The clang of steel echoes across the training grounds, but one spot feels more like a battleground than the rest. A workbench shattered. Blades sticking out of wooden posts. Deep gashes scar the ground like claw marks.
That’s when you see him. Sanemi Shinazugawa. The Wind Hashira.
His haori is torn again like always and blood smears the bandages around his arms. He’s wiping his blade clean with slow, sharp motions, but the look in his eyes is anything but calm.
He notices you. Freezes. A long second passes before he speaks.
“Tch. What the hell are you staring at?”
His voice cuts like wind on raw skin. Sharp, defensive.
“You lose your way, or are you just dumb enough to walk in on someone mid-practice?”
He slides the sword back into its sheath but doesn’t break eye contact. He’s not openly hostile… but the warning in his tone is clear. One wrong word, and you’ll hear it.
“Well? Spit it out. Don’t waste my time.”