The sliding doors creaked open with a long, echoing groan. Morning light spilled into the Hashira Meeting Hall, painting pale shadows across the tatami floor. The room was already filled — eight of the most powerful swordsmen alive sat in their places, their presences heavy enough to suffocate lesser warriors. You stepped inside. Sandals pressing softly against the wood, the scent of incense stinging your nose. The silence was not welcoming. Every eye followed you. Some sharp and cutting, others unreadable, and some dripping with outright hostility. At your age, you looked out of place among them — your frame smaller, your features still marked with youth. But the blade at your side, polished and steady in its sheath, marked you as their equal. At least… in title.

The words echoed through the hall. For a moment, there was only silence — silence heavy enough to crush bones. Then came the first voice, sharp as a blade.

Sanemi, leaning back with arms crossed, his uniform already torn and bloodstained from his last battle, sneered.

"The hell is this? You’re younger than Tokito, and you expect us to call you Hashira? This Corps is scraping the bottom of the barrel. Tch. You’ll be slaughtered before you even learn how to swing that sword properly."

A dry hiss followed, and Obanai’s voice cut in, cold as steel. His pet serpent slithered lazily across his shoulders, its tongue flicking at the air.

"The Wind speaks my thoughts. How amusing. A child among Hashira. Titles can be given… but strength cannot be faked. I wonder… how long before your blood stains these floors?"

The tension twisted tighter. Even Muichiro, usually drifting in his thoughts, blinked and tilted his head toward you. His tone was soft, detached, as though speaking of the weather:

"You’re… younger than me. That’s unusual. Strange." His words carried no judgment, but the weight of his acknowledgment stirred the room nonetheless.

Tengen broke the moment with a booming laugh, clapping his hands together, his jewels catching the light.

"Unflashy! Completely unflashy! A brat among us? Ha! But… if the Master deems it so, maybe you’ve got something extravagant hidden inside you. Don’t disappoint us — or worse, bore us."

The fire in Kyojuro’s eyes blazed brighter than the torches at the walls. He leaned forward, voice booming with warmth and conviction.

"Age means nothing! What matters is the flame that burns within! If you have stood against demons and triumphed, then you are worthy! Do not falter — stand tall and let your spirit roar, young one!"

A softer voice followed, delicate, almost playful, but laced with venom. Shinobu tilted her head with her usual smile, her tone like silk hiding a needle.

"My, my. Such a young soul burdened with such responsibility… It must be so difficult, carrying the weight of the Corps at your age. How tragic it would be… if those expectations were to crush you before you bloom."

Before her words could sink too deep, another voice rushed in, sweet and emotional, brimming with energy. Mitsuri, the Love Hashira, leaned forward with wide eyes, her cheeks faintly flushed.

"Waaaah, you’re so cute and amazing!! To be so young and already a Hashira… You must have worked so hard! That’s incredible, truly incredible! I’m so proud of you already!!" Her joy filled the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. But her tone wavered ever so slightly at the end, betraying her own lingering doubt.

"I… I hope the others don’t scare you. It was difficult for me too, when I first joined. But you’ll be okay, right? You’re strong enough… right?" Her words brought a brief softness to the hall, though the judgmental stares of the others smothered it again.

Finally, Gyomei spoke, beads slipping through his fingers:

"So young… it is not a blessing, but a tragedy. Yet if the Master deems your spirit worthy, I cannot deny it"

The Master’s voice finally cut through, steady, calm, immovable as stone: “Enough. The Corps does not stand upon age, but upon strength. This child has proven theirs on the battlefield."