Chapter Text
Every living being possesses a fighting spirit.
Akaza knows this. He has known this for hundreds of years. Even babies, as they scream and cry for their mothers, have a faint aura that speaks of their will. Some are sharp, intense in a way that cuts into his consciousness and demands his attention. Others are bright and bold, filling the room effortlessly. Most are so disgustingly weak that it makes his stomach turn. He has seen an endless variety in his lifetime. All different shapes, colors, intensities.
Never before has he felt one so dazzling.
Akaza can feel it the second he sets foot at the site of the crashed train. There are plenty of human spirits that flicker meekly with fear and injury. Among them are those of a few younger slayers. These ones shine like the polished metal of the train once did, aglow with determination and willpower, but lacking any real talent at all. Typical. He could dispose of them with a snap of his wrist.
If, of course, it weren’t for the absolute inferno currently radiating from across the tracks.
Anticipation builds up in his chest as Akaza leaps across the clearing. Lower Moon One is dead, he is sure of that. Which means that at least one of the slayers responsible is Hashira level. Obviously, he chides himself, nobody else’s spirit would be so strong. But he can’t stop a slightly crazed grin from splitting his face as he approaches the spirit drawing him forward.
The second Akaza sees him, he knows him.
The man has his back turned, speaking with a younger slayer who is laid out on the ground. His body matches his spirit precisely. His hair is long and pulled half-back, falling over his shoulders and burning with the color of flames. Around his shoulders is a cloak which fades from white into a deep red. Strength seeps from every pore in his being. No doubt about it; this is Akaza’s guy.
Akaza lands behind him, earth cracking under his feet. Excitement squirms in his belly. This is going to be the fight of his life, he’s sure of it.
First, though, he must eliminate the distraction.
He can smell blood leaking from the fallen slayer. Should he try to interfere, he would only slow them down. Therefore, logically, the boy should be the first one to go. He and his stupid checkered Haori can go straight to hell, and Akaza will fight this inferno of a man in his absence.
A single leap is enough to propel Akaza within an arm’s length. His fist is mere inches from the boy’s face when his opponent springs into action. He whips around to face him, and Akaza is captivated by his eyes, the same blend of red and gold as his hair. They shine with passion unrivaled.
A brilliant red flame blade slices through his forearm as if it is butter, and he flips away across the battlefield. His path to the weakling is blocked now, which he supposes can’t be helped. It is between him and the flame man now.
“That’s a nice sword,” he purrs, licking the blood from his palm. It’s all for show, of course. His own blood tastes bitter on his tongue. But it does the trick quite nicely, and the weakling’s fighting spirit flares with panic.
The slayer stands his ground. “Why would you go for an injured person first instead of me?” He calls out to him, and oh, what a powerful timbre. That voice could command a room effortlessly, and anyone in their right mind would listen. Akaza feels giddy.
“I thought he might get in the way of our little chat, that’s all,” he grins, relishing in the distasteful look on the hashira’s face.
“And what is it that you would like to discuss?” He retorts, unwavering. “We have only just met, and I already dislike you.”
Oh, this is going wonderfully. “Is that right,” Akaza exclaims, amusement coloring his tone. “Well, I dislike weak humans.” He deliberately lets his gaze slip to stupid-checker-boy. “The mere sight of them is sickening.”
“If that is so, than I believe we shall never get along.” The hashira’s spirit is beginning to grow brighter, like stoking embers, growing more and more aware as he takes in Akaza’s taunts. It makes his lungs feel tight as his opponent’s perception sweeps over his form and around the battlefield. Blood rushes sweeter through his veins and goosebumps cover his skin as the air grows tense around them. Akaza knows now that he does not want this to end. He wants to fight this man for eternity, for his skin to melt and burn off from the bite of the flame man’s blade, and to rip him apart limb by limb in return. An unceasing waltz, an immortal battle. Such exhilaration can be his. It can be theirs.
Akaza finds himself making an offer.
“That may be as it shall be,” he begins, “but such strength would be wasted on a mortal body.” He takes a step forward, heart pounding with anticipation. “Why don’t you join me, and become a demon as well?”
“I shall not,” says the hashira definitively. His spirit is glowing orange with defiance.
His opponent did not leave any room for argument, but Akaza is more than willing to force some in on his own.
“Ah, but I can see your power at a glance! A hashira, huh?” Akaza continues. “Your fighting spirit is honed to perfection, refined like the finest of steel.” He catches a flicker of confusion in the other man’s spirit, and remembers suddenly that the other is completely in the dark to his own aura. How amusing! How advantageous! He files this information away for future taunting in the heat of battle.
“Tell me your name, demon slayer,” he implores, and his interest is truly genuine.
“I am the flame hashira,” His opponent announces. Fitting, he thinks. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro.”
A tingle of adrenaline runs through Akaza’s veins. Kyojuro. The name of the man who is about to grace him with the most incredible, heart stopping, death defying fight in all of his two centuries of demonic existence.
“I am Akaza,” he replies, gifting his name as if it is an offering. A cunning grin splits his features.
“Kyojuro,” he starts, and the name feels electric on his tongue. “Let me tell you why your physical strength is not enough, despite being a hashira.” Checker-boy gasps to himself at the implication. “It is because you are a mere human,” he informs him. “One day you will grow old, and then you will die.”
Akaza extends a hand, inked blue fingertips reaching out to the blazing spirit across from him.
“Become a demon, kyojuro,” he insists, irritation and something akin to desperation snaking into his mind. “If you do, you can become infinitely stronger. You can train for centuries!”
“You misunderstand,” Kyojuro hums, sounding disappointed. Akaza fights away a strange twinge of guilt.
“Human life is beautiful because it is not eternal. Death is what makes life so precious.” His gaze hardens. “And do not insult this boy. He is not weak. Human strength does not derive from our bodies alone.”
His red-gold eyes burn holes into Akaza’s skull. A tremor runs through his veins. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all! Such skill was meant to be preserved for eternity. The loss of it would be a downright shame.
But if Kyojuro refuses to recognize it, Akaza will take it for himself.
“—you see,” Kyojuro continues, tone laced with finality, “our moral codes will never align. As such, no matter what reason, I will never become a demon!”
Akaza’s vision narrows, now. Resentment churns in his stomach and heat prickles over his skin. He knows what he must do.
“I see,” he forces out.
His senses expand out across the battlefield, analyzing Kyojuro’s presence and physicality. His height, weight, wingspan, weapon type—all of it registers in the back of Akaza’s mind. It is all of the information he needs to perfectly sync his compass to his opponent’s every move.
Akaza’s blood thrums in his veins as he activates his blood demon art.
Compass arms bloom into being below him, burning blue against the darkness. Akaza feels everything. The brush of the breeze against his face is a million times stronger. He can hear the two slayers’ heartbeats and sense the warmth of their bodies. Everything is bright and well-defined, and the whole world is organized to sync with the movements of his technique.
“If you won’t become a demon,” he seethes, muscles tensing with anticipation, “then I’ll kill you myself!”
And then they are locked in battle, and Akaza is overcome with a wave of elation. Kyojuro fights like a bonfire, his movements confident and bold, yet simultaneously enchanting, almost dance-like. He is fluid and quick and leagues more incredible than any hashira he’s every fought before. Kyojuro lops off one of his arms, and Akaza laughs aloud in glee. This is it. This is better than he’d ever dreamed. He wants their combat to last forever.
Akaza advances. He throws his fists one after the other, and his knuckles are sliced open on the slayer’s blade. Each swing is countered with impeccable form. Kyojuro’s face is tense with focus. He is unyielding as Akaza calls out taunts to him, pushing his buttons as he swings at the hashira in rapid succession.
Blood spills from his wrist as he catches Kyojuro’s blade in his own flesh.
“I can’t understand it,” he rasps, thrill making his voice shake. “As a fellow martial artist, why would you deny such power, when only the chosen ones can become demons?”
It’s laughable, really, the intensity of Kyojuro’s glare. It truly is unbreakable.
For now.
The flame blade whips upward in a brilliant arc, and Akaza’s arm is thrown towards the heavens.
Growing a limb, for an upper moon, is akin to simply taking another breath after the first is released. Regeneration is as effortless as a blink. His arm reforms almost instantaneously, with the wet crunch of bones and skin reforming sounding into the night.
It’s clear by now that Kyojuro is fully uninterested in anything Akaza has to say, but he’s not done trying.
“Witnessing the agonizing decline of someone blessed with your talent pains me more than you could ever know,” he muses, and he catches a subtle eye roll from Kyojuro. Surely he is thinking that Akaza is dead wrong, or that he is simply trying to get under his skin.
Which, to be fair, is partially true. But the thought of watching such a glorious man deteriorate due to his own stubbornness makes Akaza want to puke.
“In that case, you should die now, while you’re still young,” he roars, and he’s beginning to sound quite feral. He likes it. It fits well with the rush in his bones he feels with the sound of metal on flesh.
Akaza throws himself back, body contorting into his next technique in midair. The prayer beads around his ankles clink as his heels meet. He reaches into his own power source, feeling his compass spin rapidly as it tracks Kyojuro’s every move and adapts to his position in the air.
The air pressure shifts around him as he calls upon his air type.
Akaza thrusts his arm forward and feels the ripple of his blood art over his skin as it seeks his target. Kyojuro is scanning rapidly for some sort of surprise attack, unable to see the one slicing through the sky towards him.
Shockwaves burst into being as the blow slams into him, blunt force pounding against his chest. Kyojuro gasps, stumbling back, his unusual eyes blown wide in surprise.
And there it is. The first real hit of the battle. The first strike that will not recover in an instant.
Now begins the real fun.
Kyojuro, however, is astonishingly quick to adapt. His blade scars the darkness with an arch of flame, blocking Akaza’s airborne attacks before they can make contact. The gears in his head are visibly turning. Akaza sends another flurry on the way down, and as Kyojuro’s blade snaps around to meet it, he lands on his feet across the battlefield, a fair distance between them. Perhaps he’ll give the slayer a moment of peace, to catch his breath, and then try again to convince him. Why can’t Kyojuro see it? The sheer might that Akaza can bestow upon him? It’s unacceptable. He opens his mouth to preach at him once more.
Kyojuro is in his face in half a second.
For a moment, Akaza is frozen in shock. Kyojuro had been all the way across the field, he had seen him there, and then in a whirlwind of flame he had blinked into being directly in front of him. An inkling of concern slithers in his chest, and he quickly smashes it down. Kyojuro is dripping with talent, perhaps even more so than he had given him credit for. Akaza is on goddamn cloud nine.
“Those reflexes!” He exclaims, dodging away from the tip of the sword. “Brilliant!”
Akaza had thought fighting with Kyojuro was thrilling before. But close combat was a whole other ball game. At any given moment, the man is in his space, his blade is inches away from his skin. Fireworks of euphoria are going off in his brain. His compass is working overtime.
“Doesn’t it make you sad, Kyojuro,” he gasps, “that such remarkable sword skills will be lost to time?”
“Why would it? That is simply a part of being human,” Kyojuro replies; finally, finally taking the bait. Akaza could have burst into song right then and there. He restrains himself, barely.
Another fighting spirit leaks into his consciousness. It’s erratic and wild around the edges, bursting with false confidence and feral tendencies. A glimpse from his peripheral reveals a second slayer, naked from the waist up, aside from the slightly disturbing boar’s mask covering his face. Perhaps under different circumstances, Akaza would be disquieted by such a sight. But now his attention is reserved only for one.
“Don’t move!” Kyojuro commands, and both Junior slayers stiffen. “If that wound reopens, your life will be in danger!” He is addressing checker-boy, but boar-head is equally as frozen. As he should be. Akaza can tell without even properly observing that his strength is no match for the two of them. If he got in the way, he would surely die.
“Don’t waste your energy with that weakling,” Akaza snarls, leaping back once more. A wicked grin splits his features. “Keep your eyes on me.”
It’s provocative, and he knows it. Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flares as he advances again.
It lasts about two seconds before Akaza is sent flying into the woods. The other two slayers are abandoned at the site of the crash as Kyojuro pursues him through the trees. Akaza lets him get close before darting out to meet him, like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Such skill,” he laughs, still bewildered, and then proceeds to kick Kyojuro all the way out of the woods he had just pushed him into.
The slayer tumbles across the dusty ground, landing hard enough to crack it. That will certainly hurt in the morning. If he lives that long. Akaza gives him another moment to force himself back to his feet, strolling leisurely out from the forest.
Are you sure you don’t want to turn?” He taunts. “Just think of it. If you became a demon, we could spar with each other for eternity! Imagine the strength we would accumulate!” He flexes the stump of his arm, the original lost to the forest, and regrows it in a heartbeat.
Kyojuro is sweating now, his breath work picking up.
“Never,” he growls, and his voice is so compelling that Akaza almost wants to agree. “Let me make myself clear. I do not like you, and I will not become a demon!”
Akaza might have been sad if not for the rush of joy that comes to him as Kyojuro rejoins the fight.
White-hot pain tears through him as the hashira’s blade rips through his shoulder, and he drinks it in. Akaza calls back his air type, once again forcing Kyojuro back, creating distance which he knows the slayer cannot spare. They are dancing again now. Back and forth, back and forth, perfectly in tune with each other’s movements. Every swing of Akaza’s fist is met with hot metal. The increasing speed of Kyojuro’s heartbeat is their music, and the push and pull of their footwork their routine.
Akaza’s knuckles graze the warm skin of Kyojuro’s forehead, and it splits on impact. Blood is officially spilled, and this time, it will not dissolve in the sun or be licked clean as a taunt. This is real. And God, is it intoxicating. The scent of Kyojuro’s blood is sweet and a bit spicy, like it would be rich and warm on his tongue. He would make a fantastic meal, Akaza thinks, and then pushes the thought away. He will not be eating Kyojuro. If he must cut such a beautiful life short, he will at least grant him the burial humans seem to think they deserve.
Both of his forearms are sliced off, but Akaza is not fooled. The blow to the head has slowed Kyojuro down, made him dizzy.
A concussion, most likely. He’s treated similar things before, he knows how to deal with the side effects. Rest, reduced stimuli, medicinal teas, the works. It will help reduce the—
He falters for a split second.
What is he thinking? He has never treated humans before. Where did such intrusive thoughts come from? As if he would spend his time or energy helping a weak human being anyway!
Akaza scoffs to himself, pushing forward with a renewed vigor. Concussion or not, Kyojuro is clearly disoriented, and he slips up again within seconds.
Akaza hurls another blow, and his fist smashes into the side of Kyojuro’s belly. With an extra jab, his fist sinks in a bit deeper as the ribs around it crack under the pressure. Kyojuro chokes in pain, gasping for breath. There is crimson staining the jacket of his uniform where the broken bones have surely pierced the skin.
Still, he is standing.
Akaza is still trying to persuade Kyojuro to join him, but he’s not quite listening to himself anymore. His attention is captured by the shift in the hashira’s form, how the pain in his head and ribs detract from his skill. Now that he is off balance, he can barely defend himself from Akaza’s attacks. Kyojuro makes a valiant attempt to ward off a strike with his flame blade, but his body is failing him. Akaza’s hand slips past his guard, knuckles crushing his left eye.
Kyojuro stumbles backward. His footwork is not as precise as it was mere minutes ago, and his breath is beginning to come in gasps. Clearly another blow to the head did not help his case. Something deep inside Akaza’s heart twinges. Seeing Kyojuro in pain, injured enough to need serious medical help, calls to a foreign instinct that he does not understand. He wants to do something about it.
Instead, Akaza fights.
Kyojuro’s inferno warps into the shape of a beast, prowling and feline, and Akaza counters with his disorder technique. He can’t suppress a laugh as a ripple of power flutters like nerves through his stomach and chest, spreading to the space around him as the flames are extinguished.
The flame blade bites into his chest again, and Akaza falls back.
This time, Kyojuro does not follow.
The traitorous feeling in Akaza’s subconscious is back, causing him to kneel for a moment and let the hashira breathe. He looks awful, the left side of his face completely painted crimson, and his complexion is beginning to appear pale and sickly. From blood loss or exhaustion, he can’t say, but Kyojuro is unsteady nonetheless. A trickle of blood falls from his chin, landing in the dust at his feet. The weaklings’ spirits pulse in alarm somewhere far away.
Akaza stands, regenerating his arm again without really thinking about it. The hashira’s eyes have not left him, and he stares at Akaza with a silent defiance as he fights for his breath.
“Don’t tell me it’s over,” Akaza utters, disappointment flushing over his being. “I won’t have you die on me just yet.”
Another drop of blood falls from Kyojuro’s lip, and suddenly, Akaza isn’t sure that he is speaking the truth.
They are in a stalemate.
Kyojuro is struggling to settle his breathing, his pupils blown wide and his form beginning to tremble. He has pushed himself too far, and they both know it.
“Do you get it now?” Akaza asks him. His voice has gone soft. The atmosphere is still, as if the whole forest is holding its breath, and it feels wrong to speak any louder. “Every impressive wound that you have inflicted upon me has healed. But you—smashed eye, broken ribs, injured organs—you can not recover from this.”
Kyojuro shudders, almost imperceptible.
“If you were a demon, you would heal in the blink of an eye,” Akaza continues. “You must understand. A human can never surpass a demon.”
Checker-boy is trying to climb to his feet in the background, to no avail. His spirit reeks of blood and weakness. Akaza knows that he will not be entering the fight. He is useless, left only to watch on the sidelines.
Kyojuro sighs gently, closing his eyes against the pain.
And then he erupts into flames.
Akaza nearly jumps at the sudden blaze in his spirit. He had not thought it possible! How could someone so blatantly injured and so horrifically outmatched continue to stand against him? But, of course, here is Kyojuro to once again surpass his expectations.
“So, this is how it’s going to be,” Akaza murmurs to himself. God, how painful it will be to kill this man.
The bright red blade is lifted to the heavens as Kyojuro takes another stance. When he snaps his head up, he is smiling.
“I will carry out my duty!” He announces. “Nobody on this train shall die tonight, no matter what it takes!”
Except for you, Akaza thinks. But something makes him keep his mouth shut.
Flames spread in a grand ripple across the arena, and Kyojuro’s spirit triples in intensity. Goosebumps prickle at Akaza’s skin. He has never seen anything so arresting.
“That strength of body,” he says, awestruck, “that strength of mind! Incredible! Now you have to become a demon!” He lets out an incredulous laugh, high and untamed. “We can fight each other for all of eternity!”
Fire is burning through Kyojuro’s veins. Akaza can see it, illuminating his skin from the inside out, burning like the sun in his chest. He whispers something to himself. A mantra? A prayer?
And suddenly, cold fear trickles down Akaza’s spine. Something is wrong.
He has been so obsessed with the battle that his instincts have failed to warn him. Dawn is coming too soon. The flame hashira is still alive, and has reached some miraculous second wind. The tables have turned in a heartbeat. Now it is Akaza who is running out of time.
Kyojuro raises his head, and the inferno mirrors him.
“Ninth form,” he growls, and Akaza readies himself for the most glorious attack of his life. His skin is beginning to feel hot with the lightening sky.
“Destructive death,” he gasps, kneeling to power up his blood art.
Kyojuro advances in a sprint, and is haloed in gold as the first ray of dawn rises over the mountains. He is no longer a bloodied human making a last stand. Now, Kyojuro is a harbinger, a carrier of blazing light and certain death by way of the morning sun.
Every demonic cell in Akaza’s body is screaming. Light falls upon the ground inches from him, and he panics entirely as Muzan’s instincts take over. Kyojuro’s death is not his priority anymore. It is to live. To live, to live, to live. To escape the burn of light upon his body.
Kyojuro reaches him, fire licking at his hair and cloak. And Akaza pulls his punch.
Originally, he had intended to thrust his fist directly through Kyojuro’s solar plexus. It would be undeniably fatal. Even with the unrivaled mastery of his breathing technique, he would bleed out and die in minutes. But to do that, Kyojuro would have to get much closer, and then Akaza would have have to pull his fist back out. He would essentially be trapped in Kyojuro’s very form, at his mercy. He could not spare that kind of time.
Instead, as Kyojuro raises his blade to annihilate him, its edge mere centimeters from his neck, Akaza whips around and kicks him in the stomach. Hard.
His heel sinks into Kyojuro’s belly, but it does not break the skin. The flame around him is broken as it collides with Akaza’s technique, and dust fills the air, obscuring the hashira’s vision.
In the split second of shock and pain that Kyojuro gifts him, Akaza turns on his heels and books it toward the forest.
Behind him, Akaza can hear Kyojuro gag and choke as he collapses to his knees, completely winded by the final strike. He has spent more energy than he has to spare. The weaklings are shouting in horror and confusion. Checker-boy hurls insult after insult, and Akaza ignores him, head too clouded with panic to listen.
A shrill whistle fills the air, and a blade pierces through Akaza’s chest.
It feels differently from Kyojuro’s sword. Where that blade was red-hot and spiced with passion, this one is black as night, and it feels as if it carries the sunlight in the sky straight into his bloodstream.
Akaza gives a strangled shout, but he does not stop running. The sun is licking at his calves, unbearably hot, and his chest is tight with terror. Sweat breaks out along his skin. His eyes water. This, he realizes, is how it feels to be hunted.
Just as the sunlight reaches him, Akaza throws his body forward and lets himself be swallowed up by the darkness of the trees.