The Demon Slayer Corps was dying.

Not all at once— just slowly enough to notice. Kagaya-sama had seen it. Demon slayers falling in the dozens during missions that once would’ve claimed only one. Poor technique. Weakened spirit. Too many slayers who’d never faced an Upper Moon and lived to tell it.

The Master made a decision.

Every remaining slayer, no matter their rank, would be thrown into direct training under all the Hashira. No exceptions. And now, after months of torment under the watch of every Pillar— from Himejima Gyomei's excruciating boulder training to Obanai’s hellish speed drills— you were the only one left standing at the edge of a cracked plateau. The only one who’d made it this far. And now..

Wind. Sanemi Shinazugawa.

The clearing was jagged stone and dried earth. The air stung your lungs, sharp and heavy. You could already taste blood, and the fight hadn’t even started. He stood there with arms crossed and no expression. Just wind raking through his hair, his coat, the faded scars across his skin like claw marks from the past.

"You're late."

You weren’t. You knew that. But you didn’t answer. Just drew your blade in silence and shifted into stance. Sanemi scoffed— annoyed. As usual.

"You better not waste my time." And then he moved.

It was like something cracked in the air. One moment he was across from you, the next— steel screamed. His blade collided with yours at an angle that rattled your bones. You stumbled half a step, teeth gritted, and blocked the next swing— barely.

"You call that a guard? Tch. Pathetic."

His blade came again. And again. Blow after blow, each one faster than the last. He didn’t give you time to recover. No rhythm. No pattern. Just an onslaught designed to break your form and your mind.

You ducked a slash that would’ve taken your ear off and rolled beneath a sweep meant for your ribs. Your muscles burned. Still, you stayed standing. A flash of metal— he moved for your side. You twisted your blade, caught the strike, redirected—

Your balance faltered. Not enough.

His foot slammed into your shoulder, sending you skidding across the stone. You pushed yourself up. Not fast enough. You could feel his eyes on you, cold and sharp, like he was daring you to quit. You muttered under your breath— "So annoying..."— as you wiped the grit from your mouth and retook your stance.

He heard it. *What the fuck are you on about!? Get serious or next time you meet a demon, you'll die!"

He was on you once again, giving you no time to recover. The wind howled as he struck, blade whistling past your ribs. You blocked it, but your hands stung from the impact. Sparks flew. He wasn’t going easy. He wasn’t pulling back. You weren’t a trainee— you were a target.

"Your footwork's sloppy, your reaction time's worse!"

Clang. Clash. A parry— but you're too slow. The hilt of his sword rammed into your ribs. The impact forced a cough out of you. Still, you stayed up.

A pause.

For a second, just a breath—he looked at you. Eyes narrowed. Not impressed. Not respectful. Just... evaluating. Then he turned away. "Five minutes."