Chapter 7: Legitimate Defense
Akira and Akito arrived in a quiet town at the foot of the mountains. Here, the air smelled of the sea, and the streets were filled with the bustle of fishermen and merchants instead of the clang of swords.
For the first time in years, Akira allowed himself to believe they might build a new life.
During his years with the Demon Slayer Corps, he had managed to save a modest sum. With that money, he opened a small sushi shop for Akito. The building was humble—wooden beams, paper lanterns at the entrance—but it was warm, filled with the aroma of rice and fresh fish.
The brothers worked together, and the shop slowly became their livelihood.
---
Akito managed the kitchen with skill beyond his years. His hands, once soft with childhood, grew calloused from the daily work of chopping, pressing, and preparing. Akira could not hold a blade anymore, but he guided his brother with patient instruction, teaching precision, discipline, and care as if Akito's sushi were a sword technique of its own.
With what little money remained, Akito saved carefully, traveling to nearby towns in search of a doctor who might heal Akira's broken arms.
But the years brought only disappointment.
Renowned physicians examined him. Some traced his scars, others pressed along his trembling wrists. Their words were always the same:
"It's a miracle you can still move at all."
"You must have pushed your body far past its limit."
"The chance you will ever hold a blade again… is nonexistent."
At first, Akira resisted. He kept training his grip, enduring pain until his palms bled. He clenched rocks, tried to swing wooden swords, forcing strength into failing muscles.
But every attempt ended the same way—his hands trembling, his grip slipping, his body betraying him.
At last, he stopped.
He released the obsession that had haunted him since his fall. He let go of the warrior he once was.
That chapter was closed.
Now, he was simply a man who could no longer wield a blade.
And so, he chose to live for Akito.
---
Under Akira's guidance, the sushi shop grew. Customers returned often, praising the taste and warmth of the little restaurant. Slowly, their reputation spread through the town.
Watching Akito grow filled Akira with a peace he hadn't known since his injury. The restlessness that gnawed at him eased, little by little.
If I can no longer slay demons, he thought, then I will live like an ordinary man. I will protect him this way.
Yet part of him never severed his ties to the Corps.
He continued to write letters. To his master, Yoriichi Tsugikuni. To his friends, the Kamado family. His letters spoke of the restaurant, of Akito's cooking, and always ended with the same line: Come visit us. The first meal will always be on the house.
The Kamados wrote back with warm congratulations.
The town is lucky to have your restaurant, Tanjiro wrote. Your brother's food could bring comfort to anyone.
Yoriichi's replies came rarely. They were always brief. He spoke only of his relentless pursuit of Muzan Kibutsuji—rumors of demons stirring in far-off towns, cryptic meetings with Tamayo, the former demon who now aided him.
Tamayo's words were grim. Unless someone as strong as Yoriichi sacrificed their life, Muzan would remain in hiding.
But Yoriichi's letters always ended the same:
I will not surrender. Human life is fleeting. But until my last breath, I will burn bright.
---
"Brother! Stop staring at that letter and help me already!"
Akira blinked. He had been lost in thought, Yoriichi's latest message trembling between his fingers.
"Coming!" he called, tucking the letter away.
In the kitchen, Akito handed him a delivery box filled with sushi orders. "These need to go out today. Can you handle them?"
"No problem," Akira said, slinging the box onto his back.
By the time he returned from his rounds, the sun was dipping low. The town glowed in hues of orange and red. Akira smiled faintly, counting the day's earnings.
But as he neared the shop, unease coiled in his gut.
A crowd had gathered. Their faces were pale, their eyes darting nervously.
"Akito…"
Akira's chest tightened. His legs moved before his mind caught up, shoving through the crowd.
Inside—
Akito lay crumpled on the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the tatami mats. His chest rose faintly, barely.
"Akito!" Akira's voice cracked. He dropped to his knees, lifting his brother's limp body. "Please! Wake up! Don't scare me!"
Akito didn't stir.
Tears welled in Akira's eyes, blurring his vision. Desperation tore through his voice.
"Who did this?! WHO DID THIS?!"
A cold voice answered from behind the crowd.
"We did."
The people parted. Two men stepped forward, their uniforms unmistakable. The Demon Slayer Corps.
Akira's heart stopped.
One smirked. "Well, well. Who'd have thought a disgrace like you would be thriving out here, running a sushi shop?"
The second added, sneering, "We said a few words to your brother. He had the nerve to argue with us. Over a traitor like you."
The first leaned closer, his grin venomous. "Everyone knows what you did. You let Muzan escape. You helped kill the former Ubuyashiki. And now you hide here, pretending to be normal."
Akira rose slowly, his breath low and sharp. His hand reached down and closed around a shard of glass slick with Akito's blood.
One laughed. "Don't tell me you're going to fight us. You're crippled now, remember?"
The other scoffed. "Take your brother to a doctor. I'll even pay for it. Be grateful."
Akira's voice dropped, trembling with fury. "If you have a problem, take it up with me. But don't ever touch my brother."
"He hit us first!" one snapped suddenly, pointing to a bruise on his cheek. "Look at this! He attacked us. We were only defending ourselves!"
Akira's body went still. His eyes darkened. The air itself seemed to shiver.
Killing intent surged, cold and suffocating.
The slayers flinched, their bravado cracking.
"S-so fast—!"
"Wait—!"
But Akira was already moving.
"Thunder Breathing, First Form: Thunderclap and Flash!"
A golden arc split the air, faster than lightning. His body blurred, the room exploding with speed and light.
The first slayer never saw the strike. One heartbeat he stood smirking, the next his chest split open, blood blooming like crimson petals.
The second froze, paralyzed by fear.
"I—I didn't touch your brother! I swear—" he stammered.
Akira's gaze locked on him. Cold. Unshaken.
"It's alright."
He stepped forward, voice sharp as a blade.
"I was just acting in self-defense."
The words fell like a death sentence.