The morning came softly over the Ubuyashiki estate.
Yorichi stood alone in the courtyard, facing east, the first rays of light brushing against his hair. His blade rested against his hip, his stance still but alert.
Footsteps approached. Slow, measured. The faint rattle of prayer beads.
Gyomei Himejima stopped several paces away, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the stones.
"You rise early," Yorichi said, turning his head slightly.
"I have always been awake before dawn," Gyomei replied, his deep voice calm.
For a while, they stood in silence, the wind rustling the trees around them.
"You are a Hashira," Yorichi said after a moment. "The strongest of this generation."
Gyomei inclined his head slightly, neither proud nor denying.
"I am told that is so," he said.
Yorichi studied him quietly. "You do not carry a sword."
"My weapon is different," Gyomei said, lifting the massive spiked flail and axe from his shoulder with ease. "But it serves."
Yorichi's eyes traced the weapon once before returning to Gyomei's face.
"What breathing do you use?"
"Stone Breathing," Gyomei said.
Yorichi was silent for a moment. "Then the breathings… they have multiplied."
"Yes," Gyomei said, sensing the weight behind the words.
Yorichi's voice was calm, but faintly curious. "Are there any who use Sun Breathing?"
Gyomei hesitated. "One," he said at last. "A boy. He is still young — still learning. His forms are not yet what the records describe."
Yorichi's gaze lowered slightly, thoughtful.
"So the flame still flickers," he murmured.
They spoke for a while longer — Gyomei explaining the other Hashira, the breathings they had mastered, the way each style had branched from the Sun Breathing Yorichi had created centuries ago.
When the conversation lulled, Gyomei set down his weapon.
"I have a request," he said, bowing his head ever so slightly.
Yorichi turned to face him fully.
"A spar," Gyomei said simply.
The morning air stilled.
"Not out of pride," Gyomei said. "But to understand. To feel for myself the strength of the man who nearly ended Muzan. It would be an honor."
Yorichi's gaze held his for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Very well."
The Kakushi who had been tending the garden nearby froze, wide-eyed, before quickly retreating to give them space. Word would spread through the estate faster than fire.
Two of the most powerful warriors to ever live were about to face each other in the morning light.
After some time-
The courtyard was silent, the morning air crisp.
Gyomei stood in the center, weapon at the ready, prayer beads wrapped tightly around one hand. Yorichi faced him with nothing more than a wooden training sword he had asked the Kakushi to bring.
"Are you certain you wish to face me without your blade?" Gyomei asked, his voice calm but serious.
Yorichi's reply was simple. "This will be enough."
Gyomei nodded once.
The first strike came from Gyomei.
The ground cracked under his footstep as he swung the flail in a wide arc — fast enough to break stone, the chain whistling through the air.
Yorichi moved.
No sound. No wasted motion. His body seemed to disappear for an instant, the wooden blade stopping the flail just before it could strike — precise enough that the chain quivered but did not break.
Gasps came from the edges of the courtyard. The Kakushi had gathered quietly, drawn by the sound of Gyomei's weapon. Even the crows in the trees had gone still.
Gyomei's lips pressed together. He shifted his stance, breathing in deep — the mark across his forehead glowing faintly as he invoked Stone Breathing.
The ground itself seemed to respond to his presence as he launched forward, this time using both flail and axe in perfect harmony.
Yorichi's breathing slowed.
And then the courtyard blazed with motion.
Sun Breathing.
Each strike from Gyomei met with a form so fluid it looked effortless — a parry that turned aside the flail, a sidestep that made the axe pass within a hair's breadth of Yorichi's shoulder. His wooden blade flickered like sunlight, his footwork carving arcs through the gravel.
Within moments, the spar had turned into something else entirely — an overwhelming display of technique.
Gyomei's lungs burned as he pushed harder, faster, his chain ringing as he tried to press his advantage. But no matter how fierce the strike, Yorichi was already there — deflecting, redirecting, his movements impossibly calm.
From the veranda, Kagaya's soft voice could be heard.
"…So this is Sun Breathing."
The Kakushi whispered in awe, their eyes wide as they watched the strongest Hashira be slowly pushed back — not through brute force, but through a gap in sheer mastery.
Gyomei gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his temple. For the first time in years, he felt it — the strain of fighting someone faster, sharper, impossibly precise.
Still, he did not falter.
"I see," Gyomei murmured between breaths. "This… is the level… Muzan feared."
Yorichi said nothing, but his wooden blade shifted into the beginning of another form.
And the spar continued — faster now, the ground beneath them starting to crack from the force of Gyomei's steps.
The courtyard was no longer silent. It was alive with the clash of chain and wood, the hiss of air, the roar of breathing techniques.
And still — Yorichi had not drawn his sword.
The courtyard shook with every step.
"Stone Breathing, Second Form: Upper Smash!"
Gyomei's chain snapped taut, the spiked flail crashing down with the force of a falling boulder — stone fragments leaping from the ground.
Yorichi's eyes softened, his breathing steady.
"Sun Breathing, Third Form: Raging Sun."
His wooden blade cut in a perfect arc, striking the flail at just the right angle — redirecting its path so it smashed harmlessly into the earth beside him.
Dust flew.
Gyomei didn't stop.
"Stone Breathing, Fifth Form: Arcs of Justice!"
The flail and axe swung together in a sweeping, intersecting pattern meant to trap and crush anything between them.
Yorichi's body flowed like water.
"Sun Breathing, Sixth Form: Solar Heat Haze!"
He stepped forward — through the attack — his body blurring for an instant, leaving only a wavering shimmer in the air as he passed.
The axe struck nothing but wind.
Gasps echoed from the watching Kakushi. Some gripped their own swords in nervous awe.
Gyomei could feel his lungs burning now, sweat trickling down his back. This was no longer a mere spar — it was revelation.
Yorichi's stance shifted, his wooden blade raised slightly.
"Your breathing is strong," Yorichi said quietly between exchanges. "Unyielding. You anchor yourself well… but you rely on strength too heavily. Your technique must flow — not just strike."
Gyomei's teeth clenched. "Understood!"
He tightened his grip on the chain, focusing, the mark on his forehead glowing bright.
"Stone Breathing, Fourth Form: Volcanic Rock, Rapid Conquest!"
Both flail and axe blurred in a barrage of crushing strikes, fast enough to make the air itself shudder.
Yorichi exhaled.
"Sun Breathing, Thirteenth Form."
And then he moved.
No sound. No warning. Only light.
The wooden blade became a flash — a single, seamless dance that shifted through every form of Sun Breathing in perfect succession.
The ground split in a dozen shallow cuts where his feet had landed, each step impossibly precise.
Before Gyomei could blink, Yorichi stood at his side — the wooden blade lightly touching the back of his neck.
The courtyard went silent.
The flail and axe hung still in the air for a moment before Gyomei let them fall to his sides. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, sweat streaking down his face.
"I yield," Gyomei said quietly.
Yorichi stepped back, bowing slightly.
"You are formidable," Yorichi said, his voice calm but respectful. "Your defense is unmatched — but you carry the weight of each strike too heavily. Stone is strong, yes. But even stone must know when to shift, when to flow. Otherwise, you will break."
Gyomei lowered his head, his massive shoulders rising and falling with slow breaths.
"…I understand. Thank you."
The Kakushi watching from the edges of the courtyard bowed deeply, some still frozen in stunned silence.
Kagaya's voice came softly from the veranda, carrying just enough to be heard.
"To see this with my own eyes…" he murmured. "…I understand now why Muzan fled."
Yorichi said nothing. He only looked at the morning sun climbing slowly into the sky — the world warming under its light — and rested the wooden sword back at his side.