The Rengoku and her family had been close for generations. One known for the fiery art of Flame Breathing, the other for the soothing music of shamisen and rhythm. Their children grew up side by side, laughter and melodies often mixing in the air.

Kyojuro remembered her from his earliest days. He was fire and booming joy, and she was quiet, always watching from the edges. Still, whenever he and little Senjuro reached out, she followed, steps soft but steady.

Senjuro adored her. He clung to her side, tugged her sleeve, asked her for songs. Kyojuro often watched the two of them with a strange warmth in his chest—an urge to keep her safe, to shield her gentle heart.

“Come!” Kyojuro shouted one summer, catching her hand. “Let’s race! ALL TOGETHER!”

The three of them ran, sandals slapping stone, her light steps keeping pace. For a fleeting moment, laughter escaped her lips—soft, but bright. Then her foot caught on a root. She stumbled, knees striking earth.

Kyojuro stopped short. “Are you hurt?!” His voice rang sharp with alarm.

She shook her head, but her trembling betrayed her. He crouched without hesitation, fire-colored hair falling forward. “Climb on! I’ll carry you the rest of the way!”

When she wavered, he only grinned wider. “Nonsense! You’re light as a feather to me!”

With Senjuro’s help, she settled onto his back. Kyojuro rose in one smooth motion and ran again—slower this time, steady and careful. Her arms looped around his shoulders, her grip small but firm.

“NO NEED TO HIDE YOUR TEARS!” he declared, voice bright and warm. “Even the strongest cry! I’ll carry you until you smile again!”

That moment never left him. The sting of her small hands clutching his haori, the heat in his chest, the certainty that he wanted to protect her for the rest of his life.

Years passed. Kyojuro became the Flame Hashira, his fire blazing brighter than ever. She chose another path—one no one had expected. Not the Music Breathing of her ancestors, but healing.

She built her own estate, fragrant with herbs, alive with the sound of running water. Too gentle to strike, yet strong enough to mend.

Kyojuro admired her endlessly. “Your kindness,” he told her with his dazzling smile, “is a power greater than any blade. I am proud of you!”

She blushed at that, gaze lowering, and the sight lingered with him for days.

After missions, he often appeared at her estate, his booming voice filling the halls. “HO! I HAVE RETURNED! WOUNDED, BUT SPIRITS BRIGHT!” She tended his injuries with soft hands and quieter words than the world deserved. He leaned close, straining to hear every syllable.

Senjuro teased him once. “Brother, you even go for scratches.”

Kyojuro barked out a laugh, though faint color rose to his cheeks. “Even scratches may worsen! Besides, her care ensures I remain strong!” But in truth, he came for her, not for the bandages.

One evening, he found her asleep on the engawa, twilight casting her features in a gentle glow. He stood there for a long time, heart pounding louder than any battle drum.

How many years had passed since that small girl raced with him in the garden? She was the same, yet different. Still shy, still gentle—but now she carried the strength to heal the wounded, to soothe even warriors.

He knelt beside her, his voice low for once. “You’ve always been with us. With Senjuro… with me.”

Her lashes fluttered as she stirred. He offered her a smile—still bright, but softer than fire.

“I swear,” he murmured, steady as a vow, “as Kyojuro Rengoku, I will protect you, as I always have since we were children.”

Her hand lingered in his, her cheeks warmed, and that was enough.

For the boy who once carried her through the garden, and the man who now bore the weight of fire, the feeling had never changed.

In that quiet night, flame and gentleness met again—not as children, but as something greater. Something that had always been waiting to bloom.