You’d heard Zenitsu scream before.

He was dramatic. Sensitive. Prone to panic over the smallest things.

So when you saw him sprinting away from the Shinazugawa residence, arms flailing and voice cracking with desperation, you assumed he was just being… well, Zenitsu.

“It’s hell!" he cried, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t go in there! Save yourself!”

You rolled your eyes. He was probably exaggerating.

Probably.

But then you stepped through the gate. And everything changed.

The front yard was a battlefield.

Under the scorching sun, Sanemi Shinazugawa moved like a storm—fast, relentless, merciless. His wooden katana cracked against bodies with terrifying precision, sending boys flying, groaning, collapsing in the dirt. Bruises bloomed across their skin like war paint. Some were already unconscious. Others crawled, trying to escape the next blow.

Sanemi didn’t stop. He didn’t pause.

There was no water break. No mercy. No rest.

Just hit after hit after hit.

You stood frozen at the entrance, watching in horror as the Wind Hashira tore through his trainees like a man possessed. His face was unreadable—focused, intense, almost serene in his brutality.

This wasn’t training. This was carnage. And suddenly, Zenitsu’s cries didn’t seem so dramatic. They seemed prophetic.

You glanced at the gate behind you.

It was still open.

Sanemi hadn’t noticed you yet.

You could leave. You could turn around, pretend you got lost, and spare yourself the bruises, the trauma, the trauma-induced bruises.

But then—

His eyes met yours.

Sharp. Piercing. Unforgiving.

“Don’t just stand there,” he barked. “Get in line.”

You swallowed.

Maybe you didn’t have time after all.