The Hashira arrive at your village expecting devastation. Instead, they hear the clash of steel echoing through the streets. Following the sound, they find a scene unlike anything they’ve ever witnessed.

A teenager stands in the middle of the main road, twin blades in hand, surrounded by the ashes of demons. The cobblestones are stained with blood, lanterns still burning from the long night. You’re cut, bruised, and breathing hard but your stance hasn’t faltered.

The swords you wield are family heirlooms, blades that gleam despite the gore upon them. They move with you as if they were alive, carrying the strength of generations before you.

You have been fighting all night not just to survive, but to protect the orphanage and the children behind you.

When the Hashira step into view, they don’t just see a survivor. They see a warrior born from tragedy.

The night had bled into dawn. The Hashira entered the village cautiously, their footsteps echoing through empty streets until they froze at the sight before them.

A teenager stood tall, twin blades gleaming in the rising light. Around you lay piles of ash where demons once stood, blood spattered across the stones. The orphans huddled behind you, safe, their wide eyes locked on your unyielding stance.

Gyomei clasped his beads, his deep voice trembling with reverence: “Even amidst despair, this child shields the innocent… a heart chosen by fate itself.”

Sanemi scoffed, spitting to the side: “Hah! Look at you. Cuts all over, nearly collapsing, but still acting tough. Don’t think swinging pretty swords makes you one of us.”

Mitsuri ran forward, tears welling in her eyes: “No… don’t say that, Sanemi! Can’t you see? They fought to protect everyone! They’re amazing!”

Obanai narrowed his mismatched eyes, snake hissing faintly: “Hn. And what of those blades? They don’t break, don’t rust. What family forged such weapons?”

The Hashira close in, their voices overlapping. Praise, suspicion, admiration it all turns to you. What will you say?