to the crowd. "You've done well to make it across Fujikasane-yama. Your continued health is Oyakata-sama's most heartfelt desire in this world, as it is mine.

"In crossing the trials that awaited you on the mountaintops, you are now officially welcomed into the corps as –"

"Wait!" A voice calls across the clearing. "I'm so sorry, please wait!"

Across the clearing, with a dark haired girl upon her back, Kanae makes her way down the mountainside step by step. Though the girl upon her back seems haggard and covered in dried blood, Kanae herself shockingly looks no worse for wear. Her twin butterfly hair clips sit immaculately on either side of her head, fluffy bangs retaining their bounce and shine. Her pastel pink and white kimono is unblemished by both blood and dirt aside from where the other girl's blood has dripped onto her shoulders. Beside him, Sanemi hears Kyoujurou breathe a sigh of relief. There's some muttering amidst the trainees as well – mostly incredulous tones or whispers of ease. Even Yoriha finally cracks a smile, her expression melting from stern to relieved.

The students part for Kanae as she steps through them, and she gently places the girl on her back onto the ground so she may sit on one of the stone steps. Yoriha and the two kakushi immediately rush forward to tend to the girl's wounds. Her breathing seems shallow and her skin is pale, but she is alive, and that is something to be grateful for.

"I stitched her wounds as best as I could," Kanae explains to the kakushi. "I found some medicinal herbs on the mountainside that paired well with the poultices I brought with me. I don't believe there is any infection, but it's never a guarantee… Otora's been very brave."

"You've done well, Otora," Yoriha praises her.

"N-no…" the girl named Otora says. "If it wasn't for Kanae-chan, I wouldn't…I don't deserve to be a demon slayer."

"You are alive," the hashira urges the girl, her grip on her shoulder firm but comforting. "And that is enough. There's no need to worry about what comes after."

Tears gloss over her eyes as she shakes her head. Kanae reaches forward to take her hand in her own.

"Thank you, Yanagizawa-sama," she whispers.

The Dragon Hashira pats the girl's shoulder once again, then stands to retake her spot underneath the torii gate. One kakushi follows while the other remains with Kanae and Otora. Yoriha nods as she raises her hands again and continues speaking.

"From this day onward, you all are official members of the Demon Slayer Corps, starting at rank mizunoto. Your rank will be engraved into your hands with a special wisteria-based ink. Clench your fist and recite the phrase, 'Show me my rank' for your mark to appear."

Yoriha demonstrates the movement exactly, and Sanemi spies the etchings of the word 竜 on the back of her hand; dragon. He supposes it makes sense given her title as the Dragon Hashira.

"From here, you will rise through the ranks; mizunoto, mizunoe, kanoto, kanoe, tsuchinoto, tsuchinoe, hinoto, hinoe, kinoto, and kinoe. Some of you may be taken in as a student and tsuguko to a hashira – some of you may even ascend the ranks and become hashira yourself.

"Those who've not had their measurements taken already at the Sunrise Estate will have them taken now so that your uniforms may be issued. These uniforms are not optional, but I see no reason why you wouldn't want to wear them in your duties; they are made of highly durable and light-weight material, while also being water-resistant and non-flammable. Additionally, your uniforms cannot be easily damaged or torn by the claws and fangs of a demon."

Yoriha nods to the kakushi beside the lacquer-coated kago, who pulls aside the intricate silk fabric to reveal several dozen pieces of ore that twinkle and glisten in the sunlight. The one beside Otora hops back onto her feet and quickly bounds back over, pulling out several drawstring kinchaku bags. Yoriha claps twice again.

"Line up! This ore is known as 'Scarlet Crimson Ore', and they are the foundations upon which your colour changing nichirin katana will be forged. You will each choose your own piece of ore now; take one and hand it to Natsuki, then go to Tatsuo, who will inscribe your hands with the Wisteria Engraving."

The newly named demon slayers fall into single file as, one by one, each selects a piece of ore.

"You first, Shinazugawa-san," Kyoujurou urges as he helps Obanai up. Sanemi nods and falls into line as Kyoujurou and Obanai wait behind him.

When it is his turn, Sanemi climbs up the stone steps to the torii gate and peers curiously at the several dozen brilliantly shining pieces of ore. They look like glowing pieces of glass-like stone, catching and reflecting light in every hue. Sun rays bounce off the surface of the ore like a shining looking glass.

"Your name?" Natsuki, the kakushi with the kinchaku bags asks.

"Shinazugawa Sanemi."

Natsuki scribbles his name onto a piece of paper and ties it around one of the drawstring cords. She opens the bag and holds it out to him, waiting for him to choose.

"You're the boy Akihito-kun took under his wing," Yoriha interjects.

Sanemi peers up at the older woman, surprised at the endearing and familiar way she refers to his master. From this close, she looks even taller than he realised, looming two heads above him. The definition of the muscles on her bare shoulders and arms speak for hundreds upon thousands of hours of pure strength training and conditioning. Her skin, sun-kissed to a tanned terracotta shade, is marred with more scars than Sanemi has on his own body twice over. He sees that her bottom lip is split in the corner by a fairly prominent scar.

"I am," Sanemi says and for once, he doesn't not shy away from the admission – he holds his chin up and looks Yoriha in the eyes.

"Very good," she says. "Very good, indeed. You were the first one here, and by a whole day as well."

Sanemi raises his brow only slightly. When he arrived at the border of the mountains where the wisteria blossom trees grew thick, Sanemi swore he was alone until the final day. He shouldn't be surprised, however, that a woman of a hashira's calibre eluded his notice. He feels somewhat unsettled at the idea, as much as he feels impressed.

"Go on, choose your ore," she says and dismisses him.

They all look well enough the same, and Sanemi knows nothing of swordsmithing or ores to evaluate their quality – how is he supposed to choose? He eyes them one by one, each of them haphazard cuts of roughly the same size but some in squished shapes that are longer or more stout than others. They shine with all the hues of the rainbow, some taking in more shades of red or green or blue than others.

There is one that catches his eye, though; a reddish block of ore that is neatly rounded like the fat petals of a plum blossom. It seems fitting, he thinks. He has been taken in by the Wind Hashira, given food and board within the walls of the Spring Estate, which is surrounded by a thick ring of planted plum trees, and whose kamon proudly displays the rising sun encircled by a wreath of the selfsame blossoms.

"This one," he says as he picks up the ore, and Yoriha nods in approval as Natsuki speaks.

"Please place the ore into this bag, Shinazugawa-sama. We will bring it to the swordsmith village and have it crafted into a fine blade for you."

"Thanks," Sanemi nods and drops the ore into the opened and outstretched kinchaku bag that Natsuki holds. She pulls the drawstring and firmly knots it, adding it to the pile of already chosen ores.

When she nods, he makes his way to the man named Tatsuo and holds out his hand to him.

"This will only sting a little," the kakushi apologies. "It may feel more like an itch, truth be told."

Compared to the countless scars that have formed from the tears and lacerations inflicted upon him by hundreds of demons within the past two years, the engraving indeed feels like naught more than an itch.

Sanemi returns to the tree he hid himself against at the bottom of the stairs and waits as Kyoujurou, Obanai, and all the rest climb the stone steps and select their ore. When it is time for Kanae and Otora to climb the steps, it takes a bit of encouragement for the injured girl to claim her own Scarlet Crimson Ore. I don't deserve it, she had said, but Kanae would have nothing of it – and neither Yoriha or the two kakushi made any movement and showed any distaste when the girl finally relented and chose her own.

When they've all chosen their ores, received their engravings, and returned to their places, Yoriha nods to the kakushi as they pack the ore neatly back onto the lacquer-coated koga.

"Finally, before you leave the mountains, you will receive your kasugai crows."

She claps two final times, and from the boughs of the wisteria trees, black crows erupt and encircle them as their loud caws echo across the mountainside. Sanemi flinches when one swoops past his head, so close he feels its feathers graze his cheeks. He stares up into the sky with a bewildered look about him as one by one, the crows claim their new masters.

Kyoujurou stretches out his arm as a large, sleek black crow with a deep caw lands upon his arm. Beside him, Obanai finds a crow perched on his shoulder, who seems distressed by the way Kaburamaru hisses at it. Even Kanae and Orata have been claimed by their own birds.

From the corner of his eye, Sanemi sees what looks like a black paint stroke streak across the sky and swoop down towards him. It happens so fast, he barely has time to blink and raise his arms to shield himself when a gust of wind buffets the side of his face and a familiar crow with a dainty leaf green ribbon tied to its left leg alights onto his outstretched arm.

"Sorai," Sanemi whispers incredulously.

As if in reply, the crow bows its head to Sanemi, low and respectful.

"I thought… I thought Kousuke was your master," Sanemi whispers so only the crow can hear after a moment of deliberation.

"Lord Kousuke will always be dear to my heart," the crow's deep and dulcet tones reply. "But I have chosen to serve you now, Lord Shinazugawa. For as long as you vow to fight against demons, I will ever ride the winds for your cause."

Sanemi feels his eyes widen, and something unfamiliar boils in his chest. It takes him a while to reach for the feeling and decipher its meaning, but eventually, Sanemi understands what it is his heart is yearning to say.

It is a heartfelt sensation of acceptance; of belonging.

The path that Sanemi has chosen is not easy. This life of his, already filled with sorrow, regret, and anger, will know only hardships and pain for as long as he chooses to wage war against the night. Troubles always follow demons and their slayers.

But for as long as demons roam these lands, the promise of safety – the promise of keeping everything one may hold dear alive and well – will never be real. For as long as demons disrupt the peace of the land, the distance between endless night and the dawn of tomorrow grows ever greater – and from the desire to bridge this divide, demon slayers are born.