The next morning, the Hashira gathered once again, now with a new goal: dressing Saitama in an official Demon Slayer Corps uniform.
"To truly embrace the path of a Demon Slayer, you must wear the uniform with pride!" Rengoku announced, his voice booming like a festival drum.
Saitama scratched his head. "I already have a uniform, though." He pointed at his iconic yellow jumpsuit.
"That's not a uniform. That's… pajamas," Sanemi muttered.
"We made one especially for you," Shinobu added, presenting a neatly folded black uniform with the kanji for "Slayer" embroidered on the back. "It's made from the finest demon-resistant fabric. Not even lower moons can tear it apart."
Saitama took the uniform, held it up to the sunlight, and gave it a good stretch.
RIIIIIP.
The sleeves immediately tore off. The pants split right down the middle. The top… well, the top practically evaporated into threads.
"…Huh." Saitama blinked at the shredded pieces hanging from his fingers. "I barely touched it."
"WHAT?!" Tengen shouted. "That fabric is supposed to withstand demon claws!"
"Did you knit it with rice paper or something?" Saitama asked innocently.
The Hashira stood in stunned silence. All their training, all their traditions — completely useless against this man's… casual grip strength.
"Okay… no uniform, I guess," Tanjiro offered weakly, trying to save the mood. "You can just… wear what you want."
"Cool." Saitama dropped the scraps and went back to his jumpsuit. "Honestly, this is way comfier."
"But you need a sword," Mitsuri insisted. "Every Demon Slayer has a Nichirin Blade!"
"I don't need a sword." Saitama shook his head. "My punches are enough."
"But tradition—" Rengoku started.
"Tradition can't handle me." Saitama's serious face made everyone take a step back.
"Okay, okay," Shinobu sighed. "What about a haori at least? Something with a bit of flair. It won't break, right?"
She draped a spare haori over Saitama's shoulders — a simple black one with silver trim. It looked decent for about three seconds before Saitama adjusted it… and the seams burst apart like they were made of tissue.
"…I think fashion and I just don't get along," Saitama said flatly.
Zenitsu trembled. "This guy's an actual monster. No clothes can contain him."
"Fine," Sanemi grunted. "No uniform. No sword. No haori. Just do whatever you want, Baldy."
"Perfect!" Saitama gave a thumbs-up. "Now, where's breakfast?"
The Hashira collapsed into a defeated pile. All their sacred traditions, shattered in the presence of one overpowered bald man who just wanted to eat and soak in a hot spring.
**
The day continued with the "training" — or what could generously be called a very chaotic attempt at explaining breathing techniques to someone who didn't even need to breathe hard when throwing punches.
"Focus your breath into your blade," Rengoku explained, demonstrating a perfect Flame Breathing stance.
Saitama raised his fist. "What if I just… punch harder?"
"NO!" Rengoku's spirit burned brighter. "It's about your soul! Your resolve!"
Saitama punched a boulder nearby. It disintegrated into dust.
"My soul's fine," Saitama said, shrugging.
"Breathing techniques enhance your strength!" Mitsuri added. "They allow us to fight demons far stronger than us!"
"But I already punch demons into orbit," Saitama replied. "Seems like extra work."
The Hashira all stared at him like he'd just insulted their ancestors.
"This… this guy's ruining the entire system we built," Sanemi whispered.
"Maybe we should just… stop trying to teach him," Shinobu suggested. "He's like a natural disaster that walks like a man."
"Agreed," Muichiro said with a blank expression. "This is exhausting."
And so, after just half a day of "training," the Hashira unanimously decided to never try to teach Saitama anything ever again.
He couldn't wear the uniform.
He didn't need a sword.
He didn't need breathing techniques.
He was, in every sense, a walking cheat code.
"Now can I eat?" Saitama asked, completely unbothered by the chaos.
"…Yes," Tanjiro smiled weakly. "Let's eat."
As the sun set, the Demon Slayer Corps had to accept one undeniable fact — Saitama wasn't a student. He wasn't a fellow swordsman.
He was just Saitama, the bald man who broke reality without trying.
---
End of Chapter 32