Chapter Text
Urokodaki Sakonji used to have students, just as any Hashira would.
Back when he still lived at the Water Estate, under the Oyakata-sama of that era, five students trained under his tutelage.
He remembered all of them, of course. He couldn't ever forget.
Kawahara Isao, a brave, outspoken child, with hair that never seemed to bend to any comb or tie, wild just like him. All the twigs in his hair made him smell like fresh pine.
Fujimoto Aki, a gentle girl, who always did the Water Breathing forms perfectly, a little shy when the time to fight actually came. Floral notes of cherry blossom followed her everywhere.
Hoshino Sayo and Hoshino Haru, a pair of twins who liked to prank him by changing clothes and personalities—he never admitted he could tell them apart by the spunky, citrus smell they both exuded.
Mizuno, who never gave him a first name, the oldest at seventeen years old, rounding up the group with a warm, gentle personality. He so loved to drink genmaicha in the afternoons.
He had such high hopes for them. For each and every one of them. And in turn, they placed their trust in him.
However, not even one of them returned from the final selection.
Sakonji was confused. He'd been far away on a mission by the time his crow, Shimazaki, had flown to his shoulder and whispered the news. He had refused to believe it.
At least, until he returned to the estate.
"I'm back."
No response. The attendants of the estate all regarded him with pitying gazes and lowered eyes, proper and professional, but Sakonji didn't need that polite distance, he needed his children to come out.
"Isao?"
Nothing. His room was as messy as when he'd left it before going on that mission, collected nuts and rocks and pretty leaves on corners in an organized pattern only he could decipher. His Water Breathing technique had been akin to a raging river, or a wild waterfall, its intensity never going down. There was no way he had been lost.
"Aki?"
Nothing. Her room still smelt like flowers, the embroidered pillows she liked to make in her spare time were all put on the futon, like a barrier from the world. Her hair ribbons were neatly arranged on the wall...she'd taken the green one that day. Her Water Breathing was gentle and steady, strong even in moments where she doubted her own ability. She couldn't have been lost.
"Sayo? Haru?"
Nothing. Their room had no changes, their futons were pushed together like always, and a group of yosegi puzzle boxes were strewn about, half-finished. They had been talking about competing to see who solved the most when they came back. Their Water Breathing attacks were always coordinated to perfection, each of them complimenting the other and making the other stronger. It was impossible for them to have been lost.
"Mizuno?"
Nothing. His room was tidy and arranged precisely how he liked it, his prized tea set stacked neatly at one corner. It had been a gift from Sakonji after he mastered the tenth form. His collection of temari were organized in a pyramid, the ones he liked to perform difficult tricks with to impress the younger ones. His Water Breathing was steady and disciplined, like a fresh river. He mastered the forms faster than any other. There was no chance he had been lost.
There simply...couldn't be any chances.
Not his children.
Not his students.
They protected each other, he was sure of it. Mizuno would never leave the younger ones alone. Aki was skilled in medicine. The twins were so good at coming up with plans, and Isao would have kept their spirits up.
There...
There was just no way that they...
"I'm truly sorry, Urokodaki-sama," an attendant dared to whisper. Sakonji's heart raced under the mask, and he took a deep breath through his nose, both to calm himself down, and to catch any trace of a joke or malice coming from his helpers.
But there was nothing except regret, sympathy, and bone deep sincerity. The children had all been close with them as well.
Had been.
Past tense.
Sakonji could only keep himself together long enough to attend Oyakata-sama's summons, and then, under the master's sorrowful eyes, he had finally given in to tears.
.
.
.
Sakonji tried again some years later, because life kept moving on, and demons kept taking lives, and children kept losing families, and so his estate was alight with laughter and company once more.
It had torn him apart to empty his children's rooms, to erase them like they were never there, only a faint memory, and he was glad to have sent the attendants away, for surely the Water Hashira sobbing, broken, every time he caressed a hair bow or packed a teacup would make for a sorry, disappointing sight—but the crushing loneliness he felt almost had him wishing he asked someone to stay. These rooms had been kept as they were from the day the students had died, after all, in a desperate attempt to hold on to the memories, the scent, the liveliness in the estate...Sakonji didn't want to pretend they'd never entered his life at all.
But the smell wasn't the same, clogged with dust and stale air inside their little rooms of the past.
This task was his to go through, however, only his burden to bear, and the cruel path of a demon slayer kept moving forward at breakneck speed, no matter how he wished otherwise.
He put more strength into his blade. More speed into his footwork.
Burned through his mercy until the demons didn't even see him coming, until their eyes went glassy with death.
And always, always, returning to an estate that smelt like his beloved students, with not one of them in sight any longer.
However, Nakajima Tōru needed a place to stay, and so he cleared the rooms.
Tōru did not speak. He never had, from the first moment he had set foot into the estate, from the very moment half of his mother's corpse was left hanging by a branch for him to find, and all throughout his training, until the very last day. He memorized the katas and patterns of attacks flawlessly, and though his eyes were always dull with grief, and his scent bitter and dark, he was kinder than most adult slayers, the kind of child who would take a dried out worm from the path and put it safely under the dirt.
Okabe Kinu never minded Tōru's silence. She bridged the gap of his pain with food. Sakonji never had to worry about going hungry with her around, because she always insisted on helping the attendants cook, even making her own portions and handing them around to him and the other students in between practice. Sakonji used to joke that he could see his stomach filling up ever since she came. She always laughed and told him she could count his ribs, her warm, butterscotch scent lighting up in mirth.
Tōru and Kinu were often seen together, eating the girl's latest creation, the eldest from a family of bakers whose house had been burnt down to the ground. Kinu didn't care about Tōru's inability to speak, just as he didn't care about the painful burns that covered the left side of her face, wrinkling her bright grin.
Tachibana Ren wasn't nearly as social, however, no matter how much Sakonji tried to integrate him. The last to arrive, he seemed to decide there was no place for him inside his fellow student's bubble, and so he poured all of his rage and frustration into cutting up every training dummy Sakonji had in store. Ren was...difficult. A mirror of himself, in how grief consumed them both and left them a charred, hollow husk. Sakonji's words never seemed to reach him. His advice went unheard more often than not. Ren was a whirlwind of a child, a storm caged in a wiry body, in scarred hands that guarded the jade pendant he always wore around his neck with the fierceness of a tiger, daring anyone to touch.
Its significance was never made known to Sakonji, nor was his past, and he didn't ask.
He was too busy suppressing the pain as he realized the last of his former students' scents finally disappeared from the estate.
But when the time came for the final selection once more, Sakonji couldn't help his stomach from twisting up in knots.
They'll be fine, he thought, as he packed Tōru's bag, full of food and healing herbs and every little necessity he thought they might need.
They'll be fine, he thought, as Kinu stepped forward and hugged him, placing a small cookie in his hand, shaped like a fox's head, matching with her mask.
They'll be fine, he thought, as Ren gave a curt nod goodbye, thumbing his pendant as if to calm himself, accepting the fox mask he'd carved with something softer in his eyes.
...
They'll be fine, he pleaded, asked, prayed, as their little backs disappeared through the wilderness, Kinu's chatter accompanying them until he couldn't hear nor smell them anymore.
This time, Sakonji didn't go to any missions. He stayed at the estate, playing solo board games and looking at the wall, through it, all the way to the rooms he wished he wouldn't have to clean again. In his kindness, Oyakata-sama had let him stay home, though Sakonji half suspected that apart from being sympathetic of his fears, he was being mindful of his advancing age. Kinu wasn't wrong—he wasn't as strong as he used to be. He'd been made a Hashira well into his adulthood, and the vigor and strength that characterized him were beginning to dull little by little. Simply one of the many things that put humans at a disadvantage. Years kept creeping up on them, hollowing their bones, bending their backs, until they were forced to leave their post and pass the cursed baton to some other unsuspecting fool.
And all the while, demons kept thriving, their power only growing, centuries of experience on their belt.
It angered him. It wasn't fair.
It was an uphill battle. Sakonji knew this.
He knew this, and still...and still...he trusted his students. They had to be fine. They were strong. They would be alright.
This time, they would.
Shimazaki kept on working whenever he wasn't in active duty, however, merely flying up with a caw, and so he was completely alone while waiting for that hellish week to go by. The attendants skirted around him like always, waiting with bated breath, waiting to see if this time it could be different, waiting to see if the Water Hashira would lose another student...
...And Sakonji kept working on not freaking out.
He wasn't the type of man that suffered in isolation, in fact, he did appreciate his moments of peace and quiet from time to time, but he wished he could call someone to come wait with him anyway. The attendants and lower ranks' company was comforting, but the distance between them was painfully noticeable: it was clear in the way they spoke with their eyes lowered, stiff and bowing more than was necessary, polite words ready on their tongues. Hashira could be intimidating, Sakonji remembered his days as a trainee very well, but he conceded perhaps the bright red tengu mask he wore since the beginning of his career wasn't exactly helping his case. Maybe he should lift it to seem less scary, but...
"What is this? Has a Buddha come to behead me?"
"Such a face is wasted on a murderer like you."
"Aw, does losing your comrades bring you that much pain? Cry for me, then, boy!"
"Did you know, slayer? That expression of yours will only get sadder. I look forward to seeing it again in ten years."
...Well, it was his own issue.
That being the case, only the other slayers of his rank would be eligible to accompany him in any sort of vigil. However, the Hashira weren't exactly close—they weren't unfriendly, by any means, they did have their outings and meetings, but he wouldn't consider any of them for something as delicate and private as this. Furthermore, Sakonji couldn't in good conscience take someone else away from their duties simply to quell the nerves that shouldn't even be there in the first place.
You are a Hashira. Act like it.
So he trained.
He trained until he could no longer lift his sword, and he ate because he promised Kinu he would, and he made sure Ren's room was properly aired out, and fed the stray dog Tōru had made friends with earlier that month.
Tried to distract himself. Failed.
Tried to sleep. Four hours were his maximum.
And as the ticking of the clock burned hour after hour, at the end of the week, Sakonji found himself at the doors of his estate, dressed and ready, waiting to see his students arriving back home, rooms done, meals prepared.
And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And the sun went down behind the trees, and came up once more from behind the mountain, and all that came back was his crow, Shimazaki, with a letter between his feet and a look of pity that had Sakonji scrambling to hold on to the wall.
.
.
.
Again. His students had been lost, again.
Sakonji couldn't understand. What happened? What had gone wrong?
He heard them in the halls, the conversations of passerby, attendants and lower ranked demon slayers who either didn't care or lacked the cautiousness to lower their voices enough that a trained Hashira ear couldn't pick up on it.
"...died, again. That's some bad luck, huh?"
"...believe not even one returned..."
"...easiest technique, but they couldn't even..."
"...sama hasn't come out of the estate in weeks..."
"...knew that girl, she was always kind, but..."
"...always, we know Water Breathing is never enough..."
"...waste of Urokodaki-sama's guidance, if I had been his student, I..."
"...missions, but they've been piling up since..."
"...day and age, we can't afford to train such..."
Sakonji couldn't block the whispers out, not even if he tried. And more telling than their words, were their scents, when they passed in front of his door or the path to the estate.
Pity, sympathy, anger, irritation, fear, exhaustion, prudence, grief, mockery.
All of them, swirling together in a mess of thoughts and emotions that entered Sakonji's brain like a malicious worm and wouldn't leave.
Sakonji thought about what he should do, while he gave himself, selfishly, a few weeks to mourn.
He thought about Tōru, grieving and quiet, as he attended the private, monthly tsuya the Corps held for their fallen comrades. The number of the dead was high enough to keep these going month after month, and it broke Sakonji's heart to see between the bodies the young hands, cheeks that still held the softness of youth, bright eyes forever closed. Seldom did one find adult slayers dead. But these teenagers...these children, they laid there, forever unmoving, unfeeling. The nōkanshi tried their best to present the bodies as proper and clean as possible, but they couldn't hide the most noticeable blemishes the closed caskets represented. Too disfigured. Unrecognizable. No legs. Mangled necks.
And his students, only present via simple but elegant wooden ihai that he burned his stare through for the entirety of the ceremony. No bodies. No casket.
His precious students, reduced to a cold rectangle.
For the second time. What a joke.
Sakonji didn't want to go through this again. What had gone wrong?
He thought about Kinu, hopeful and generous, when the sōgi came around. His dark clothes meshed flawlessly with the other attendees, the heavy, all-encompassing incense in the room making him dizzy. But Sakonji would rather clog his senses with sandalwood and agarwood than choke on the smell of subtly rotting bodies, of oils and grinding bones, of silent grief and anger, of every cut off dream and hope of the ones around him. So he inhaled deep and slow, and stood just next to the burning smoke, letting it penetrate into his eyes and dry them so much he couldn't even spill a tear—one of the only occasions where he didn't wear his mask. The priest's droning prayers washed over him like a gentle river, allowing Sakonji's mind to wander as much as he liked before he inevitably found himself alone once more.
This had all happened because of him. He wasn't a good enough teacher.
Water Breathing was the most versatile of styles, and yet he had sent them out unprepared. He misjudged his capabilities as a master. As a Hashira.
It hadn't been the kids' fault. They were brave and strong, and he was sure they could have survived.
It had been Sakonji, the one who had led them to their deaths with gaps in their knowledge. He needed to be better.
He thought about Ren, angry and stubborn, as the cremation ended. The smell of burning flesh was unbearable to him, but he declined the assistant's offers to go out for some air, standing firmly with the others in the last stages of their monthly funerals. Distance wouldn't help anyway. Distance never helped. The sickly sweet smell of death would still follow him out the door, it would stay clinging to his mourning clothes unless he burned them, it would sink into his pores and his hair and Sakonji could never escape the fact that he had lost so many precious lives. So what did it matter, really, staying? His pain could have been nothing compared to what his students surely felt in their last moments. Had they felt abandoned? Had they cursed Sakonji between their teeth as they were devoured by those filthy beasts? He almost hoped that had been the case. He didn't deserve their affection or their trust after failing them in such a way.
He should have been there.
Sakonji left only after Oyakata-sama did.
He fell into a silence that he could tell many disapproved of, but he did his best to keep going, keep fighting, keep beheading demon after disgusting demon, all in slow hopes that their animalistic cries when they dissolved could reach his students, wherever they were. He hoped they could see each death, each blood splatter, and know Sakonji was doing this all for them.
Demons, truly, were the scum of the earth.
.
.
.
Sakonji wouldn't accept more than one student at a time after that.
Whoever he took in would receive his full attention, his full capabilities, his full harshness in teaching, every trick and move he knew, he would give it all to that person, all in hopes they would be better prepared.
The years passed, and yet, Sakonji's guilt had never been absolved.
It was his duty, as a Hashira, to do better. To be stricter. Harder. To not give way to even an inch of a mistake in their movements, all so they might survive.
Sakonji pulled away, after that.
Sugawara Fumi didn't get his praise easily. She had to work for it, train from sunrise to sundown, until her hands blistered, until her knees shook, until her hair stuck to her face as she was bathed in sweat after each bout of sparring, and yet, Sakonji didn't let up. At sixteen, her power was impressive to look at, but it wasn't enough, Sakonji knew it would never be enough, and so he worked her to the bone, until she almost passed out, until her eyes found his with expectation and hope, and he would mutter a 'well done' so quiet he doubted she could hear it.
She did hear it.
And every time, she straightened and smiled like a flower who had been watered for the first time in months. He hated it.
He hated that he couldn't pretend to be as emotionless as the tengu mask first had others believe.
He hated that he couldn't keep his distance.
He hated that she hadn't been simply another student, like he wished, and against his own empty promises, he found himself noticing her quirks and preferences, her likes and dislikes, each of them as easy as he had noticed with his other children.
Chosen from the best of the candidates the Corps had to offer, she was swift and strong, and coincidentally, loved foxes as much as Sakonji did. She had been instantly taken with the masks he carved, from the moment he had bestowed her own upon her hands, and day after day, asked if he could teach her how to make them.
He said no.
Sakonji didn't ask her her favorite food, or her favorite color, or her past, or even her first name. He didn't ask her her favorite animal, or what vegetable she disliked, or what her dreams had been the night before.
No, whatever he didn't know about her, she told him herself, and whatever she didn't tell him, he noticed, traitorously, on her smell, or her hair, or the songs she hummed under her breath.
Fumi, clearly, did not care about his boundaries.
She talked his ear off all the time, asking inane questions, or telling some story, and without fail, each time the one-sided conversation came to a close, she would ask him the same thing.
"May I carve with you next time, sensei?"
...Sakonji never told her she could.
But she did it anyway. She never took her mask off, and she didn't sit with him, but when he was obsessively running the knife over the wood, she would sit outside the room, peeking in without once trying to actually hide herself, watching his hands with attention that was only normally reserved for training, and copying his movements on her own block of hinoki wood, probably stolen deftly from his own pile.
He tried to pretend he didn't care.
But when she presented him with the finished product—a misshapen, cracked fox mask—he couldn't hide the low, instinctive chuckle that slipped out of him.
The fox looked nothing like the animal it was supposed to be, one ear shorter than the other, the paint job sloppy and its expression so disgruntled it looked more like a war deity than anything else.
And yet, it was hers. And yet, he could smell the intent and gratitude on it.
And yet, Fumi's whole expression brightened when she heard him laugh.
...
...
...That mask was now nothing more than a memento, just like his other items.
Because Fumi met the same cursed fate of the other ones.
She had always been headstrong, and though she was kind, he could see she was getting tired of all the—admittedly, unnecessary—training he was making her do. As she loved to talk, she talked to him again, about over-protectiveness, and time running out, and that she would never know if she was ready to formally enter the demon slayer world and get stronger if he didn't let her go.
...
Let her go?
Look where that got her.
Another ihai in his grotesque collection.
...Sakonji was getting tired.
.
.
.
Ishida Kōji was the first one where Sakonji thought something might be wrong outside of his poor teaching tactics.
The boy who was scared of centipedes, the one who still liked having stories read to him at night, had been at the end of Sakonji's career as Hashira. A loud, bright boy he was, seeking his approval even though he tried to look the other way. He didn't know as much about him as the others, and told himself it was for the best. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Even when the boy's sad eyes at his curt answers dug into his heart like daggers.
The more he was a stranger to him, the easier it would be on his heart.
But it was still painful, in a dull kind of way, when the knews arrived yet again.
Another death. Another loss.
Sakonji stared at the letter for a long time, and wondered—why?
Why was this happening?
Why were all his children dying?
He'd tried so hard to train them perfectly so they would have a chance at coming out alive, a chance at becoming slayers...and yet.
And yet—!
Sakonji passed Kōji's mourning period with a stone face under his mask and the same soft, weak heart he'd tried to get rid of.
Had he done something? Was this some sort of punishment on Sakonji, for a sin he'd commited in some past life? Why were all his students ripped from him? If fate wished to punish him, then he'd accept every bit of torture it had in store, with only the wish that it would leave his students alone. They hadn't done anything wrong. They didn't deserve this.
They still died, one after the other.
Sakonji put on his zōri and his haori, and ran.
He ran until he reached the final selection exam site, a night before the week where another group of bright-eyed, hopeful children would be fed to the maws of monsters, and demanded to see the supervisor, knowing there would be a safe-house or shack somewhere. The young Kakushi and attendants paled at seeing him, stiffly bowing to the Water Hashira and retreating like scurrying mouses to inform the assigned slayer, one or two staying behind to lead him. When they arrived, the man greeted him, sitting behind a dark western desk. Sakonji hadn't seen him before, though the supervisors changed each selection season, so he supposed that was to be expected. Still, his smell, unafraid and unsurprised by his tengu mask, skin dark with the unforgiving sun and rough with the years, told him this was probably a Kinoto or Kinoe. Anything less would not be permitted to oversee such an important event.
"Hashira-sama, to what do we owe the honor of your visit?"
Sakonji opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then swallowed.
He'd ran out here out of desperation, truly, at the end of his frayed rope, half mad with impotence and grief at deaths he could not prevent. He came here for answers. Excuses. Hope. Anything they could give him. Anything that could explain his curse.
"My students are dying."
The slayer bowed a little, his face unreadable.
"...I have heard of that, yes. I'm deeply sorry."
The curse of the Water Estate, they called it. He knew. Sakonji knew it all, smelled it all, the secrecy in the halls, the apprehension of new recruits who'd been scared by their seniors, by the tales of the Water Hashira's students, and how all who trained under his wing met an untimely demise. He smelled the trepidation and nerves, the way the new children begged silently for their affinity to be found in any other breathing style, so they might live a little longer. And Sakonji couldn't blame them one bit.
"They have all died here."
True to his experience, the slayer instantly caught what Sakonji wasn't saying.
"...Hashira-sama," he began, turning to organize a pile of papers that seemed entirely too large. "I understand it can be upsetting to lose students–"
"Do you?" Sakonji couldn't help but ask. The slayer stopped briefly and stared at him firmly.
"Yes. I do."
After a heavy pause, he continued.
"However, you must know this final selection isn't like an entrance exam, or an academic evaluation. This is slaying monsters beyond human comprehension. There are bound to be casualties."
"I know that."
"And I presume your students knew the risks as well?"
Sakonji nodded silently, boiling with frustration inside. This wasn't the problem. It wasn't a matter of whether or not they knew what they were getting into, because they did. Every slayer knew what world they were stepping in since the moment they swore upon their sword. It was why indecisive people did not cut it. Everybody knew their end would likely be bleeding out from some irreversible injury, or inside the maws of a demon.
They knew that. They made peace with it.
And still–!
"They were all strong children," Sakonji rasped out. "I trained them. I know this. And yet, not one of them returned to me."
The slayer stayed quiet for a while, his hands never stopping, plucking one paper and writing notes in the margins, the smell of ink slowly filling the room.
"I admit it's...strange...for a slayer to lose all of their students in one go, but it's not unheard of," he sighed. "The selection is brutal in nature."
"And the demons? What of them?" Sakonji asked. "Are there too many?"
"Not beyond what they can handle," the slayer reassured. "Many demons are slayed each selection, and many don't even stumble upon students in the entirety of the week. The mountain is big. They're all creatures that have eaten less than ten people, as befitting of their level."
"Are you sure?"
"I am," the slayer distractedly spoke, seemingly more interested in his papers than Sakonji. He grit his teeth and bit back the stress pulsating behind his eyelids.
"What about the medical team? Are the Kakushi truly as good at navigation as they say? Has anyone gotten lost? The reports only said my children were killed in the selection, but if I could account for other factors that might have gone awry..."
"Hashira-sama," the other man's voice sounded strained. "I assure you the selection is managed to the best of our abilities. Your students were an unfortunate casualty, but—"
"Could I ask someone to check in? I know you believe it's managed well, but something is always prone to slip through the cracks. Maybe you could set some Kakushi to watch over the children, or make tallies of demons...perhaps check the perimeter?"
The other man's scent soured, an almost imperceptible sigh passing through his lips, though he remained civil.
"Not doable. We're all stretched thin, as you definitely know. Demon slaying is not a profession where many thrive, and we're always lacking in helping hands," he glanced at a pile of red envelopes at a corner of the desk. "Even now, I have received seven more missions to adress once this period's exam ends, and all are labeled 'urgent'."
"Then get some Mizunotos to oversee the process, or some mid ranked slayers! Surely there's someone who can help."
Frustrated, Sakonji fought to keep his voice level. The slayer pinched the bridge of his nose, scent heavy, the slope of his shoulders hanging low.
"We're understaffed. Everybody has their role to play, plus ten more tasks, all with high priority, and the final selection never yields enough recruits to relieve us of some of this burden. I'm sure you understand I can't send a team away from their duties to look for answers that have already been written down, just for you."
Sakonji narrowed his eyes. He didn't like this slayer's attitude, however, he couldn't help but understand his point. It wasn't like he was wrong. If demon slaying had enough helping hands, there would be a significantly less amount of death and sorrow going around, less slayers going insane with exhaustion, less children losing their parents...Sakonji's request had been unreasonable.
But...!
"Then send me."
The other man blinked, caught off guard.
"You? Truly, you can't—"
"It'll just be for a week," he reasoned, feeling filthy, drowning in guilt, knowing full well a week was entirely too long to stay away from missions. More than a hundred innocent people could die in half that time. "Let me go inside Mount Fujikasane."
"What are you even aiming to do there? Your students are...gone," his voice lowered in that last word. "The demons who killed them have probably already perished by someone else's sword. There's no vengeance to be found there."
Sakonji clenched his fists, grief fluttering like angry wasps inside his chest.
His children's faces flashed through his mind. Their smiles. Their tears. Their scents.
"I have to try. I have to see for myself," he muttered, his voice rough. "There's simply no way my students were killed by a mere low rank demon, I trained them better than that, they were all better than that!"
The slayer finally left his papers alone and placed his palms flat on the table. Idly, Sakonji noticed a harsh scar on his thumb, as if it had almost been sliced off.
"I'm telling you, you'll find nothing. And either way, I can't let you inside. Officially ranked slayers are not permitted to interfere in the selection."
"I won't interfere, I'll only go take a look."
The man gave him a knowing look, his scent thinning as he stared at Sakonji like he could see right through.
"Can you truly say you won't?" he asked. "If an applicant is attacked by a demon and can't defend themselves, can you really swear you won't be tempted to help? If they look at you for answers, if they're hungry or in pain and beg to you for help, will you be able to stay indifferent?"
Sakonji clenched his jaw, falling silent. The answer was damning, instinctive, and he hated it.
Of course not.
Of course he wouldn't.
Sakonji was no fool, he knew he had a soft spot for children—for their innocence and drive, their passion and efforts to improve, their fresh outlook on their grim life, their kindness and grit...if anybody stumbled upon him and asked him for help...
...
...He would only be able to see his students' faces, pleading, looking up at him inside the dark wilderness of the mountain.
The slayer's scent turned into something more understanding, though it didn't lose its harshness entirely. He spoke slowly, deliberately, like his words weren't getting through.
"I told you, your students' fates are not unheard of. The only true misfortune is them all dying all at once," his eyes went distant for a second. "But there is always a Tsuchinoe or a Kinoe who come to the healers, or the Hashira, or to Oyakata-sama himself, and demand answers for their siblings, or their students, or their protégés dying in battle, swearing up and down they were strong, and would never lose a battle."
"Then maybe you should hear them out more."
The slayer groaned, massaging his eyes.
"There is no time," the man took a deep breath and stared at him in the eyes. "Hashira-sama. Slayers tend to die young. Which is why high ranks like me or Hashira like you are so respected. We old men are proving our strength every day we don't succumb to some disgusting monster. It's the harsh reality, but slayers living past twenty is rare. I know you know this."
Of course I know. How couldn't I?
But seventeen, fifteen, thirteen?
There's no way. No way his students died to a random demon. He refused to believe it.
There must have been some other reason...some other...
"...Let me go."
"I can't. Even if you say you won't interfere, by the rulebook, an officially recognized slayer going inside Fujikasane while the exam is underway will automatically be seen as an illegal intervention on their part, and it's not permitted. This selection's purpose is to test recruits and their abilities."
"I have to go. Even if it's just at the very end, when the selection has already finished...you send Kakushi to look for injured participants and tally bodies, don't you? I could go with them."
"I'm afraid that's just not—"
"It's not a problem, is it? Just let me through, or I'll go myself."
The man's scent darkened with irritation, and he stood up from his chair, facing him, tension coiling in every line. Sakonji was almost impressed by his bravery, if he hadn't been so wound up himself.
"These rules were written by Oyakata-sama himself," he snapped, all politeness gone from his raised voice. "Will you really defy them to get some sort of misguided sense of closure?
"Urokodaki-sama, you're not the only person who has lost their beloved students, their family. You're not the only one who has seen promising talent get cruelly snuffed out and raged at the world for it! I cannot give you any special leeway just because you're a Hashira. If your students did not pass the selection, then they were simply not—!"
Sakonji couldn't hold back his subsequent anger.
The room went heavy with intent, the air thickening with a smell that clogged Sakonji's senses. The heavy wooden table and chairs shook subtly, and the long since cold tea cup next to the other man's hand cracked at the rim, delicate porcelain unable to withstand the violent atmosphere. Sakonji's nosetrils flared under his mask.
They were simply not what?
Not good enough?
Not strong enough?
Not ready enough?
Not worthy enough?
...
Not meant to survive?
The distant call of a crow broke the tense silence.
The slayer slowly leaned back and sat down, beads of sweat on his forehead, taking Sakonji's silent warning for what it was. His eyes were lowered in respect, but his smell gave him away—he was still irritated, though a small current of regret flowed under.
"I...apologize. Hashira-sama. That was harsh of me."
Sakonji breathed.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
"...Write to Oyakata-sama, then. Present my petition. I'll abide by his response, no matter what it is."
"But—"
"Send the letter."
The other man watched him for a moment more, but relented, taking a blank piece of paper and writing in elegant letters. Sakonji whistled, and watched as Shimazaki flew inside, perching obediently on his forearm. It was lowly to take advantage of his status like this, but Sakonji knew a kasugai crow belonging to a Hashira would always take priority in Oyakata-sama's eyes, so he gave the letter to him.
Shimazaki flew off, leaving Sakonji to stew in the awkward quiet with the other man.
Like this, he could clearly see the other's dark circles under his eyes, the sagging shoulders, and the way he slowly worked through the pile of reports on the desk, undoubtedly having lost nights of sleep over it. Sakonji understood the sickly pallor of his skin, the blurred vision and the heavy limbs, as he experienced it all himself.
...
"I realize I neglected to ask for your name," he carefully said. "I apologize for my rudeness."
And for my stubborness. For being unreasonable and coming here to burden you with my grief.
But I can't stop.
The other slayer glanced at him.
"...Aoyama Shinzō," the man muttered. "Likewise, I'm sorry to have offended you."
"No. You were only doing your job," Sakonji sighed through his nose. "Your drive to follow rules and enforce them even in front of a superior is commendable."
Aoyama's scent spiked, surprised at the praise, before turning lighter, though his face showed none of it.
"I still should have handled your loss with more tact. It's not that I don't care, it's just..."
"I know."
That callus that formed over their hearts after all of the pain and blood they'd seen...Sakonji would like to say they welcomed each death and loss with the same amount of compassion and kindness, but he would be lying. Over time, there were simply no more tears to be shed, no more panic to be had, no more sadness to be spent. If slayers managed to survive long enough...sometimes, only a numb void was left in place of hearts. Other times, vengeance and rage were their main motivators. And Sakonji was no exception, even though he would like to fancy himself the bigger man.
Even though he tried so hard to get rid of his heart's blasted softness and had failed each and every time.
...
...If Sakonji ever stopped caring though, maybe life would be devoid of meaning.
...
After a while, when the night fell and both men had worked and waited in silence respectively, Shimazaki returned, cawing as if to announce himself, placing the letter with Oyakata-sama's seal on the desk. Sakonji allowed Aoyama to read it first.
The younger man's wavering scent told him all he needed to know even before he said a thing.
"...Alright. Well, it looks like you're in luck," he began. "Oyakata-sama has allowed you to stay the first day of the selection. As your request was short notice, you'll only be permitted to scout the mount before the applicants arrive, but afterwards, you do have missions that require your attention."
He checked the letter again.
"Any day after the selection week is open for you to search, but as I said, you can't interfere. This selection is something the applicants must do on their own."
Sakonji's shoulders went down, as relief and tension alike washed over him. Of course. He should have known Oyakata-sama would understand.
"Thank you."
He turned around. Aoyama stammered. "W-Wait, you're going now?"
"There's no time to lose. In a few hours, the sun will rise, and I do only have until the applicants arrive. Thank you for your cooperation."
With no further delay, Sakonji took off in powerful strides, though he wasn't as fast as in his prime, and the faintest twinge of pain in his knees made him adjust his footing.
Mount Fujikasane was dead silent.
As it served as a prison for demons, there were no birds, beasts or wildlife in its midst, since animals could sense malicious energy and made themselves scarce. Even the breeze seemed to stop at the wisteria flower limit, giving the forest a dead, stagnant air that had the hairs in Sakonji's arms standing up.
And the smell.
Heavens, the smell.
It was nauseating. All-encompassing. It sank into his pores and went up his nose, forcing him to close his mouth firmly. Demons. Everywhere.
Death.
Rot.
Just like his students.
Sakonji picked a random direction and started running. He didn't know what he was looking for, but didn't want to stop.
His students all died here. This mountain had swallowed all of them. The demons here had all ripped his family away from him.
"The demons who killed them have probably already perished by someone else's sword. There's no vengeance to be found there."
He gritted his teeth. Still. Still!
One brave, or most likely stupid demon, slithered out of hiding, though its disgusting face paled when he saw it was not an applicant, but a seasoned slayer. On pure instinct, Sakonji gripped his blade and charged—that is, until he remembered the no interference rule. Technically, these were all exam material. He couldn't kill them.
But this anger had to go somewhere.
Sakonji changed his grip on his blade and struck the demon's neck with the handle, the blow strong enough to sever the head from its body, creating a gust of wind. As it hadn't been cut by nichirin, the body staggered and ran away as the head's mouth opened in a silent scream and melted into the forest ground. It would regenerate when it crawled into whatever hell it came from.
And still, Sakonji wasn't satisfied.
Other spots yielded the same results—demons who didn't know any better, or demons who were blinded by animalistic hunger, letting themselves be driven by instincts, all open maws and dripping saliva, running to him only to be met with a hand crushing their ribs, or a kick ripping off their limbs, all of them, like pests, coming to the threat without any plans or finesse.
"They're all creatures that have eaten less than ten people, as befitting of their level."
Damn it, Aoyama was right. These creatures were laughably weak. Their smell was wobbly and acid with unrestrained aggression, their attacks devoid of strength and speed, their skin paper thin and bones brittle.
No more than bugs beneath his feet.
Sakonji's students were all strong, powerful children! These monsters wouldn't have stood a chance!
Then why are they all dead?
...Could he have been right?
"If your students did not pass the selection, then they were simply not—!"
Aki
Isao
Sayo
No, they weren't weak. Shame on Sakonji for even thinking that. They weren't...they couldn't have been. It was Sakonji who was to blame. His teachings, unclear. His lessons, lacking. His guidance, worthless.
Never enough.
Why was it never enough?
Haru
Mizuno
Tōru
He covered more ground. Those disgusting beasts were hiding now, he smelled them, curling up in their nooks and crannies, avoiding the human tsunami that was Urokodaki Sakonji, but he couldn't tear up the ground, yank the roots up and expose them to the steadily rising sunlight, as he wanted.
"Come out," he growled, his mask hiding his expression, but doing nothing for his voice, for his stumbles, for his failures.
Kinu
Ren
Fumi
Kōji
But what else could he do? What else could it be? If Sakonji wasn't at fault, then it meant his students weren't skilled enough, and he just couldn't accept that.
I'm sorry, children.
I'm sorry your affinity lay within Water Breathing.
I'm sorry you had to be taught by me.
"Come out!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the bark and rocks.
Nothing but silence answered.
Cowards. All of them.
Cowards were the demons for not walking out and facing him, cowards were the Corps' slayers for never gossiping to his face, cowards were the adults who pretended not to cry behind closed doors each time a child lost their life, and a coward was Sakonji, for not daring to admit that there was no greater plot, that his kids were all simply not strong enough, a coward for looking away from his students to protect himself and pretending he didn't care.
A coward for pretending this was ever going to change.
"You'll gladly take humans apart, but run when someone stronger comes to face you," he muttered, finally running out of steam, coming to a stop next to some quiet brook. "You don't deserve to live."
It didn't feel like that last part was entirely for them.
Sakonji's vision blurred.
This was certainly not the whole mountain, but the sun just came up and warmed his face, and time was up, and demons would certainly not come out now, and he really just didn't want to move.
...
...
...There, with his feet glued to the earth, rooted to the spot and lost in the water's current, was where a Kakushi found him.
"Hashira-sama," she timidly piped up. "Aoyama-san sent me. The selection will start in an hour...you must be out of the mount by then. Are...Are you ready to come back?"
Was he?
He stared at her.
Her scent was uneasy—sweet, youthful cherry scent soured by nerves, no doubt by the tengu mask silently watching her.
He didn't feel anything, like a puppet cut of strings, all of his strength felt like it was drained out of his body. He never felt more his age than right now.
What had he even come here for?
Sakonji managed to scrape enough energy to nod his head without a word, and drag his feet after her, letting her lead him from the wilderness to the path that took him to the wisteria tunnel.
Some applicants were already there.
Sakonji did not look at them.
He just barely registered Aoyama's presence next to him as he came to a stop.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
He didn't answer.
"...Will you come back after the selection?"
Sakonji's traitorous nose took note of the people that were reunited. Fresh leaves. Pine needles. A warm fireplace. Remnants of someone's breakfast. Hay. Damp wool. Nervousness. Excitement.
...Knowing more than half those scents would be gone by the time seven days went by made the void in Sakonji's chest shrink until it became the ever familiar grief he could only pretend to handle.
"...No."
If his voice shook, Aoyama didn't point it out. Sakonji made an effort to not smell in his direction. He didn't need to know his pity.
He turned to leave. Nobody stopped him.
.
.
.
A little ways from the exam site, his crow fluttered next to him and landed on his shoulder, no doubt with news of his next assignments.
And Sakonji was so, so tired.
"Shimazaki," he muttered, scarcely recognizing his own voice. "Take this message to Oyakata-sama."
The animal stood to attention, straightening as they walked.
"I will take care of my missions for this month," he paused, pressing his lips together.
"However, after that, I'm retiring from the demon slayer Corps, and my position as a Hashira," he said. "Please let him know as soon as you can, and give him my most sincere thanks."
This coward was Sakonji, for not being able to face his benefactor in person for news like this.
Shimazaki stood still for a moment, but soon dipped his head in acknowledgement. He nipped at his ear lightly, a short expression of affection, before taking flight without a word.
Sakonji watched him fly.
This ending had been a long time coming. He couldn't even bring himself to feel bad. He didn't deserve to.
Whatever his students had felt when being killed had undoubtedly been much worse.