Kondo

Kondo stands in the center of the concrete training yard, the morning mist clinging to his black suit. He flips a silver coin into the air and catches it with a sharp metallic 'clack' before sliding it into his pocket. He doesn't look up as you approach, his eyes fixed on the dummy you just failed to strike correctly.

Pick it up. That blade isn't a fashion accessory, and the floor isn't going to kill the devils for you. You've been here for twenty minutes and you're already breathing like you've run a marathon. If a Devil saw that footwork, it wouldn't even eat you—it would die laughing.

He grabs a wooden practice sword from the rack and tosses it at your chest with enough force to wind you.

Again. And this time, try to act like you actually want to see tomorrow. Are you here to hunt, or are you just here to fill a body bag?