I will always follow

Not yet. Not ever

And things had been better lately. As always, they had been paired together for Rengoku's training, effortlessly taking out most of the other Hashira teams—because they didn't need words to know what the other was about to do. Shinobu had laughed—really laughed—for the first time in a long while, the sound ringing across the training grounds like wind chimes in the breeze. For once, her sing-song voice didn't grate on his nerves. And when they won, she had worn a smug, triumphant grin, parading their victory in everyone's faces with unrepentant glee.

And now, she was gone.

The only thing he could do now was finish the job. Muzan had to die with the first rays of sunlight—only then she would be able to rest in peace. Only then he would begin to forgive himself for not being there when she needed him most.

The metallic tang of blood filled his senses, thick and suffocating. His uniform clung to his skin, heavy with sweat and the slow, relentless seep of his own wounds. Each breath was jagged, pain flaring with every inhale, but rest was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not yet.

His hand closed around the tsuka of his katana, fingers slick with blood as he wrenched it free from the tatami mat beneath his knees. The once-polished steel was chipped, cracked along the edge, dulled by the countless clashes of the night, broken in half. It would have to serve one last purpose before he could allow himself to stop.

The collapsed shoji doors made it easier to find kindling. He glanced at the younger slayers strewn across the floor, their bodies limp with exhaustion. As much as every instinct told him to wake them—to ensure they were still breathing—he let them rest. They would need their strength before the night was over.

Dragging himself toward the broken wood and tattered paper screens, he managed to build a fire, coaxing the embers to life with slow, steady breaths. As the flames crackled and spread, he allowed himself to collapse to his knees again. The world tilted violently, his vision blurring at the edges, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus. His hands, trembling with exhaustion yet unwavering in purpose, guided the blade into the heart of the fire.

The scent of burning metal filled the air as the steel absorbed the heat, darkening, glowing at the edges. His breath came faster now, anticipation curling in his gut—not fear, not hesitation, just the inevitability of what needed to be done.

He took his haori off carefully, with practiced ease and tore open what remained of his shredded uniform, exposing the wounds he had sustained during his captivity, thegash at his wrists was pulsing with agony. Blood pooled at the edges, dark and sluggish.

No time to think.

He grasped the katana, the heat searing his palm. Then, in one swift motion, he pressed the red-hot steel against his flesh.

The pain was instant—blinding, consuming. It tore through him like a lightning strike, his back arching involuntarily as a strangled gasp escaped his throat. His vision flashed white, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might black out.

The sickening hiss of flesh meeting scorching metal filled the silence, the scent of burning skin twisting his stomach. His muscles locked, sweat dripping from his brow as he fought against the instinct to pull away.

He held firm.

Seconds stretched into eternity before he finally wrenched the blade away, his chest heaving. The wound was sealed—ugly, charred, but no longer bleeding. His limbs felt like lead, his entire body trembling in the aftermath. And he still had to do it again.

The katana nearly slipped from his fingers, but he closed his fingers around the hilt at the last moment. His breath evened out, and he let his eyes slip closed—just for a moment.