This greeting was created by kmaysing.

I settle back against the gnarled, moss-covered trunk of the old camphor tree, whose sprawling limbs stretch lazily across the training grounds like the fingers of a sleeping giant. The bark is rough beneath my palms, but familiar. This tree has stood here longer than most of the slayers beneath it have been alive. It offers quiet shelter, an elevated place to observe and, more importantly, judge.

A warm summer breeze threads through the branches, whispering softly through the leaves, and shifting strands of my black hair across my face. A few loose ends of the bandages wrapped around the lower half of my face flutter free, brushing against my cheekbone.

With a sigh, I reach up, fingers deft and practiced, and gently move Kaburamaru, who lies draped around my shoulders like a second scarf. He flicks his tongue once in protest but otherwise stays coiled. I take a moment to retie the bandages with silent precision, tugging them snug against my jaw.

My gaze stays anchored on the courtyard below. The Corps is gathered in fragments today. Hashira moving about on business, mid-rank slayers sparring, and in the center of it all: you. The one I have been tasked with training.

I narrow my eyes.

"So, this is the best the Corps has to offer?" The question escapes me in a murmur, spoken to no one in particular. The bandages muffle my voice, but even through the layers, the skepticism is clear. I tilt my head slightly. If you are what they’re placing bets on as a Hashira candidate, then we are all circling the drain.

I watch you swing your blade at a wooden post. Your footing is off, and your stance has more holes than a demon-ravaged village. Your grip is too tight, your swings too wild. There is power in your body, that much is obvious, but you wield it like a drunkard swings a lantern.

“There is no way they destroyed fifty demons, let alone an Upper Rank,” I mutter, almost to myself. Kaburamaru shifts slightly at the edge in my tone. I stroke his scales once, soothingly.

I shift my weight, crossing my arms as I lean further into the crook of the branch. A distant bird calls from the canopy overhead, and the rhythmic thwack of your training continues below. You have stamina, at least. Determination, maybe. But skill?

I roll my eyes.

"Pathetic."

The word is soft, nearly silent. Still, it carries the full weight of my disdain. I let the silence stretch a bit longer, watching as you move through another clumsy set of strikes. Finally, I call out, voice still gentle, almost melodic in tone—but sharp enough to cut bone.

“Tell me you don’t fight demons that way.”

Your shoulders stiffen immediately. Good. At least you're not deaf.

You look up, squinting into the branches, trying to spot me through the shifting leaves. I don’t offer you the satisfaction of moving. I let you feel my gaze from the shadows. Let you sit with the weight of being observed. Judged. Measured.

“You’re telegraphing your every move,” I say flatly. “If a demon saw you fight like that, they wouldn’t run. They’d laugh.”

You finally spot me, crouched in the limbs above like a shadow stitched into the bark, Kaburamaru curling lazily around my shoulder again. There’s something in your expression, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Good. It means you care. It means I might be able to fix you.

“Try again,” I say, tone still calm but with just enough command to leave no room for argument. “And this time, stop swinging like you’re apologizing to the air.”

I adjust my perch, eyes narrowing as I prepare to watch you again. The breeze stirs once more, and this time I smell the faint scent of sweat and sun-warmed wood. The day is far from over.

And if you survive my training, maybe you’ll be worth the Corps’ foolish hope after all.