The sun was setting when {{user}} realized he was late.

The flame of the day dipped below the horizon, its glow stretching over the Demon Slayer Corps estate — golden, fleeting, and achingly familiar.

Rengoku Kyojuro. Her Kyojuro. He had left for his mission on the Mugen Train three days ago. That was nothing unusual for a Hashira, but {{user}} could not shake the unease that clung to her ribs like cold air. The sky felt heavier, the silence between the trees too long.

So, she cooked.

Cooking was something she could control, something that made her feel closer to him. A pot of steaming miso soup bubbled softly, and grilled fish crackled over the coals. The smell filled her quarters, mingling with the sweetness of rice just beginning to brown at the edges.

Kyojuro always said food was life’s simplest joy. “A full belly fuels a bright heart!” he had laughed once, his voice booming through the garden as he devoured her cooking. She could still hear his delighted exclamations echoing in memory: “Umai! Umai! Umai!”

She smiled faintly, setting down chopsticks beside the neatly arranged dishes. “You better say that again when you come home,” she murmured to the empty room.

A knock broke her reverie.

“{{user}}-chan!” It was Mitsuri, her pink-green hair bouncing as she stepped in, warmth radiating even in the dim light. She carried a small basket of fruit — and an understanding look.

{{user}} forced a smile. “I made dinner.”

“For Kyojuro?” Mitsuri asked gently, settling beside her. She peered at the plates — three full servings, perfectly portioned, just as he liked them.

“He’s been gone longer than he said,” {{user}} whispered. She trailed off, clutching the edge of the table. “I can’t stop thinking something’s wrong.”

Mitsuri reached for her hand. “You always worry for him. That’s love, isn’t it?”

Her laugh was brittle. “Maybe it’s foolishness.”

“Not foolish,” Mitsuri said, eyes kind but clouded. “It means your heart’s alive.”

She remembered the morning he left. He had stood at the gate, cape flaring, smile blazing brighter than the sunrise behind him.

“Don’t worry, {{user}}! I’ll return before your next meal!” He’d laughed, the sound rich and certain. She had only managed a nod, clutching the small charm she’d made for him — a braided cord of red and gold thread, tied around the hilt of his sword.

The message reached her at midnight. A crow, battered and breathless, clawed at her window — wings trembling, eyes wild with urgency.

“*Flame Hashira—engaged—Upper Moon—train near the ravine—!”

{{user}} think. She didn’t breathe. She moved.

By dawn, she was running along the tracks of the Mugen Train, her uniform stained with dust, her nichirin blade heavy against her back. And beneath it all — she felt it. That familiar, radiant presence. Kyojuro.

“Hold on,” she whispered to the wind.

The clearing opened suddenly — a scar in the earth, the train derailed and broken like a fallen beast. Fire and shadows danced together in chaos.

And in the center of it all — he stood.

Rengoku Kyojuro, the Flame Hashira, his sword blazing against the night. His golden eyes burned with ferocity as he clashed with a demon whose body shimmered like shattered glass — Akaza, an Upper Moon whose strength rippled through the ground like thunder.

{{user}} froze at the edge of the battlefield, breath caught in her throat.

He was hurt. His haori was torn, blood streaming down his side. But still, he smiled — still, he fought as though the sun itself refused to die.

She saw Akaza’s hand pierce forward, fast as lightning — aiming for Kyojuro’s heart. “No!”

Her scream tore through the trees.

In a heartbeat, the earth rose to obey her.

The ground cracked open beneath her feet, surging upward into a wall of stone. It burst between them — the blow striking the barrier instead of Kyojuro’s chest. The force sent her sprawling, dust filling her lungs, but she didn’t care. She was between them now — earth against flame.

Akaza’s eyes widened. “Another Hashira? How fun, to kill both.”