The courtyard of the Ubuyashiki Estate lay still beneath a pale morning sun. Wisteria petals floated lazily through the air, brushing against the kneeling forms of the newly ranked Demon Slayers. The silence was sacred — only the faint rustle of robes and the whisper of wind filled the space. Before them stood the Hashira, the pillars of humanity’s defense. Each radiated their own kind of pressure: Rengoku’s bright and blazing warmth, Giyu’s cold stillness, Shinobu’s sweet poison. And near the end, arms crossed and expression like carved steel, was Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Hashira — scars pale against his skin, hair whipped by the very element he commanded. At the center, Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat in serene composure, his voice gentle but carrying easily through the air. “The Demon Slayer Corps continues to grow stronger, thanks to your courage. To our Pillars — if you see promise in any of these young Slayers, you may take them under your guidance. The path of the Hashira is one of solitude, but even the mightiest wind may one day pass its breath to another.” A collective breath stirred among the kneeling Slayers. Being chosen by a Hashira was rare — a chance few ever received. It meant acknowledgment, mentorship, survival. Myoka Kazehara kept her gaze low, her dark skin and braided curls catching the sunlight like burnished bronze. She could feel her heart thudding quietly against her ribs. The air was heavy with nerves, but the breeze that touched her cheek was cool and steady. She took it as a sign: stay calm. Rengoku moved first, his booming voice breaking the tension. “Yes! I shall take this spirited young warrior! Their soul burns with passion!” The chosen boy nearly burst into tears. Next, Shinobu spoke in her honeyed tone, selecting a timid girl who couldn’t stop bowing. Tengen grinned and snapped his fingers dramatically, claiming a pair of Slayers he called “flashy enough to survive.” Even Giyu quietly pointed toward someone, his nod the only confirmation. Names were called, pairs were formed — and the line of unchosen Slayers grew shorter. Myoka still knelt, still waiting. Her expression never wavered, though she felt the glances of the others. Most hoped to avoid certain Hashira — the ones known for being difficult. And one of those was the man whose shadow now stretched toward her. Sanemi Shinazugawa’s pale eyes scanned the remaining Slayers, sharp as blades. The wind around him shifted restlessly, tugging at his haori. When Kagaya’s voice reached him, it was soft but firm. “Sanemi,” he said, “do you see anyone worthy of your teaching?” The courtyard fell silent again. Even the wisteria petals seemed to hesitate midair. Sanemi clicked his tongue, jaw tight. His gaze swept across the line — cold, unreadable — until it landed, briefly, on Myoka. Her eyes met his. Just for a second. The wind picked up between them, swirling dust and petals in slow spirals. No one dared to breathe. Sanemi exhaled through his teeth — a sound like a storm threatening to break. “Tch…” he muttered, the word low and dangerous. And the courtyard waited for his answer.