Chapter 12 — Age: 14 — Early Autumn
The first chill of autumn crept down the mountainside as I hiked steadily through the fog-draped forest. My pack dug into my shoulders, and the leather bindings of Father's haori clung damply to my back with sweat. Fallen leaves crunched beneath my sandals, their colors just starting to turn from summer green to the first reds and ochres of the season.
It had been three days since I left the Kamado home. Three days of hiking, eating cold rice balls, drinking from mountain streams, and sleeping beside dwindling campfires. My muscles ached, but my resolve didn't waver.
I wasn't wandering. I was searching—
—for the man my father once named in passing: Sakonji Urokodaki, a swordsman said to have trained in the mountains of Sagiri. A man who had disappeared from the world long ago.
No one in the nearby villages spoke of him openly. A few elders muttered about a masked man who could hear demons scream from miles away, but when pressed, they'd simply shake their heads and say, "The mountain keeps its secrets."
Still, something inside me knew: if I wanted to learn the truth behind the festival demon, if I wanted to grow strong enough to protect my siblings—I needed to find this man.
---
On the morning of the fourth day, the air thinned as I climbed higher. I stopped by a narrow stream to refill my canteen and soak my feet. The mist was heavy here, the trees older and knotted.
That was when I saw it—a torii gate, weathered and half-swallowed by vines. A rusted wind chime hung from one beam, faintly tinkling in the breeze.
I passed beneath it, careful not to disturb the offerings at its base. This wasn't just a path. It was a threshold.
I moved cautiously, hatchet strapped to my back, breath slow and measured. Eventually, I came to a clearing.
There, nestled among the trees, stood a simple wooden house, smoke curling from the chimney. Above the door hung a red fox mask.
I stepped closer, heart pounding.
Before I could knock, a voice rang out:
"You're late."
The door creaked open.
---
Sakonji Urokodaki stood in the doorway. His red tengu mask obscured his face, but the calm weight of his presence settled over me like a blanket of snow. He looked older than I expected—gray hair tucked beneath a head wrap, shoulders slightly sloped with age—but his eyes, behind the mask, felt sharp.
"I've been watching you," he said. "Since the second day you entered this mountain."
I bowed deeply. "My name is Satoshi Kamado. I came to ask you for training."
He said nothing, only moved aside to let me in.
---
His home was simple—wooden floors, a hearth in the center, and scrolls tucked into high shelves. As he prepared tea, I sat quietly, unsure of what to say.
"I knew your father," he said at last. "He came to me long ago, not for training—but for understanding. He already carried something ancient. The Dance of the Fire God was no technique I could improve upon."
"He never taught us about demons," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Urokodaki poured tea into two small cups. "He likely hoped you'd never have to learn."
I looked into the steam curling from my cup. "But I've seen them. One attacked our village festival. She spoke to me. She knew something about the fire."
Silence stretched between us.
"Why do you want to fight?" he asked finally.
I answered without hesitation. "To protect my family."
He set his cup down. "Then we begin at dawn."
---
Training under Urokodaki was unlike anything I had imagined. There were no elaborate rituals, no grand lessons in swordsmanship—not at first. Instead, there were trials.
He made me run up and down the mountain with a water barrel strapped to my back. I carried stones, balanced across thin ropes strung between trees. I dodged traps he'd set long ago—logs, nets, pits. Each misstep left me bruised, scratched, and exhausted.
At night, I could barely lift my chopsticks to eat.
And yet…
Every evening, he would correct my footwork. Guide my breathing. Adjust my stance as I practiced the Dance of the Fire God.
"This isn't about power," he said one night as I collapsed near the fire. "Breathing channels life. Life carries the flame. Without balance, you'll burn out before you ever draw your sword."
---
As the weeks passed, the pain became familiar. My cuts healed faster. My movements grew sharper. The fire in my chest—the one that lit up with every step of Father's dance—no longer flared out of control. It warmed me. Guided me.
One crisp morning, after I completed a full form of the dance in perfect silence and precision, Urokodaki nodded.
"Good," he said. "Again."
But that night, as we sat beside the fire, he placed a cloth-wrapped object in front of me. A sword. My sword.
Forged quietly while I trained.
Its edge glinted in the firelight.
"Why now?" I asked.
"Because you're no longer swinging for yourself," he said. "You're swinging for someone else."
---
Still, I hadn't forgotten my family.
Some evenings, I sat on the steps of Urokodaki's home and pulled out Nezuko's origami crane. I remembered Tanjiro's eyes, wide and questioning. Rokuta's laughter. Hanako's voice calling after me.
I wrote short letters when I could—simple notes to let them know I was safe, that I would return. Urokodaki helped send them through passing traders.
"Family is an anchor," he said one evening. "But don't let it keep you from sailing forward."
"I won't," I promised.
---
On the eve of the first snowfall, I stood in the clearing behind Urokodaki's house, sword in hand, breath forming steady clouds in the cold.
I performed the Dance of the Fire God, each step a memory, each strike a vow.
Not just for strength.
But for them.
---
When I sheathed my blade, Urokodaki spoke from behind me.
"You'll be ready soon."
I turned toward the village path. "Not yet. But almost."
His voice was quiet. "When you return to your family… be the flame they can depend on."
I nodded.
"I will."