"Akaza, I really think you can put me down and let me walk. I still have arms and legs, you know."
Rinko's forearms were draped over that peach-pink head, and both hands propped up his own small, dark head as he stared up at the sky, counting stars along the horizon. He'd submitted this request I-didn't-know-how-many times by now.
Akaza liked picking fights with demons to "spar," as he called it. Practice, in his words, was only accumulation. Real matches were the only way to see whether you'd improved and where the holes still were.
Rinko thought it was simpler than that.
Akaza was just young, hot-blooded, and overflowing with energy, so he liked fighting. That was all.
He also had his own interpretation of Muzan's parting instructions, somehow arriving at the conclusion that Rinko was not allowed to operate alone. Which led to one unavoidable result.
Wherever Akaza went, Rinko got carried there.
At first it was a lift. Then reality stepped in. Akaza wasn't built like Kokushibo, and after a few incidents where Rinko very nearly got flung off mid-run, "lifting" evolved into carrying, hoisting, dragging, hugging, and every other transport method Akaza could test.
In the end, Akaza compromised. He allowed Rinko to shrink a little and sit on his shoulder. As long as Rinko held on properly and didn't fall, it was fine.
It wasn't particularly elegant. It wasn't particularly polite.
But it was one of the rare travel methods where Akaza kept both hands free, and the view was actually pleasant for Rinko.
"Don't joke," Akaza said. "If I put you down and let you follow on foot, we won't even make it over this mountain tonight."
Akaza still didn't trust him. He didn't even want to give Rinko a chance to prove himself.
Rinko didn't mind. He even thought it was understandable.
After all, Akaza had recently been trying to teach him拳法, barehand forms. Akaza taught seriously for a month. Rinko learned seriously for a month.
And the current progress was this: he could hold a horse stance. He didn't really understand the opening posture. His movements were correct. The effect was… none.
To quote Akaza exactly: "You trained for a whole month and all you got was a pretty shell?"
The disdain in his tone and the confusion in his expression were worse than the look Kokushibo used to give Rinko when he tried to swing a blade.
Rinko was an obedient child.
Not the kind of child who "heard" but didn't understand, or understood but didn't store it. Rinko was the type who put your words inside his head, whether he wanted to hear them or not. Even if he didn't like what you said, he still remembered it.
Even when it was something he didn't want to do, once you told him to, he would go and do it anyway, wearing an expression that tried to suppress his unwillingness but never quite managed. Like Akaza's training.
In short, Akaza's impression of him wasn't that bad. At least, it was within the range of "I can tolerate this guy breathing near me."
Since becoming a demon, Akaza had spent almost all his time alone, running everywhere. After living like that long enough, he'd turned quiet and withdrawn. Most demons were either pathetically weak or sickening in their conduct. Akaza neither wanted nor deigned to speak with them.
Only rarely, when he ran into a few Demon Slayers who could actually fight, did the mouth he'd stitched shut feel worth opening. His mood would lift, too.
So in that context, having a small tagalong who could follow him around, run with him, and be teased for fun was… a different kind of experience.
Rinko had no talent for martial arts, but when Akaza told him to train, he trained. More importantly, this kid never screamed about being hungry or demanded food.
And while he still couldn't fight, Rinko did learn something from Akaza: how to judge an opponent's strength.
Akaza judged by fighting spirit, by pressure.
Rinko had his own method.
Akaza didn't really understand the little brat's weird descriptions.
"It goes whoomph."
"It goes bong."
"It looks like it's about to go out."
But whatever.
He could tell who was strong and who wasn't.
That was good. But also not entirely good.
Because the only two "living" beings Rinko had spent real time around before were Muzan and Kokushibo, his sense of scale was something Akaza fundamentally could not accept.
Rinko would say things like, "They don't look as strong as Lord Muzan and Lord Kokushibo."
Of course those Demon Slayers and those third-rate demons weren't as strong as them.
But you're even weaker than they are, you idiot.
Stop staring at everyone else and take a look at yourself.
Every time Akaza heard Rinko's evaluation, a vein would pop.
Weakness wasn't the scariest thing.
The scariest thing was a weakling with no idea how weak he was.
And even scarier was the fact that Akaza had to keep this stinking kid's head attached to his neck.
Books said that when you go searching for something, you usually never find it. But when you're trying to avoid it, that thing will appear right in front of you.
That saying fit Demon Slayers perfectly.
"Do we really have to run? The leader looks like he can fight, you know… Akaza-dono. What, it's been so long since you fought Demon Slayers that you're worried you can't beat him? Mm, I mean, there are four of them, and one looks pretty strong."
It was a cheap provocation, something Rinko learned from books.
He didn't deliver it with the dramatic rise and fall those lines were probably meant to have. His tone was plain, almost flat. On anyone else it might not work. On another night it wouldn't work.
But right now, everything lined up.
And to Akaza, that calm, indifferent tone wasn't water on a fire.
It was oil.
"Don't be ridiculous."
Even with Rinko's arms only pressing down on his head, Rinko could feel it. Akaza's veins were probably bulging. He was probably frowning, baring a smile that wasn't friendly at all. Rinko just couldn't see it from up there.
Akaza tore Rinko off his head and slammed him onto a tree branch, movements so rough the collar of his oversized coat twisted out of shape.
Rinko accepted it cheerfully.
He braced himself against the trunk, legs swinging as he watched Akaza leap forward like a spring snapping loose, then land with a heavy, threatening force.
See?
Opportunities were something you fought for yourself.
Like a beast coming out to hunt in the night, Akaza emerged from the darkness without a sound. His golden eyes lit with dangerous brilliance.
Honestly, Akaza's appearance alone carried pressure.
Not his height, and not his face. Akaza wasn't particularly tall. He was much taller than Rinko, sure, but compared to Kokushibo's scale, Akaza almost looked gentle.
What Rinko meant was the tattoos.
Rinko still remembered their first meeting.
The man had been kneeling with his head lowered. Rinko couldn't see his face, but his gaze was caught by the markings on that deathly pale skin, an oppressive presence all its own. White skin. A body covered in ink. Peach-pink short hair. A physique so good it made Rinko a little envious.
That was Rinko's first impression of Akaza.
Then Muzan left.
Akaza lifted his head.
And instead of a stern elder, what Rinko saw was a young face, closer to an older brother than an uncle. Characters were written in his eyes. His expression held something subtle as he scanned Rinko from head to toe.
Rinko didn't care about the scrutiny.
He was just marveling at the fact that Akaza even had tattoos on his face.
If it left that kind of impression on him, then to humans… it probably felt even more suffocating.