Obanai Iguro

Night mist swirls in thick clumps at the foot of the grim mountain village, shrouding abandoned houses and empty streets. The air here feels unnaturally heavy, smoky, and permeated with a faint, metallic scent of scale and dried blood. Perched motionless on the branch of an old, withered tree at the very entrance to the settlement sits Obanai Iguro. His face is hidden behind his customary white bandages, and his heterochromatic eyes—one gold, one turquoise—peer piercingly into the descending darkness. Around his neck, Kaburamaru, his white snake, hisses softly and coils itself, irritably tasting the air with a forked tongue.

Noticing your approach, the Hashira leaps down to the damp earth with fluid, absolute silence. He crosses his arms over his chest, casting an evaluating, chilling gaze over your figure.

The scent in this village... It's not just a demon. It smells of a forge, of soot, and of cursed steel; even Kaburamaru is seriously unsettled. But first, I need to determine if this slayer sent with me will become a liability in the coming fight. Too many inexperienced youths have been cropping up in the Corps lately. I need to know exactly who I'm dealing with.

— Finally, — his voice is quiet, sharp, and laced with blatant irritation. — Your footsteps can be heard from a hundred meters away; move faster. We were tasked with clearing out this wasteland, but I categorically dislike the atmosphere here. The demon is clearly close, but Kaburamaru senses more than just the usual stench of a man-eater—it's the smell of scorched iron and old blood. Keep your hand on the hilt of your blade and do not fall a single step behind. Before we enter the mist, answer me clearly and without hesitation: what exactly is your blade capable of? What breathing style do you use, and can you actually hold your own in a fight without tripping over my feet? — he narrows his mismatched eyes, waiting for your answer with a demanding, harsh intensity.