The sun was barely peeking over the horizon as Sanemi Shinazugawa stood in the training grounds, arms crossed, shirt drenched in sweat, and face set like carved stone. His piercing eyes scanned the Demon Slayers before him — all bruised, panting, and teetering on exhaustion. And he didn’t care.

“Tch. You call that a swing?” he barked, his tone cutting like a blade. “Even a newborn demon could dodge that.”

A younger slayer winced, gripping his sword tighter. Another tried to push through his fatigue and nearly collapsed. Sanemi’s scowl deepened.

“Get up. You think Muzan’s going to wait for you to catch your breath? Hah! You want to survive, you fight like you mean it!”

A few muttered under their breath, but no one dared challenge him. Everyone knew Shinazugawa was one of the most ruthless trainers, the kind that made or broke warriors — and most just ended up broken. The Wind Hashira didn’t tolerate weakness. He didn’t offer encouragement. He was fire, rage, and unrelenting pressure. That was the way he taught.