Chapter 98 — Akaza? No… My Name Was Hakuji!
Droplets of blood fell, one after another, staining the soil beneath their feet a deep, vivid red.
The creature known as a demon—one whose regenerative abilities far surpassed human limits—could no longer heal his wounds.
"So this… is your power?" Akaza muttered, his voice rough as he touched the gash across his chest. Blood soaked his trembling hand. "Even the regeneration of an Upper Rank demon can't overcome it…"
For a moment, he stared at his bloodstained fingers, then at Yukinoshita Akira standing before him. His expression was one of awe, disbelief… and exhilaration.
Through the centuries, he had slaughtered countless members of the Demon Slayer Corps under Muzan Kibutsuji's command—Hashira among them, those once called the strongest swordsmen of their age.
Yet none—none—had ever wounded him like this.
All who challenged him had fallen, their blades dulled, their wills broken, their lives extinguished. No matter how many wounds he took, no matter how deep, he always stood again.
Because unlike humans, he feared neither pain nor death.
But this time was different. The human standing before him—this man he had come to recognize as a true warrior—had the power to suppress even his demonic regeneration.
"Sun Breathing," Akira said quietly. "The first and origin of all Breathing Styles. The technique that channels the energy of the sun itself. Against demons, it's the most lethal art there is."
"I see… Sun Breathing, huh?" Akaza grinned, blood dripping from his lips. "Magnificent. Truly magnificent. Yukinoshita Akira—you are a warrior among warriors! Now, come! Let's continue!"
"Of course," Akira replied, his grip tightening on his blade. "In a true duel, victory isn't decided by who's stronger… but by who remains standing at the end."
Man and demon. Mortal and immortal. Two beings divided by race, fate, and conviction—yet united by one burning emotion: the pure ecstasy of battle.
In that clash of wills, they understood one another more deeply than words ever could.
"Destructive Death: Annihilation Type!"
Akaza struck first. His body became a blur of motion, the air itself trembling as shockwaves burst outward. His fist glowed with devastating power, every strike enough to shatter stone.
"Sun Breathing: Great Sun Dragon!"
Akira swung his Nichirin Blade. Flames erupted like a volcano awakening from slumber.
From the tip of his sword, a dragon of fire took shape—its head, scales, and tail blazing in golden-red light. It coiled and roared, a living embodiment of the sun.
The two attacks collided.
Akaza's fists—infused with turquoise martial energy—slammed into the blazing dragon head-on.
The explosion of force shook the entire forest. Trees snapped, earth split apart, and the sky itself seemed to tremble.
Akaza's skin split open under the pressure. Lines of blood traced across his arms and chest. Yet he didn't flinch. His grin only widened.
"Destructive Death: Final Form—Blue Silver Afterglow!"
Akaza raised both hands, gathering every ounce of energy from the glowing sigil beneath his feet. In an instant, hundreds of azure projectiles burst forth, spiraling in all directions like a storm of falling stars.
"Sun Breathing: Dance of the Nine-Headed Dragon!"
Akira's flames surged higher. From the swirling inferno, nine colossal dragons rose at once—each head burning brighter than the sun, each movement radiating unbearable heat.
"Goodbye… Hakuji."
With one powerful swing, the nine blazing dragons merged into a single strike—cutting through space, flame, and shadow.
The Nichirin Blade, glowing crimson-hot, swept through Akaza's neck.
In an instant—his head was severed.
"Ha… Hakuji…? Who… is that…?"
The name escaped Akaza's lips as his head fell.
It struck something deep within him—a pain sharper than the blade, a sorrow more piercing than death.
Hakuji. That was his name… before he became a demon.
The name given to a boy cursed by fate.
Born with sharp eyes and a fierce nature, the villagers had called him "a demon child." His father, ill and frail, was the only one who saw the good in him. Hakuji stole to buy medicine for his father—but when his crimes were discovered, his father, unable to bear the shame, ended his own life.
Branded a criminal, Hakuji was exiled from his village.
But fate gave him one last light—Keizō, the master of the Soryū Style dojo.
Keizō saw the boy's potential during a fight with grown men. He defeated him easily, but instead of punishment, offered him a place at his dojo.
There, Hakuji met Koyuki, Keizō's frail daughter.
She reminded him of his father—sick, gentle, smiling even through pain. Caring for her, protecting her… gave his life meaning again.
In time, love bloomed. They became engaged. For the first time, Hakuji saw a future worth living for.
But fate—ever cruel—destroyed it once more.
On the eve of their wedding, Hakuji left to visit his father's grave. When he returned, the dojo was silent.
Koyuki and Keizō had been poisoned by a rival dojo.
His world shattered.
In a storm of grief and rage, Hakuji slaughtered sixty-seven men with his bare hands. When it ended, he stood amidst a mountain of corpses—alone.
No matter how many he killed, the people he loved would never return.
And when all meaning faded, Muzan Kibutsuji appeared before him.
That was the day Hakuji vanished… and Akaza was born.
His memories buried. His humanity erased. All that remained was a hollow instinct—to fight, to grow stronger, to fill the void that would never close.
The snowflake pattern of his Destructive Death technique came from Koyuki's hair ornament.
His pink hair resembled her kimono.
Even the names of his techniques were borrowed from the fireworks they once watched together.
"What… have I been doing all this time…?"
Now, at last, he remembered.
The pain, the love, the joy—all came flooding back. His strength—hailed as transcendent—crumbled.
Because Hakuji no longer wanted to fight. No longer wanted to live.
"I've been waiting for you…"
Through the fading haze, he saw her—Koyuki—standing in the distance. Her smile was soft, warm, and forgiving.
His headless body slowly collapsed.
And then, like ash in the wind, it began to crumble—his flesh disintegrating, his soul finally at peace.
Akira stood silently, watching it all.
He didn't speak. He didn't move.
As the last traces of Akaza—no, Hakuji—were carried away by the night breeze, Yukinoshita Akira quietly exhaled.
For a brief moment, he almost looked… sorrowful.
"…Rest well, warrior."
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