When Rengoku Shinjuro's wooden sword came down, blazing with scorching force, Tomioka Giyu could feel the very air around them burn.
Even drunk, the former Flame Hashira's control over Flame Breathing was precise—his swing straight, power tightly condensed. It was the third form of Flame Breathing, "Blazing Universe," one of its most destructive techniques.
Giyu didn't take the hit directly. His body flowed backward like water, wrist twisting as his wooden sword drew a smooth, circular arc before him. "Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm!"
A pale blue "curtain of water" formed instantly, swallowing the heat and pressure entirely.
The blade struck the watery veil with a heavy thud, yet not a single crack appeared.
Shinjuro's power was diffused layer by layer, and the recoil sent him stumbling half a step forward. Through his haze, a glimmer of clarity flashed in his murky eyes.
"This is… a new Water Breathing form?"
He steadied himself and stared at Giyu's wooden sword. The mockery in his tone softened slightly. "Kid, you've got some talent—creating your own sword form, huh."
Standing to the side, Kyojuro clenched his fists nervously. Hearing his father's grudging praise, he raised his voice. "Do your best, Tomioka-san! Father, you too!"
Senjuro furrowed his brow, his eyes darting between them, clearly worried things might escalate.
Shinjuro ignored his sons and lifted his sword once more. This time, his breathing was faster—still tinged with drunkenness, yet carrying the unmistakable presence of a former Hashira. "Flame Breathing, Fifth Form: Flame Tiger!"
The wooden sword sliced through the air like a tiger pouncing, trailing waves of heat. The speed of the swing made the blade shimmer faintly orange-red.
The strike was even fiercer than before—its angle sharp, its aim deadly precise, driving straight toward Giyu's opening.
Giyu's eyes tightened. He invoked Dead Calm again.
The water curtain reformed, but under the tiger's onslaught it trembled violently, the blue light flickering erratically.
He could feel it—Shinjuro's strength was far beyond that of an average Hashira. Even drunk, his foundation was terrifyingly solid. This was the power of a former Flame Hashira.
Crack!
The wooden sword was stopped again, but Giyu's arm tingled with pain from the impact.
He didn't pause. Using the rebound of the block, he spun sharply. "Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel!"
His wooden sword spun like a turning wheel, fluid and relentless, pressing toward Shinjuro's wrist.
Shinjuro quickly brought his blade up to parry, and the two swords collided once more with a sharp crack.
"Not bad—you blocked my Flame Tiger."
His breathing had grown heavier, the alcohol beginning to fade. His gaze turned razor-sharp.
"But do you think fancy tricks like that can beat me?"
With sudden force, he shoved Giyu's sword aside and stepped back two paces, his sneer returning. "Do you even know, Tomioka? Our Rengoku family's records contain the truth about the Breathing Styles—every one of them, yours and mine alike—Water, Flame—all of them are just fragments of the original Sun Breathing! All incomplete, all defective!"
Giyu's movement froze for a brief instant.
"Sun Breathing is the only true form! The only one that can truly slay demons!"
Shinjuro's voice rose, filled with manic conviction.
"We're just using copies—no matter how much we train or create new forms, it's meaningless! Hashira or not, every one of us will die to demons sooner or later! Even in the Warring States era, the strongest swordsmen couldn't kill the Upper Moons! What makes you think we can defeat the progenitor of all demons?!"
His words struck Kyojuro like a hammer.
The young man clenched his fists, wanting to refute him—but he couldn't. His father's words were written in the Rengoku family's own records, words he'd heard all his life, though never in such a despairing tone.
Giyu looked at the broken man before him—drunk, bitter, yet still burning with twisted passion—and something inside him shifted.
He remembered Kamado Tanjuro's quiet words while teaching him the Hinokami Kagura: "No breathing style is superior. What matters is the person who uses it."
"You're wrong."
Giyu's voice was calm, but carried unshakable resolve.
"Breathing styles aren't worthless. And the Hashira aren't fighting in vain."
He took a deep breath. The flow of his breathing changed—not purely Water, but fused with the sharpness of Wind Breathing.
The pale blue glow of his sword deepened, streaked through with hints of light green.
"Water Breathing, Twelfth Form: Raging Surge!"
Though not yet perfected, it was enough for this moment.
His blade moved like a raging flood, entwined with the cutting edge of wind. The strike surged forward, crashing against Shinjuro's sword.
Shinjuro hadn't expected the sudden shift and hastily brought up his weapon to defend.
But the force behind it was beyond what he anticipated. The flowing power of water dissolved his defense, while the wind's sharpness numbed his grip. The wooden sword flew from his hands, clattering to the floor with a sharp crack.
Giyu's blade halted at his throat—only an inch away.
The study fell silent, filled only with Shinjuro's heavy breathing and Kyojuro's sharp intake of air.
Shinjuro stared at the wooden blade hovering before him, then at Giyu's steady eyes.
Disbelief clouded his face.
He—Rengoku Shinjuro, the former Flame Hashira—had just lost.
Lost to a new Water Hashira wielding what he'd called a "defective" breathing style.
So this was the truth.
He really was… a man without talent after all.
"You said that aside from Sun Breathing, all other styles are useless."
Giyu lowered his wooden sword and replied calmly, "But I want to tell you this—I can use Sun Breathing too."
The words struck like thunder, echoing through the room.
"You… you can use Sun Breathing?!"
Kyojuro shouted in disbelief, his eyes widening. "Isn't that the legendary breathing style?"
Shinjuro's head snapped up, shock replacing the dullness in his eyes. "What did you say? You can use Sun Breathing? Impossible! That style has been lost for generations!"
Giyu shook his head. He recalled Kamado Tanjuro's Flame God Dance—Hinokami Kagura—and the insights he'd gained through practice.
"I learned Sun Breathing from a predecessor. It's powerful, yes—but it isn't invincible."
He looked at Shinjuro steadily. "Sun Breathing is the origin, but that doesn't make it the only path. Strength doesn't come from the breathing style—it comes from the one who wields it."
"If that swordsman from the Warring States era—the one who first created Sun Breathing—had used Water Breathing instead, he still would've been strong. Because what made him powerful wasn't the form itself, but his will, his conviction, and his effort."
"You say the Hashira fight in vain. You say breathing styles are worthless. But what you're really doing is running away."
Giyu's words were blunt, cutting right to the heart of it.
"You don't think the styles are useless—you think you are. You couldn't protect your wife, so you blamed the breathing styles, blamed the Demon Slayer Corps."
"Rengoku-san, there are still many people who need you."
Shinjuro's body trembled—not in anger, but because Giyu's words had pierced straight through his grief.
He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Images of his wife's death flashed before his eyes. The helplessness that had swallowed him back then surged again, suffocating and raw.
"Father…"
Kyojuro stepped closer, speaking softly. "Tomioka-san is right. We were all sad when Mother passed, but you can't stay like this forever. Flame Breathing isn't useless, and neither are you. You're the former Flame Hashira—our father—and a hero who protected many."
Senjuro tugged gently at his father's sleeve. "Father, please… stop drinking, okay?"
Shinjuro looked at his sons' worried faces, then at Giyu's calm yet unwavering eyes. The hardness in his chest—the despair, the self-hatred—began to loosen.
He looked down at his hands. Once, they had held a Nichirin Sword, slayed countless demons, and protected lives. Now, they only gripped a bottle.
"Sun Breathing… isn't the only path?" he murmured, uncertainty in his tone.
"It's not," Giyu answered. "Just like how I combined Water and Wind Breathing to create Raging Surge, you too can make Flame Breathing stronger if you want to. What matters is whether you'll pick up your sword again—and whether you still want to protect others."
Shinjuro went silent. Slowly, he crouched and picked up his fallen wooden sword, running his fingers along its surface.
The faint warmth of Flame Breathing still lingered there—like a reminder of the glory he'd once held.
The air in the study eased, and even the heavy scent of alcohol seemed to fade.
Kyojuro let out a small sigh of relief, glancing at Giyu with deep gratitude. If not for him, Father might never have found his way back.
Giyu looked at Shinjuro's silent figure and knew his words had struck home.
He didn't say more. Instead, he turned to Kyojuro. "Thank you for your hospitality. About Flame Breathing—let's discuss it again once your father is ready."
"Tomioka-san, won't you stay a while longer?" Kyojuro quickly asked. "I'll prepare dinner—you should at least eat before leaving!"
"No."
Giyu shook his head. "I still have a mission to take care of."
He looked briefly at Senjuro and gave a small nod. "Goodbye."
As he turned to leave, a rough voice called from behind him. "Tomioka Giyu!"
Giyu stopped and looked back.
Shinjuro stood in the doorway, wooden sword in hand. His eyes were still tired, but for the first time, they held a spark of clarity.
"Come back in three days," he said. "I'll teach you Flame Breathing."
The corner of Giyu's mouth lifted faintly. "All right."
When he stepped out of the Rengoku household, the sun was setting, painting the mountains in warm orange-red.
He tightened his grip on the Nichirin Sword at his waist. His path was clearer than ever—master Flame Breathing, perfect the fusion technique, grow stronger, and protect everyone he wanted to protect.
He didn't know how many trials lay ahead, nor how deep Muzan's schemes ran. But he knew one thing—he was no longer alone.
His deep-blue haori glowed softly under the fading light as his figure disappeared down the mountain path, walking steadily toward his next goal.