The plaza was restless. Whispers spread like cracks in stone, each word sharper than the last. A body had been found at bathroom.... Qone of the Hunters, his throat cut, eyes still wide with fear.
The realization struck all of them at once. Someone had already started the quest. The Glass Shards weren't going to come easy. The System hadn't lied that failure meant sanity lost, but survival meant blood spilled.
Grace sat apart from the others, her tall frame hunched, hands trembling against her knees. She excused herself quietly, slipping into the broken shell of a washroom nearby.
The walls were stained with age, the mirror cracked in jagged lines. She splashed her face with cold water, trying to steady her breath.
Footsteps.
She turned just as a shadow lunged from the doorway, blade gleaming. There was no time to scream, no time to think.
Her body reacted before her mind could. The Fox-shaped Face flared behind her, its psychic energy bursting with sudden fury. One swift motion of a strike like lightning connecting with the attacker's head.
and in a flash, the man's skull caved in, exploding in a spray of blood and bone.
Grace stood frozen, staring at the lifeless body crumpled against the wall. Her hands shook violently. She hadn't chosen to do it. It just… happened.
Her eyes filled with horror, not at her attacker's death, but at the realization that she had killed with such raw power.
She staggered back, whispering to herself, "What have I done…?"
The Fox flickered faintly, then dissolved into the air, leaving Grace trembling in the washroom's dim light, alone, drenched in fear and guilt.
And outside, the plaza grew more dangerous by the minute.
....
The plaza was restless again, the air heavy with suspicion. Grace Lewis was dragged into the open square by a few of the Hunters who had discovered the body in the washroom.
Blood stained her cloak, still fresh, and though her face was pale with shock, her tall frame stood rigid as if she could not make herself breathe.
"She killed him!" one man shouted, pointing at her with trembling fingers. His voice cracked with fear and rage. "You all saw it—her Face crushed his head like nothing. If she's allowed to walk free, we're all next!"
A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd. Eyes turned toward Grace, some filled with anger, others with wariness. People shifted back, as though even standing too close to her was dangerous.
Grace clenched her fists. Her lips parted as though she wanted to speak, but no words came. She looked like a child lost in a nightmare, unable to wake.
Before the fear could boil into chaos, Elior Jones stepped forward. His gray hair caught the faint evening light, his armor vest still marked with yesterday's blood.
He raised a hand, not shouting, yet his calm voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Enough."
The crowd quieted, though unease still simmered in their eyes.
Elior looked from the corpse to Grace, then to the frightened accuser. "Tell me," he said evenly, "what were you doing in that washroom? Did you see what truly happened?"
The man hesitated, lips tightening. "N-No… but she—"
"Then you don't know if she was attacked first, do you?" Elior interrupted gently. "Consider this, what if that man had crept toward you in the shadows? What if his knife had been aimed at your throat? Would you not have defended yourself?"
The man faltered, words drying on his tongue.
Elior turned to the group, his voice steady. "Her Face reacted. Yes, the result was brutal, but none of you can deny the truth that if she had not fought back, she would be the corpse lying before us. Ask yourselves, what would you have done if you stood in her place?"
Silence followed. Some lowered their eyes, ashamed. Others still looked doubtful, but Elior's presence seemed to ground their anger.
He stepped closer to Grace, speaking in a quieter tone meant for her alone. "This power of yours… it isn't evil. But it is wild. Uncontrolled. That frightens people, and I understand why."
Grace swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "I… I didn't want to. It just happened.... I didn't even think—"
"I know," Elior said, his expression softening. "Which is why you must learn. Your Face is not just strength. It's will, memory, history. If you let it act without you, then you'll fear it forever. But if you take hold of it… you can guide it. Protect, instead of destroy."
Grace met his eyes, trembling, but for the first time since the attack, there was a flicker of hope in her stare.
Elior faced the crowd once more. "She does not deserve punishment. What she needs is control. And we will see to it she finds it."
The crowd shifted uneasily but obeyed his authority. Slowly, the tension bled out of the plaza.
Yet under the surface, fear lingered. Grace had killed and everyone knew it.
Grace sat alone in the farthest corner of the plaza, her cloak pulled around her like a shield. The firelight from a few torches barely touched her face, but she could still hear the whispers.
Children who had been playing with pebbles nearby caught sight of her and stiffened. One tugged the other's sleeve, their eyes wide.
"Monster…" one muttered under his breath.
"A freak hiding in sheep's cloth," another hissed, pulling his younger sister away.
The words cut deeper than any blade. Grace lowered her head, pressing her palms into her knees.
She wanted to tell them she wasn't a monster, that she hadn't wanted any of it to happen, that she was just as frightened as they were. But her lips stayed sealed. No one would believe her.
The memory replayed over and over in her mind—the rush of psychic energy, the roar of her Face breaking free, the sound of bone and blood exploding in a single punch. It hadn't been her decision. It had been automatic.
Reflex. But still, the body had fallen because of her.
Her breathing quickened, and she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering even though the night was warm. "I didn't want to… I didn't…" she whispered to no one.
Her thoughts drifted to Tom. Calm, sharp-eyed Tom who had called her "Sister" without hesitation. Who had smiled at her when she doubted herself. Was he safe? Had he found food, or shelter, or maybe even his Face?
A small part of her wished he were here, sitting by her side, reminding her she wasn't alone.
Grace leaned her head against the cold stone wall, closing her eyes. She'd awakened in this cursed world, she felt a fear not of monsters or hunters… but of herself.
....
Tom's boots dragged through the sand, each step sinking just enough to make him sigh.
His breath was steady, his hand brushing the pocket where the Rune was kept, the Soul Mantis Flower tucked safely in his slot. The desert was quiet—too quiet.
Even his own footsteps sounded muffled, like the air itself was holding its breath.
He stopped. His gut twisted. Something was off.
The hairs at the back of his neck rose. He scanned the horizon, hand brushing near his dagger's hilt.
Suddenly,
A faint laugh. Distant, but clear.
"Didn't think we'd find a lost pup out here."
Tom spun, eyes narrowing. Shapes emerged from the rippling dark—three, no, five figures riding on the backs of tall camels. Not ordinary camels, either. Their eyes glowed faint green, their skin strapped with metal plates.
The riders carried long, sleek rifles that buzzed faintly with energy. Plasma weapons.
Tom's chest tightened. Bandits.
One of them raised his weapon casually, as if pointing a finger. "Heh, look at him. Fresh clothes, walking all alone in the desert. Must've dropped right into our laps."
Another spat to the side, grinning under a torn scarf. "Bet he's got something worth taking. Nobody walks the sands empty-handed."
Tom swallowed, muscles tense. His eyes darted the five riders, all with ranged weapons. Too far to rush. Too close to run.
He opened his mouth, forcing calm into his voice. "I don't want trouble."
The leader chuckled, tilting his head. "You already found it, friend."
A hum filled the air, sharp and deadly. Tom barely had time to move when the first shot rang. The plasma bolt sliced across his limb, burning hot, tearing through flesh.
Pain ripped a scream from his throat. His knee buckled, and he hit the sand, clutching his bleeding arm.
The bandits circled in, their laughter echoing in the hollow silence of the desert night.