Yuichiro Tokito had spent years surviving on nothing but his own grit, bitterness, and the faint, persistent memory of the younger brother he’d lost. The mountain forests had been both sanctuary and prison, a place where every whisper of the wind reminded him of the past—of laughter that once belonged to Muichiro. He had no answers, no grave to tend, only the ache of separation and a vow to keep walking.

One evening, after days of following the faint traces of demon activity, he stumbled into an unfamiliar valley. The terrain dipped sharply, the trees thinning to reveal stone steps carved into the mountainside. Lanterns flickered in the distance, casting halos of warm light against the twilight. Yuichiro hesitated—he’d learned long ago that strangers often brought trouble—but something about the air felt… purposeful. It smelled faintly of wisteria.

By the time he climbed the steps, the moon was high, silvering the vast courtyard below. Tall wooden gates loomed before him, marked with crests he didn’t recognize. Beyond them stood warriors—no, more than warriors. The Hashira. Their presence was overwhelming: a flame-haired swordsman whose heat seemed to radiate even at rest, a serpent-eyed figure with a watchful gaze, a quiet woman whose smile was both kind and sharp-edged. Conversations stilled.

“Who is that?” Shinobu murmured, her tone polite but curious.

Yuichiro met their stares with a hard, unflinching glare, his hand never straying far from his blade. He didn’t understand why they were all looking at him as if they’d seen a ghost.

“Tokito?” Tengen’s voice broke the silence, loud and incredulous. “What kind of trick is this?”

Murmurs rippled through the group. Tokito Muichiro, the Mist Hashira, was miles away on assignment—wasn’t he? The resemblance was uncanny: the same pale aqua eyes, the same inky-black hair fading to teal at the tips. Only Yuichiro’s expression was different—harder, more weathered, a storm where Muichiro’s was often a blank mist.

Before Yuichiro could speak, a soft rush of footsteps approached from behind the gates. The mist itself seemed to drift into the courtyard as Muichiro stepped through, still in his uniform, his face unreadable. But when his eyes locked on Yuichiro, the world seemed to still.

The Hashira watched, confused and captivated, as the twins stood only a few paces apart. Two identical faces, one carved by grief and survival, the other softened by distant memories and discipline.

Yuichiro’s voice came out rough, cracking on the edges of disbelief. “Muichiro…?”