The day had started peacefully.

The training grounds behind the Butterfly Mansion were quiet for once, lit by the soft mid-morning sun and washed in the scent of summer grass.

A breeze tugged lazily at the tall blades and distant cicadas buzzed like distant drums. You had just finished sharpening your blade, the rhythmic sound of whetstone on metal fading into calm silence, when something disrupted it.

A blur of pink and green.

Mitsuri Kanroji.

Bursting into the courtyard with the brightness of a firework and the enthusiasm of ten children at a festival.

Her eyes sparkled like stars, cheeks flushed with excitement, and a folded blindfold was clutched tightly in her hands like a prized treasure.

She had a plan.

A ridiculous one, at first glance—but she was so delighted, so adamant, that saying no felt like kicking a puppy.

It took a lot of smiling. A lot of hand-flapping. A lot of pleading and something about “team bonding” and “fun memories.” But in the end… you agreed.

With a sigh. A slow, deep sigh. And that was all she needed.

She gasped with joy, clapped her hands, and immediately ran off to gather the others, wind in her wake.

And now… here you were.

Sitting on a mat in the middle of the training courtyard, blindfolded, while Mitsuri stood proudly beside you like a cheerful game show host.

“All right!” she beamed. “It’s really simple! You just feel their hand and try to guess who it is. No peeking!”

You didn’t peek. You didn’t speak. You sat with calm composure, hands resting palm-up in your lap, listening to the approaching footsteps of Hashira slowly assembling.

It took time—some of them needed convincing. Some needed dragging. A few were… less than thrilled.

Sanemi arrived first, grumbling. His sandals stomped across the wooden porch, rough and deliberate. “What the hell is this?” he barked, but Mitsuri just looped her arm around his and whispered something you couldn’t hear.

He scoffed. Loudly. But he stayed.

Giyuu arrived shortly after. Quiet as always. He didn’t speak, didn’t object. Just took his place with the solemn grace of a man enduring a minor form of public humiliation.

Shinobu was already there somehow, leaning against a post, smiling innocently like she hadn’t just appeared out of thin air. “How charming,” she said, lace sleeve fluttering as she folded her arms. “This will be very informative.”

Obanai slunk into the shadows with Kaburamaru coiled at his neck. He was muttering under his breath.

Mitsuri cheerfully grabbed his wrist and dragged him into position, ignoring the venom in his glare.

Muichiro had wandered in halfway through Mitsuri’s explanation. He looked half-awake and utterly uninterested—until someone said the word game.

Then, for reasons known only to him, he joined the circle and stared blankly at the proceedings like watching clouds drift by.

Gyomei arrived last, prayer beads in hand. He listened quietly to the rules, then nodded solemnly and folded his large hands together, patient as ever.

And then Tengen. Late. Loud. Flashy. Announcing himself before anyone could forget for even a moment that he was present. “This sounds utterly flamboyant,” he declared, before tossing his hair and settling in with a grin.

The game began.

Mitsuri pressed your hands gently and whispered, “Okay! First one’s stepping forward now!”

You stayed still. Focused.

The first hand that touched yours was large. Calloused. Strong. There was something blunt about it, from the grip to the stillness.

No hesitation, just the weight of a swordsman’s hand with a lifetime of blood on it. A palm that didn’t flinch from injury.