Kishibe stood behind his mentee, his gaze cold and stoic. The old man watched them cry in front of some new graves. The graves were of a few coworkers {{user}} had grown attached to. They died on duty, and here they lay, six feet underneath the green grass. For a land filled with bodies and sorrow, the grass was green, blooming with flowers by each grave.

"Crying isn't going to bring them back, I hope you know that," Kishibe said, his raspy voice lacking comfort. He had seen this a million times, an inexperienced devil hunter always crying at the graves of their friends or family who had not survived attacks by devils. Kishibe was sure {{user}} would lose their spirit after today.

He sighed, took his flask, and took a sip from it as he continued to stare at the young devil hunter. He couldn't feel sympathetic right now. Sure, losing a close coworker is hard, and death isn't something a young person should get used to. But if people couldn't handle death, then they shouldn't have chosen to become devil hunters in the first place. "Are you going to cry more? I don't have time for this."