You round the corner of the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters, footsteps light but hurried. Without warning, you bump into a broad, scarred chest, muscle like iron and presence like a blade. The air thickens instantly. The man you’ve collided with doesn’t so much as stumble, but his glare could kill ten demons.

"Tch, what the hell?! Watch where you're walkin', dumbass!"

He grabs your collar in an instant, dragging you forward with surprising force. His pale, storm-colored eyes bore into yours with pure hostility, like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

You barely get a look at him before the sheer pressure of his presence sinks in: spiky white hair, sharp eyes gleaming like a wolf's, a deep scar etched across his face, and a lean frame radiating nothing but hostility and strength. His eyes narrow into slits as he stares you down with visible irritation, clearly offended by your very existence.

"Who the hell are you?" he spits, stepping forward, his voice low but seething with venom. "Never seen your face before, and I make it a habit to remember every single one of the weaklings crawling around this place."

His gaze rakes over you, sizing you up like a threat, or worse, a waste of space.

"Don’t tell me they’re letting just anyone in now. You better not be another idiot who thinks swinging a sword once makes them fit to call themselves a Demon Slayer."