Chapter 162: The Time for Worship Returns
Time had a habit of slipping through one's fingers when focus narrowed to the edge of a blade. Before Akira knew it, over a month had passed under the grueling tutelage of the Stone Hashira, Gyomei Himejima.
Mitsuri's physical conditioning progressed steadily. Akira had specifically tailored a rigorous flexibility regimen for her. Her unique combat style demanded an almost unnatural suppleness; wielding a whip-like Nichirin blade that stretched several meters required far more than just raw, brute strength. It required the grace of a ribbon dancer and the lethal precision of a viper.
Kanao had successfully completed her foundational Breathing Style instruction. The rest would rely entirely on her own diligent repetition. Akira never had to worry about her work ethic. Driven by an intense, quiet desire to stand by his side and aid him as soon as possible, Kanao pushed herself with a desperate fervor that rivaled—and sometimes eclipsed—the two resident overachievers, Tanjiro and Muichiro. Akira found himself constantly stepping in, not to push her harder, but to gently pry the wooden sword from her blistered hands and force her to rest.
Her relentless dedication acted as a catalyst. Seeing a girl push herself so hard ignited a fierce competitive fire in Tanjiro and Muichiro. The two boys ramped up their already punishing routines, practically driving themselves to the brink of total collapse every single day. The sheer physical toll became so alarming that Akira was forced to intervene, granting Muichiro permission to learn a Breathing Style ahead of schedule. Without the internal fortification provided by Total Concentration Breathing, the young prodigy's relentless training would have literally torn his muscles from his bones.
When Akira laid out the Demon Slayer Corps' extensive records of Breathing Styles for Muichiro to peruse, the young boy hesitated only briefly before his finger tapped the scroll for Mist Breathing.
Initially, Akira had assumed that as a direct blood descendant of Yoriichi Tsugikuni, Muichiro might gravitate toward the legendary Sun Breathing. But reality proved otherwise.
Upon deeper reflection, it made perfect sense. The current iteration of Sun Breathing had endured centuries of inheritance through the Kamado family. It was a beautiful, sacred dance, but it was far removed from the devastating, primordial Sun Breathing wielded by Yoriichi himself. It was only thanks to Tanjuro Kamado's extraordinary innate talent that the generational errors in the forms had been forcefully corrected. Tanjuro had supplemented the fragmented dance with his own internal breathing methods, birthing the current version of Sun Breathing.
While it retained the fiery shadows of the original, it was, for all intents and purposes, a newly forged Breathing Style. In many ways, it was no different from the other major derivative styles.
If the original, unadulterated Sun Breathing were placed before the current Demon Slayer Corps, Akira doubted anyone could truly master it. A martial artist naturally creates techniques tailored to their own physique and capabilities. And what were Yoriichi Tsugikuni's baseline conditions?
He was born with access to the Transparent World. He was born bearing the Demon Slayer Mark. The moment he unsheathed his Nichirin blade, it ignited into a Bright Red Sword. His baseline attributes were so overwhelmingly godlike they completely shattered the boundaries of the human realm. How could any ordinary mortal hope to replicate a Breathing Style forged using a living god as its template?
The historical loss of Sun Breathing was certainly accelerated by the ruthless, centuries-long purge orchestrated by Muzan Kibutsuji and Kokushibo. But the sheer, impossible difficulty of the style played an equally critical role. If Sun Breathing were truly that accessible, the Corps would never have needed to branch out into the myriad of derivative styles that existed today.
The pioneer Hashira who founded those derivative styles were generational geniuses in their own right. During Yoriichi's golden era, numerous swordsmen had awakened their Demon Slayer Marks, yet the number of individuals who truly grasped Sun Breathing could likely be counted on one hand.
If it had been widely taught, the Corps wouldn't have completely lost the knowledge that a true Sun Breathing user's Nichirin blade turns pitch black. Instead, over the centuries, a black blade had tragically devolving into a superstitious omen—a symbol of a swordsman doomed to mediocrity and an early grave.
It was glaringly obvious. Aside from Yoriichi himself, anyone who attempted to study the original Sun Breathing was either slaughtered by demons before they could mature, or they simply failed to master the impossibly high-level forms, ultimately being written off as 'unskilled' swordsmen.
Looking at it through that lens, the fact that the Kamado ancestor, Sumiyoshi—a humble charcoal burner with zero martial arts foundation—managed to memorize the complex, blazing forms of the original Sun Breathing and pass them down was nothing short of a miracle.
Regardless of the past, Muichiro had made his choice. Akira respected his autonomy and made no move to interfere. He arranged for the young prodigy to be sent to a dedicated Mist Breathing Cultivator. Yuichiro, fiercely protective and stubbornly independent, had loudly demanded to accompany his twin. Combined with Muichiro's quiet pleading, Akira saw no reason to separate them.
Over the past few months of grueling conditioning, Akira had witnessed firsthand the terrifying depths of Muichiro's latent talent. The boy's spatial awareness, muscle memory, and raw reflexes were staggering. The mere fact that he could keep pace with Tanjiro's brutal regimen without the aid of a Breathing Style was proof enough.
As for Yuichiro, his potential was far from weak. If he stayed the course, Akira estimated the older twin would eventually reach the same level of mastery as the former Flame Hashira, Shinjuro Rengoku. (Though if Shinjuro heard that comparison, he might have had a few choice words to say.)
By any normal metric, Yuichiro was a prodigy. But when placed under the suffocating halo of being a 'blood descendant of Yoriichi Tsugikuni,' his talent seemed just a fraction less divine. When standing next to the monstrous anomaly that was his younger brother, the gap in raw, instinctual genius became glaringly apparent.
After sending the Tokito brothers off safely, Akira began his own preparations to depart.
The crisp, biting chill in the air signaled that winter had quietly settled over the mountains. His seventeenth birthday was rapidly approaching, and with it, the solemn anniversary to pay his respects at the grave of his adoptive father, Keizan Kanzaki.
Packing his meager belongings, Akira finally set off down the mountain path. He left under the deeply reluctant, lingering gazes of Kanao and Mitsuri, both girls looking as though they wanted nothing more than to abandon their training and follow him.
A short distance away, Tanjiro and Zenitsu watched his retreating back with far more complicated expressions.
While both boys held an immense, unwavering respect for Akira's strength and guidance, they were utterly exhausted by the sheer volume of romantic displays they had been forced to witness. Being constantly subjected to Akira's unapologetic affection toward Mitsuri and Kanao—sometimes for days on end—was a heavy toll. Even someone with a heart as pure and dense as Tanjiro's had grown completely numb to the overwhelming PDA overload. Zenitsu just looked relieved his jealousy wouldn't be triggered every five minutes.
handling the familiar dirt roads, Akira soon arrived back at the Butterfly Mansion. He quickly swapped out his travel gear, preparing for the long journey to his father's resting place.
This time, his travel companion would be none other than Shinobu Kocho.
From a purely pragmatic standpoint, taking Shinobu on an extended journey carried a significant degree of risk. During his previous excursions, he had been accompanied by Kanae or Makomo. Both of those women possessed formidable combat strength, more than capable of holding their own and protecting themselves in a sudden ambush.
Shinobu was a different story. While she maintained a regimen of light physical conditioning and certainly wasn't defenseless, her petite frame lacked the explosive muscle fiber required for standard demon decapitation. If she were cornered by a high-ranking demon, her ability to resist in a direct physical clash was dangerously low. Even armed with her custom-developed wisteria poisons—toxins potent enough to melt a Lower Rank demon from the inside out—she might not possess the raw speed required to inject it before a fatal blow landed.
But life, especially when it involved the people he cherished, could never be governed by cold rationality alone.
Kanae had shared a journey with him. Makomo had shared a journey with him. If he left Shinobu behind now, she was far too mature and sensible to throw a tantrum, but the quiet, lingering disappointment in her violet eyes would be entirely unavoidable. Akira refused to be the cause of that sadness.
Besides, with his current level of strength, the risks were negligible. Unless Muzan Kibutsuji himself or the top three Upper Ranks decided to personally block their path, Akira was absolutely confident he could slaughter anything that dared approach them. He would bring Shinobu back without a single scratch on her.
With that absolute certainty anchoring him, the decision was simple. She was coming with him.
Early the next morning, as the first pale rays of dawn crested the horizon, the two of them slipped out of the Butterfly Mansion's grand gates.
Shinobu was perpetually buried in her work—tending to severely injured slayers, brewing medicines, and conducting exhaustive toxicological research. She rarely, if ever, allowed herself the luxury of stepping outside the estate for leisure.
Knowing this, Akira had deliberately scheduled their departure a few hours early. He fully intended to hijack their travel itinerary and drag Shinobu through the bustling town markets for some proper, carefree shopping.
The rest of the household naturally voiced zero objections to this arrangement. Even Sawaki Kocho, who would be forced to work grueling overtime shifts at the clinic to cover for his daughter's absence, offered nothing but a warm, encouraging smile.
Underneath her sharp tongue and brilliant mind, Shinobu was still just a young girl. As a father, Sawaki wanted nothing more than to see his daughter shed the heavy burdens of the Corps, if only for a few days, and experience the simple, radiant joy of just being a teenager in love.
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