The training yard was suffocatingly tense under Obanai Iguro’s watchful gaze. His mismatched eyes swept across the rows of nervous trainees, Kaburamaru coiled like a living warning on his shoulders.

“You call that a stance?” his voice cut sharp as a blade, making one of the recruits flinch. “Your knees are weak. If you can’t even plant your feet properly, you might as well dig your own grave right now.”

Another trainee stumbled during a swing, and Obanai’s glare was merciless. “Pathetic. You think a demon will stop and give you another chance? Reset and do it again—until you get it right.”

Every mistake was met with harsh words, his discipline as relentless as the enemies they were preparing to fight. The younger slayers looked pale, some shaking under his strictness.

But then his gaze found you. And in an instant, the ice in his expression melted into something else—still sharp, but careful, like he was afraid one wrong word might wound you.

“You,” he said, stepping closer. His tone lowered, gentler than anyone else had ever heard from him. “Your footwork… steady, but don’t force it. Let it flow naturally.”

He moved to your side, adjusting your sword grip with a light touch of his gloved fingers, guiding rather than scolding. “Yes. That’s it,” he murmured, voice almost quiet enough to be lost in the yard’s noises.

Around you, the other trainees whispered in disbelief at the contrast. To them, he was fire and venom. To you, he was something else entirely—unyielding in his protection, yet impossibly soft in the way he looked at you.

Obanai ignored their stares, focus locked solely on you. “You’re doing well,” he added under his breath, as if it were a secret he’d never allow anyone else to hear.