18 Demon Slayer: Floating Comment

Haruto froze, staring in disbelief.

When he looked up, Rengoku Shinjuro's eyes were brimming with tears.

"Sir…"

"Leave. Don't come back again."

Shinjuro hung his head, his voice low and somber after a pause. "I've resigned from my position as the Flame Hashira. From now on, the affairs of the Demon Slayer Corps have nothing to do with me."

His lips moved as though he wanted to apologize for his harsh words but ultimately remained sealed.

This passionate, optimistic man—once a beacon of unwavering resolve—had been shattered by his wife's departure, abandoning the demon-slaying life he once cherished as fervently as life itself.

As Haruto left the Rengoku estate, a young Kyōjurō accompanied him partway.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Kyōjurō asked with concern. He bore an uncanny resemblance to his father: the same fiery enthusiasm and warmth of spirit.

"It's nothing serious. You don't have to see me off so far."

"My father's words weren't meant to reprimand you," Kyōjurō explained gently. "He's just struggling with himself. Please don't take it to heart."

Haruto smiled faintly. "I understand. But…"

He glanced back at the Rengoku estate, silhouetted against the setting sun, his expression tinged with melancholy.

"Has Shinjuro-san truly decided to leave the Demon Slayer Corps?"

Since the birth of Flame Breathing, the Flame Hashira's position had never been vacant.

But now that Rengoku Shinjuro had stepped down, who would fill the void?

"The Ubuyashiki-sama hasn't approved Father's resignation yet," Kyōjurō replied, his eyes sparkling with determination. "I've already resolved to join the Demon Slayer Corps and work toward becoming the next Flame Hashira!"

Standing against the backdrop of the burning sunset, Kyōjurō's eyes radiated the same fiery brilliance as his father's, the faith blazing in his chest seemingly hotter than the sun itself.

On a chilly night atop Swordsmith Village's mountains, the wind carried a crisp chill under a clear sky adorned with scattered stars. The moon and starlight decorated the heavens like jewels.

Thanks to the Demon Slayer Corps' vigilant protection, the village's nights were free from the threat of flesh-eating demons.

Haruto lay on a grassy hill, the scent of wildflowers and fresh grass mingling in the cool air, soothing his restless mind.

He had greeted Gotokawa before climbing the mountain and had been here for two or three days.

Although he claimed it was training, all he did was lie on the ground, staring at the sky, lost in thought.

Shinjuro-san had lost his conviction. The faith that sustained Flame Breathing in him had dissipated.

Kyōjurō, on the other hand, was resolute. His presence was steady, his will unwavering—a clear sign he might truly become the next Flame Hashira.

But what about Haruto?

What was his faith?

The white-haired boy tossed and turned in the grass, searching for an answer that remained elusive.

He had no idea who his parents were and had grown up under the care of his great-uncle. After his uncle passed peacefully, Haruto had bowed three times to Gotokawa at the funeral before following him to Swordsmith Village, becoming his apprentice.

His life had always been simple. Slaying demons wasn't driven by vengeance but by necessity.

Demons, who fed on the innocent, deserved to be dragged into sunlight and reduced to ash.

But without a steadfast conviction or burning passion, he knew he couldn't become a true master of Flame Breathing.

That was the problem Haruto had been grappling with for days.

"You and I are both useless."

Rengoku Shinjuro's sorrowful words echoed in Haruto's mind, weighing heavily on his chest.

Useless? Who? Me?

He gazed at the stars, letting his eyes trace their shimmering constellations.

A twenty-something office worker thrust into another world. From a weakling unable to carry a load to a warrior with eight-pack abs…

Useless? I refuse to believe it.

If Flame Breathing didn't suit him, then he'd find another way.

Haruto didn't know that a Demon Slayer couldn't master two different breathing styles. All he knew was that the protagonist of Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba, Tanjiro Kamado, switched between Water Breathing and the fiery Hinokami Kagura.

So why couldn't he do the same?

Water Breathing? Wind Breathing? Thunder Breathing? Or maybe he could learn Stone Breathing from Himejima-san?

In his mind's eye, the stars connected into graceful arcs—soft yet brimming with latent sharpness.

Closing his eyes, Haruto felt as though he became one with the vast sky, diving into an ocean of starlight.

The serene night washed over him, filling his lungs with a minty freshness that sharpened his thoughts.

Cool air coursed through him, making his limbs feel weightless.

The stars above merged into patterns, resembling constellations—no, sword forms.

Haruto rose instinctively, grabbing the Nichirin blade beside him. In his mind, the glowing constellations shaped themselves into movements he couldn't wait to try.

Elsewhere, Haganezuka Hotaru tossed and turned in frustration.

"Damn it… Who's out there at this hour making all that noise?!"

Grabbing two cleavers, Hotaru stormed out without even bothering to wear his fire-masked helmet.

He hacked his way through the underbrush, growling under his breath. "Let me find this idiot, and I'll—"

He stopped short.

Under the moonlight, a white-haired boy was practicing sword forms. His movements were fluid and precise, his blade carving through the air with an ethereal hum.

"Wait… isn't he supposed to use Flame Breathing?!" Hotaru muttered, crouching behind the bushes, eyes widening.

But the blade wasn't fiery red—it shimmered in radiant shades of blue and violet, like the aurora.

"What breathing technique is this?"

Hotaru tightened his grip on his cleavers. A swordsmith's pride demanded perfection, yet his blade, forged specifically for Flame Breathing, wasn't meeting its full potential.

"This can't stand…"

Panting lightly, Haruto sheathed his sword, exhilarated by the fluidity of his newfound breathing style. It didn't drain him like Flame Breathing did.

Just as he exhaled contentedly, a low chuckle reached his ears.

"Who's there?!" Haruto whipped around, heart pounding.

From the bushes emerged… a maniacal figure clutching two cleavers, his eyes bloodshot and his voice chilling.

"You're dead meat!"

"…Steel-forged Hotaru?! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!"

"Give me your blade! I'll forge you a new one! This sword isn't worthy of you!"