The twins glided into the inn's empty tavern hall, their synchronized movements an unsettling, silent dance. The air was cool, thick with the stale scent of ale and cold hearthstone. Aira followed, violet eyes sweeping the room before she claimed the table nearest the entrance, every sharp, efficient gesture steeped in impatience. Kanna and Hanna settled beside each other with aristocratic disdain, their mirrored expressions souring at the rustic benches and low tables.
No One entered last. Instinct, sharpened by a decade of paranoia, guided her steps. She sat at the far end of the same bench, where she could watch them all. Her stillness was taut, her gaze flicking from one demon to the next, her thoughts a storm of suspicion, the sting of Roki's betrayal never far from her mind. The silence was charged, broken only by the click-click-click of Aira's long nail on the tabletop.
Akari slipped in from the kitchens, trembling so badly the heavy tray rattled in her grip. She kept her eyes low, setting down the spread—steaming rice, grilled fish, a platter of fried vegetables, skewered chicken, and finally a communal bowl of miso soup—before bowing hastily and fleeing without a word.
No One's stomach growled, but she only picked at the food, her mind elsewhere.
Kanna lifted a piece of simmered tofu, lips pursed. "This soup is… rustic."
"Adequate is generous," Hanna murmured, mirroring her perfectly. "And the bath? Only hot water. Not a single petal or fragrant oil. And the beds—" she leaned closer to her sister, voice dripping with disgust, "—I felt a splinter through the mattress. A splinter, Aira."
Aira set her chopsticks down with deliberate weight, the soft click loud in the silence. Her deadpan stare pinned them. "A splinter. And no bath herbs," she said, her voice dry enough to spark flame. "The horrors you've endured are unspeakable. Truly."
The sarcasm vanished in a blink, replaced by real irritation. "Now that your tragic suffering is on record, here's what matters: I want the carriage and all four horses ready by the next twilight shift. Slayers are swarming these woods. I'm not dying because you two were polishing hairpins."
Hanna pouted. "More travel? In that dreadful carriage? It jostles so."
"And the mud," Kanna sighed. "Our silks will be ruined."
Aira gave a short, humorless laugh. "Trust me—slayer steel will ruin your silks faster than mud ever could. Be ready."
The silence that followed was thick, weighed down by the twins' sulk and Aira's hard focus. In that stillness, No One moved. She lifted her plate and bowl, rose without a word, and crossed the bench to sit beside Aira.
Aira froze, fish halfway to her mouth, her mind a machine of calculation. A feint? Positioning to strike? Suspicion was her first instinct. Yet as she watched No One set down her food and quietly resume eating, the truth became clear. It was not aggression—it was proximity. A strange, desperate need for closeness, for safety near the one in charge. The realization unsettled her.
The twins exchanged a knowing glance.
"Oh, look, Hanna," Kanna whispered, voice pitched sweetly enough for Aira to hear. "It thinks she's her mother."
"She's imprinting on you, Aira," Hanna added, mockery laced in her smile. "Adorable."
Aira's eyes narrowed, venom flashing in her glare. The twins' laughter died at once. She turned back to her meal, deliberately ignoring the girl at her side.
For No One, that glare—directed away from her—was a shield. The tight knot in her chest loosened. Beside this strange, powerful demon, the constant hum of paranoia went silent. Her chopsticks steadied. She ate. For the first time since childhood, she focused on nothing but the food: the warmth of miso, the crisp bite of vegetables, the savory richness of fish, the soft comfort of steaming rice. She finished her meal in calm silence, matching Aira's pace bite for bite.
Aira's chopsticks fell with a sharp, final click. "We've wasted enough time here," she said, her tone flat and final. She pushed back from the table. "Let's go."
The twins sighed in perfect unison but rose. No One set her chopsticks down, gave the smallest of nods, and stood as well.
Aira swept from the hall, her cloak trailing dark behind her.
Aira slid open the shoji and stepped into the damp air. Twilight had shifted into its first waning phase, the last vestiges of light retreating into deep violets and somber blues. Shadows stretched long across Hazama, coiling around the wooden homes and narrow streets. The twins followed close behind her, moving with eerie synchronicity, their steps whispering in unison across the wet earth.
No One lingered a heartbeat longer inside the threshold, letting her eyes adjust. Her hand rested instinctively on the hilt of her katana, the familiar comfort of its black-wrapped grip grounding her. Then she stepped out as well, the weight of her new pelts settling heavy across her shoulders like armor.
A tension thicker than the rain hung over the square. A crowd of villagers had gathered, faces twisted between fear and suspicion, every eye locked on the inn's doorway. Their mutters cut off the instant Aira and the twins appeared, replaced by a sharp, collective intake of breath.
But No One's attention shifted elsewhere. She caught them instantly—three figures standing apart from the mob, their discipline setting them apart from the rabble. Demon slayers. Their matte-black uniforms swallowed the twilight, while the segmented armor at their joints gleamed with muted blue accents—pauldrons, bracers, shin guards. Even the cords binding their hilts carried that somber blue, dampened now by the drizzle.
A villager surged forward, his voice raw with rage. "That's the witch!" he cried, jabbing a trembling finger toward Aira. "She's summoning demons! She dragged a dead naked girl into the inn for some ritual!"
Furious shouts rippled through the crowd. But No One was no longer listening. Her hand tightened on her katana's hilt. Her body shifted subtly into readiness. And then surprise flickered through her. The slayers' eyes weren't on her. They were on Aira.
They're not after me, she realized, the thought sharp and alien.
The slayers stepped forward, blades still sheathed. "You thought you could work your sorcery here, witch?" one spat. His hand dropped toward his hilt. "Your kind isn't—"
He cut off mid-sentence. His gaze slid past Aira. Found her. Recognition froze his features. The other two followed his stare. Their faces hardened, the shift absolute. Whatever interest they had in Aira evaporated, replaced with cold intent.
Ah, No One thought, a grim resignation sinking into her chest. There it is.
"…It's her," one whispered, voice heavy with certainty.
"That mark…" the second murmured, his eyes narrowing at the sigil faintly visible beneath her mask.
The leader's gaze locked with her burgundy eyes. "We have direct orders," he said, his voice a blade in the rain. "Kill her on sight."
Steel hissed as katanas slid free. Aira's eyes snapped shut. Her fingers spread, curling toward the earth, preparing the incantation. But before the first word could form, No One stepped forward, her arm barring Aira's path.
"I'll protect you," she said quietly, her voice steady as iron. Her eyes never left the slayers. "You and the twins."
Aira froze. For a moment, her hands hovered uncertainly. The words had caught her off-guard, stripping her of the initiative. Then calculation returned, cutting away her surprise. She lowered her hands, lips curling into a faint, cruel smile. Fine. Let's see how much you've grown.
Behind her, Kanna and Hanna exchanged a glance, their smiles twin reflections. "You're all going to die," they chimed, their voices lilting with cheer, followed by a soft, musical laugh.
No One drew her katana, the blade whispering free of its scabbard. The new pelts weighed heavy on her shoulders, her mask blank and impassive. Burgundy eyes burned beneath it, locked on the three slayers fanning out before her. They wanted her dead—simple, direct. But they had threatened Aira and the twins, the strange demons who had restored her broken body. That made them hers to protect.
The slayers struck first. A blur of motion honed by years of killing demons. They moved as one: the left sweeping low for her legs, the center lunging for her chest, the right cleaving high for her skull.
Foresight exploded—three flashes in a dizzying torrent. A blade splitting her thigh. Another plunging into her sternum. A cleaver cracking her skull. They came so fast they nearly overlapped, drowning her in the weight of deaths she had not yet taken. Her body reacted before thought.
She vaulted backward, twisting midair. The low sweep sliced empty space where her legs had been. The thrust missed her chest by inches as she bent at the waist. The cleaver howled through air, grazing strands of her hair. She landed in a crouch, katana already rising in a defensive arc.
Steel rang. Clang! The central slayer's follow-up thrust hammered against her blade, jarring her arm. She pivoted, pelts swirling as she ducked beneath a slash from the left. The rain slicked mud beneath her feet, sucking at her stance as the slayers pressed harder.
Another barrage. A low sweep from the right, a high cut from the left, a straight thrust from the center. Warnings screamed through her skull, colliding, disorienting. She blocked left. Deflected center. But the right came too fast—
Flash—blade colliding with her shin.
The impact rattled her bones, forcing a stumble. But pain did not come. Instead of cutting flesh, the strike met the demon pelt. The slayer's eyes widened in disbelief. His blade had glanced off fur.
He had no time to process it. Their rhythm did not falter. They flowed forward, relentless. One pressed her with rapid thrusts, testing every inch of her guard. Another circled wide, waiting for the slip. The third harried her flank.
Flash—her back caving under a crushing blow.
She twisted with it, raising her armored forearm. The strike landed heavy, bruising, but stopped cold. Pain jolted through her ribs, sharp but shallow. She spun with the impact, parrying a thrust as she moved, then lashed back in a horizontal counter. Her blade cut for the slayer's flank. He caught it, steel shrieking against steel.
The fight raged across the square. Blades clashed in brutal rhythm. Pottery shattered as a slayer's wild parry tore through a market stall. Timber splintered as another's blade carved into a home's outer wall. The ground, sodden from the light rain, churned to mud beneath their rapid footwork.
Villagers scattered, panic overwhelming their anger. Only Akari and the innkeeper remained frozen by the inn's doorway, staring in mute horror as demons and slayers clashed.
No One vaulted a toppled stall, rolled beneath a strike, forced them to break formation. Her foresight flared again and again, warnings cascading—too many to track, but enough to keep her alive. Her body twisted through narrow escapes, her blade lashing out with brutal precision.
Flash—a strike to her head.
She ducked as she dropped from a rooftop, the blade grazing her scalp instead of splitting her skull. Blood blurred her vision for a heartbeat. She rolled through the pain, came up ready, and met the next attack.
The slayers slowed, recalibrating. They began to circle, patience replacing fury.
One drew something small from his pouch. "Smoke out!" he barked, his voice sharp above the rain.
The sphere hit the mud with a thud. Hiss—grey smoke billowed upward, acrid and dense, swallowing the square.
Poison? she thought instinctively. No—the wrong color. Smoke. A trap.
The world vanished into swirling grey. Muffled footsteps. The whisper of steel.
Flash—a blade through her ribs. Fatal.
She pivoted before the strike could land. The thrust passed through emptiness. Her counter was merciless. Katana flashed in the murk, severing his hand at the wrist. His cry of shock was swallowed by smoke. She finished him in two clean slashes, his body crumpling unseen.
The remaining two froze, waiting for her to break from cover. They held their ground, blades ready.
They never saw her coming. She burst from the smoke, pelts trailing like wings, steel singing. One turned too slow. Her katana cut his throat in a single, fluid arc. His head toppled into the mud.
As the smoke thinned, only two figures remained—her and the leader. She stood over the corpses of his comrades, her mask unreadable, burgundy eyes burning. He faltered, rooted by a fear deeper than instinct. How? his mind screamed. How could she see in the smoke? How could she move so fast?
For a moment, he thought of finishing it, blades clashing until death chose one of them. But certainty crushed him. If he fought, he would lose.
His training seized him. He pulled another bomb from his pouch and hurled it to the ground. Smoke blossomed once more. And then he turned and ran.
No One dashed into the cloud, expecting another ambush. But as she burst through the other side, she found only his back, already vanishing into the twilight. He was fleeing. Retreating. The sight gave her pause. Her instincts screamed for the hunt, but confusion anchored her. This was no duel. It was surrender.
"Let him go!" Kanna's sharp voice carried from the inn. "The fight is over. We're ready to leave."
Hanna stepped up beside her sister, lips curled in disdain. "She's right. I've had enough of Hazama. No bath, no comforts. Let's leave this filth behind."
No One exhaled, her grip loosening. She lowered her blade. She let him go.
Behind her, Aira swept her gaze over the carnage with grim satisfaction. "Kanna. Hanna." Her voice cut through the hiss of rain. "Fetch the carriage. We're leaving this wretched place."
"Finally!" the twins chirped, spinning in perfect unison.
The quiet after the slayer fight did not last.
Just as No One began to move toward the twins, her body aching with every step, another sound arose—the groan of doors. One by one, villagers emerged from their homes and hiding places, drawn by the silence. At first there was relief, tentative, fragile. Then their eyes found the bodies of the Aomizu slayers sprawled lifeless in the mud. That relief curdled instantly into horror.
Their fear, raw and without direction, found its target.
"Monster!" an older man shrieked, his finger trembling as he thrust it at No One. "Demon! She killed them! The slayers!"
Another, his face contorted with rage, hurled a splintered piece of wood. It spun clumsily through the damp air and landed wide. No One didn't flinch. Her Mark remained silent.
But the crowd swelled with voices, angry, frightened, desperate. "Get out!" "Leave Hazama!" "Curse!" Their shouting built to a chorus, and with it their courage. They pressed forward, closing into a loose, uneven circle.
To No One, the sight was horrifically familiar. The trap closing in, the circle tightening. Her chest seized. The fragile calm she'd found in the inn shattered. Instinct—the lesson hammered into her for a decade—rose and consumed her: kill to survive.
"Let's go!" the twins cried in unison, sensing the shift.
Too late.
A farmer spat on the ground and surged forward with a heavy hoe. "I'll send you back to hell, you filthy demon!" he roared.
That was the final trigger.
With a guttural cry not quite human, No One lunged.
The hoe rose, clumsy and heavy. Her katana struck first, opening his throat in a red spray. He dropped without a sound. She did not pause. Her movements shed all restraint, driven by raw instinct and foresight's flare.
Another man lunged with a pitchfork.
Flash—tines ripping into her ribs.
She twisted. The weapon scraped across her armored forearm instead. She spun with the motion, her katana snapping out in a wide, merciless arc that split him open and caught two more villagers pressed too close. Screams erupted, bodies crumpled.
From the edge of the chaos, Aira's earlier frustration faded. She watched now with cold fascination, eyes narrowing as blood sprayed across the mud. The twins stood like patrons at a performance, their identical faces lit with detached amusement.
The ring of villagers closed tighter.
A rock hurtled toward her—she tilted her head and it hissed past. An axe came down in a clumsy overhead swing—she slid beneath it and answered with steel that carved deep. A woman with a kitchen knife shrieked as she rushed forward; foresight screamed a vision of the blade in No One's neck. She shifted her stance, caught the woman's wrist, and drove her katana upward beneath her ribs. The scream cut short.
Another villager, wielding a rusted sickle, lunged at her back.
Flash—steel hooking into her spine.
She pivoted before it could land, elbow snapping into his jaw. His teeth shattered. She finished him with a clean slice across his throat.
More came. Desperation drove them. A youth rushed with a spear of sharpened wood.
Flash—the stake through her chest.
She caught it on her pelts, the crude weapon splintering against the fur. Her katana slashed in answer, disemboweling him in a single stroke. He collapsed, clutching himself as blood poured into the mud.
The mob howled, rage turning to panic as their weapons proved useless. But momentum had them trapped; they pushed from behind, feeding bodies into her reach.
She moved like smoke through fire. Every step flowed into the next. Every slash answered a reckless charge. A hammer swung toward her skull—she ducked, cutting into the man's exposed belly. A villager tried to grab her from behind; foresight flared and she spun, severing his arm at the elbow before plunging her blade through his chest. Another raised a hunting bow, arrow trembling. She saw the vision of it in her eye, felt the phantom pain. She twisted sideways, and the arrow skimmed past her ear. Her reply was merciless: she cut him down before he could draw again.
By the time the circle broke, the ground around her was slick with blood. Corpses sprawled in grotesque angles, pooling crimson that mixed with the rain to form rivulets through the mud. Those who had cursed her moments ago now stumbled back, their courage dissolved. Fear tore through them. They dropped weapons and scrambled, climbing over the fallen, fleeing in every direction. Their cries echoed down Hazama's narrow streets, no longer chants for her death but screams of terror.
Some ran for the gates. Others fled for their homes.
No One gave chase.
A small group darted into the nearest house. She followed. The shoji shattered beneath her shoulder as she crashed through, splintering paper and wood.
Inside, a family froze—a man, a woman, two small children. Their screams rose as she crossed the threshold. Her eyes fixed first on a lantern burning on a low table.
She seized a wooden stool from beside the wall, tore a strip of cloth from a hanging, and wound it tightly around one of its legs. With a single, smooth motion, she pressed the cloth into the lantern's flame. Fire licked greedily at the fabric, catching and climbing until the stool leg burned bright and steady in her grasp.
The family shrieked, horror twisting from her blade to the growing fire. They pressed together, trapped, faces glowing orange in the flare of her improvised torch.
No One did not linger. She swept the torch across the tatami mats and up along the paper screens. Flames devoured them instantly, racing across the oiled timber beams with a hungry hiss. The house became a cage of fire.
Behind her mask, her expression was unreadable.
She turned and walked out, framed by fire, her new torch blazing in her hand.
The flames caught quickly. They raced along the roof, leaping to the house beside it. Sparks swirled outward, falling onto thatch and timber, birthing new infernos wherever they landed.
The sight tore through Aira's cold composure. Her body went rigid. Her eyes widened, violet pools reflecting the blaze.
"Fire! No! NO!" The screa