Chapter 1: Akira
> "You should just die!"
"It's your fault the demon escaped!"
"You're a disgrace. You don't deserve to exist!"
"How could filth like you ever be part of the Demon Slayer Corps?"
The words slammed into him like stones.
In the endless void, the figures had no faces, yet their hatred was unmistakable. Dozens surrounded him, pointing, accusing. Their voices echoed like blades scraping against steel, every syllable carving into his soul.
Akira staggered back, but there was no escape. The ground beneath him was black, the air suffocating. He clutched his ears, but the voices only grew louder, overlapping, twisting into something monstrous.
"You should have died that night!"
"Akito would be better off without you!"
"Monster!"
The shadows lunged, skeletal hands clawing for his throat.
"No…! Please—stop!"
He screamed—
And awoke with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like a drowning man. For a moment, the darkness of the dream clung to him, and he thought he was still there, still trapped.
His wild gaze darted across the dimly lit room until reality began to return. Tatami mats. Wooden beams. A familiar sword rack by the wall.
Home.
Just a dream.
But his hands trembled, and his heart still thudded as if it would burst from his chest.
"Brother!"
The small, urgent voice pierced the silence.
Before Akira could react, a pair of warm, tiny hands gripped his rough palms. He turned, meeting Akito's wide, innocent eyes.
"Did you have the nightmare again?" Akito asked softly, his voice wavering.
"…Yeah."
The word was heavy, dragged from Akira's throat.
Without hesitation, Akito clambered onto the futon and wrapped his arms tightly around him.
"Don't be afraid," the boy whispered into his chest. "I'm here."
Akira's muscles slowly uncoiled. He closed his eyes, resting his chin on Akito's head. His brother's warmth seeped into him, chasing away the last fragments of the nightmare.
For a moment, silence reigned—broken only by the faint rustle of the morning wind outside.
When Akira opened his eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the paper shutters, painting the room in soft gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light. The world outside was alive, oblivious to his torment.
A new day had begun.
"I have a mission today," Akira said finally, pulling back. His voice had regained its calm, though his heart still beat fast beneath it. He stood, straightening his uniform. "Stay inside, Akito. Don't wander."
Akito's lips pressed into a thin line. "I will. But you… you have to come back safe, okay?"
Akira smirked faintly, ruffling his brother's messy hair. "Since when did you start worrying about me? You know how strong I am."
"I know," Akito mumbled, "but… even the strong can fall."
The quiet words lingered in the air.
Akira didn't answer. Instead, he washed quickly, the cold water shocking his nerves awake. His hands moved with practiced precision, tightening the straps of his uniform, adjusting his haori.
His eyes drifted to the blade resting on the rack. The katana gleamed faintly, catching the morning light. It was more than a weapon—it was the weight of his vow, the promise he had made seven years ago.
He reached for it.
"Wait!"
Akito rushed forward, standing on tiptoe. With careful hands, he clipped a pair of earrings to Akira's ears.
"There!" Akito said proudly, stepping back to admire his work. His face broke into a bright smile. "All set! I'm making rice balls today, so don't forget to invite Master Yoriichi to dinner!"
Akira's hand brushed over the earrings, and for a heartbeat, his chest felt lighter. "Got it."
With that, he pushed open the door.
The compound buzzed with life. Demon Slayers moved swiftly, their uniforms crisp, swords at their sides. The morning air was sharp, carrying the metallic tang of whetstones and the faint scent of ink from reports being written. Footsteps echoed against wooden planks.
Akira paused, eyes scanning the faces around him. For a fleeting instant, they blurred into the faceless figures from his nightmare—eyes cold, mouths sneering.
You don't belong here.
He shook the thought away, exhaling slowly.
It had been seven years since he awoke in this world. Seven years since he found himself in an era not his own—an age of swords and demons, where every sunset brought fear. He had no family here. No past. Only Akito.
And he had learned quickly: demons were real.
He remembered that night vividly. The stench of blood filling their home. The crash of splintering wood. Akito's terrified scream.
The demon's grin, wide and jagged, as it stalked toward them. Its skin twisted, its eyes glowing with hunger.
Akira had grabbed the nearest blade—a kitchen knife—and stood in front of Akito. His hands shook, but he swung desperately, again and again. The demon only laughed, its body knitting back together as fast as he cut.
Blood Demon Art. He hadn't known the term then, only that the creature before him was no longer human.
When its claws closed around his throat, he thought it was the end.
But light cut through the darkness.
A man appeared, sword flashing like the sun itself. Movements too fast to follow, too precise to comprehend. In moments, the demon's body crumbled to ash.
That man was Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
The strongest swordsman of the Demon Slayer Corps. The one who bore the Sun Breathing.
From that night onward, Akira had begged Yoriichi for training. He would never be powerless again. He swore it.
Under Yoriichi's watchful eye, his talent bloomed like wildfire. He could see the subtle rhythm of an enemy's breath, the twitch of a muscle before it moved. He could replicate sword techniques after seeing them only once.
In months, he had risen to become a Pillar.
Now, as he walked through the compound, Slayers lowered their heads in respect. Some whispered his name, voices tinged with awe.
But none dared to step close.
Revered. Admired. Isolated.
His footsteps carried him to the far end of the courtyard, where a solitary figure stood bathed in the morning light.
Tall. Serene. Unshaken.
"Master."
Yoriichi turned, his calm eyes carrying a silence deeper than death.
"Let's go," Yoriichi said simply, stepping forward.
"Master."
Yoriichi paused, glancing back.
"Let's split up this time," Akira said, a faint smile on his lips. "Whenever I'm with you, I hardly get to draw my blade. I'm a Pillar now. I can't keep hiding in your shadow."
"…Very well."
Akira turned to leave.
But steel sang.
Shhhk!
Yoriichi's blade blurred through the air, a strike too fast to follow.
Clang!
Akira blocked it with the hilt of his sword, muscles tensing instinctively. His heart raced, but his grip was steady.
"Master…?"
Yoriichi's blade slid back into its sheath. No explanation. Only a slow nod.
Akira exhaled, a wry smile tugging his lips. "You're worried about me, aren't you?"
Silence was his only answer. Yoriichi turned and walked away, his figure glowing in the sun.
"Akito made rice balls today!" Akira called. "Come eat with us, Master!"
Yoriichi's hand lifted faintly in acknowledgment, though his gaze never shifted back.
Akira chuckled. "They call me aloof… but Master, you're the real mystery."
He adjusted his sword at his side, inhaled deeply, and stepped into the day.
Into battle. Into fate.