Chapter Text
Morning came easily.
For once, sleep had not been fractured by memory. Pale light filtered through the shoji screens, washing the tatami in soft gold. The estate was quiet in that fragile hour before full activity—no raised voices, no hurried footsteps. Only distant birdsong and the faint rustle of leaves in the courtyard.
The Hashira meeting would not begin until afternoon.
So I trained.
Meditation came first.
I knelt beneath the eaves facing the garden, spine straight, breath measured. The pond reflected a cloudless sky. Each inhale settled deeper than the last. Each exhale thinned the noise in my mind.
Tranquil.
Still water.
Then the stillness sharpened.
Kazahana arrived with the energy of a gust of wind slipping under a door.
“You’re already awake?” she said, wooden sword resting across her shoulder. “Do you ever not train?”
“I slept,” I replied.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She tossed me a bokken. I caught it without looking.
We moved to an open section of the courtyard where gravel gave way to packed earth—firm enough for footing, forgiving enough for falls.
She rolled her shoulders once.
“Show me the new forms,” she said. “You’ve been guarding them like secrets.”
“They are unfinished.”
“Good. I’ll break them for you.”
I stepped into stance.
The morning air was cool against my skin. Breath steady. Grip relaxed.
She attacked first.
Kazahana favored speed and fluid transitions—her style was wind-aligned in temperament if not in form. She darted in with a diagonal strike aimed at my shoulder.
I pivoted, redirecting with minimal force.
She adjusted quickly, rotating into a second horizontal slash.
I stepped inside her range.
“Too close,” she muttered—
Phantom Drop.
I let my body fall—not backward, but downward. My knees bent sharply, weight collapsing like water slipping through fingers. Her blade cut empty air as I dipped beneath it, rotating low.
The movement was deceptive. It appeared like retreat.
It was not.
From that lowered axis I surged upward, wooden blade tracing a tight ascending arc toward her ribs.
She barely caught it in time.
“—That’s new,” she said through clenched teeth as wood cracked against wood.
I disengaged before pressure could build.
Phantom Drop was not about overpowering.
It was about absence.
About vanishing from expectation.
She circled me now, eyes sharper.
“You’re lighter,” she observed. “You’re not committing fully to your stance.”
“Water does not root itself,” I replied.
“Oh, don’t start sounding like the Master.”
She lunged again—faster this time. A feint high, then a pivoting thrust toward my abdomen.
I rotated sideways and let the thrust pass.
Torrential Downpour.
My wrist loosened. The blade blurred.
Not a single strike.
Many.
Short, rapid descending blows—each one redirecting the previous’s momentum, cascading in accelerating rhythm. The strikes came not from the shoulder but from the elbow and wrist, compact and relentless.
Wood clashed again and again.
Her arms trembled as she blocked.
“Are you serious—?” she grunted, retreating a step.
I advanced.
The rhythm built.
Like rain becoming a storm.
Each strike forced her defense lower, compressing her guard.
She broke away with a spin to the side, creating distance.
“Enough,” she said, breathing heavier now. “You’re holding back.”
“I am not striking your wrists,” I replied.
“You’re not striking anything.”
She adjusted her grip, eyes narrowing.
“Stop treating me like porcelain.”
I exhaled.
Very well.
She attacked with renewed aggression—faster footwork, tighter angles. Her blade came from unexpected vectors now—low sweep, rising cut, thrust.
I met her evenly.
What became abundantly clear was the difference between us.
She was skilled.
But she was not Sanemi.
When I had sparred Sanemi Shinazugawa, every exchange felt like standing before a storm intent on shredding the coastline. He attacked not just with technique but with ferocity that bordered on self-destruction.
Kazahana did not possess that.
Her movements were sharp, disciplined, but they lacked that monstrous hunger.
I held back further still.
Even more than I had with Sanemi before the final battle.
She pressed in, blade arcing downward.
I parried, stepped off-line—
—and felt the Tranquil state settle fully into place.
It was not something I summoned.
It arrived.
The world thinned.
Her breathing. The shift of her weight. The tightening of her shoulder before each strike.
All visible.
She cut horizontally.
Instead of blocking—
I stepped inside and drove my fist lightly into her forearm.
Not hard enough to injure.
Just enough to interrupt.
Her strike faltered.
“What—!”
I pivoted, using my foot to hook behind her ankle and nudge her balance forward. Not a sweep. Just disruption.
She stumbled half a step, glaring.
“That’s playing dirty!”
I tilted my head slightly.
“In battle, demons do not restrict themselves to sword forms.”
“That’s not the point!”
She came again, more irritated now. Her blade thrust forward sharply.
I knocked it aside and tapped her shoulder with my bokken.
Point.
She scowled.
“You’re fighting like a street brawler.”
“I am fighting like someone who wishes to survive.”
She attacked again.
This time I used my elbow to jam her wrist before her strike could extend fully, then stepped around her flank.
Another light tap to her back.
She spun around, exasperated.
“That’s unfair!”
“You are assuming a duel,” I said calmly. “I am assuming combat.”
She planted her sword tip against the ground.
“You sound exactly like my master.”
The name lingered.
“I understand what Urokodaki meant now.” I admitted quietly.
She blinked.
“What?”
“When he said I fought too much like a swordsman.”
Pure forms. Clean exchanges. Predictable rhythm.
Tranquility did not mean limitation.
Water eroded by any means necessary.
If a fist disrupted the current—
Then the fist was part of the river.
Kazahana studied me for a long moment.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
“Yes.”
She lifted her bokken again.
“Fine,” she declared. “If you’re going to kick and punch, then so will I.”
She rushed in recklessly.
I sidestepped—
She actually kicked at my shin.
I almost smiled.
Our blades clashed again, but now the exchange was looser. Less formal. She tried to shoulder-check me. I deflected. She attempted to trip me in retaliation.
We both broke stance entirely at one point, locked briefly at the hilts, pushing against one another like children.
She was laughing now despite herself.
“Hashira and we’re kicking each other in the courtyard,” she said between breaths.
“It is effective.”
“You’re impossible.”
She disengaged finally, stepping back and lowering her sword.
“You were holding back the whole time,” she said again, though this time there was no accusation.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I considered.
“Enough.”
She exhaled slowly, then nodded once.
“Good.”
I looked at her.
She met my gaze steadily.
“If you weren’t holding back,” she continued, “I’d be worried.”
The morning sun had climbed higher now, warming the courtyard. Sweat dampened the collar of my uniform. My breathing remained even.
“You’re stronger than before,” she said quietly. “And calmer.”
“That is the intent.”
She twirled her bokken once before resting it against her shoulder.
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What.”
“When you use that ‘Torrential Downpour’ against a demon… don’t stop halfway like you did with me.”
I met her eyes.
“I won’t.”
She grinned.
“Good. Now let’s go get tea before the others show up and pretend they woke up this early too.”
As we walked back toward the engawa, I felt it again.
The difference.
In my previous life, training had felt like preparation for inevitable loss.
Now—
It felt like sharpening the tide.
And the river was still rising.
Afternoon light stretched long across the polished floorboards of the Ubuyashiki estate.
I knelt in seiza, hands resting lightly atop my thighs, spine straight, breathing even. The courtyard beyond the open shoji shimmered under warm sun. The wind carried faint traces of wisteria.
Beside me, Kazahana did not kneel.
She paced.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“You’d think they’d arrive early for once,” she muttered. “You’d think the words ‘new Hashira’ would spark urgency or at least curioisty.”
“They will arrive,” I replied calmly.
She shot me a look. “You’re too calm.”
I said nothing.
Footsteps approached along the engawa—heavy, deliberate, distinct.
They did not speak as they entered.
They did not need to.
Gyomei Himejima came first, his towering frame casting a long shadow into the room. The faint clink of prayer beads accompanied each step. His presence was immovable—like a mountain walking.
Behind him strode Shinjuro Rengoku, flame-colored hair tied loosely, eyes sharp despite the faint scent of sake that lingered about him. At least today he appeared sober. His posture was straight, proud.
The last to enter was Raiden Arashi, the Thunder Hashira. His haori bore jagged patterns reminiscent of lightning splitting the sky. His gaze was calculating, restless—like a storm held in human shape.
They took their seats.
The air shifted.
Even Kazahana stopped pacing.
Himejima’s head tilted slightly in my direction before I could formally introduce myself. His sightless eyes faced me directly.
He was listening.
To breath.
To heartbeat.
To presence.
“The new Water Pillar…” Himejima’s deep voice rumbled through the chamber. “Is a child?”
Kazahana snorted.
“He’s not just any child,” she said quickly. “He’s the promising Kinoe I told you about, Himejima-san. The one who defeated Lower One.”
Shinjuro grunted.
“A Kinoe,” he repeated, as if testing the word for flaws.
I lowered my head respectfully.
“Seniors.”
The word carried weight. Not submission—acknowledgment.
“I am Giyu Tomioka,” I said evenly. “The new Water Hashira. My master was the previous Water Pillar, Sakonji Urokodaki.”
At the name, Shinjuro’s posture changed.
Subtly.
But unmistakably.
Recognition.
Sakonji Urokodaki was not a name spoken lightly. He belonged to an older era—to the generation before Shinjuro’s own father. A legend among swordsmen.
And with that name came something else.
Tradition.
The long-standing exchange between Water and Flame. The ceremonial exchange and copying of texts. The philosophical debate of flowing current versus consuming blaze.
Shinjuro’s eyes sharpened.
“So,” he said, voice rough but no longer dismissive. “Urokodaki’s disciple.”
“Yes.”
Raiden leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
“What is your age, Tomioka-san?”
There was no malice in his tone. Only evaluation.
“I am fourteen.”
Silence fell.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
Himejima’s expression darkened, sorrow threading through his otherwise composed features.
“A child,” he repeated softly. “A child should not bear the weight of a pillar.”
His fingers tightened slightly around his prayer beads.
“You are far too young.”
His voice did not accuse.
It grieved.
I met the silence directly.
“I have killed Lower One,” I stated evenly. “I have earned this rank.”
Shinjuro’s eyes flickered.
Raiden’s brows rose.
Kazahana crossed her arms as if daring anyone to contradict me.
Himejima inclined his head slightly.
“Strength alone does not define a Hashira,” he said gently. “It is endurance. Leadership. The ability to stand before despair and not be consumed.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Raiden asked, tone sharpening. “At fourteen?”
His gaze pierced.
Lightning does not tolerate weakness.
I did not look away.
“I understand more than you assume.”
A faint tension rippled through the room.
Shinjuro exhaled through his nose.
“Bold,” he muttered. “Water shouldn’t crackle like that.”
“It can,” Kazahana interjected lightly. “When heated enough.”
Shinjuro ignored her.
“You say you’ve earned it,” he said, eyes locking onto mine. “How did you kill Lower One?”
“Clean decapitation,” I replied. “Minimal collateral damage. No civilian casualties.”
“And casualties on our side?”
“None.”
That earned a glance from Raiden.
Himejima’s head tilted again, listening—not to my words now, but to my breath.
“You do not tremble,” he observed.
“I do not fear scrutiny.”
“That is not what I meant,” he replied softly.
He could hear it.
The steadiness.
Not bravado.
Not nervous excitement.
Still water.
Shinjuro shifted slightly.
“You understand the tradition between our lines?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you intend to honor it?”
“Yes.”
His gaze burned brighter.
“Good.”
Raiden leaned back slightly.
“A Lower Moon at fourteen,” he murmured. “You realize what that implies?”
“That the Lower Moons are weakening,” Kazahana said.
“Or,” Raiden countered, “that the war is accelerating.”
Silence.
That was the truth beneath it.
I spoke calmly.
“The Lower Moons will continue to fall.”
All three turned toward me.
“And the Upper?” Raiden asked.
“They will fall as well.”
It was not arrogance.
It was inevitability.
Himejima’s brows furrowed faintly.
“You speak as if the future is already written.”
“It is not written,” I said. “But it is moving.”
The river has already begun to move.
Kagaya’s words echoed faintly in my mind.
Shinjuro studied me carefully now—not dismissive, not irritated.
Evaluating.
“You do not speak like a boy,” he said.
“No,” Kazahana said softly. “He doesn’t.”
Raiden tapped two fingers lightly against his knee.
“If you are to stand among us, Tomioka,” he said, voice sharpening, “then understand this—Hashira do not fight alone.”
“I know.”
“You will bleed with us. You will lead with us. And if you falter—”
“I won’t.”
The interruption was quiet.
But firm.
Shinjuro’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Confidence.”
“Certainty,” I corrected.
Himejima let out a slow breath.
“Very well,” he said at last. “If you have earned this through blood and discipline, then we will not strip it from you through doubt.”
He inclined his head slightly toward me.
“But understand this, child—”
His voice softened again.
“Should the burden grow too heavy… you will not carry it in silence.”
That was not a command.
It was an offering.
I bowed deeply.
“Yes.”
Shinjuro rose slightly from his seated posture, adjusting his haori.
“Then we will see your strength with our own eyes soon enough,” he said. “Water must prove it can withstand flame.”
Raiden smirked faintly.
“And lightning.”
Kazahana grinned.
“Don’t worry. He’s already proven he can withstand wind.”
For the first time since they entered, the tension in the room shifted—not gone, but altered.
Acceptance had not been fully granted.
But it had begun.
And beneath it all, I felt something else.
Not doubt.
Not hostility.
Expectation.
The sliding doors opened with a soft whisper.
All movement in the room ceased.
Kagaya Ubuyashiki stepped forward with measured grace, attendants guiding him gently though he needed little assistance within his own home. The air itself seemed to settle in his presence.
He lowered himself into seiza across from us.
I bowed immediately, forehead nearly touching the tatami.
The others followed a breath later—Himejima’s large frame folding with reverent precision, Shinjuro’s bow crisp and formal, Raiden’s sharp but respectful, Kazahana’s fluid.
“I see,” Kagaya began warmly, “that you have already acquainted yourselves with our newest Hashira.”
There was a subtle shift in the room.
They did not answer immediately.
Then Raiden spoke.
“Master,” he said carefully, “I am well aware that the boy has passed the trials.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward me.
“But are we certain that this child can assume the title of Water Hashira?”
The word child lingered heavier this time.
“For all we know,” he continued, “he could have survived out of pure luck. The Water Pillar position has remained unfulfilled for decades.”
Shinjuro did not interrupt.
Himejima remained still.
Kazahana’s jaw tightened slightly.
Kagaya raised one hand gently.
“I am well aware of your concerns, Raiden.”
His voice held neither reprimand nor defensiveness.
“Which is why,” he continued, “I would like to read something to you.”
One of his attendants placed a folded letter into his hands.
“The previous Water Pillar, Sakonji Urokodaki, sent this shortly after Giyu achieved the rank of Kinoe.”
A quiet tension threaded through the room.
Kagaya unfolded the letter.
His voice, though soft, carried clearly.
“Giyu Tomioka is the best student I have trained in over the fourteen disciples who have passed through my care.”
Shinjuro’s eyes sharpened.
“Of those fourteen,” Kagaya continued, “he possesses the greatest potential. He has not only mastered the ten established forms of Water Breathing… but has exceeded even me.”
A pause.
The air grew still.
“He has created an eleventh form.”
Silence.
It did not fall.
It struck.
Shinjuro’s fingers tightened imperceptibly against his knee.
Raiden leaned forward slightly.
Even Kazahana blinked in surprise.
Himejima bowed his head faintly.
“…An eleventh,” Raiden repeated under his breath.
Kagaya lowered the letter.
“Urokodaki writes further that this form is one born of tranquility and adaptation. A form that allows Giyu to move beyond conventional rhythm.”
Himejima murmured a quiet prayer, beads clicking softly between his fingers.
“What a talented child,” Raiden said finally, awe threading into his voice.
Shinjuro’s expression had shifted entirely now.
No longer skepticism.
Calculation.
Respect.
Water creating its own form.
It was no small feat.
Breathing styles were lineage. Structure. Inheritance.
To alter them was to carve one’s own place in history.
Kagaya folded the letter gently.
“Let us not dwell only on one matter,” he said with a lightness that eased the room. “Tell me—how are your districts and missions?”
Kazahana answered first.
“There has been nothing of note, Master. No major sightings. Nothing beyond the capacity of the Corps at large.”
Raiden nodded.
“My region has been quiet.”
Shinjuro grunted agreement.
“Minor demons,” he said. “Nothing worthy of a Hashira’s blade.”
Himejima inclined his head.
“The same.”
I remained silent.
Upper Ranks did not move frequently.
They killed.
Then vanished.
Years would pass between confirmed sightings.
Unless multiple Hashira cornered them.
Unless…
They were defeated.
The quiet now was not peace.
It was waiting.
Kagaya’s smile remained serene.
“Then let us be grateful for calm, even if temporary.”
His sightless gaze lifted slightly.
“Is there anything further before I formally announce Giyu’s promotion?”
The room remained still.
No objections.
No protests.
Kazahana’s eyes met mine briefly.
Pride.
Shinjuro gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Raiden folded his arms but did not speak.
Himejima’s beads stilled.
Kagaya straightened subtly.
“For so long,” he began solemnly, “the title of Water Pillar has remained unfulfilled.”
The weight of decades lingered in those words.
“I now proclaim you, Giyu Tomioka… Water Pillar of the Demon Slayer Corps.”
The declaration was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Polite applause followed—measured, respectful. The sound of palms against palms echoed softly against wooden walls.
It was a small ceremony.
Quiet.
Contained.
No banners.
No celebration feast.
Because the title of Hashira was not glory.
It was responsibility.
More missions.
More blood.
More nights where others would not return.
I bowed deeply once more.
“I accept.”
The words were simple.
Final.
As I raised my head, I felt no surge of pride.
No triumph.
Only alignment.
This was not an elevation.
It was a deepening.
Water does not rise above mountains.
It carves through them.
And somewhere beyond the calm districts and quiet reports—
Storm clouds were already forming.
By the time the Master fully rose, I had already straightened from my seiza, but before I could move, Kazahana tugged at my sleeve, practically dragging me along toward the Hashira table. The long, low table where we gathered for private discussions, strategy talks, and the occasional bonding activities.
I had never participated in any of these during my previous life as a Hashira. I had always viewed them as formalities I could politely ignore—briefings, reports, casual banter among seasoned warriors. Yet here I was, pulled unwillingly into the midst of it all, expected to engage.
When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was the empty chair. Shinjuro had already left. Typical, I thought.
Raiden, ever restless and brimming with energy, waved a hand as we approached.
“Alright, we can finally dissect the newbie here,” he said with a grin that was half teasing, half genuine curiosity.
Himejima, as always, carried a different weight. He bowed slightly, offering only a kind greeting, his presence steady and calming even in this casual setting.
Raiden leaned back, resting his elbows on the table. His sharp eyes studied me like a predator assessing prey—or perhaps a teacher testing a promising student.
“So you’re Urokodaki’s student, and Shinonome’s little kid, basically?” he asked as I took my seat.
I blinked, taken slightly aback. “I would not call myself Shinonome’s child. We hardly look alike.”
Raiden laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. “So he actually has spunk. Alright, kid, this might be more fun than I thought.”
Then, leaning forward on his elbows, he asked, his tone sharp with genuine interest, “What is this new form you invented, Mr. Genius?”
Himejima frowned slightly at Raiden’s casual approach, but wisely stayed silent. His eyes, as always, radiated patient attentiveness.
I took a deep breath and explained, keeping my words precise. “Dead Calm. The personification of the calmness of a lake. The very thing Urokodaki wished every Water Breathing swordsman to embody.”
Himejima hummed thoughtfully, fingers brushing the prayer beads at his side. “So you inherited what Urokodaki envisioned. Not merely technique, but philosophy as well.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Raiden whistled softly, tilting his head. “Huh… I like that. Calm, precise, and deadly. Sounds… dangerous.”
“It is not meant to be flashy,” I said. “It is meant to end fights with minimal waste, minimal chaos.”
Raiden grinned wider, leaning back as if impressed. “I see. So, you’re not just a kid who learned forms—you’ve refined them. I like that. Makes this interesting.”
Himejima’s gaze remained steady, warm but piercing in its clarity. “A calm mind is as important as a sharp blade,” he said quietly. “It allows one to see the flow of battle, to adapt, to endure.”
I met his eyes and nodded. “Exactly. Dead Calm is not just about stillness. It is awareness. Observation. Timing. Flow.”
Raiden clapped once, the sound sharp against the polished wood. “Well, genius, you’ve got my attention. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Can’t let a lake outshine lightning, now can I?”
Kazahana, who had been leaning slightly against the table, smiled and nudged me lightly. “See? I told you. They’re testing you. But it’s not a bad thing. You’ve earned this.”
I exhaled softly, a tension I hadn’t realized I’d been holding easing slightly. The others may have been intimidating. Raiden was loud and brash. Himejima calm and measured. Shinjuro unpredictable and sharp. But this table, this conversation… it wasn’t a test of strength. It was understanding.
And for once, I didn’t feel entirely out of place.
“I hope,” I said quietly, “that my forms will live up to the expectations of the Corps and my predecessors.”
Himejima inclined his head slightly. “They already show promise. Continue to refine them, and they will speak for themselves in battle.”
Raiden leaned back with a lazy grin, flicking a finger toward me. “Well then, Dead Calm… I look forward to seeing you in action. Don’t disappoint me, Water Pillar.”
Kazahana chuckled softly at Raiden’s theatrics, and I allowed myself a small, calm smile in return.
For the first time sitting at this table, amidst the Hashira, I felt something unfamiliar but grounding: not just responsibility, but belonging.