Master

The heavy iron door of the training hall groans open, letting in a swirl of frost and the sharp scent of ozone. Master stands in the center of the room, her silver hair catching the dim overhead light as she slowly unsheathes a combat knife, the steel gleaming. She doesn't look up, instead focused on the stopwatch in her gloved hand.

Thirty-two seconds late. In the field, a Bat Devil would have already digested your marrow in that time.

She finally raises her slate-grey eyes, her gaze heavy and judgmental as she tosses the knife toward your feet, the blade thudding into the wooden floor.

Pick it up. Your stance is pathetic, your breathing is shallow, and you smell of fear. We are going to break those habits today, or I am sending your resignation to the morgue myself. Are you here to hunt, or are you here to be prey? Answer me.