Steam from the miso soup blurred his vision as Tomioka Giyu held the bowl, taking small sips.
The soup was rich, filled with the mellow flavor of soybeans and the umami of kelp. Warmth slid down his throat, easing the cold stiffness deep within his body.
"Sir, you must be from outside the region?"
Kamado Kie placed a plate of golden-grilled fish before him.
"Your accent doesn't sound like someone from Echigo."
"Yes. From Tokyo Prefecture," Giyu replied. He wasn't good with small talk, so he kept it short.
"Tokyo Prefecture, huh… that's far away," she said with a gentle smile, fine wrinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. "Are you here on business?"
"In a way," Giyu answered vaguely. He couldn't tell them he was a Demon Slayer—that was forbidden.
"Papa, this man smells like snow!"
A little girl with two small braids leaned in, eyes wide with curiosity. It was Nezuko.
She wore a red kimono, her cheeks rosy from the cold, round like ripe apples.
"Nezuko, that's rude," Kie gently scolded, tapping her daughter's head.
"It's fine," Giyu said softly.
He looked at Nezuko and for a moment saw flashes of another memory—the girl turned demon, and later, the girl smiling again as a human. His chest tightened slightly.
He reached into his haori and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle, handing it to her.
"Here. For you."
Inside were malt candies he had bought in a nearby town, intending to use them as travel rations.
Nezuko's eyes sparkled. She looked to her mother, who nodded, and carefully took the treat.
"Thank you, sir," she said quietly, before scampering off to share it with her younger siblings.
A red-haired boy sat across from Giyu, holding a bowl of rice.
It was a young Tanjiro.
He looked smaller and thinner than in Giyu's memory, his face still soft with childhood, yet his eyes were already bright—steady and kind beyond his age.
"Sir, your sword looks beautiful," Tanjiro said, staring curiously at the Nichirin Sword at Giyu's waist. "Are you a samurai?"
"In a way," Giyu answered simply.
"Then you must be really strong!" Tanjiro's eyes lit up even more. "My father is strong too! He once scared off a bear with just one punch!"
Giyu looked over at Kamado Tanjuro, sitting quietly across the table.
The man was sipping soup slowly, his breath uneven. After a few swallows, he had to pause to rest. His chest rose and fell weakly. His wrists were thin, and the faint blue veins beneath his skin showed through. He didn't look like someone who could punch a bear.
Tanjuro noticed his gaze and smiled gently. "Tanjiro likes to exaggerate. I'm not that strong. When I was young, I ran into a bear once in the mountains—managed to survive, that's all."
His voice was soft, with the frailty of a long illness.
Giyu said nothing, though doubt stirred in his mind.
Tanjiro never lied. If he said his father was strong, it must be true.
But this man before him didn't seem extraordinary—unless...
He remembered Tanjiro's use of the Sun Breathing.
That sacred dance passed through generations of the Kamado family—Hinokami Kagura. Every movement contained the light of the sun, power that could burn demons themselves.
Tanjuro's strength, perhaps, was deeply tied to that dance.
Dinner ended amidst the laughter and chatter of the children.
As Kie gathered the bowls, Tanjuro turned to Giyu. "Sir, if you don't mind, please stay the night here. The snow outside is heavy, and the mountain path's dangerous after dark."
"Wouldn't that be too much trouble?"
"Not at all. We have an extra room," Tanjuro replied with a faint smile. He rose slowly to his feet, his movements gentle but tired. "Come, I'll show you."
The room was small—only a tatami mat and a low cabinet—but neatly kept.
Tanjuro laid out the bedding himself and set down a small brazier. "It gets cold at night. Warm yourself by the fire."
"Thank you," Giyu said quietly.
Tanjuro turned to leave, but Giyu spoke up.
"Kamado-san."
Tanjuro stopped and looked back.
"I heard Tanjiro mention… you perform a family dance?" Giyu asked carefully.
Tanjuro blinked, then seemed to understand what he meant. He nodded slowly. "Yes. The Dance of the Fire God. It's been passed down in our family for generations. It's a kind of ritual dance we perform to honor our ancestors."
"Just a dance?" Giyu pressed, watching him closely.
A faint glimmer crossed Tanjuro's eyes, and his smile deepened slightly. "To our family, it's more than a dance. It carries the wisdom of our ancestors—and helps us survive the harsh winters of the mountain."
Giyu's heartbeat quickened.
Sun Breathing—the origin of all Breathing Styles.
In his past life, he'd only seen fragments of it through Tanjiro, but that overwhelming power had left a mark he could never forget.
If he could learn even the basics of it, he might find new insight—something that could make Water Breathing even stronger.
Especially against Upper Moon Two, Douma—the solar energy within Sun Breathing could become the perfect weapon.
Once the thought took root, it wouldn't fade.
Giyu drew a deep breath, making a decision that even surprised himself.
He suddenly knelt down on the tatami, bowing deeply until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Kamado-san, I have a request to make."
His voice was tight—this was the first time Tomioka Giyu had ever made such an earnest request.
"Would you… teach me the Dance of the Fire God?"
Kamado Tanjuro froze, the gentle smile on his face stiffening.
He looked at Giyu kneeling on the floor, his expression filled with surprise and confusion. "Tomioka-san, what are you…?"
"I know this is presumptuous," Giyu said, his tone heavy but unwavering. "The Dance of the Fire God is your family's secret art. It should never be passed to outsiders. But I truly want to learn it—even just the basic movements. Maybe I can understand something through it… something that could make me stronger."
He didn't explain why he needed to grow stronger. He didn't mention the dangers waiting in the future.
There was no point—Tanjuro wouldn't understand even if he did.
A faint sound came from the doorway.
Giyu lifted his head and saw Tanjiro standing there, holding a half-eaten piece of malt candy, his eyes wide in astonishment.
The boy had been drawn by the noise.
Tanjiro sniffed faintly, confused for a moment.
This samurai's scent—it carried the sharp chill of snow, yet beneath that coldness was a quiet warmth and purity, like mountain water just freed from ice—clear, gentle, and kind.
Why was this man bowing so deeply to his father?
Tanjiro turned toward Tanjuro, confusion written all over his face.
But Tanjuro's eyes never left Giyu.
He stayed silent for a long time—so long that Giyu's knees began to go numb. Just when he thought he would be refused, Tanjuro finally spoke.
"Tomioka-san," he said softly, his voice still calm and warm, "you're a swordsman. Surely you have your own style. Why would you want to learn our family's humble mountain dance?"
"My style is Water Breathing," Giyu answered honestly.
"But I believe all Breathing Styles are connected somehow. The Dance of the Fire God—no, the art your family protects—seems to contain something… fundamental. I don't wish to replace my style. I want to understand it—to perfect myself."
His words were straightforward and sincere.
Tanjuro studied him. The young swordsman who had appeared at his door carried a weight that was hard to describe—a quiet heaviness, as though he bore countless unseen burdens.
There was a burning earnestness in his gaze, even a trace of pain.
Why did he want to learn the Dance of the Fire God? Tanjuro didn't really need to know.
He had lived long enough, and his frail body could no longer protect his children from everything. The dance was the one thing he could still pass on—their family's final safeguard.
He had always believed the art existed to protect what was precious.
The young man before him—though outwardly reserved—carried the unmistakable scent of kindness and resolve.
It was completely unlike the malice of the creatures that prowled the mountains.
Tanjuro bent down, reaching out to gently lift Giyu by the arm.
"Tomioka-san, please, stand up," he said with a calm smile.
"You don't need to bow like that."
Giyu looked up, startled by the warmth in his tone.
"I don't know why you're so determined to learn the Dance of the Fire God," Tanjuro continued. "And I don't know what you hope to gain from it. But that doesn't matter."
He paused, meeting Giyu's eyes directly.
"If you truly wish to learn it… then I'll teach you."
Giyu froze. He hadn't expected it to be this easy.
He opened his mouth, but his throat tightened—no words came out.
"However," Tanjuro added, "the Dance of the Fire God is difficult. It's not just about movements. The heart matters more than the form. You must be ready for that."
"I understand," Giyu said firmly, nodding.
A rush of emotion welled in his chest—gratitude, relief, and something close to hope.
At the doorway, Tanjiro smiled when he heard his father's reply.
He thought this kind samurai with the snow-scented warmth would surely become even stronger once he learned his father's dance.
Tanjuro gave Giyu's shoulder a light pat. "Rest early. We'll begin at dawn."
"Yes."
Tanjuro turned, closing the door quietly behind him.
The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of burning coals.
Giyu sat on the tatami, staring at the flickering ember glow.
He had done it.
He was about to touch the origin—the very beginning of all Breathing Styles.
It meant he might truly become stronger—strong enough to change what had once been unchangeable.
Outside, snow whispered against the windows. Inside, the fire's warmth danced across his calm but trembling face.
Tomorrow.
He repeated the word silently in his heart.
Tomorrow would mark a new beginning.