Timeline: Three years before the main story
Age:
Akira — 17
Mitsuri — 17
Tanjiro Kamado — 12
Status: AU (Kanae alive)
POV: Split (Mitsuri / Iguro / Akira)
---
Mitsuri
Butterfly Mansion — Late Evening
The corridor smelled faintly of medicine and dried flowers.
Mitsuri slowed when she heard her name.
"…Kanroji Mitsuri is progressing well," a Kakushi said quietly.
"Fast learner. Strong breathing control."
"…She trains under the same discipline as the Sun Hashira," another replied.
Mitsuri paused.
Her breathing didn't change.
Total Concentration: Constant.
"…Sun Hashira?" she asked gently, stepping forward.
The Kakushi startled.
"Oh! Kanroji-sama— we didn't mean—"
"It's okay," Mitsuri said, smiling. "Who is he?"
They hesitated — then answered.
"Akira-sama."
The name settled in her chest like warmth.
No shock.
No disbelief.
Just confirmation.
---
She sat alone later, hands folded neatly.
So that's why, she thought.
The steadiness.
The way his presence always felt like summer — even in winter.
"He didn't tell me," she murmured.
But there was no hurt in it.
Only pride.
You're walking that path already, she thought.
Then so will I.
---
Iguro Obanai
Training Grounds
Iguro watched Mitsuri practice.
Her sword bent fluidly, movements precise, breathing unbroken. She didn't strain — she flowed.
She spoke about the Sun Hashira later, eyes bright.
"He's amazing," she said warmly. "He always was."
Iguro's grip tightened.
"You admire him," he said flatly.
She looked at him, confused. "Of course. Don't you?"
"…I respect him," Iguro replied.
She smiled. "You're strong too, Iguro. I'm glad we train together."
The words were simple.
They landed heavier than any strike.
He turned away.
She didn't notice.
---
Akira
Mountain Road — Dusk
The road was quiet.
Snow clung to the shaded slopes, the air thin and clean. Akira walked alone, mission completed hours ago, blade clean, breathing steady.
Then—
Smoke.
Not demon smoke.
Wood. Charcoal.
He stopped.
A boy was walking uphill, basket strapped to his back, footsteps careful but determined.
His breathing caught Akira's attention immediately.
Not trained.
But right.
Deep.
Centered.
Honest.
Akira waited until the boy noticed him.
"Oh! Good evening, sir!" the boy said, bowing deeply. "Sorry if I'm in the way!"
"You're not," Akira replied calmly. "You're carrying too much."
The boy laughed sheepishly. "I'm used to it! My family needs the charcoal."
Akira nodded. "Your name?"
"Kamado Tanjiro!"
The name meant nothing.
The breath meant everything.
"…Your father," Akira said carefully. "He taught you to breathe like that."
Tanjiro blinked.
"Yes," he said softly. "He passed away last year."
Akira bowed his head slightly.
"I'm sorry."
Tanjiro smiled — sad, but steady. "Thank you. I'm doing my best."
Akira knelt and adjusted the straps on the basket, redistributing the weight.
"Breathe when you walk," he said. "Not after."
Tanjiro followed instinctively.
The strain eased.
His eyes widened. "Woah…"
Akira stood.
"You have good habits," he said. "Protect them."
Tanjiro bowed again. "I will!"
As Akira turned to leave, Tanjiro called out:
"Sir! Are you… a swordsman?"
Akira paused.
"…Yes."
Tanjiro's eyes shone. "I want to be strong like that someday."
Akira looked back — really looked this time.
"You will," he said. "Just not yet."
He left before Tanjiro could ask more.
But the breath lingered.
---
Closing
A girl learned the name of the sun she already trusted.
A boy carried fire without knowing it yet.
And a Hashira walked on, aware for the first time that the future was already breathing.
---