Chapter Text
It has taken Shinobu a long time to let go of her determination to be the one who’d kill the demon that murdered her sister.
Much of her life has been spent in preparation to avenge Kanae, through any means necessary. And now, that driving purpose that has consumed her so wholly for years is simply… gone.
Occasionally, she still sorts between the days she feels angry or aggrieved at having lost that opportunity for personal vengeance, and weighs them against the days she feels a numb sort of relief that the guilty demon is dead, no matter the details.
Nothing has changed the bigger picture of her life’s purpose, of course. Her will to defend humanity and eradicate demons is steadfast. Even so, moving forward has been a process filled with renewed grief, frustration, envy, self-reflection and acceptance.
Slowly, her physical and mental state have improved, now that she’s no longer dosing her own body with the wisteria poison.
She’s beginning to allow herself to envision scenarios in which she might be useful as more than poisoned bait. Not necessarily scenarios in which she will survive, granted. But, at least, options where her influence might stretch further than painting a target on her own back, and hoping it attracts the right demon.
Her mental clarity has also offered her the ability to better evaluate the poison she’s been concocting. The original formula would probably not have been strong enough to cause impactful damage to an Upper Rank.
The current formula’s potency is exponentially improved.
That combination of things has led her to where she now stands — having snuck into the sitting room for the inn’s bathhouse, in this little town in the mountains, the night before they will go to kill Upper Two — with Senjuro’s sword in her hands.
Shinobu pulls the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth, gently biting at it distractedly. This demon that Senjuro has sworn to kill is one of immense strength and danger. Shinobu has the power to sway that fight in his favor. Possibly, to change the course of everything. She has the ability to increase the chances that Senjuro will return home safely. Surely it must be the right choice to help him, if she has the ability to do so?
A droplet of opaque liquid falls to the metal. She lets it run down the blade, thinning as it stretches so it’ll dry faster. This is the right thing to do. Surely.
Yes, Senjuro is an impressive fighter. But this demon he intends to face… this demon he’s told her about, it is the third most powerful demon in existence. If it is strong enough to have usurped the one who’d killed Kanae? Shinobu shudders at the thought of Senjuro standing before such a creature.
So much will be lost if Senjuro falls. More than his life, more than his humanity, even. If Senjuro becomes a demon, as he’s incomprehensibly agreed to, morale will be lost. And Shinobu doesn’t need to have experienced a great war in her lifetime to know that if morale is lost, it could mean the difference between the success and failure of the entire war.
Another liquid droplet of her hopes falls to the metal blade.
Senjuro will hate her. He will feel like his chance for personal vindication has been stolen from him… just as she felt like hers was stolen from her. But clarity will come to him in time, surely, as it has come to her. Personal vengeance isn’t worth dying for. Not when you can save other lives by surviving. Not as long as the end goal is still met, and the demon is still dead, regardless of the means.
Her poison will help ensure Senjuro comes home.
Home to his father, and his friends. Home to the people who love him and the cause that needs his presence and strength.
Even if her poison is not strong enough to kill the Upper Moon on its own, surely, at least it will be strong enough to buy Senjuro an opportunity to behead the creature.
And the rest of them, she and the others, they will all be right there, in case anything goes wrong. That is an important reassurance also. Without the ability to test the poison on such a powerful demon, she has no idea how effective it will be.
Even so, Shinobu's hands shake with uncertainty, and another droplet of poison splatters against metal.
She assures herself that she is doing the right thing, even if it means Senjuro will never forgive her. Ideally, he will never even know she did this to begin with.
She turns the sword over, and another droplet spreads the full length of the weapon, gathering in the slightest ridges of the flame design, beading at the tip of the blade.
This is for the best.
When Shinobu is done, she sheathes the sword and places it back exactly where it had been, atop Senjuro’s folded clothes, before he finishes up in the bath.
On her walk to her room, while she readies herself for bed, and as she lies there, letting herself relax from their long trip and the stress that will come in just a few hours, she can only hope that if he does ever discover what she’s done, that in time, he will forgive her for cheapening his victory.
She hardly feels like she’s slept at all, when she wakes to the muffled but distinct sound of Shinazugawa speaking angrily in the room next to hers. She stirs, rolling over to try and figure out what he’s all bent out of shape about. It doesn’t always take much.
“Finally loud enough to wake you too, huh?” Uzui is propped up on an elbow on his futon, as though he’s been up for a while. His hair lays in perfectly-set order, and Shinobu wonders for a moment whether he’s already made a priority of combing it, or if he found the pillow too inferior for his head and hasn't even laid down to begin with.
Shinobu yawns and situates herself on her side, blinking through her sleepy haze. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently, Senjuro played us all for fools, and ran off to confront the demon alone anyway.”
Shinobu stops breathing, just in case the small movement of air into her lungs might’ve caused her to misunderstand the words. “What?”
“He’s gone. Shinazugawa tried to stop him, but he got away and ran off.”
“He went alone? To find the demon?” She finally takes an inhale. A shaky one. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
“Because I’m the Sound Hashira. And Shinazugawa is loud as shit.” He gestures like it should’ve been obvious. “I’ve heard every word of it.”
“How long ago?” Shinobu throws back the covers and gathers the clothing she’s slept in tightly around herself. When Uzui doesn’t answer fast enough, she repeats emphatically, “How long ago did he run away?”
“Uhh… Shinazugawa stomped up here twenty minutes ago, maybe? Why?”
“We have to stop him.” She grabs her change of clothes and rushes behind the privacy screen in their room. She doesn’t hear any movement or rustling from him and sticks her head out from behind the screen. “Now!”
“But why?” Uzui makes no effort to move. “If he’s this determined to go off on his own… I say we let him.”
“You don’t understand,” she hisses, hurriedly throwing on her clothes. “We have to be there! Get up! Go get the others up!” He begins to object again, and she cuts him off sharply. “Just do it! I’ll explain when we have everyone together.”
Once Uzui finally gets his ass up, he gets ready relatively quickly for such a high-maintenance man. Probably because his hair was already done. Still, he’s the last one to join them downstairs, where Shinobu has gathered them all. She doubts any of them have gotten a lick of worthwhile sleep.
Shinazugawa recounts the same story to them all: He’d had a feeling Senjuro would try to leave on his own, so he stood watch to stop him. He’d been right, they’d fought, but Senjuro had gotten away. Shinazugawa is covered in dirt. Blood runs a thin line down his chin from a split lip, and drips occasionally from a head wound. For Shinazugawa to look like this, the confrontation must’ve been quite a struggle.
She wonders, also, if Rengoku Shinjuro might’ve had a role in the fray. Shinazugawa has spent half the time shooting daggers at the retired Hashira, and the other half refusing to acknowledge him entirely.
Those things don’t matter, at the moment. She speaks up with what’s relevant. “We have to catch up with him.” Shinobu looks between Shinazugawa and Rengoku. “Which way did he run?”
Arms crossed, pointedly ignoring Shinazugawa, Rengoku answers. “South.”
*****
Akaza hops off the engawa, and waits, bobbing slightly on the balls of his feet in the middle of the clearing, while Senjuro reluctantly follows him.
Their reunion has not at all been what Akaza anticipated.
He feared most that Senjuro would bring an army of slayers in the daylight, and either burn his home down around him, or drag him out of it so he’d turn to ash in the sun. Aside from being a horrible death, it would mean they wouldn’t have this fight he’s looked forward to for years. At the very least, Akaza expected to be met with hatred, since Senjuro would inevitably have quickly learned the truth of who’d killed his brother.
He expected that Senjuro would see him exclusively for the monster he admittedly could sometimes be. As much as he dreaded those things though, Akaza would have accepted them. Hatred, disgust, or simply cold revenge… all would have been justified.
Instead of any of that, though, Akaza returned home to find a man who understands so deeply who he is at his core, that he’d come alone, injured, and slept at his doorstep, knowing that Akaza would not harm him. Senjuro brings with him trust, and respect, and those things mean more than Akaza ever could have begged the stars to give him.
It has all been more than he deserves, and he wishes he could better express his appreciation.
Words have never been Akaza’s strong suit, though. He’s said all he can say, and the note under the herb jar will have to carry the rest of his hopes.
Because, now … Now that all the truths have been laid bare, and he’s said all that he can … the other side of Akaza’s nature sings in anticipation. Finally, this day is here. Finally, he will get to test the mettle of everything Senjuro has become, and will get to see the fighting spirit he’s capable of.
He cannot wait to see what the Hashira have taught this human of his, and to help him exceed the next level of his limits.
First, though, forcing a calmness, Akaza schools his excitement. Formalities, the exchange of respect ... Such things are integral to a fighter’s honor and the validity of the battle.
Akaza smiles at his student, and bows into a deep display of respect. Akaza has much appreciation to show for the man Senjuro has become, and the honor that it is to have him as a final opponent. He clears everything from his mind, living in this moment of shared calm, as Senjuro mirrors the bow, rigid and serious.
The moment they stand upright and their eyes meet, Akaza’s feet leave the ground. Straight and fast, the shadows blur past him as he chooses the target for his first strike.
Before Senjuro’s sword is even halfway drawn, Akaza’s fist collides with his abdomen. The human is hurtled backwards through the trees, blazing a trail of broken branches and scattering leaves, fighting to keep his head down so he doesn’t lose it to a big, low-lying pine bough.
Akaza follows, streaking through the night, ready to deliver a second blow the moment Senjuro hits the ground.
This will be no easy victory for the human. If Senjuro isn’t strong enough to defeat any but the very best in the Infinity Castle on his own, then he’s not ready to step into it as the Hashira that Akaza trained.
Impressively, Senjuro maintains his bearings as his momentum slows. His feet meet the ground first, skidding to a halt on the muddy forest floor. The sword finally leaves its scabbard, ringing the reverberation of cold steel across the narrow space between them. Akaza closes in, too fast to fully recalculate.
Senjuro brings the blade up, powerful and precise, successfully defending himself.
Akaza’s fist and forearm split into two parts lengthwise, much as Kyojuro had done to him several years ago, and with the same weapon.
The blade is wickedly sharp. Sharper than it had been the last time Akaza was cut with it. And faster now, too, in Senjuro’s hands. “Ahh, yes.” Akaza laughs. “I remember this bla—” His smile falters.
His arm heals, but more sluggishly than it should.
Something feels … off.
There is a roll of inexplicable pain from places he’s not been struck, and a tingle of something he can’t quite place.
Akaza decides to ignore the strange occurrence, and grins again. He’s invested far too much in this fight to become distracted before it’s even begun. He intends to enjoy every moment of it. It will be his last, after all.
Senjuro, meanwhile, capitalizes on Akaza’s brief delay and charges forward, sword held low.
The look on his eyes is a beautiful thing. Kyojuro had been full of duty, passion and skill. But there is an edge to Senjuro that his brother had not possessed. A quickness to anger. A willingness to embrace aggression as a thing that is part of him. It is exciting and gorgeous and it calls to the creature within Akaza like a fellow being of the dark.
Suddenly, there is pain. And not because he’s been struck again.
Searing, burning pain roils through Akaza from out of nowhere just as he balls his fists and prepares to counter-attack the sword closing in on his chest.
Next, there is weakness.
Something snatches the strength straight out of his bones, and Akaza doesn’t even fully dodge the blade, much less land any attack of his own. The broad, arching swing rips a deep gash up the front of his chest, flaying an ill-matching stripe across the dark, inky patterns on Akaza’s skin.
Akaza stumbles, his coordination suddenly lost as he tries to recover from the failed strike.
Neither the pain nor the weakness subside, and his chest… it doesn’t even heal from the slash Senjuro delivered.
Akaza’s smile falls completely, joy overtaken by confusion. “What…” He stumbles again, practically unable to stay on his feet. From within the pain in his gut and his chest, he feels the sensation of gore rising up. The taste is foul in his mouth. Rotten, like he’s eaten something horribly putrid. Only distantly aware that Senjuro is also standing still, watching him, Akaza cups his hand below his chin as the flavor of it reaches his mouth. Dark, horrible liquid dribbles out into his palm. “… What is this?”
The need to empty his stomach doesn’t cease. The pain comes from everywhere all at once, and the weakness from nowhere specific at all. It’s as though his whole body has been contaminated. As though…
Akaza freezes where he stands, his brows drawing together slowly.
His heart pounds faster in his chest as he grasps for other explanations. There’s no way this is what he thinks it is. His eyes sting from a hidden irritation before his vision blurs at the edges, filling with more of the too-dark blood seeping out of him. A cough builds in his chest, and when it escapes, more gore splatters out with it.
But how?
Senjuro, having halted his attack completely, shakes his head. “I don’t… what is happening?” His fighting spirit flickers with uncertainty.
Horrid, rotten flavor rises up from Akaza’s stomach and lungs. He slaps his hand across his mouth, trying to contain it, but he retches and coughs, and the vile, black blood seeps out from the spaces between his fingers as he staggers backwards again, losing the strength in his knees.
Akaza’s eyes fall to the sword in Senjuro’s hands, and he finds himself unable to look away from it. Or unwilling, perhaps. Because as he forces his gaze upward, as his vision climbs the height of the man standing before him, he is forced to see the only possible explanation. He realizes, belatedly, that he’d even smelled it — that sickly-sweet scent of wisteria — during the first swing of the blade.
As his eyes eventually meet Senjuros, he finds an expression of confusion on his student’s face. The combination of things doesn’t make sense. “Why would you do this?” Akaza can’t help the question, even if it does make him sound like a fool. “Why would you do this to me?”
Senjuro's eyes widen, bewildered, as Akaza sways on his feet. “I haven’t done anything,” Senjuro lies, lowering his filthy weapon.
Blood runs down his forearm, dripping from his elbow, as Akaza gags. He laughs, because what the hell else can he do? “Poison?” He gurgles, as he looks from the blood in his hand, to the human who is not at all the man Akaza thought him to be just moments ago. “ … So this … THIS is what they’ve turned you into? A coward?” Blood pours from his nose and mouth, running down his chest. He stares at the pool of it in his hand, and he whispers mostly to himself, “I would never have guessed you’d be willing to sell your own integrity for an easier win.”
Akaza’s balance fails him and he falls to his knees.
“I don’t understand what is happening,” Senjuro says, shaking his head again. “I haven’t done anything!”
What an impressive liar he is.
Senjuro stands there, venomous weapon in hand, watching Akaza. He looks torn between the decision to watch his prey suffer, or make good on the opportunity he’s created for himself.
“I should’ve let you die.” Akaza slowly closes his hand around the pool of blood there, squishing narrow rivulets of black out from between his fingers. His eyes meet Senjuro’s again. “You’d have been better off dead than turned into a coward.”
Senjuro’s hands clench tighter on the handle of his weapon. Oh, how incredibly wrong Akaza has been. The muscles in Senjuro’s arms coil, readying to bring a spineless end to this facade of a battle. He lowers his sword and he takes several steps forward. His fighting spirit gutters to a low flicker as he approaches. The image is a sad, pathetic comparison to what Akaza had been so hopeful to see. He supposes a person doesn’t need fighting spirit, when they have no intent to fight.
Senjuro opens his mouth to say something. An excuse, probably. A goodbye, maybe.
Akaza doesn’t want to hear it.
Before Senjuro gets it out of his mouth, multiple things happen in very fast succession.
A sword splits the air just to Senjuro’s right. It is so close, that for the briefest, absurd moment, Akaza’s first instinct is to protect his human. The sword isn’t aiming for Senjuro though, it’s aiming for Akaza’s throat. Still, it is mere centimeters from Senjuro, and he has to recoil away so it doesn’t slice his shoulder clean off. Because of the surprise and the poison, Akaza’s attempt to dodge the weapon comes a moment too late, and his reaction ends up as something closer to simply falling backwards as the sword closes in on his neck.
He’s not fast enough to dodge the contact entirely, and a splash of dark blood sprays from his throat as it’s torn open by the blade.
A white-haired man trails the weapon, his face an electrifying combination of determination and madness; His spirit, a thundering typhoon of hatred.
A Hashira, Akaza deduces.
So, not only has Senjuro come with a poisoned blade, he has indeed come with reinforcements after all.
Aggression exudes from the white-haired man, and it reignites the same in Akaza, clashing against his fury in a boom of ferocious intent as Akaza pulls at the remaining strength in his body and rises to a crouched defensive stance, eager to meet this new opponent.
The man lands on his feet just past them, a blur of uninterrupted motion as he launches again, already dangerously close, twisting his sword back to deliver another strike. The man is incredibly fast. And he carries his blade with intimate familiarity and accuracy. He is not one to be underestimated. Blood coating his teeth as he snarls up at the rapidly encroaching opponent, Akaza clenches his fist. Ice crackles as it reinforces the punch that will meet this slayer’s blistering momentum.
Very possibly, if this man’s sword and Akaza’s fist both find their targets, the clash will kill the both of them.
Akaza accepts the risk.
Not five steps behind the white-haired man’s attack, a second newcomer races forward, this one with black hair and a mismatched Haori. He is poised to finish cutting through anything left undone by the first man’s blade.
Just as Akaza’s fist sails forward and the man is midair in his launch, Senjuro throws his shoulder into the Hashira as he closes in, intercepting his trajectory. Akaza and the man are both forced to abandon their intended blows for fear of killing Senjuro between them. The Hashira spins away from the demon, sliding on his feet on the pine needles. He screams at Senjuro, furious, “What the hell are you doing?!” The second incoming man skids to a confused stop mid-stride, as the first finds his footing and launches forward again before he even finishes the question.
From the opposite side, cutting through the forest like a flaming arrow, a man Akaza recognizes as Senjuro’s father rushes toward them, his sword an arc of blazing fury. “Move, Senjuro!” He roars as he closes in on Akaza.
From above, like an arrow cut from glass, a woman splits the air, rocketing down through the trees.
Behind them all, like a final, strategic wall of force, yet another man, a much larger man with an eye-patch and only one hand, walks forward. He wields two blades, connected by a chain, and he swings them in a circle, ready to attack or defend if Akaza makes it past everyone else’s attack.
Akaza has never been confronted by so many skilled fighters at once, and a furious, rabid sort of excitement crackles through him.
He is surrounded by them, on all sides and above.
And Senjuro’s poison is beginning to wear off.
“Stop!” Senjuro shrieks at them all. “No!” He puts himself in the most dangerous position possible: Between Akaza and five worthy opponents who are closing in fast. Senjuro brings his sword up, like he is prepared, inexplicably, to stand his ground in defense of the demon he’s also trying to kill. Akaza has no idea why. He will gladly take all of these humans on though, and either kill them or die in battle.
As he’d hoped to do all along.
At Senjuro’s interruption, the woman abandons her trajectory, as does the man with the black hair. Senjuro knocks his father’s sword away with his own, but not before Akaza’s face is split completely in two.
Not a blink after the first sword cuts the hair at his forehead, the white-haired man’s weapon rips cleanly through Akaza’s neck without stopping.
There is a blur of activity and a cacophony of yelling voices and the sound of rushing wind, and in the chaos of it, it takes Akaza a moment to realize that his visual reference is no longer on his shoulders. It all catches up to him slowly, as he watches where Senjuro is standing over the rest of him, sword poised like he means to defend Akaza’s body.
Unable to act, viewing it all from a literally disembodied state, everything slows dramatically in Akaza’s mind. It’s all a splotchy blur of chaos.
Senjuro is yelling. The other humans are all yelling back at him. Akaza can’t track any of what is being said.
None of it makes any sense.
Akaza is so confused. So incredibly confused.
Within the calm of his helpless bewilderment, Akaza feels the sort of tug someone might give a distracted toddler’s hand. Distantly, he becomes aware that death is winding around him like a soft, guiding grasp reaching up from the underworld. It pulls at him, a gentle tether, promising peace and comfort, tempting him with calm words and an affectionate warmth. The voices are so soft. The temptation is so strong.
Through sheer force of resolve, Akaza digs his fingers into the cold, wet ground, and yanks himself back from the pull of the afterlife.
He will not die like this. He refuses.
He will NOT be killed by a single slash that landed only because he was already weakened by a coward’s weapon.
At the very least, he will not be the only one to die here today.
Summoning every once of his willpower and drive, Akaza punches at the limits of his own capabilities, and commands himself to heal.
He drags himself further from death, hearing the tethers to the underworld creak and snap over the shouting of the humans around him. He feels himself lurching away from it as his own cells bubble forth, healing even when they should not. With immense determination, he rises to his feet, defying his own biology to rebuild that which he is not ready yet to lose.
One eye materializes, and through it, he watches the enemies surrounding him.
*****
Akaza would rarely consider himself truly angry.
He fights because it is a joy to fight. He fights because there are few things he loves more than feeling his bare fist collide with flesh and bone. He adores that raw, dangerous dance with his opponent… the exchange of giving and receiving pain, the rush of being covered in one-another’s blood.
In his demon lifetime, he has embraced that joy; Delighting in battles with the strong, while thinking nothing of killing off the weak, disgusted by their inferiority.
Once the memories of his human life returned to him, he was able to look back at his existence and see that his love of fighting had been rooted in a desire to protect, to grow stronger so that he could defend the weak from the wicked. Muzan had come along, and what a sly reaper of souls he is. Instead of unearthing Akaza’s love of fighting, he’d chopped that well-sewn drive just above the ground, and grafted a whole different purpose atop it. He used the roots that had once fed a noble cause to instead fuel a forest of destruction.
In the time since then … in the clarity and memories of it all … regret and shame have become Akaza’s closest companions.
Alone with too much history and nowhere to put his fists, he spent much time reflecting on the most recent few years.
The memory of Senjuro on that rooftop, under the fireworks, has resurfaced often. Senjuro’s friends are strong. The one, in particular. As much as Akaza hates the guy, he can’t deny being in awe of the fighting spirit of the kid with the Hanafuda earrings. His capabilities are immense.
He and Senjuro stood close on that rooftop. Even at a distance in the dark, Akaza could see the magnetism between them. Together, they could become an incredible force to be reckoned with.
That memory of watching Senjuro enjoy the beauty of being alive, became a reminder. Even in the grip of Muzan’s control, even within his centuries of horrible actions, Akaza had done something that wasn’t purely evil. He’d taken his own wrongdoing — the life he’d stolen and battered for his own enjoyment — and even when he couldn’t understand why he was doing it, he’d prioritized that life above his selfishness.
In doing so, in choosing not to make Senjuro into a demon, but instead carrying him to the slayers and ensuring he lived, he thinks he might’ve done something even bigger. He might’ve added a whole new spark to the fuel of his master’s opponent.
And that little seed of something good, he planted it in a plan, and he sewed it himself.
He thought… he actually believed, in the depths of whatever remains of his soul, that he had found the opportunity to take one of his wrongdoings, and turn it into something genuinely good.
He’d wanted to help these people. He’d wanted to make them stronger, because he thought their cause was one of honor and nobility. With the death he planned, he would have accomplished that twice-over: Senjuro would be the Hashira he deserved to be, a powerful asset to the Corps … and Muzan would lose a cornerstone of his own forces.
He planned it all so carefully. He’d worked so hard to be sure it was all arranged. Everything prepared and in order, just as it should be.
He hadn’t expected Senjuro’s tears. His bow of complete deference, his plea to find another way. He hadn’t expected an embrace of genuine affection, or an exchange of mutual appreciation. Senjuro had given him so much more than he ever could have asked for… more than he deserved.
Or, so he’d thought.
Never has someone so convincingly lied to him, or skillfully fooled him. How… how, had Senjuro stood in Akaza’s home, claimed that their deal meant something to him, professed to not want to kill him at all! … and all the while, with poison painted on the blade at his side?
Only a few moments ago, Akaza truly and wholeheartedly believed that Senjuro had returned with honor. For the right reasons.
And now?
All of Akaza’s best-laid plans. His work. His intentions. His preparedness to die so that Senjuro could grow. Every bit of it.
… Ruined.
It isn’t rage that fuels the power that begins to crackle at Akaza’s feet.
It is grief.
… Because against all he’d wanted to believe in, all of his hopes… Muzan had been right.
Humans truly are no better than demons. They cheat and they lie and when they cannot win based on strength or skill, they use poisons and deceit. They kill who and what they want to kill and they take whatever they feel that they’re entitled to.
Akaza is surrounded by enemies on all sides. He is angry. He is in pain. But most of all, he is heartbroken.
In the midst of chaos around him, Akaza calls every ounce of his power to his core, and lets it begin to build.
It roils and churns within him, calling up from the depths of his spirit. Fists are his weapon of choice but that is only because he chooses to land one strike of his energy at a time. Each punch is like a scoop of snow that’s been pressed into snowball, taken from a whole mountain covered in white.
He is capable of an avalanche.
As power builds within him as its epicenter, it crackles with the haunting, hollow sounds of ice under pressure. It swirls and splinters as his blood art pounds it into shape, a whole glacier being compressed into a snowball. He will blow it all outward at once, in a massive bomb of frozen energy.
The poison on Senjuro’s blade is very strong. Akaza is slowly recovering from it but the pain of all these blows lingers, and so, he is still unable to properly heal. With the unleashing of all of his power in one explosion, he, too, will be torn apart, and will die along with everyone else.
So be it, he decides.
Akaza spares a moment to hope that Yuki will find a way out of the house and survive on her own, and another to apologize to the memory of Koyuki, who very well may have been the only truly innocent, good person Akaza has ever known in his existence. As for the rest of it, he will have not a single regret about taking the lives of every person present, and dying right alongside them.
He tells himself this, even as tears of doubt wash the thick, dark blood from his burning eyes.
He tells himself he hasn’t unleashed his power because it needed time to build, and not because his stupid, weak heart holds onto the tether of that power, crippled by the thought of letting it all blow to ruin.
Akaza takes one final look at the poisoned blade in Senjuro’s hand, closes his eyes, and lets the tether slip free from his exhausted fingers.
In the same moment he makes this final decision, something entirely unexpected happens.
Senjuro jumps. It isn’t an attack, or, Akaza thinks, an effort to save his friends. Surely it is the opposite of an attempt to save himself. He flings himself onto Akaza, wrapping his arms around him tightly in the sort of hug with which lovers greet a partner they feared was lost forever. The act makes no sense logically, or strategically. Senjuro whispers, simply, “Don’t. Please.”
Akaza thrusts his hand back into the churning, building, bomb of his own power, and grabs madly for that tether binding his capability, reaching desperately to contain its impact. He is too late to stop it entirely.
A shockwave of energy explodes from Akaza, slamming immediately into Senjuro. He crumples from the impact, no less than if he’d been hit by a train, and is sent flying out of Akaza’s arms.
If it had been only the two of them, Akaza could have intercepted his fall. He tries, and a sword climbs his back, splitting him from his lower rib cage, clean to his shoulder. He rounds on the humans, prepared to rip every one of them into pieces.
A sword comes for his throat, and Akaza’s hands shoot out, gripping each side of the blade between his palms. Metal shatters like brittle glass as he snaps the weapon without sustaining a single cut.
A second man comes from beside the first, fueled by a familiar fighting spirit. Senjuro’s father. The man side-steps the Hashira with the broken sword, and in a blink, Akaza is poised, perfectly, to kill him.
The pain and weakness from the poison has finally almost fully subsided.
Unencumbered by the slog of it, Akaza is granted complete clarity of every physical action, even if he cannot possibly make sense of the chaos of all of this; The madness of fury and confusion and hurt and disbelief. Drawn like a magnet to the seething spirit, Akaza’s fist closes in on the determined, snarling face of the man who’s fathered two of the most impressive fighters Akaza has ever had the pleasure of battling. The trajectory of fist and face are set. His punch will blow a hole clean through Rengoku Shinjuro’s skull.
Senjuro will never forgive him for this.
Why does he care?
Roaring as his own fury collides against his immense restraint, Akaza opens his hand wide, and instead of punching a hole through Rengoku’s head, he takes the man by his face, and flings him into the man beside him, the one whose sword he shattered.
A different sword, the one attached to a twin of itself by a chain, splits the air in front of Akaza’s face, taking his teeth with the broader base of the thing before he can dodge it.
It is a coordinated attack, he realizes, the moment he feels steel sink into the space between his left shoulder blade and spine. It pierces, less like an attempt to slice him open and more like a giant needle has been shoved into him, sinking deep into his rib cage. Akaza arches his back, attempting to free himself from the sharp jab of the weapon. It is a narrow little thing though, like the stinger of an insect, and his motion has the opposite effect.
The sword breaks at the line of Akaza’s shoulder, leaving half or more of it buried deep inside of him.
And then in the very next moment, he feels it.
Blood bubbles up in a flood from his lungs, black and acrid and rotten. Pain grips him in a vice of relentless, crushing pressure and his coordination is entirely lost to the overwhelming wave of weakness.
The poison on Senjuro’s blade had merely been a taste. A droplet compared to the flood of filth this woman has stuck into him. He isn’t healing. The pain only grows worse as the moments pass. His strength is fading as if the hole she jabbed through him is allowing it to fall straight out of him. “You bitch,” Akaza snarls with absolute venom as he turns, building the momentum for another strike that will obliterate her.
Before he’s able to take another step, much less release a burst of energy, the poison roils through him with renewed intensity, like a whole different formula of fresh savagery, and Akaza falls to his knees.
The world quickly spins, loud, disorienting, too fast for him to even draw a breath. It’s like his head has been thrust into fast-moving water. The pain is so deeply-seated that it leaves no room for anything else. He cannot breathe, he cannot hear through the rush of it.
He doesn’t need to see the sword closing in on his neck. He feels it coming.
Fingers digging into the mud in a failing attempt to move, to dodge the speed of death closing in on him, Akaza falls to his chest.
When his head meets the muddy forest floor, in the blurry, swirling distance, he can see Senjuro’s motionless form.
“Wait, don’t!” The woman says, to someone other than Akaza. He feels the rapidly approaching threat slide to a halt. “I wonder if the poison alone can kill him. It could be valuable to know.”
Choking on his own blood, Akaza can only wheeze and gurgle. His strength is gone. Depleted.
Someone kneels beside Senjuro. His father, Akaza thinks, though his vision is too warped by the burning ache of the poison to be truly sure. Akaza tries to yell at the man not to touch him, but it comes out only as a sputtering mess of black blood.
A blunt force collides with the center of Akaza’s back, driving him deeper into the mud. The weight remains there, and he deduces it must be someone’s foot. The voice above him comes sharp and angry. “Fuck that.” Akaza can barely see the man’s fighting spirit in his periphery, but it radiates with a swirling, massive force. “Kill him while he’s down.” Of all the dumb thoughts, Akaza wishes he could’ve fought this Hashira on remotely equal ground.
The people above him argue about killing him. The world swims around him, a mass of fading colors and wavering shapes.
Akaza slides his face across the mud, trying to clear his vision. It doesn’t work but he squints hard, determined to assess Senjuro, and blinks enough clarity to watch the older Rengoku attempt to wake his son.
Senjuro isn’t moving. He appears to be bleeding from his nose and mouth.
Akaza has spent more time doctoring Senjuro than any of these people surely have. He stretches out a hand, trying to crawl out from beneath the pressure of the foot. He can help. His saliva. And the herbs, in the jar in the house. Gripping his fingers around the rough bark of a root, he pulls. It gains him no ground at all.
A sword spears into his back, thrusting clean through him and into the earth below. “You’re not going anywhere,” the voice above him sneers.
The oldest Rengoku holds Senjuro in his arms, and he looks up, around at his group of friends, eyes wide with worry. “I can’t wake him up.”