The Rengoku family residence stood halfway up the mountain—a traditional Japanese-style compound. A weathered wooden plaque hung by the gate, the two carved characters for "Rengoku" bold and forceful, hinting at the pride and vitality of its former master.
When the wooden door slid open, the courtyard still looked well-kept. The training yard held a few broken wooden swords scattered across the ground—proof that Kyojuro practiced here often.
"Father! Senjuro! I'm home!" Kyojuro's booming voice echoed the moment he stepped inside, full of his usual energy.
A boy of about ten appeared from within, wearing a light-gray kimono. His hair was a slightly lighter shade of orange-red than Kyojuro's, and his eyes carried a calmness unusual for his age.
When he saw Kyojuro and Giyu, he froze for a moment before bowing politely. "Brother, who is this?"
"This is Water Hashira Tomioka Giyu-san!"
Kyojuro clapped Giyu's shoulder proudly. "He's the one who saved us earlier in East Village!"
"Hello, Tomioka-san. I'm Rengoku Senjuro."
Senjuro's voice was soft but clear, his gaze polite and steady, without fear.
Giyu studied the boy, a flicker of recognition stirring in his mind. In another life, before the final battle at the Infinity Castle, he had met Senjuro once—a composed young man managing the Rengoku household, still mourning his brother's death.
Now, seeing him so young, Giyu felt a strange sense of nostalgia.
"Hello," he said with a small nod.
"By the way, Senjuro, where's Father?"
Kyojuro looked around, not seeing him anywhere. "I brought Tomioka-san to meet him—to ask for guidance in Flame Breathing."
At the mention of his father, Senjuro's brows twitched slightly, and his tone lowered. "Father is in the study… drinking."
"Drinking again?"
Kyojuro's voice dropped, his usual smile fading. "Ever since Mother passed, he's been like this every day..."
He took a deep breath, then turned to Giyu. "Tomioka-san, I'm sorry. My father isn't in good shape lately. I'll try to talk to him."
Giyu shook his head. "No need. I'll go with you."
The two followed Senjuro down the hallway to the study. Even before they entered, the sharp scent of alcohol mixed with damp paper reached them.
Kyojuro slid the door open, and the sight inside made him frown deeply.
The floor beside the desk was littered with more than ten empty bottles. A man in a black haori slumped on the tatami, hair disheveled, face half-hidden, a half-empty bottle dangling loosely from his hand. It was Rengoku Shinjuro, the former Flame Hashira.
"Father!"
Kyojuro stepped forward, trying to take the bottle from his hand. "You've been drinking this much again! Tomioka-san is here—wake up!"
Shinjuro slowly lifted his head, bloodshot eyes half-open and clouded with drunken haze.
His gaze drifted over Kyojuro, then settled on Giyu. The faint light of recognition flickered as he noticed the water-patterned haori and the Nichirin Sword engraved with "Destroy Demons."
"Water Hashira?"
His voice was hoarse, thick with the stench of liquor. "So this is the new Water Hashira, huh? Why does your face look so annoying—so stiff and lifeless."
Giyu stepped forward, looking at the once-great Flame Hashira. Even in his drunken slump, the man's broad frame and strong muscles were obvious, though his unshaven face and the exhaustion in his eyes gave him a broken, defeated air.
"Rengoku-san," Giyu said calmly. "I'm Tomioka Giyu. I came here to seek your guidance on Flame Breathing."
Shinjuro let out a harsh laugh and threw the bottle to the floor. It shattered, shards scattering across the tatami. "Guidance? I'm no Flame Hashira anymore. I've got nothing to teach you."
His eyes sharpened suddenly, though his tone carried a bitter edge. "The Demon Slayer Corps? Pointless. Killing demons day after day—what's it worth? Can it bring back the dead? Can it stop your family from dying?"
At the word family, his voice trembled faintly—grief surfacing beneath his anger. The loss of his wife had clearly broken him beyond repair.
Giyu looked at him and, for a moment, saw his own reflection—the same grief, the same emptiness he'd felt after losing his sister.
He wanted to tell Shinjuro to keep living, to climb out of that darkness—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, what slipped out was blunt, clumsy, and cold.
"Why aren't you dead yet? As a former Hashira, you should have pulled yourself together by now."
His words were sharp, unfiltered.
And to Shinjuro's drunken ears, they sounded like pure provocation.
"You said what?"
Shinjuro shot to his feet. Even in his drunken haze, his presence was still oppressive.
"A brat like you dares to challenge me? You think being a Hashira gives you the right to lecture me?"
He stepped forward, jabbing a finger at Giyu's face, his tone fierce. "Don't think killing a few demons makes you special! You're arrogant—too full of yourself! One day, a demon will tear you apart! And when that happens, you'll deserve it!"
"Father! Please, stop!" Kyojuro rushed forward, trying to pull his father back. "Tomioka-san didn't mean it that way!"
"Get out of my way!"
Shinjuro shoved him aside and glared at Giyu, eyes blazing. "Listen up, Tomioka Giyu! I may not be the Flame Hashira anymore, but it's more than enough to deal with a newly appointed Water Hashira like you!"
Giyu looked at him calmly, showing no anger, only quiet resolve. "If you believe I'm provoking you, then let's settle it with a match."
He paused briefly before adding, "Wooden swords. Stop before it gets serious."
He wasn't aiming to win—just to help Shinjuro clear his head a little. And perhaps, to experience firsthand what true Flame Breathing strength felt like.
"A match?"
Shinjuro froze for a second, then burst out laughing, a bitter, mocking sound. "Fine! Fine! Let's see what you're really made of, you so-called Water Hashira!"
"Father! Tomioka-san!"
Kyojuro panicked, caught between his drunken father and the man he'd brought home to seek guidance. "Please, don't fight! Talk it out!"
"Enough!"
Shinjuro shot him a sharp glare. "Go bring two wooden swords! I'll teach this arrogant kid a lesson! I'll show him what the Flame Hashira's power really means!"
His tone left no room for argument, the authority of a former Hashira seeping through even the slur of drink.
Kyojuro looked at his father's unwavering expression, then at Giyu's calm face. With a sigh, he said, "All right… I'll bring them."
Senjuro stood quietly by the doorway, tension heavy in his small frame. He looked up at Giyu and whispered, "Tomioka-san, my father… he's just really sad. Please don't take it to heart."
Giyu nodded slightly. "I understand."
He watched Shinjuro leaning against the wall, eyes dulling again, and felt a faint weight settle in his chest.
In another life, Shinjuro hadn't recovered until after Kyojuro's death.
This time, Giyu wanted to pull him out of that darkness sooner—not just to learn Flame Breathing, but for Kyojuro's sake, so that fiery red-haired boy wouldn't have to carry the burden of the Rengoku name alone.
Before long, Kyojuro returned with two wooden swords. He handed one to Giyu and the other to his father. "Father, Tomioka-san—the wooden swords are ready. Please, stop before it gets serious. Don't actually hurt each other."
Shinjuro took the wooden sword. Even drunk, his grip was firm and his stance precise. A faint gleam of a swordsman's sharpness flickered in his eyes. "We may both be useless men with no real talent," he muttered, "but teaching a cocky brat a lesson? That much I can still do."
Giyu accepted his sword, weighed it briefly, then stepped to the center of the room. He assumed the opening stance of Water Breathing—steady, composed, each breath controlled. His calm aura stood in stark contrast to Shinjuro's drunken aggression.
Shinjuro snorted. "Water Breathing? Soft and weak. No power at all."
He took a deep breath. Though unsteady from the alcohol, his breathing still carried the rhythm of Flame Breathing—rough, but unmistakable. The wooden sword in his hand seemed to shimmer faintly orange, radiating heat.
"Flame Breathing, First Form: Unknowing Fire!"
Even drunk, even dulled, his strike held frightening strength. The wooden sword cut through the air with a faint explosive sound, slicing straight toward Giyu's chest.
Giyu's eyes sharpened. He didn't block it head-on but twisted aside, his sword tracing a circular arc. "Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!"
The blade moved like water, sliding toward Shinjuro's wrist in a smooth, fluid motion—restrained, careful not to wound.
The sound of wooden swords clashing filled the study, sharp and rhythmic. Orange heat clashed against cool blue calm—their figures blurred as they moved, one fiery, one fluid.
And within that drunken duel, it wasn't just breathing styles that collided—it was the meeting of two swordsmen burdened by loss, each expressing pain and duty in his own way.