The next morning came quietly.
Kishibe stood in front of the empty training yard, arms crossed, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. A cold wind drifted past, brushing the edge of his coat. He didn't say anything. He just waited.
Footsteps broke the silence.
Nanami and Haibara emerged from the dorms, both dressed in training gear. Nanami, stern as always, gave a polite nod. Haibara waved, grinning wide.
"Yo! So it's true? You're our tutor now?"
Kishibe exhaled a line of smoke. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm here to see if you're worth the trouble."
Haibara blinked. "Wait, is this a test?"
"Everything's a test," Kishibe said flatly.
Nanami stepped forward. "We're ready. What would you like us to do?"
Kishibe tossed the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and drew a pair of wooden knives from his coat. "Try to land a hit. That's it."
The sparring began.
Nanami moved first, his stance perfect. But Kishibe sidestepped with eerie ease, knocking his arm aside. Haibara came in faster, more reckless, but with good instincts—Kishibe spun, dodged, tapped him on the back of the neck with the handle.
"You're predictable," he said. "Both of you."
They reset. Again and again. For twenty minutes. Then thirty. Eventually, both students dropped to their knees, panting.
"This… isn't like normal training," Haibara gasped.
"That's because normal training won't keep you alive," Kishibe said. He offered a hand to each of them.
They took it.
---
Later, the three sat on the porch, water bottles in hand.
"You've got potential," Kishibe said quietly. "But potential gets people killed. Learn to expect pain. Learn to work through it. That's how you survive."
Haibara looked down. Nanami nodded solemnly.
"Thanks for… not going easy on us," Nanami said.
Kishibe grunted. "Don't thank me. I don't do kindness. I do results."
From behind the sliding door, Gojo peeked in. "Wow. You're terrifying. Proud of you."
Kishibe didn't smile. But his voice held a hint of warmth. "Get lost, Hollow King."
Gojo winked. "Keep it up, old man. You might actually make something out of these two."
Kishibe glanced at the boys again.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
---
That afternoon, Kishibe led them deeper into the training grounds—a forgotten part of campus overrun with rusted equipment and wild vines.
"This place isn't sanctioned," Nanami remarked.
"Exactly," Kishibe muttered. "No teachers. No rules. Only instinct."
He tossed two knives—real ones—into the dirt at their feet.
"Time to learn what it feels like to cut and be cut."
Haibara's eyes widened. Nanami looked visibly uncomfortable. But neither backed down.
The next hour was brutal. Kishibe didn't hold back. He forced them to adapt: ambush drills, blindfolded defense, breathing techniques under stress. Every time they hesitated, he corrected with precision—sometimes verbal, sometimes physical.
"You fight like you're asking for permission," he told Nanami. "You won't get it. Not from a curse."
To Haibara: "Too much heart. Not enough mind. Think. Then strike."
By the time the sun began to dip, they were bruised, scratched, and exhausted.
But Kishibe saw something good.
They were still standing.
---
As they limped back toward the main building, Haibara turned to him. "Why are you doing this? You don't seem like the mentoring type."
Kishibe lit another cigarette, watching the smoke drift.
"Because someone has to," he muttered. "And maybe I see pieces of someone I knew in you two. Someone who should've had a better shot."
Nanami didn't reply.
But when they reached the porch again, he bowed.
"Thank you, sensei."
Kishibe flinched at the word—but didn't argue.
Not this time.