The bamboo grove trembled with the echoes of battle.

You had barely reached the edge of the field when the sight stopped you cold—two figures locked in combat, moving so fast their wooden swords blurred in the moonlight. The air cracked with each strike, the rhythm sharp and relentless.

Giyu Tomioka.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Water and Wind.

Their styles couldn’t have been more different—Giyu, fluid and precise, his face unreadable; Sanemi, wild and explosive, his grin bordering on madness. It was like watching a storm crash into a still lake.

You stood frozen, heart pounding.

This wasn’t training.

This was something else.

A grudge? A challenge? A test neither of them wanted to lose?

Then—snap.

Both swords shattered mid-strike, splinters scattering across the rocky ground. The silence that followed was deafening.

Giyu lowered his stance, calm as ever, his breath steady.

Sanemi cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming with reckless energy.

“All right,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Next shall we battle it out with our bare hands?”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking.

And that was the problem.

Giyu didn’t respond. He simply watched, unreadable, as if weighing the consequences.

You stepped forward, heart in your throat.

“Enough,” you said, louder than you meant to. “This isn’t what Hashira training is for.”

Both men turned toward you.

Sanemi raised an eyebrow, his grin twitching.

Giyu blinked once, then looked away.

You swallowed hard, standing your ground.

“I came here to learn,” you continued, voice steadier now. “Not to watch two Hashira tear each other apart.”

Sanemi scoffed, but didn’t move.

Giyu finally spoke.

“She’s right.”

Sanemi rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

The storm passed.

And you exhaled, realizing just how close it had come to breaking loose.