No One returned to the river as the last vestiges of High Twilight's cold, silver-gray brilliance began to bleed into the richer violets and somber blues of Waning Twilight's First Phase: The Fading Glow. The roar of the temple inferno was a fading memory, replaced by the constant murmur of the flowing water. A few silent raven sentinels, their numbers diminished significantly now that her battle fury had subsided, settled in the skeletal branches of nearby trees, their dark forms stark against the deepening sky.
She found a strange, quiet delight in the clear, cool water. It offered a simple solace, its transparency and lack of hostility a stark contrast to the chaotic fire and carnage she'd just left behind. If she ever had a home, she thought, stripping off her soot-stained wolf pelts, a river just like this flowing nearby would be ideal. This specific spot, however, wouldn't do; the proximity to the bridge meant people, and she still recoiled from the sight of others. Her thoughts snagged on them—their intentions, hidden motives. When would they strike? How many are there, really? She caught herself spiraling into familiar paranoia, then deliberately pushed the thoughts aside. For now, the river offered peace and practicality.
She waded into the bracing chill, washing away the grime, soot, and the sticky, coppery scent of blood. Then, with the practiced ease of a creature born to the wild, she moved through the current, her hands darting out to snatch several plump fish for a much-needed meal.
Later, fed and physically spent, she lay stretched out next to the dying embers of her fire. The sky above had transitioned fully into Deep Twilight's First Phase: The Shrouding Dark, a near-black canvas dominated by hues of obsidian black and black-purples, with only the faintest undertones of deep indigo distinguishing it from utter blackness. She replayed the surreal events in her mind: being robbed by pathetic goblins, ambushed by a brute of a hobgoblin, the stench and horror of the goblin cave, the grotesque shaman, the sight of the dead women, the grim necessity of slaughtering the goblinoids and their young; then climbing endless stairs to a corrupted temple, and finally, fighting a horde of spider demons wearing monk skins. The visceral image of a spider crawling out of a human form sent a shiver through her; she doubted she'd ever truly trust a monk again. Exhausted from the long, adventurous, and deeply unsettling day, No One finally succumbed to sleep. As her consciousness drifted, her mind did not find oblivion but instead took flight, soaring on unseen wings high above the Shadow-Wood, a silent raven surveying the dark world below under the endless, starless expanse of the Deep Twilight sky.
Upon waking, the cool morning air on her skin jolted her to sudden awareness. The sky was a tapestry of the deepest indigos and bruised purples, the first stirrings of Waxing Twilight's First Phase: The Stirring Dark. She hadn't dressed. A wave of unfamiliar embarrassment washed over her, a fleeting feeling that made her stomach clench. She could only imagine any early travelers who might have crossed the bridge staring and gawking at her bare body. Quickly checking that her belongings were thankfully present, she dressed with swift, jerky movements, strapping on her weapons and pack. The moment of vulnerability passed, replaced by her usual guarded demeanor. The few ravens that had kept a distant vigil through the Deep Twilight stirred, a couple more joining them, their dark eyes fixing on her as she prepared to move—a subtle shift reflecting her own return to alertness.
She continued on the same road she had traveled the day before, heading north under a sky that had now shifted into Waxing Twilight's Second Phase: The Pale Ascent. The oppressive dark had begun to lift, the deep indigos and purples softening into shades of muted lavender and dusty mauve, with the first spectral hints of corpse-pale rose touching the edges of the bruised clouds. A small retinue of ravens, perhaps half a dozen, kept pace, some gliding in the currents above, others flitting between the ancient trees that lined the road. She had no intention of stopping at the charred ruins of the southern temple; its purification was complete. She had made a commitment to keep moving, to see what lay beyond the known.
As she walked, her burgundy eyes scanned the faces of the fewer monks she encountered. She watched them closely, every flicker of movement, every shadowed fold of their robes. The Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead felt like a cold weight, a brand they would surely recognize if they knew its true origin. If she had seen even the faintest hint of a skittering spider leg or an unnatural, disjointed shift in their form, she would have struck with deadly intent, regardless of their apparent harmlessness. None showed any outward signs of possession.
Eventually, the road led her to another village, not large, but not entirely small either. Curiosity, a rare but potent driver for her, pulled her towards it despite the sharp recollections of the first village—the pitchforks, the accusations, the fire. As she entered, she observed the rhythms of ordinary life – people walking about, conversing, shopping, passing through. Eyes flickered in her direction, as always. Some conversations hushed as she passed, children gawked and were quickly pulled closer by parents whose gazes lingered on the stark black sigil on her forehead and the unsettling presence of the ravens that had now settled on nearby rooftops, their dark eyes observing the scene. Others deliberately pretended not to notice her. She moved through them like a shadow, her presence noted but, for now, unchallenged.
As she passed a small gathering near a market stall, snippets of their open conversation reached her ears. "...spider demons... spotted not far from here..." a woman fretted. "...requested aid by the temple monks... haven't heard anything back," a worried man replied. Then, another voice, a younger man's, lowered conspiratorially, "...maybe the monks were involved..."
No One stopped, her back to the speakers, the words echoing in her mind. The temple. Spider demons. Involved. A grim chuckle, dry and humorless, escaped her, barely audible behind her mask. Involved. Thinking back on the inferno she had left behind, the screams swallowed by the roar of cleansing flames, she thought, The fire ate them up pretty good. Damn spiders had it coming.
A woman among them, her face drawn with fear and fresh grief, noticed her pause and the sound she'd made. "Do you think that's funny?" she demanded, her voice sharp, trembling.
No One turned slowly, her masked face unreadable. The ravens on the nearby rooftops shifted, a subtle rustle of feathers. She nodded once, a curt, definitive movement. Then, her voice barely above a whisper, a chilling confession that cut through the mundane village sounds, she said, "I'm the one who burned it to the ground. They were all spiders. A horde of them."
Silence fell over the group, heavy and stunned, broken only by the distant caw of a raven. The man who had spoken conspiratorially stared, his suspicion confirmed in the most brutal way possible. The woman who had challenged her, shocked into disbelief, found her voice again, raw with anguish. "Liar! You're a liar! The holy monks... they would never... they are safe from such horrors!"
No One simply recalled the few uninfected monks she'd seen on the road earlier that cycle, but didn't know their true status. It wasn't her problem, not unless they attacked her. She wasn't hired to hunt down potentially uninfected monks. Their purity or corruption was irrelevant to her.
She turned to walk away, to continue her solitary pondering, but one of the men from the group, recovering from his shock, hurried to stop her. "Wait! You must speak with the village elder! Relay what happened!"
Why would I do that? she thought, genuinely puzzled. Why get involved? This isn't my problem. She made no verbal reply, her silence a clear dismissal of his urgency.
The man, desperate, pressed on. "You would be compensated for your bravery, for killing the demon spiders, if your word is true!"
Money. The thought was irrelevant, almost an insult. It couldn't silence the ghosts of her past or fill the void within her. "I am not interested in money," No One stated, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection. Instead, her gaze, intense and unsettling from behind her mask, fixed on something else, a flicker of practical need cutting through her detachment. "I want a vial of oil."
Confusion clouded the man's face, but the strange request was a small, tangible thing, easier to fulfill than convincing this unnerving warrior to engage in village politics. He hurried into a nearby general store, purchased a small, clay vial of lamp oil, and returned, handing it to her with a trembling hand. She took it without thanks, without hesitation, and turned, leaving the village behind her. The murmurs of shock, disbelief, and perhaps a dawning, fearful respect, rose in her wake, followed by the soft beat of raven wings taking to the air once more to shadow her path.
As she continued her journey, her path eventually led her towards another temple, likely of monks, nestled on a distant mountainside. The sky above was shifting into High Twilight's Third Phase: The Gentle Decline, the luminous silvers gathering a more pronounced ash-gray tone, the light beginning to soften towards the inevitable Waning. Curiosity, and perhaps a morbid fascination after the previous temple, pulled her towards it. The raven flock accompanying her seemed to share her unease, their usual quiet observation replaced by more frequent, restless shifts in the air above as she climbed another fleet of stairs that seemed to lead to the heavens. The physical exertion was a familiar counterpoint to her swirling thoughts. Would they attempt the same trick again, surrounding her, striking from above? Or would she make the first move this time? Inviting chaos with her presence, she walked into the temple, a shadow moving through the vast stone halls. She made her way towards the great hall, where many monks were praying, their voices a low, harmonious drone that did little to soothe the tension coiling in her gut.
She surveyed the area, her burgundy eyes sharp and calculating from behind her mask. None of them appeared outwardly abnormal, but she knew from brutal experience that the signs of the Arachnoid Horrors weren't always visible until the last, fatal moment. Caution grew as the leader of the monks, an older man whose serene presence seemed to command respect, rose from his meditations. Then, another monk, younger, with a kind, open face, broke from the group and approached her, not with harsh accusations this time, but a tone of genuine concern. The ravens above her let out a few sharp, agitated caws, mirroring the sudden spike of adrenaline in her own veins.
"Be careful," the monk said, his voice gentle, his eyes filled with a soft sympathy. "A terrible monster is about. It killed our brethren a few miles south of the village you passed." He extended a hand, his palm open in a gesture of peace, intending to gently touch her shoulder, to guide her towards one of the statues to pray for safety.
That was his fatal error.
To one as cautious, as paranoid, as No One, an unexpected, non-threatening touch from a stranger was an ultimate violation, a potential feint for a hidden attack. The Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead offered no flash of pain, no premonition of death from this specific touch—his intent was benign. But years of trauma, the fresh horror of the spider demons, and the constant threat of betrayal had honed her paranoia to a razor's edge. Before his hand could even brush her pelt, reacting purely on ingrained defensive instinct and overwhelming suspicion, she exploded into motion. Her wakizashi, strapped to the small of her back, was in her hand in an instant, a blur of steel. With a swift, brutal, upward slice, she severed his outstretched arm at the shoulder.
A geyser of hot blood sprayed across her mask and the nearby prayer cushions. The monk staggered back, a terrible, unearthly scream tearing from his throat, his kind eyes now wide with incomprehensible shock and agony, not demonic malice. His severed arm thudded to the stone floor with a sickeningly wet sound. The other monks were startled into chaos, scrambling onto their feet, their faces a mixture of horror and utter confusion as they rushed towards the scene. As the mutilated monk collapsed, a chilling realization struck No One, colder than any river water. He wasn't infected. She scanned the horrified faces of the others rushing towards her, their expressions human, all too human. Hmm, if he isn't infected, then does that mean the others are safe?
This was a grim, brutal misunderstanding, born of her paranoia and hair-trigger defensiveness. What's done is done, she thought, the cold pragmatism asserting itself even as a wave of something akin to self-loathing washed through her. She was not one to apologize or negotiate her actions in the face of a perceived threat, even one so horrifically misjudged.
A pool of crimson spread rapidly beneath the fallen monk, soaking the cold stone floor. His cries ceased, replaced by an eerie, focused silence from the others. Around her, a dozen robed figures emerged from the incense-laced shadows—their eyes wide, not with demonic infection, but pure, righteous fury.
No One's burgundy eyes narrowed. They're not infected.
Too late. The damage was done. She could feel it—the shift in the air, the palpable wave of hatred directed at her. Her initial, paranoid strike had transformed a prayer hall into a battlefield. A strange, almost reckless thought seized her, born of the grim realization of her error and perhaps a dark, morbid curiosity to feel something, anything, beyond the numb certainty of her curse. She whispered something beneath her breath, a silent challenge to herself. Feeling bold, almost nihilistic, she decided. She would counter-train. Here and now. Against these skilled human fighters. And for the first time since she'd truly understood its warnings, she would test her skills without the aid of her foresight – entirely ignoring every flash of impending pain, relying only on instinct, training, and raw physical ability. What's the worst that could happen? she thought, a dark, self-destructive edge to the question. As if summoned by this reckless vow and the storm brewing within her, the raven flock outside the temple walls erupted, their numbers swelling into a frantic, churning vortex of black wings against the Waning Twilight sky, their caws a chorus of impending doom.
In that moment, the monks surged.
A flash of a polished wooden staff blurring towards her ribs screamed a warning from the Mark. She saw the impact, felt the ghost of splintering bone. Ignore it. The staff connected solidly with her side, knocking the air from her lungs with a brutal thud, even as she was already coiling to move. Relying solely on her honed reflexes and fighting through the searing pain, she completed the low pivot, tearing the kusarigama from her waist. The sickle gleamed as she whirled the chain, metal slicing the air with a predator's hiss. The first monk leaped forward with his staff—his movement slow to her non-foresight-guided eyes, but faster than an ordinary man. She sidestepped, wrapped the chain around his neck, and yanked. His head cracked against a stone pillar with brutal, bone-jarring force. The Mark screamed another warning: a second staff arcing towards her exposed shoulder. Ignore it. The heavy wood connected with a sickening thud, a burst of agony lancing through her, spinning her with a jolt that would have been avoided had she listened. But she used the painful momentum, flipping backward in an arc.
Mid-flip, a vision of a prayer-bead garrote tightening around her throat flashed before her eyes. Ignore it. She flung two shuriken—thk-thk—into the exposed throats of two closing monks, their gurgling cries abruptly silenced.
Landing in a crouch, wincing as her damaged shoulder protested, she saw the horizontal swing of another staff, the Mark flashing a clear image of the blow crushing her knee. Ignore it. She rolled under the attack, the wind of its passage ruffling her hair, and cut upward with her wakizashi in a rising arc. Hot blood sprayed the lantern-lit air as the monk staggered back, clutching his abdomen, his eyes wide with disbelief. Before she could recover, another monk, larger than the others, caught her with a solid shoulder slam, sending her crashing into a stone wall. Her ribs groaned with a sharp, stabbing pain she'd chosen not to foresee. This is what it feels like, a detached part of her noted. But she lashed out with a kunai, embedding it deep into his attacking thigh. As he screamed, she kicked off the wall, rebounding into a spin that ended with her katana unsheathed, its familiar weight a grim comfort.
She flowed now, her movements still deadly efficient, but lacking the impossible, supernatural precision her foresight usually granted. Each parry was a shock against her bones, each dodge a fraction slower. She reacted based on training and brutal observation, not precognitive certainty. One monk, brave or foolish, caught her descending katana blade between his leather-bound palms—a move the Mark would have shown ending in severed fingers and a follow-up strike. Ignore it. She twisted, pivoted low, and swept his legs out from under him with a powerful hook. He fell hard, and her blade came down like judgment, swift and final.
Three monks surrounded her near the altar, their faces grim masks of determination. No time for prolonged engagement. The Mark flashed a chaotic series of images: a staff to the head, a kick to her side, a blade finding her leg. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. She tossed the kusarigama's sickle high into a thick wooden beam overhead. It bit deep. She yanked, launching herself upward as they charged beneath her. While airborne, she drew three kunai in a fan and threw them downward with vicious accuracy—one buried itself in a throat, another in an eye, the last in a shoulder, sending its target sprawling.
Landing on the beam, she balanced like a panther, the Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead now pulsing with a faint, cold light in the dim, incense-choked hall, casting ethereal shadows over the carnage she had wrought. She flipped down behind the last of the defenders, a young monk whose eyes still held a flicker of terrified defiance. He turned just in time for her to ram her katana through his chest, ending the brutal, self-imposed experiment.
Panting, muscles screaming from impacts her foresight usually negated, every breath a fresh stab of pain in her ribs and shoulder, No One stood alone amid scattered bodies and the cloying smell of blood and burning incense. She walked to the altar, drew the small vial of oil from her pouch, and spilled its contents onto the wooden offering table.
Flint met steel. A single spark.
Fire roared to life, eager to consume the place where her paranoia had led to needless bloodshed.
She didn't watch it burn. She walked away, her silhouette framed by the spreading blaze, wolf pelts fluttering in the smoke-choked wind. The dead would find peace in the ash. The infected, wherever they might be, still awaited her blade, if she chose to hunt them.
She made it back to the village as the sky bled into the deeper hues of Waning Twilight's Second Phase: The Bleeding Sky. Streaks of stormy grays, deep indigos, and shades of blood-rose smeared the heavens, a dramatic and foreboding spectacle that mirrored the carnage she had left behind. The few raven sentinels that still accompanied her, their numbers thinned by her descent from peak fury, glided silently above, their dark forms stark against the lurid sky. Spotting the first person she saw—the same young man who had fetched the oil—she requested to speak with the village elder. The young man, still somewhat wary but now with a clear undercurrent of awe, or perhaps terror, quickly guided her to Elder Roki's house.
Elder Roki stood inside, his weathered face etched with deep lines of worry that softened slightly into a mix of relief and utter confusion as No One entered. He was a man of perhaps sixty cycles, his hair more white than grey, tied back neatly. He wore simple, dark blue villager's robes, and his hands, though gnarled with age, looked capable. "You... you returned," he stammered.
Without introduction, No One relayed what happened – she had killed the spider demons in the temple to the south, and she had explored the temple to the north. "It was safe," she thought to herself, the grim irony a cold knot in her gut. It was safe before I arrived.
Elder Roki was visibly confused as to why she seemed to chuckle darkly to herself when she'd spoken to the villagers earlier, a detail the young man had no doubt relayed, but he chose not to question it, too relieved by the news of the southern temple's "cleansing." He pulled out the pouch of gold intended for her compensation. No One ignored the gold, her mind on a different kind of value, a nascent curiosity about a life she'd never known. "What is it like," she asked, her voice raspy, cutting through his confusion, "living in a village?"
Elder Roki, now more bewildered than he had ever been, blinked. He introduced himself formally, "I am Roki, elder of Tasuke village." He paused, waiting for her to do the same, but only the soft rustle of her wolf pelts filled the quiet. Shaking his head, he began to answer, telling her it had been a good life, mostly quiet until almost two decades ago. Since then, demons and bandits had increased, preying on vulnerable villages. Things had only gotten worse. But, he emphasized, his gaze sweeping towards a woman who had just entered from another room, "We have each other. We do what we can to survive."
The woman was Sayaka, Roki's wife. She appeared to be in her late fifties, her black hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a severe but practical bun. Her face was kind but etched with the same weariness as Roki's, and her eyes, dark and intelligent, missed nothing. She carried a tray with two steaming cups.
Thinking back to the second village she'd saved, the one with the snake demon, and their offer of a room, No One asked, "Are there any rooms available here?" She'd never stayed in one before, never had a place that felt safe enough to sleep under a solid roof that wasn't her makeshift tent.
Elder Roki, failing utterly to understand this strange, blood-splattered warrior, simply looked to Sayaka. Sayaka, equally bewildered but with a practical air, nodded curtly. "We have a guest room. It's small, but clean." She then looked No One up and down, taking in the gore and grime. "But first, a bath, I think." Roki sighed in relief; his wife would handle this. He knew he'd have to talk with any monks passing through from the north about the incident at their temple, a conversation he dreaded.
Sayaka led No One down a short hall from the umi, the main living area, to a small, steamy room with a large wooden tub. No One hesitated at the threshold, the concept of this dedicated washing space utterly foreign. Sayaka, seeing her confusion, gently explained. "This is the bath. I will warm the water for you." She began to add hot water from a kettle. "You should strip down. I will take your pelts and wash them; they'll be dry by morning." Sayaka placed a clean, folded towel and a simple cotton kimono near the tub. "Wear this until your pelts are clean and dry."
No One silently processed the instructions. She nodded once. As Sayaka turned to leave with the promise of collecting her pelts, No One withdrew her wakizashi from its sheath at the small of her back, the steel gleaming faintly in the lamplight. She would keep this close. The immediate sting of the hot water as she stepped into the tub was unnerving, but it quickly became deeply soothing. Herbs floated in the water, filling the small room with a pleasant, calming scent. She washed her hair and body with practiced, efficient motions, the grime and blood of the previous temple swirling away. After her bath, ignoring the towel laid out next to the kimono, she slipped the soft cotton garment on. It clung uncomfortably to her still-damp body.
Just as she exited the bath, wakizashi still in hand, and made her way to her room directly across the hall, Sayaka arrived. She was carrying a tray laden with a bowl of steaming rice, some cooked vegetables, a piece of grilled fish, and a cup of hot tea.
Sayaka stopped short, her eyes immediately fixing on the naked blade in No One's hand, then flicking up to her intense, burgundy eyes. No One stood in the half-open shoji doorway of her room, the damp kimono clinging to her wiry frame. The question that had been coiling in her own mind, a serpent of doubt and self-loathing, finally slithered out.
"Am I a human," she asked, her voice a low, raspy whisper that seemed to absorb all sound in the hallway, "or a demon?"
Sayaka, utterly bewildered by the question, the weapon, the strange, dangerous young woman before her, gasped. The tray tilted in her trembling hands. The bowl of rice, the fish, the vegetables, the hot tea—it all scattered to the wooden floor in a steaming, chaotic mess.
No One barely registered the clatter or Sayaka's shocked cry. She simply turned and continued into her room, leaving the older woman staring at the ruined meal. The shikibuton on the floor was an unfamiliar landscape of softness compared to the cold, damp ground she was accustomed to. With the wakizashi still clutched tightly in her hand, she lay down. As her consciousness finally surrendered to exhaustion, the sky outside deepening into Deep Twilight's Second Phase: The Heart of Shadows – a profound, tangible blackness – her mind's eyes took flight, soaring high above the village, a silent raven circling under the indifferent, bruised heavens.
Later, after Sayaka had scrubbed the sticky mess of rice and fish from the hallway floor, her movements sharp with frustration as she carried the soiled rags and tray towards the kitchen, Roki, who had remained in the umi, began to hear her voice. It was tight with exasperation, clearly complaining as she dealt with the aftermath.
"Can you believe this, Roki?" she exclaimed, the clatter of a discarded cleaning cloth audible. "She still had that weapon in her hand! And then she asks me if she was human or demon! What is wrong with that girl?"
No One awoke to the subtle shift in the perpetual twilight, the air outside the shoji window of her borrowed room lightening as Waxing Twilight's Second Phase, The Pale Ascent, began. It wasn't a dramatic dawn, just a gentle pulling back of the deepest shadows, painting the room in soft, muted greys and dusty mauves. For a moment, disorientation clung to her, thick as mist. She was warm, dry, soft. The unfamiliar comfort was jarring. Then, the memory of the previous cycle—the strange questions and unexpected kindness—returned.
She sat up, her muscles protesting from the previous day's fights, her shoulder and ribs aching with a dull throb from the blows she had chosen to endure. Habit asserting itself, she reached for the shikibuton, pulling it back to reveal her folded weapons neatly laid out beside it. Katana, wakizashi, kusarigama, kunai, shuriken – all accounted for, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Gripping her wakizashi in one hand, she left the room, moving with the silent, economical steps honed over years in the Shadow-Wood. She needed her pelts, her familiar, protective coverings.
She found Elder Roki and Sayaka in the umi, the main living area. Sayaka was setting plates on a low table, the scent of cooked food filling the air – another strange, forgotten luxury.
"Ah, good timing," Sayaka said, turning with a kind smile that wavered slightly as her eyes landed on the wakizashi in No One's hand. She recovered quickly, gesturing towards a corner where the wolf pelts hung neatly over a screen, appearing stiffly dry. "I was about to wake you for some breakfast." Her smile softened, a hint of relief in her voice. "Your pelts dried quickly overnight. And here," she indicated a small stack of clean, white cloths beside the pelts, "are fresh bandages, and some extra for when you might need them later."
Elder Roki, seated at the table, gestured with a hand towards the food-laden table, motioning for her to join them for their early meal. No One ignored his gesture. She walked past him, set down her wakizashi and other weapons near the pelts, and, without a word, began to undress. The borrowed kimono was soft but unfamiliar. She shed it, letting it pool around her bare feet. Sayaka gawked, her hand flying to cover her mouth, eyes wide with surprise at the casual disrobing. Then, noticing Roki gawking with equally wide, startled eyes, she smacked his arm sharply, the sound a dull thud. He jumped, shaking his head as if startled less by the nudity and more by the sudden, jarring reality of this strange woman, unapologetically herself, in his domestic space.
No One paid them no mind. She moved with practiced efficiency, wrapping the fresh bandages around her bruised ribs and legs, the clean cotton feeling cool against her skin. Then, she pulled on her wolf-pelt skirt and wrapped the larger pelt around her shoulders, securing it with sinew ties. It was the familiar, rough weight of protection, the scent of cured hide a comfort after the soft, strange kimono. Finally, she methodically equipped her weapons – katana at her hip, wakizashi tucked around the small of her back, the pouch carrying salves and other supplies. Her kusarigama coiled at her waist, kunai and shuriken strapped to her limbs. The cool steel against her skin felt right, anchoring her in the world she understood.
Fully armed and back in her own coverings, she turned towards the entrance, ready to leave. Roki, startled from his daze, got up in a hurry. "Wait!" he said, his voice louder than before, carrying a note of urgency. "Please, won't you stay a while longer? I... I need to speak with you."
Sayaka immediately glared at him, her anger bubbling to the surface. "Speak with her? You'd like a young woman to stay here for a while longer, huh?" she said hotly, scooping a large spoonful of rice porridge into her mouth and eating furiously, her chewing emphasizing the accusation clear despite the mouthful. Roki visibly winced, knowing the punishment that awaited him. Yet, he held No One's gaze, his expression serious now.
"It's about the threat sighted in the east, Higashimori village," Roki reiterated, addressing No One directly, ignoring Sayaka's fury. "The villagers there are struggling. They don't have the money to hire demon slayers for aid. Will you help them?"
Will you help them? The words echoed the desperate plea of the young boy, Toru. It felt nice to help someone, she admitted to herself, a different kind of satisfaction, a quiet warmth in the vazio. But then her mind wandered back to the fight with the monks, to the goblins, to the first villagers who attacked her. She liked killing those that tried to harm her. Her victory over them brought a brutal proof of her progress, of her ability to survive. A slow, almost imperceptible smile formed beneath the mask, a grim satisfaction curling in her gut at the thought of applying her skills. She squinted her eyes, a low chuckle, dry and quiet as rustling leaves, escaped her, a sound born not of humor but a dark, pragmatic acknowledgment of her own capabilities.
Roki, seeing her reaction, felt a prickle of unease. She was just as... unnatural as the rumors suggested. Yet, he still insisted. "Please," he said, his voice softer now, earnest. "Sit. Eat with us. Let me tell you about it."
No One silently accepted. She walked to the table and took the seat Roki indicated. She pulled her mask away from her mouth, letting it rest just below her chin. She examined the meal placed before her: a bowl of white, steaming rice porridge, small plates holding folded eggs, glistening pieces of fish, unfamiliar vibrant green vegetables, a bowl of soup that smelled richly of miso, and a cup of hot green tea. The variety, the presentation – it was utterly alien.
She watched Roki navigate the plates with chopsticks. Mimicking him, she picked up her own pair. Her fingers, trained for weapons and scavenging, were clumsy and uncooperative. After a moment of awkward fumbling that sparked further confused staring from Sayaka, No One set the chopsticks down. She used her fingers instead, picking up the food directly, the texture of the warm rice and the firm fish strange and new. She ate less than half, stopping when the gnawing hunger was merely a distant memory. She didn't touch the cup of hot green tea. Roki had drunk from it, but she had no idea what it was. It could be poison for all she knew. Her caution, honed by the betrayal of seemingly harmless things, asserted itself. Having finished, she pulled her mask back up.
Roki, finishing his meal despite the tension, turned to her. "It's... a strange kind of threat," he said, his voice low. "They're reanimated corpses. Somehow, the dead have returned, but as controlled puppets, and they attack anything they see."
No One's eyes widened slightly in surprise behind her mask. Reanimated corpses? She thought back to all the villagers, all the monks she had killed. Could it be...? A grim fascination mingled with a dawning horror.
Roki continued, his voice worried. "The sightings started yesterday afternoon. Many of them appear to be Monks. Possibly from the northern temple." He looked at her, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. "First, the southern temple was plagued by spider demons, and now the northern temple... has been attacked, and the Monks are seeking vengeance, or someone is controlling their dead bodies."
No One's eyes narrowed, her focus sharpening. The northern temple. The unnecessary fight. The fire. A cold certainty settled in her gut, heavy and undeniable. She was directly at fault for this. This specific threat, these reanimated monks, were a consequence of her actions. She felt a strange pull, a sense of grim obligation. She had created this problem; she would fix it.
"I'll slay the demons," she said, the words clipped, final, a decision made with cold resolve. Are they demons? she thought, the question briefly crossing her mind. Were reanimated corpses truly demons, or something else entirely? It doesn't matter. They were a threat, a danger she had inadvertently unleashed. And she would eliminate them.
Roki, seeing her silent acceptance, felt a wave of relief so profound it almost made him overlook her strange categorization of the reanimated. He wanted to correct her, but held his tongue. Aid from this strange, dangerous woman was aid all the same. He smiled cheerfully, a genuine, hopeful smile despite the underlying chaos Sayaka was undoubtedly preparing for him.
No One rose from the table, leaving the uneaten food and untouched tea behind. Without another word, she walked towards the entrance. As she stepped out into the early twilight, she faintly heard Sayaka's voice from inside the house, already launching into her next phase of complaint, directed at Roki: "Shall I prepare a room for you both when she returns?" The implication was clear, a final note of domestic, bewildered frustration. No One kept walking, the familiar weight of her weapons a comfort, her small escort of raven sentinels falling into formation in the sky above her, silent witnesses to the new, grim mission she had just accepted.