The meeting adjourned quietly. Kagaya left first, his attendants following him, the hall sliding doors closing softly behind them.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Sanemi was the first to break the silence."What the hell just happened?" he muttered, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"That," Tengen said with a low whistle, "was apparently the man who invented breathing techniques. Flashy entrance, huh?"
"Flashy?" Mitsuri spun toward him, her eyes sparkling. "He's incredible! Did you see him? He didn't even do anything and I felt like I was looking at a sunrise!"
"Sunrise?" Obanai said, his voice low. "He feels more like a blade drawn across the throat."
Shinobu's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Regardless of feelings, this raises questions," she said softly. "If the records are true, Yorichi Tsugikuni lived over eight centuries ago. By all logic, he should be long dead."
"Yeah," Sanemi said sharply. "So what is he? Some kind of demon?!"
"Absolutely not." Gyomei's voice cut through the room like a tolling bell.
The Stone Hashira opened his sightless eyes, his tone steady and unshakable."I sparred with him. There is no malice in his movements, no hunger. Only the purest will I have ever felt."
The others turned to look at him.
"And?" Sanemi pressed.
Gyomei's massive hands folded calmly.
"Even using my weapon in full," he said quietly, "I could not touch him once."
The room went silent.
Tengen raised a brow. "You? Not even once?"
"Not once," Gyomei said, bowing his head slightly. "His control of Sun Breathing is absolute. His technique… his speed… even the air seemed to move at his will. He ended the match with a wooden blade at my neck before I could react."
Sanemi's scowl faltered. Mitsuri let out a soft gasp, half in awe.
"That strong…" Muichiro murmured, almost to himself.
Shinobu's lips curved into a small, pensive smile. "If he is truly the origin of all breathing styles, perhaps this is natural."
Giyu, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"Why now?" His voice was quiet, but it carried.
"Why has he returned after so long?"
Heads turned toward Yorichi, who still stood in the corner of the hall, quiet and unmoving, as if the discussion was about someone else entirely.
His calm eyes met Giyu's.
"Because the sun has not yet set," Yorichi said simply. "So long as Muzan lives, my duty remains."
For a moment, no one had anything to say.
Even Sanemi looked away, jaw tightening.
Then Mitsuri smiled faintly, her voice soft but resolute.
"Then we really can win this time."
Outside the door, Tanjiro clenched his fists, heart pounding with hope.
Later-
The training field was quiet in the late afternoon. The Hashira had left to continue their drills elsewhere. Yorichi stood near the edge of the courtyard, watching a group of slayers run laps.
His hands were folded behind his back, his calm expression betraying nothing.
Footsteps padded lightly behind him.
"Um…"
Yorichi turned.
Tanjiro stood a few steps away, Zenitsu peeking nervously from behind him, and Inosuke crouched on the fence rail like a wild animal.
"You are the boy who was listening outside the hall," Yorichi said softly.
Tanjiro flushed. "S-sorry! We didn't mean to eavesdrop, but…"
He swallowed, bowing deeply.
"…I wanted to meet you."
Yorichi regarded him for a long, quiet moment, then nodded once.
"Then speak."
Tanjiro straightened, his heart pounding. "My name is Tanjiro Kamado."
"Kamado," Yorichi repeated, tasting the name. His eyes softened just slightly. "Your family… do they live?"
Tanjiro's chest tightened. He shook his head. "No. Muzan killed them. Only my sister and I survived."
Zenitsu looked down. Even Inosuke went quiet for a moment.
Yorichi's gaze lowered briefly — almost a bow of respect — before returning to Tanjiro.
"Your earrings," he said, voice calm. "Where did you get them?"
Tanjiro blinked, then reached up to touch the hanafuda earrings.
"These? They've been in my family for generations. They were my father's."
For the first time since they met, something faint flickered in Yorichi's expression — something almost like memory.
"And your father," Yorichi said. "Tell me of him."
Tanjiro's face brightened, even as his voice softened.
"My father was kind. Gentle. But… strong. Even when he was sick, he could still dance the Hinokami Kagura all night without stopping."
He hesitated. "Once… when I was little, a huge bear attacked our house. My father… he cut its head off with a single swing of a small axe."
Yorichi's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in disapproval — as if studying a puzzle that was slowly clicking into place.
"Hinokami Kagura," Yorichi repeated. "That dance — show me."
Tanjiro hesitated, then stepped back, inhaling deeply. He slid into the first stance of Hinokami Kagura.
The form wasn't perfect — Yorichi could see the rough edges, the strain of untrained lungs — but the essence was there. The rhythm of breathing. The flow.
Sun Breathing.
When Tanjiro finished, Yorichi stood silent for a long moment.
"That dance," he said finally, his voice quieter than before, "was once a sword style."
Tanjiro's eyes widened.
"You… you know it?"
"I made it," Yorichi said simply.
Tanjiro's breath caught in his throat.
The mark on his forehead seemed to prickle faintly.
"This is why you survived," Yorichi said, more to himself than anyone. "Sumiyoshi… you truly kept your promise."
Tanjiro blinked. "Sumiyoshi?"
But Yorichi only turned his gaze back toward the sky, his expression unreadable.
after a little while-
Zenitsu had already stormed off, muttering something about not wanting to get burned alive, and Inosuke had leapt over the fence in search of someone to fight.
That left Tanjiro and Yorichi standing in the quiet courtyard.
Tanjiro hesitated for a moment, then bowed deeply.
"Yorichi-dono… I have to ask you something."
Yorichi turned his calm gaze toward him.
"I've seen you before," Tanjiro said, his voice low. "Not here, but… in dreams. Memories, maybe. Of a man who looked just like you. He taught my ancestor… my family's dance. I think… I think it was you."
Yorichi regarded him in silence, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"You carry his blood," Yorichi said quietly. "And his promise."
Tanjiro's heart pounded. He dropped to his knees.
"Please! Teach me Sun Breathing properly! I can't stop Muzan without it!"
For a long moment, Yorichi simply watched him.
Then he turned, walking toward the training grounds.
"Show me what you know."
Tanjiro scrambled to his feet, following.
The training field was empty, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.
Tanjiro unsheathed his sword, took a steadying breath, and began.
Hinokami Kagura — Dance.
His feet moved with precision, his blade cutting arcs of flame through the air. His breath came evenly, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. Sweat ran down his face, but he didn't stop — moving from one form to the next, ending with Clear Blue Sky, spinning his blade in a full circle before dropping back into stance.
When he finally lowered his sword, he was panting hard.
Yorichi stood motionless.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward.
"Your breathing is uneven," Yorichi said softly. "Your forms strain your body too soon. But…"
For the first time, there was something in Yorichi's voice that sounded almost alive — a faint ember of approval.
"You carry the shape of the sun," he said. "It has not vanished."
Tanjiro's breath caught.
"You will learn," Yorichi said. "But know this — Sun Breathing is not gentle. It will demand everything from you. Your lungs, your bones, even your will to live. If you falter, it will kill you."
Tanjiro straightened, gripping his sword tighter.
"I don't care. If it means I can protect Nezuko, I'll do whatever it takes."
For a brief moment, Yorichi seemed to see someone else standing in Tanjiro's place — Sumiyoshi, kneeling in the dirt, promising that his family would keep the memory of the Sun alive.
"Very well," Yorichi said finally.
He drew his own blade with a soft hiss, its edge catching the last light of day.
"Then Tomorrow onwards," Yorichi said, taking his stance, "you will learn Sun Breathing as it was meant to be used."
Tanjiro swallowed hard, but nodded.
"Yes, Yorichi-dono."
Next morning-
The morning mist clung to the estate's courtyard as Tanjiro stood, sword in hand, his breath already slow and measured.
Across from him, Yorichi's silhouette was framed by the rising sun. His expression was as calm as ever, but his presence felt heavier — sharper — as though the air itself acknowledged him.
"Begin," Yorichi said softly.
Tanjiro launched forward into Hinokami Kagura — Dance, swinging his blade in a blazing arc.
Yorichi moved before the slash had finished.
"Your right foot is wrong," he said, tapping the ground with the wooden sword he held.
Tanjiro blinked, startled.
"What—"
"Again."
Tanjiro reset, swung —
"Too shallow."
Again.
"Too tense."
Again.
Each time, Yorichi's voice cut sharper than any blade. He corrected every breath, every angle, every step.
By the tenth repetition, Tanjiro's lungs were burning. By the thirtieth, his shoulders trembled. Sweat dripped down his chin, soaking his haori, but Yorichi's expression never changed.
"You breathe like a man trying to survive," Yorichi said finally, stepping closer. "But Sun Breathing is not survival. It is life itself."
He moved suddenly, fluid as water — performing Sun Breathing, First Form: Dance with a wooden blade, yet the motion was so perfect it looked as if the world itself bent to follow his cut.
"Again," Yorichi said.
Tanjiro swallowed and obeyed.
By the time the sun was high, Tanjiro had fallen to one knee, chest heaving, his sword digging into the dirt to keep him upright.
"You have not yet broken," Yorichi observed, his voice as calm as if they had only just begun.
Tanjiro forced himself to stand
"Not… yet…!"
Somewhere behind them, Kakushi staff had gathered, whispering.
"Is he still going?" one muttered.
"He's been correcting him since dawn…"
Their murmurs grew louder as Himejima Gyomei approached, beads clicking softly in his hands. He paused at the edge of the courtyard, his blind eyes turning toward the clash of steel and breath.
Yorichi moved so fast he seemed to vanish, appearing behind Tanjiro and stopping the boy's swing with the tip of the wooden blade.
"Your breathing is collapsing," Yorichi said. "Hold it. Again."
And Tanjiro obeyed — because there was no hesitation in Yorichi's voice, only certainty.
By late afternoon, Tanjiro's forms had grown sharper, smoother — his breathing deeper, steadier.
Finally, Yorichi lowered the wooden sword.
"You will sleep now," he said.
Tanjiro collapsed to his knees with a nod, barely conscious.
As Kakushi rushed to help him, Gyomei stepped forward.
"…His progress," the Stone Hashira said quietly, "is already beyond what I have seen from him before. In a single day."
Yorichi sheathed the wooden blade.
"He is beginning to learn what it means to become the sun."
The next morning, Tanjiro's muscles screamed when he moved — but Yorichi was already waiting in the courtyard.
"You endured," Yorichi said simply. "Good. Today, we go further."
Tanjiro straightened his aching back.
"Further?"
Yorichi turned and walked to the center of the training ground.
"You have seen the first ten forms. You will now see them as they were meant to flow."
He drew his blade.
The courtyard seemed to fall silent.
Yorichi exhaled, and the world shifted.
Sun Breathing, First Form: Dance.
His blade cut the air with impossible speed, flowing seamlessly into —
Second Form: Clear Blue Sky.
A full rotation, his body spinning like the sun's arc, transitioning into —
Third Form: Raging Sun.
Twin slashes in a cross-pattern, faster than the eye could follow —
And on it went. Fourth Form. Fifth. Sixth.
Each strike rolled into the next like the turning of seasons, his movements so precise they seemed almost too perfect to belong to a man.
By the time he reached Twelfth Form: Flame Dance, Tanjiro's mouth had gone dry.
But Yorichi did not stop.
He shifted into a stance Tanjiro didn't recognize.
"This," Yorichi said, his voice low, "is the culmination of the Sun."
And then —
Thirteenth Form.
His body blurred, moving through all twelve forms again, seamlessly, flawlessly, in a single cycle, his breathing unbroken, his blade never once halting.
The courtyard filled with a faint shimmering heat, as if the sun itself had descended. Dust swirled in the wake of every strike, until Yorichi stopped — his blade sheathed in one smooth motion.
The silence that followed was deafening.
At some point, the estate had gathered around them. Hashira stood at the edges of the field, speechless. Kakushi covered their mouths. Even Gyomei bowed his head, tears sliding down his cheeks at the sound and feel of that perfect breathing.
Tanjiro fell to his knees, gripping his sword with both hands.
"That… that was…!"
"The Thirteenth Form," Yorichi said simply.
Tanjiro's breath shook.
"You… combined all of them… in one flow?"
Yorichi nodded once.
"This is the only way to end Muzan. Your blade must be unrelenting. Each form must follow the other until the cycle is whole. That is how you cut him down."
Tanjiro swallowed, his eyes blazing with determination despite his exhaustion.
"Then I'll learn it. No matter how long it takes."
Yorichi looked at him for a long, quiet moment — and for the first time since he had returned to this world, there was the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.
"Then stand," Yorichi said. "We begin again."