Chapter Text
Little bunny, from the little mountains, why are your ears so long?
When she was young, my mother ate the leaves of a tall tree, and that is why my ears are so long…
Knock, knock, little bunny from the little mountain. Why are your eyes red?
“Why are you singing that song again? I’m getting tired of it.”
Tanjirō blinks. He is in a temple. No. Not just any temple. This is Tsugikuni Mihiro’s temple, the manifestation of Tokitō Muichirō.
He opens and closes his mouth, as if to taste the words before speaking. “Have I been singing?”
“Yes, and you have an awful voice, by the way. Completely out of tune.” Mihiro pats her hair, trying to flatten a stubborn strand. When it springs right back up, she groans, pulls out her hairpin, and lets the dark locks tumble down. “Did you know? You sang that exact song to Muichirō once before.”
Tanjirō sinks onto the floor, choosing to ignore her sharp glare. He wants to ask why he’s here at her temple instead of at his manifestation’s. But then again, he barely remembers how that transaction even went. Every time he recalls giving up half his life for a temporary surge of power to defeat Dōma, a pang of regret rattles his chest.
But they defeated Dōma. As far as he knows, that has to be enough.
“I did?” he says instead. He doesn't want to meet his own manifestation; for as long as he can manage, he’d rather avoid facing the consequences of his choice. “I doubt he would’ve stayed around to listen to a song.”
Mihiro scoffs. “Who do you think Muichirō is? Even in her condition, she’s still capable of enjoying music. Although, of course, that doesn’t include your awful singing. Besides, I’m talking about when you two were just kids. You know, when you found her in that caravan?”
“Ca… caravan?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve given up your memories, too. Honestly, you humans…” Whatever she is about to say, she cuts herself off, producing a comb with a flick of her wrist. “Ah, there we go! I absolutely hate having visitors. Did you know that when a human comes here, the air turns humid?”
While she may be Tokito’s manifestation, she is certainly not him. The Mist Hashira hardly cares about his appearance, which is one of the reasons Tanjirō never perceived him as arrogant.
“I didn’t give up my memories. But—” Tanjirō shakes his head. “I’ve always had that nightmare!”
“Oh, you have nightmares. Big deal.” Mihiro combs her hair, tsk-tsking every time the teeth catch on a tangle.
Tanjirō scrambles forward, grabbing Mihiro to pull her down to eye level. “No, I mean it! I’ve always dreamt about a child locked in a caravan. But whenever I wake up, I somehow always forget.”
With no effort, Mihiro shoves him, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into the wall; the impact knocks the wind out of him and sends a spray of saliva flying from his mouth.
“How dare you touch me, you filthy boy.”
He coughs, his teeth rattling as he fights the urge to vomit. Even though she isn’t the nicest person or entity he’s ever met, he has no desire to defile her space.
“Calm down. I hardly touched you. Besides, when you return to the living world, you won’t be in any pain. Just like how the hole in your abdomen is gone, right?”
Reassured, Tanjirō slows his breathing. He isn’t hurt, which is good. As he looks at Mihiro, he wonders if there’s a shred of pity in her, or if she’s even capable of it. After all, she isn’t real; she’s just a manifestation, something Tokitō could have been had he chosen another path.
But Mihiro is a girl. And Tokitō is…
Tanjirō slowly walks back towards her, deciding it’s none of his business. He kneels before her, but strangely, she remains on her knees. If she doesn’t care, shouldn’t she be standing by now?
He halts the thought before he makes the mistake of inventing a personality for her that might not even exist.
“You sang it to her before,” Mihiro repeats, as if reading his mind. Perhaps she can. “You tried to cry out for help, but you tripped and bumped your head. How pitiful. You’ve always been stupid.” She laughs, and it is ironic just how melodic her voice is, yet mechanical. If Tokitō was supposed to have been her, then this means Mihiro was taught how to act like a proper lady.
“I didn’t bump my head. You can’t trick me about that. I know myself.” Tanjirō clenches his hands into fists. “If that child was him… what was he doing in that caravan?”
Mihiro makes a lazy, circular motion with her hand. “Isn’t it obvious? She was taken, along with her brother! It’s actually quite funny you didn't see Yuichirō, but he was in that caravan, too. He was sleeping, though, so…” She shrugs. “That was after their father was killed and they were discovered. And then, they were taken to an imperial palace.”
“Wha… what?”
“I have a hunch why you don’t remember meeting Muichirō. But I’m not allowed to say!” She playfully presses a finger against her lips.
She’s testing me. Tanjirō knows she might, and likely will, shove him again, but armed with the knowledge that he won’t get truly hurt, he leans closer anyway. “Stop playing with me and just tell me what’s going on!”
True to his suspicions, Mihiro pushes him.
Only this time, he is thrown all the way back into the living world.
“Tanjirō? You’re alive?”
The sun is glaring down at him. That is the first thing he notices, not Iguro’s mismatched eyes.
The next thing he realises is that he’s lying supine on the grass. He had expected the ground to be frozen solid from Dōma’s Blood Demon Art, but it’s now dry and lush again.
“I-Iguro… san?” Tanjirō’s voice cracks, the words scraping against his throat.
“You lost consciousness.” Iguro rests Tanjirō’s head flat against his knees. “Stay. Wait until the Kakushi get here.”
Tanjirō suppresses the urge to swallow. His mouth, tongue, and throat are painfully dry, so much so that even his fingertips tremble.
He just wants to close his eyes, sleep, and let everything pass. Everything hurts. He’s never felt this exhausted before, not even after battling those two demon siblings.
As his eyelids grow heavy, memories of the battle come rushing back.
A sharp gasp escapes him. “Sh—Shinobu-san? Kanao?” He cranes his neck, finding them through his blurry vision. “Toki… Muichirō? Where is he? Where are they?”
Despite his bones protesting and grinding together, Tanjirō forces himself into a sitting position.
“They… Tokitō is alive, but he doesn’t want to talk right now. I don’t know where he went,” Iguro says. “Kanao is in critical condition. Tokitō and I did everything we could to stop her bleeding, but only the gods know if she’s going to make it.”
Iguro pauses. Even behind his bloodied bandages, Tanjirō can tell he is biting his lip. “Kochō… Kochō is gone. She bled to death.”
Of course. What did I expect? Dōma was an incredibly powerful demon. There was no way they could fight him without casualties. Yet, even as Tanjirō repeats this to himself over and over again to lessen the agony, his soul is still being shredded to pieces.
Another life stolen by a demon.
When will this end?
“Nezuko? Where is my sister?” He doesn’t understand why she wasn’t the very first person he asked for. But perhaps, deep down, he was terrified to find out if she was hurt, or if she didn't make it.
If she were gone, it wouldn’t just be his soul that would be shattered; it would be his entire being. And he isn’t ashamed to admit that he wouldn’t see any reason to keep living.
If she is gone, the only thing that will keep him breathing is the burning need for revenge against Muzan, the man who caused all their suffering.
“I convinced her to stay out of the sun. She almost didn’t listen, but Tokitō assured her that you were alive. I don’t know where she is now, but you have nothing to worry about.”
Iguro sounds so… tired. Tanjirō can tell that the Serpent Hashira doesn’t want to talk anymore.
“I’m going to Kanao. I have to… see her.” If she is still alive, maybe I can reach her before it's too late. He wants to believe she will make it, but with much blood loss, survival will be nothing short of a miracle.
Tanjirō, wobbly on his feet, stumbles repeatedly, tripping over his own steps. But Iguro is always there to catch him and steady his balance. Finally, Tanjirō manages to walk on his own, searching the area for Kanao.
He feels scorching hot. This happened once before, right after the battle in the Entertainment District. Inosuke had told him that the scar on his forehead had grown larger, as if it had a life of its own. He had also seen similar red marks on Iguro and Tokitō during that fight.
Are those the marks that Mihiro mentioned? Mihiro. What a mysterious entity. Even though she explained what she is, and even though he can feel her honesty, he still cannot comprehend her.
Nothing makes sense.
Tanjirō pushes forward, groaning as his knees threaten to buckle beneath his weight. Fighting off a heavy wave of exhaustion, he spots Kanao near the base of a hill. She is leaning against the trunk of a tree, and cradled in her lap is Shinobu.
He hasn’t even reached them yet, but he can already see how the blood has erased Shinobu’s features. If not for her distinct butterfly haori, Tanjirō wouldn’t have recognised her.
When he stumbles up to them, Kanao doesn’t even raise her head. He doesn’t think she has the strength to. Just as Iguro said, she is covered in bandages, the white fabric stained and inked with red.
He sinks to his knees, trembling as he places a finger beneath her nose. Her breath is shallow.
She won’t make it. It terrifies him how quickly he is adapting to loss, how acknowledging death is turning into a baseline instinct. Is this how the Hashira stay sane? Is this why Tokitō and Giyū became so numb, just so they could keep moving forward?
Tanjirō is a Demon Slayer. Whether he likes it or not, this will not be the last death he is forced to witness.
🐍
It is done. At least, their battle against Dōma is over. Yet, even if Obanai wants to breathe a sigh of relief, he knows that as long as Muzan exists, none of them can truly say they have made it out alive.
That Mirror Demon… it vanished the moment Tokitō ripped his way out of Dōma. Is it hiding? Perhaps it fled because by the time they defeated Dōma, the sun was already on the horizon.
There is a possibility that the Mirror Demon will be back.
No. It will be back.
Obanai will never forget how fixated that creature was on Tokitō or how it lured the Mist Hashira to join his great-grandfather. Whoever Tokitō’s great-grandfather is, he is nothing but bad news.
And then there is the matter of Tokitō's limbs. He has two arms again. Obanai knows he didn’t imagine it when he witnessed how Tokitō cut off his own left arm to save the rest of his body from freezing.
Tokitō has always been an enigma. Obanai thought he had already accepted that, but now he no longer knows what to make of their youngest comrade.
What did he tell himself before? That a talent like Tokitō’s never came without something missing, some essential piece of humanity traded away for power.
All along, Obanai has been right.
“Obanai-san!”
Obanai’s heart breaks free from his ribcage at the sound of that voice. He turns around automatically, as if his body has a mind of its own. Even with his poor eyesight, Mitsuri’s radiance is clear to him.
Her hair is a tangled mess, and her uniform is torn, but thank goodness she’s wearing someone else’s haori. Normally, this would have made him bristle with jealousy, but right now, all he cares about is that she’s safe and alive. Whoever lent her that garment deserves his deepest gratitude for shielding her dignity.
Obanai yearns to rush towards her, but his exhaustion is overwhelming. The searing heat that granted him inhuman strength has drained the very last remnants of his energy.
When Mitsuri reaches him, she throws her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Up close, he sees the heavy bandages covering the right side of her face. Oh, that’s right. She is blind on that side now. He failed to protect her. The sound of her laughter, which usually feels like the first sunrise after a brutal winter, only deepens his sorrow. She doesn’t seem bothered by the injury, but it tears him apart.
“Obanai-san. I’m glad you’re alive! Where are the others?” So much hope in her remaining eye.
His teeth grind together. As much as he wants to shield her from the brutal truth, she will find out soon anyway.
It takes everything in him to summarise the aftermath, each devastating detail falling from his lips like a lead weight. With every report on the fate of each Slayer, Mitsuri’s bright smile fractures until it vanishes.
“Shi… Shinobu-chan?” She slaps a hand over her mouth as if fighting the urge to vomit. Perhaps she is. “No… no!” She collapses to her knees, her long hair falling forward to shield her face, but he can still see the tears streaming down, soaking the dry grass beneath her. “I should’ve been here! I could’ve helped!”
The keen of agony that rips from her throat is enough to break anyone's heart, and it completely shatters Obanai’s. He clutches his chest, physically feeling her pain. The armour of emotional restraint he has maintained all night finally cracks, bursting open like a broken dam. He may not have been close to Shinobu, but she was a good person—someone who helped everyone she could, despite the immense fury she always concealed behind her gentle smile.
He wants to offer comfort, to say that at least Shinobu is finally free from her burden, but his blood is boiling to even whisper the words.
“Iguro-dono. Kanroji-dono…”
Obanai looks up, noticing the shadow cast by the swordsmith. Haganezuka is his name, as far as Obanai can recall. Only then does it occur to him that he has been cradling Mitsuri for quite some time now. Minutes have bled together.
“I’m sorry for your loss…” Haganezuka says, his face free from the hyottoko mask. His thick brows are furrowed so tightly.
Has Haganezuka already spoken to the Kakushi? Are the Kakushi even here yet? Obanai doesn’t know, and he cannot bring himself to turn around while Mitsuri is still weeping in his arms. For now, he has ceased to care. Once again, he falls on what he does best: blocking out the rest of the world so he doesn’t fall apart.
“Kanroji-dono, we want to offer our deepest thanks once more. If not for you, we would have all died because of that… Mirror Demon.” Haganezuka’s knuckles turn white as he spits out the last two words. “All night… we fought for our lives. All night… that demon played with us!”
So that’s what happened. Mitsuri protected the swordsmiths and the villagers of this village, and she did it alone. Sure, the swordsmiths fought too, but she was the only Slayer among them. It must have been an immense burden to carry. As much as he wishes he could have been by her side, he knows that if he hadn’t stayed with the Kamado siblings and Tokitō, they would all be dead. Dōma was a completely different breed of nightmare.
"Haganezuka-san, there you are!" A kid wearing that red mask comes running toward them. The midsection of his uniform is stained red, but it doesn't seem to be slowing him down. It must not be his blood, then. "The others are helping the Kakushi. We need you to lead us… please."
Haganezuka sighs. "I suppose I have no choice, Kotetsu. I took on the role of a leader without meaning to."
The child lets out a weary laugh. "That's what happens when you're a natural at it!"
Obanai squints as he notices more swordsmiths approaching. So many of them. And they're all alive because of Mitsuri.
Despite the loss, he is proud of her. Without her, everyone's sacrifice would have been for nothing.
"I'm sorry. I’m still crying. It just hurts so much." Mitsuri sniffles, burying her face in his chest.
Despite her near-inaudible apology, the adult and child swordsmiths hear her anyway.
"That's all right, Kanroji-dono. Let it all out." Haganezuka seems to want to add more, but he only sighs and avoids Obanai's gaze.
Kotetsu's tears come suddenly. "It's fine to cry! You don't have to apologise. If you're hurting, don't be embarrassed to show it. The demons are the ones who should feel ashamed for what they put us through!" The kid turns, his silhouette distorted by the glare of the sun. He lifts his mask slightly and drags his hands across his face, likely wiping his tears.
Haganezuka places a hand on Kotetsu's shoulder. "That's right. So let it all out. And after this, we can—"
His face shatters, and Kotetsu is showered in his blood.
Obanai's jaw hangs open. He's still processing what happened, still telling himself he must be imagining things because Haganezuka is still standing.
Until he's not.
Only when Kotetsu screams does Obanai snap back to his senses.
"Haganezuka-sa—" Kotetsu's neck explodes with blood, and as he crumples to the ground, his head hangs askew, nearly severed from his neck.
Obanai jerks his head up. Mitsuri is alert once again, shifting into a defensive stance.
Along the crest of the hills, the remaining cultists have appeared. Every one of them holds a rifle, the barrels glinting beneath the morning sun.
🔥
"And what if your mistake leads to someone's death? Not just one person. Many.”
Tanjirō rises, but with her last remaining strength, Kanao pulls him, pressing him behind the tree. The moment his back hits the trunk, a bullet passes through, splintering the bark inches from his face.
"And who knows? Maybe more will die now because you stopped me from eliminating them all.”
"Haganezuka-san… Kotetsu-kun…" His jaw trembles as he struggles to form words. His eyes roam across their corpses, then to Mitsuri carrying an exhausted Iguro towards safety, then to the swordsmiths scattering beneath a hail of bullets.
“A lot more will die, all because you don’t approve of my actions.”
Tokitō’s words echo in his mind. All Tanjirō wanted was to save them too. To him, they were victims of Dōma too.
But as he watches them mercilessly target everyone around him, he no longer knows what to think.
He dares to sneak a look around the trunk, and his eyes widen. He's certain of it. A cultist is aiming for Iguro.
Do something! Do something! He wills himself upright.
The cultist’s finger is already tightening on the trigger. Even if Tanjirō runs, he will be too late. Even if someone tries to shield Iguro, it will be too late.
"Tan… ji… don't…" Kanao gasps one last time. When he glances at her, her eyes are closed. She's stopped moving.
His mind is spiralling. What should he do? What should I do?!
A long flash of white slithers past with blinding speed. Tanjirō can barely track it until the cultist aiming at Iguro collapses backward.
It registers slowly. That white thing is an animal. The animal is a snake. The white snake is Kaburamaru, its fangs buried in the cultist's eye.
Kaburamaru doesn't hesitate. It lunges for the nearest cultist next.
Tanjirō has no idea how a snake can move like that, but this is his chance!
This is—
His knees buckle. Every ounce of remaining strength completely deserts him, leaving him crumbled right out in the open. At any second, a bullet could end his life. Multiple bullets.
To die at the hands of humans. The very humans he and the Corps exist to protect from demons.
To die… after everything they have survived.
His eyes begin to close. As the darkness pulls him under, he catches a glimpse of something. No, it’s someone!
Just as he did with the others, the Mist Hashira cuts the cultists down, weaving so flawlessly fast that none of them can even pull a trigger in response.