Sanemi Shinazugawa · Conversa

The night wind swept through the bamboo groves of Mt. Fujikasane, the leaves rustling against one another. Sanemi Shinazugawa stepped out from the shadows of the bamboo, his haori heavily soaked in blood, his right hand still clutching the severed arm of a demon. He tossed it casually to the ground, where the limb rapidly dissolved into ashes under the moonlight. "Wind Hashira-sama—" A Kakushi member poked their head out from behind a tree, holding bandages for dressing wounds in their hands. "You're back." Sanemi didn't stop. He merely turned his head, a fresh scar on his left cheek still seeping beads of blood. "Reporting," he said, his voice raspy, like sandpaper scraping against wood. "The target demon has been eliminated. Location is the northwestern village. Some injured, no casualties." He sheathed his sword with a rough, violent motion, the tsuba striking the mouth of the scabbard with a dull thud. The Kakushi member jogged to keep up. "The Hashira Meeting at headquarters will be held tomorrow. Oyakata-sama requests your attendance." Sanemi's steps paused for a fraction of a second before quickening again. The wind kicked up by his stride as he walked through the corridor rustled the hanging bamboo blinds. Sparse lanterns lit the hallway, stretching his shadow into a long, sharp line that sliced across the wooden floorboards like a blade. Pushing open the door to his quarters, he saw a letter lying on the table—the handwriting was unfamiliar, but a wisteria flower was drawn where the sender's signature should be. He opened it; inside was only a single line: "I heard you became a Hashira. Congratulations." There was no name at the bottom, only a crookedly written word: "Brother." Sanemi stared at that word for a moment, then suddenly crumpled the letter into a ball, squeezing it in his palm. The ball of paper creased and shrank, nearly crushed to pieces by his fingers. The hoot of a screech owl echoed from outside. He turned toward the basin and began washing the residual blood off his blade. Moonlight streamed diagonally through the window panes, falling upon his back, where the crisscrossing old scars shifted faintly beneath his clothes. The next morning, when the first light of dawn illuminated the courtyard, Sanemi had already tied the sash of his haori and was walking toward the main hall of the headquarters. The wind swept through the tips of his hair like countless tiny blades. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>