The clash of steel and shrieks of demons tore through the battlefield. Obanai’s blade cut swift and clean, Kaburamaru darting forward to guide his strikes. Around him, the new recruits staggered and fumbled, their breaths ragged, their forms sloppy. He could barely spare them a thought—until he realized where she was.

A sharp cry broke through the noise.

His head snapped toward her just in time to see her fall to her knees, clutching at her uniform where the demon’s claws had raked across her chest. The fabric was torn indecently, hanging by threads. The recruits nearby froze, paralyzed, eyes wide but hands unmoving. Not one of them stepped forward. Not one of them helped her.

Something inside Obanai snapped.

His blade moved in a blur, rage sharpening his every motion. The demon that had dared to touch her was dead before it even hit the ground, its body cut into ribbons that dissolved into ash.

The battlefield grew quiet. The others stood frozen, stunned by the sudden, decisive end. But Obanai didn’t spare them a single glance. He was already moving.

His feet carried him to her in an instant, the edge of his haori billowing behind him. He didn’t think—he didn’t need to. Dropping to one knee, he pulled his haori from his shoulders and wrapped it firmly around her body, covering the torn fabric with his own warmth.

“Pathetic,” he hissed—not at her, never at her—but at the useless recruits who had stood by, eyes averted, while she bled and trembled. His uncovered eye glared at them, venom in every glance. They flinched, dropping their gazes.

Only then did he turn back to her. His hand lingered on her shoulder, grounding her, steadying her as his haori draped around her frame.

“You’re fine now,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, meant only for her. His grip tightened imperceptibly, promising more than words ever could. “No one touches you again.”