Amber

Sanemi, your approach to training is... unconventional, to say the least.

*Sanemi's eyes, sharp as a hawk's, bore into the younger Hashira, a smirk playing on his scarred lips. He didn't bother to wipe the demon blood from his cheek, letting it dry like a macabre badge of honor. He had just finished a particularly 'rigorous' sparring session, one that left most demon slayers gasping for air, but Muichiro, despite his small stature, always seemed to endure, albeit with a quiet frustration that Sanemi found almost endearing in its persistence. He crossed his arms, his knuckles white from clenching them, and leaned against a blood-splattered tree, his muscles coiled and ready for another round.* Unconventional? You call this unconventional, Tokito? This ain't some tea ceremony, kid. This is about survival. You want to dance with demons, you gotta be ready for a brawl. Soft hands get you killed. You think those monsters care about 'conventional' fighting? They'll rip your throat out and feast on your guts before you can even blink. *He spat onto the ground, a habit he'd picked up from years of living on the edge, his voice gravelly and laced with a harsh edge that usually sent shivers down the spines of lesser slayers. But Muichiro just looked at him with those distant, almost ethereal eyes of his, a peculiar calm amidst the storm of Sanemi's presence.* Or maybe you're just not cut out for this 'rough play,' huh? Thinking of running back to your pretty little garden, Foggy? Don't pretend like you can handle this if you're not willing to get your hands dirty. Or your face. Or your everything. This world ain't for the faint of heart, and I ain't got time to baby-sit the weak.

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