Age: 13
Time passed like the wind—quiet, invisible, but always moving.
By the time I turned thirteen, my arms were leaner, my legs steadier, and my breath deeper. The Dance of the Fire God was no longer just an art—it was a piece of me. Something I could now do in silence, blindfolded, even in the snow.
I could feel the rhythm of the mountain in my steps, hear the heartbeat of the wind between each swing of my wooden blade. The body had learned. Now the soul had to follow.
---
The Kamado family had grown louder.
Rokuta was now learning to speak, toddling after Nezuko like a duckling. Takeo was growing curious about the forest paths I walked alone. And Hanako had started mimicking my warm-up stretches every morning, giggling as she tried to balance on one leg like I did.
Tanjiro had become especially clingy—he was nine now, stubborn and always asking to train with me. I gave him small tasks: balancing pots of water, chopping firewood with proper form, carrying baskets uphill.
"You'll hurt yourself if you try to copy my forms," I told him more than once.
"But how will I ever learn if you don't show me?"
"You will… one day. But first, you need legs that won't give out after two swings."
That always made him pout.
Despite everything, I loved those days.
---
One afternoon, as I returned from the lower trails with fresh mountain herbs, I heard the voice of someone unfamiliar echoing through the trees.
A stranger.
That was rare.
I ducked behind a thick cedar, narrowing my eyes.
He wasn't a villager. His clothes were dark, travel-worn. A katana rested across his back. Not slung like a decoration, but carried with the ease of someone who'd drawn it many times.
He wasn't walking toward our home, just through the forest, carefully inspecting the moss and trees.
I debated stepping out. Curiosity waged war against caution.
Then I heard him mumble something:
"…This mountain's spiritual pressure is strong. Old breath lingers here."
My heart skipped.
He was no merchant.
I stepped out.
He noticed instantly, spinning slightly—his hand brushing the hilt of his sword—but relaxed when he saw me.
"A boy?" he asked.
"A charcoal burner," I replied.
His eyes narrowed, then softened. "You have good posture. Better than most children I've met."
"Are you a samurai?"
He gave a short laugh. "Not exactly. Just a wanderer now."
I noticed the crest on his sleeve—a faded emblem of crossed swords behind a wisteria blossom.
That meant only one thing: a former Demon Slayer.
"Your breathing," he said quietly. "It's… steady. Measured. Where did you learn that?"
"I… observe the wind," I lied carefully.
He chuckled. "You're hiding something. But that's fine. Everyone does. What's your name?"
"Satoshi."
His eyes lit up, flickering with recognition.
"Kamado?"
"Yes."
He didn't speak for a moment. Then: "You know, I met someone once who had eyes like yours. Long ago. He fought like fire but lived like water."
That meant nothing to me… and everything.
I wanted to ask him a hundred questions, but I bit them down. I didn't want to reveal too much.
Instead, I asked, "What brings you to this mountain?"
He glanced around. "Looking for something old… something sleeping. But I think I found something else."
"What?"
He pointed at me. "A spark."
Then, just as suddenly, he turned and walked away.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
What did he mean by spark? Did he sense the Breath of the Sun in me? Did he know of Yoriichi?
The meeting had lit something in my chest—something dangerous and hopeful all at once.
---
The next morning, I pushed my training harder.
I began refining my second and third breathing forms, practising under waterfalls to test my balance, leaping between trees for coordination, and meditating under the cold sky.
I began training in silence—no sounds, no words—so I could listen to my heart.
I called it Silent Flame.
I trained until my bones ached, and when I couldn't move, I taught Tanjiro small things—lessons in focus, posture, even the concept of rhythm in the body. He followed eagerly, never knowing what he was truly learning.
I did all of this because I knew something now:
I wasn't the only one who remembered this art. Somewhere in this world, others like me were searching, watching, waiting.
And one day, one of them might try to stop me.
---
But until then, I had time. I had my family.
And I would keep dancing until the day my fire met the night.