When Giyu returned to the Echigo base, it was already deep into the night. The duel with Shinjuro had drained his strength, and after traveling for so long without rest, fatigue washed over him completely.
He didn't even take off his deep-blue haori—just collapsed to the floor and drifted into sleep.
…
Giyu woke to a sharp pain in his arm.
It wasn't the soreness from training as a youth, nor the tearing agony from fighting Douma. It was a deep, hollow ache that cut to the bone—an emptiness he knew too well.
Instinctively, he lifted his right hand… and touched nothing. Only an empty sleeve swayed lightly with his motion, the loose fabric whispering the truth—his arm was gone.
"You're awake?"
A familiar voice spoke beside him. Giyu's eyes snapped open.
White curtains of the Butterfly Mansion surrounded his bed. Outside them stood a small table with a simple birthday cake—twenty-five candles flickering on top, and several plainly wrapped gifts stacked beside it.
At the foot of the bed stood three familiar figures—one red-haired boy with eyes brimming with tears, one blond boy sobbing so hard his shoulders shook, and one green-haired boy grinning wide though his eyes were wet.
Tanjiro. Zenitsu. Inosuke.
"Giyu-san! You're finally awake!"
Tanjiro rushed over, a half-burned matchstick still in his hand, his voice trembling with emotion. "We thought you'd be asleep forever, but you woke up just in time—"
Giyu's gaze moved from the cake to his empty left sleeve. His mind went blank.
Twenty-five candles.
An empty sleeve.
A Butterfly Mansion room.
This wasn't the outpost from when he was sixteen.
It wasn't the Rengoku residence in the mountains.
It was the Butterfly Mansion room—on his twenty-fifth birthday, when he'd been recovering from his injuries.
What was going on?
He remembered lying down at the Rengoku household, the sunset painting the mountains orange-red. Shinjuro had told him to return in three days to learn Flame Breathing.
He had planned to write a letter to To after returning, to tell the boy he was going to train in a new breathing style…
So how—how had he suddenly returned to being twenty-five?
Had those past years—returning to youth, saving Kanae, taking To as his disciple, learning Sun Breathing, creating Raging Surge, meeting the young Kyojuro—had all of that been just a dream?
"Tomioka-san, what are you spacing out for?"
Zenitsu sniffled and handed him a tissue. "Come on, blow out the candles already! It's your twenty-fifth birthday—we've all been waiting!"
His twenty-fifth birthday.
Giyu's chest tightened, as if a cold hand had gripped his heart.
He remembered this day.
In his previous life, this was three years after they'd survived the Infinity Castle. He'd already lost one arm.
On this exact day—his twenty-fifth birthday—he quietly awaited the curse of the Demon Slayer Mark, the one that doomed its bearer to die by twenty-five.
Tanjiro and the others had pooled their money to buy him a cake. Kanao had come too. Even Sanemi, living in seclusion, had sent a gift through someone else.
That day, everyone smiled. Only Giyu had stared at his empty sleeve, thinking of those who never returned—Shinobu, Rengoku, Oyakata-sama, Kanae...
"Tomioka-san?"
Inosuke slapped him on the shoulder with his usual force. "Quit sitting there like an idiot! Blow the candles! You'll live a long time now—no more stupid curse to worry about!"
"Yeah, Giyu-san!" Tanjiro's eyes shone brightly, his excitement barely contained as he fumbled with the match. "You've turned twenty-five, and nothing happened! That means the Mark's curse doesn't affect you anymore! We can all stay together from now on!"
Zenitsu was crying harder now, wiping his face as he sobbed. "That's great… we don't have to be scared anymore… we don't have to worry about you leaving us again…"
The group surrounded him, voices overlapping in cheerful chaos, filled with the joy of survival after hardship.
Giyu looked at their familiar faces—Tanjiro's red hair still shone brightly, Zenitsu's messy blond hair was as wild as ever, and Inosuke's sharp fangs flashed in his grin. Yet, they all seemed more mature than he remembered, carrying the quiet steadiness of those who had lived through life and death.
He wanted to speak, to ask, "Is Kanae still alive?" "What about Shinobu?" "Where's To?" But his throat felt blocked, as if words had turned to stone.
If everything before had only been a dream, did that mean Shinobu was still dead?
Did Rengoku still fall on the Mugen Train?
Did Kanae still die at Douma's hands?
And To—was he never real at all, just a disciple conjured from his own longing?
His chest felt hollow, emptier than the pain of a missing arm.
He remembered the poison powder Shinobu had once handed him, her flushed face as she turned away, her quiet nights watching over him in the Butterfly Mansion.
He remembered To's steady voice calling him "sensei" for the first time, his focused eyes while training, his words—"I can see the thread of my teacher's happiness."
He remembered Kanae's gentle smile, Rengoku's fiery laughter, Shinjuro's clear gaze when he agreed to teach him Flame Breathing.
Those scenes were too vivid to dismiss. He could still recall the scent of flowers in Shinobu's hair, the warmth of To's palm, the butterfly patterns on Kanae's haori.
And yet, the empty sleeve at his side reminded him—it might all have been nothing but a dream too real to bear.
"Tomioka-san, are you all right?"
Kanao's voice broke through his thoughts. She approached with a cup of warm water, her expression calm yet filled with quiet concern.
"Are you feeling unwell?"
Giyu looked at her—her eyes were still as composed as always, but there was a trace of fatigue there now, proof of years of fighting and loss.
He thought of the world from his dream, where Kanae had lived, and Kanao didn't have to take up the blade so soon, didn't have to carry the weight of death alone.
"I'm fine," Giyu finally said, his voice rough and dry. "Just a little tired."
"Then drink some water first."
Kanao handed him the cup, then picked up the cake from the table.
"The candles are about to burn out. Shall we blow them out together?"
Tanjiro and the others eagerly agreed, crowding around the table with bright eyes full of expectation.
Giyu took a sip of water. The warmth slid down his throat, but it did nothing to fill the emptiness in his heart.
He stared at the burning candles. The flickering flames reflected on their smiling faces, but for him—it felt as though he stood behind an invisible wall, unable to touch that joy.
He took a deep breath and blew out the candles.
The room erupted in cheers. Zenitsu burst into tears again, Inosuke pounded on the table with excitement, Tanjiro grinned as he handed Giyu a slice of cake, and even Kanao smiled softly.
Giyu accepted the cake, but he had no appetite.
He looked at it, then at the faces around him, confusion weighing heavier with every passing second.
Was it really a dream?
If it was, why had it felt so real?
And if it wasn't, why had he suddenly returned to this—this point in time where everything he'd gained was gone?
His hand moved instinctively to his chest pocket—but it was empty. The hollow space there echoed the emptiness in his mind, reminding him of the so-called "reality" before him.
He quietly ate the cake as they talked about their plans for the future—about rebuilding, helping others, living on together.
But his thoughts drifted elsewhere. If only that world hadn't been a dream.
If only I could go back—to sixteen, to the time when everything could still be changed.
Moonlight streamed through the curtains, falling on his empty sleeve and turning it pale silver.
Giyu set down the cake, eyes fixed on the night sky outside. His gaze was distant, filled with confusion and sorrow.
He didn't know anymore—was all of this the dream, or was that other life the dream?
In the corner of the room, a wisp of black mist stirred, silently merging into the shadows, watching him without a sound.