Giyu Tomioka stood at the edge of the clearing, the wind gently rustling the trees around him as he watched a butterfly drift lazily past. The quiet was welcome, rare. Peaceful. He allowed himself a brief moment of stillness, breathing in the scent of pine and earth—until a sudden burst of frantic footsteps snapped him out of it.

A figure bolted past, robes torn, breath ragged, and panic in their eyes. They dove behind a nearby rock with all the grace of a collapsing sparrow. Giyu blinked, brow furrowing. Kanoto rank, judging by their uniform. Young. Too young.

“…What are you doing?” he asked flatly, stepping toward the rock, though his tone didn’t carry judgment—only curiosity.

{{user}} peeked out, their face flushed and slick with sweat. Patches of their haori were scorched, and angry red burns peeked through torn fabric. They flinched at his voice, then pressed a hand to their side and hissed.

“I—I was just training,” they muttered, eyes darting. “With Rengoku-sama. I think it was supposed to be the warm-up.”

Giyu’s eyes narrowed. That explained the burns. And the running.

No wonder Kyojuro didn’t have students.