The Crystal's Whisper and The Wind's Embrace

Chapter 64: The Weight We Carry

The third week of Hashira Training began with sore limbs and bruised pride.

For the slayers, progress was visible in muscle and movement. For the Hashira—it was harder to see. Their battle wasn't just with physical limits. It was with themselves.

Tsukiyo's assigned partner that morning was Giyu Tomioka.

Their session was supposed to focus on breathing technique endurance.

But it became something else entirely.

They faced each other in the inner courtyard, the stones warm beneath their feet.

Giyu was silent as always, standing with perfect posture, his eyes unreadable.

Tsukiyo matched his stance.

"Begin."

They moved fluidly—strikes glancing, precise, measured like breath itself.

But beneath the grace, tension crackled like lightning beneath still water.

"You're holding back," Giyu murmured suddenly.

Tsukiyo didn't answer.

"Your blade stutters at the peak of pressure. You lose resolve the moment you near the throat."

Her hand faltered on the next parry.

He stepped forward, faster now—pressing her harder.

"You hesitate when the target becomes personal."

Tsukiyo's eyes sharpened. "Enough."

"I'm not mocking you," he said, his voice still calm. "I see myself in you."

She paused.

"I know what it is to lose someone. I know what it is to hold onto the blade too tightly because you're afraid it'll make you numb again."

Her throat tightened.

"You still grieve him," Giyu said.

"...Yes."

"Then don't bury that grief under silence," he said, lowering his blade. "Let it teach you how to protect what's left."

Tsukiyo turned away, eyes stinging.

Giyu continued quietly. "Sabito. The others. I live with them, every day."

He met her gaze then.

"But if you let the dead walk beside you... don't forget to walk with the living too."

Tsukiyo said nothing.

Their session ended in silence—but not in distance. There was an understanding there now. Quiet. Mutual. And it did not go unnoticed.

From across the courtyard, Sanemi had watched.

He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, jaw tense. He didn't move, but his eyes followed every step of their spar—every glance, every word exchanged, even if he couldn't hear them.

He hated the way Giyu's voice was always so calm. Hated the way Tsukiyo let her guard down around him, even for a moment.

What the hell did that guy understand about her?

He knew she wasn't his to control. But it still burned.

Later, Tsukiyo found Sanemi sharpening his blade by the water trough.

"You're going to file that thing down to a toothpick," she teased, approaching.

He didn't look up. "Tch. Maybe I should. Won't need it if I can just glare my opponents to death."

She tilted her head. "You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've been scowling more than usual."

"That supposed to mean something?"

She knelt beside him, smiling slightly. "Sanemi."

He finally looked at her.

And she saw it.

That something in his eyes.

He muttered under his breath, "You and Tomioka seemed real... in sync."

She blinked, then smirked. "You're jealous."

"I'm not—" he began too fast, too sharp. "It's just—he's always acting like he's got the world figured out."

"Sanemi," she said again, more softly this time. "Giyu was helping. That's all."

"He doesn't know you like I do," he muttered, eyes back on his blade.

Her smile softened. She reached out, gently brushing his hand away from the whetstone.

"You don't have to prove anything."

"I'm not trying to," he snapped.

Then—quieter—"I just hate the idea of anyone else getting that close to you."

Her heart skipped.

And without another word, she leaned forward, pressing a featherlight kiss to his temple.

"You're the one I come back to," she whispered.

Sanemi's eyes fluttered shut. "Don't forget that."

That night, beneath the dim lantern glow, Sanemi and Genya finally crossed paths during a training rotation.

Genya tensed, standing straighter.

"Nii-san."

Sanemi froze mid-step. For once, he didn't bark or scowl. With his expression hardened, he questioned, "Shouldn't you be out there training?"

"I was," Genya said. "I'm done."

"...Then go."

Genya stood still. "You always do this."

Sanemi gritted his teeth.

"You push me away like it'll make it easier if I die. Or if you die."

A muscle in Sanemi's jaw ticked.

"Maybe I just don't want to watch my little brother get torn apart again."

Genya blinked.

Sanemi looked away. "I've already seen too many people I care about fall apart in front of me."

Tsukiyo's name echoed silently behind his words.

"I'm tired of burying names," he muttered.

"So stop pushing people away before you lose them," Genya said, quieter now.

Sanemi didn't respond.

But as Genya walked off, he didn't yell. Didn't scold. Didn't pretend he didn't care.

He just stood there, gripping the railing tight enough for his knuckles to pale.