The battlefield reeked of smoke, blood, and malice. The once serene Swordsmith Village was reduced to a shattered husk, its proud forges bent and broken, its homes half-buried in rubble. But even amidst ruin, one boy still stood tall—Tanjiro Kamado.
His body screamed with pain. Every breath burned. His chipped blade felt impossibly heavy in his hands. Yet his eyes—those steadfast, unyielding eyes—blazed with a fire that refused to die.
Around him, the Hantengu Clones writhed and staggered. The storm of emotions they embodied—rage, fear, sorrow, ecstasy—crashed together in chaotic waves. Their movements slowed, their forms unstable, flickering with cracks of instability.
Tanjiro planted his feet. His breath slowed. And then—
The Flame ignited.
Sun Breathing: Eleventh Form – Fake Rainbow
In an instant, Tanjiro's body blurred like a heat mirage. The clones struck—but their blades carved nothing but air.
He was already behind them.
Their shrieks filled the battlefield.
Sun Breathing: Thirteenth Form
The Flame Cycle Complete.
His blade spun in arcs that mirrored the sun itself. Each strike flowed into the next, an endless circle of heat and light. The clones shrieked as their bodies split apart, cut down by the burning memory of a technique long forgotten.
The moment his blade cut through them, every fragment of Hantengu's cursed flesh began to burn, disintegrating faster than they could regenerate.
And then it happened.
Through the river of blood that bound every demon to Muzan, the memory seared.
The clones' eyes widened with inhuman terror. Their mouths moved, not their own, but carrying a voice beyond them.
"No… not him… not again…"
Inside the shared memory, Muzan's blood itself recoiled.The image of a man burned into their vision—a warrior draped in fire.
The same eyes. The same stance. The same Sun Breathing.
Yoriichi Tsugikuni.
The Upper Moon fragments screamed, clawing at their heads as the illusion of Yoriichi's form overlapped with Tanjiro's.
Their fear was not of death. It was of memory. Of him.
"The Sun… The Sun is here again!"
Their voices broke as Tanjiro pressed forward, blade blazing brighter than dawn.
The clash reached its crescendo. Tanjiro roared with the last of his strength, his lungs and muscles tearing under the strain.
And then, with a final sweep—
The clones fell.
Their bodies disintegrated into ash, carried away on the night wind.
Tanjiro collapsed to one knee, panting, the world spinning around him. Nezuko rushed to his side, her small hands clutching him with desperate strength.
But as the battlefield stilled—
The horizon shifted.
A single beam of light pierced the black.
The first ray of dawn broke over the wreckage of the Swordsmith Village, bathing the battlefield in gold.
The night was ending. The demons were gone.
And yet… in the depth of Muzan's soul, for the first time in centuries, a tremor of fear coiled like a serpent in the dark.
The battlefield was still, corpses of ash dissolving into the wind. The sunrise stretched its fingers across the ruins, painting broken walls in shades of gold.
But the fight wasn't over.
From the wreckage, one last Hantengu clone—a smaller, twisted remnant of fear—scrambled across the ground. Its eyes burned with desperation, and it sprinted toward a lone swordsmith apprentice crawling for safety.
Tanjiro's head shot up, instincts flaring. He tried to stand—but his legs wavered beneath him.
The clone was fast, nearly upon the terrified boy.
And then—
"Tanjiro."
Tharion's voice cut across the battlefield like a commandment. Calm. Unyielding.
Tanjiro looked back.
Nezuko lay on the ground, flames sizzling against her skin as the sunlight crept higher. Her body trembled. Smoke rose from her arms and face. She whimpered softly, fangs clenched against the pain.
Tanjiro froze. His soul screamed to stay by her side.
But Tharion knelt beside Nezuko, his cloak unfurling like wings. He covered her carefully with a heavy blanket, shielding her from the sun. His hand lingered on her forehead, his expression calm—an anchor.
"Go," Tharion said. "Your sister trusts you. So do I."
Tanjiro's eyes burned with conflict, but then he turned, roaring as he lunged at the clone.
The clone shrieked, its twisted claws inches from the swordsmith's throat.
Tanjiro's blade flashed.
One strike.A single, burning arc.
The clone split apart, disintegrating before it could utter a final scream.
The young swordsmith collapsed in tears, alive.
Tanjiro gasped for breath, chest heaving. And then he spun back—
"Nezuko!"
Tharion stood calmly, his hands firm on the blanket. The moment Tanjiro reached them, Tharion's voice echoed again, steady and absolute:
"Look."
He pulled the blanket away.
For a heartbeat—Tanjiro panicked. His mind filled with visions of Nezuko burning away, reduced to ash before his eyes.
He dropped his sword, rushing to her—
And froze.
Nezuko sat upright in the light of the morning sun.
Her skin shimmered, unscathed. Her crimson eyes shone bright, not from pain but from warmth.
She tilted her head, smiling at her brother. Then, like the little girl she still was, she raised her arms playfully.
"Brother!"
Tanjiro's knees gave out. His tears spilled, his voice breaking in laughter and sobs.
"You're okay… Nezuko… you're okay!"
Tharion stood in silence, watching. His expression, usually carved from stone, softened just slightly.
The Demon Slayer Corps had gained something that day far greater than victory.
They had gained hope.
Two Weeks Later
The sun rose once more, casting its golden light over a hidden mansion tucked deep within the mountains—the secret base of the Hashira.
From the rooftops, a lone figure sat in silence.
Tharion.
His gaze swept across the training ground below, where voices rang out.
The Hashira barked commands.Tanjiro and his friends sweated through grueling drills.Nezuko laughed from the sidelines, her presence a miracle none dared question.
The Corps was moving.The children were growing.And the war was far from over.
But for now, Tharion simply watched, silent and vigilant—The guardian the gods had chosen.