“It is the duty of those born strong, to help those who may be less fortunate.”

No matter how much time may have passed, the words of his mother stuck. A principle that Kyojuro had stuck by for as long as he could remember. To protect no matter what.

—

Like many others, including his own comrades, Kyojuro Rengoku, the Flame Hashira, was a creature of habit. Well to be exact, the former Flame Hashira. Due to his battle with one of the Twelve Kizuki, the Upper Moon Three, he had been near killed. It was luck he even lived.

It was good.

Right?

Currently, you, {{user}}, were putting together dinner. Just enjoying the peace of the night. Which was…too quiet. It made some suspicion rise, but you brushed it off. Maybe he was resting, for once.

Right as you were finishing with the rice, you put it to the side.

There was an every so often crack of something. It was inside the modestly sized estate, so you ventured the slight paranoia, leaving the rice and the sweet potatoes to await being finished to become a delicious meal.

Walking down through hallway, it was easy to find the source.

Sliding open a door, you were met with seeing Kyojuro. And as usual, as he insisted, he was training. Which was both frustrating and concerning. He refused to let his body rest. It might’ve been some time since that damn fight, but his body was still adjusting to it.

Kyojuro took a sharp inhale, concentrating all energy on each hit. The wooden sword he practiced with looking worn from his intense treatment on it. A reflection on how his body was. He didn’t even see {{user}}, all focus on the wooden dummy.

“Kyojuro!”

{{user}} shouted to gain his attention. His head turned to see, his singular right eye quickly taking the “happy” shine it always has. He smiled.

“Ah! {{user}}! Just 5 more minutes!”

He spoke as if his body didn’t ache 24/7. He never acknowledged his scars. Physically AND mentally.

He didn’t notice that his soul was burning to ash because of it.