POV: Yoshiya
The forest reeked of blood and wet soil. Morning light broke through the trees, turning the mist into ribbons of silver. Ten kobolds lay scattered on the ground like discarded puppets, their bodies already cold. But it wasn't the kobolds that froze Yoshiya's breath—it was the four humans bound to different trees.
Their legs were gone.
Nogare sat calmly on a tree root, sharpening his katana with unhurried strokes, as if nothing about the scene was out of place.
Yoshiya stood a few paces away, his knuckles white. The morning felt too still, too deliberate, like the world was waiting to see what Nogare would do next.
The first voice that broke the silence came low and smooth.
"Who sent you?" Nogare asked.
The captives said nothing. One of the men lifted his head slightly, eyes filled with hate. The others stared at the ground, breathing raggedly.
Nogare sighed, got to his feet, and stepped closer. "Who sent you?" he repeated—this time pressing his boot down on one man's bleeding stump. The captive clenched his jaw so hard it looked like his teeth might crack, but he made no sound.
Yoshiya could barely watch. These weren't bandits—they moved, even wounded, with discipline. Their silence wasn't courage. It was training.
From behind, Zentake spoke lazily, his tone disgustingly casual. "Too bad big bro isn't here. He'd be enjoying this."
Nogare didn't even look at him. "You mean Masaboru? Yes. He would."
Zentake grinned, almost boyish despite the corpses around him. "He's got a talent for… persuasion."
Nogare gave a quiet chuckle before turning back to the captives. The sound made Yoshiya's spine crawl.
Then Nogare walked toward the woman tied to the far tree. She was younger than he expected, her face streaked with mud and tears. She flinched as Nogare knelt in front of her, the blade of his katana tapping lightly against her cheek.
"Maybe you'll speak," he murmured.
"Don't hurt her!" one of the male captives suddenly shouted, his voice raw.
Nogare turned his gaze toward him. "Would you speak if I didn't?"
"No one will speak," the man spat, panting. "You can kill us all."
Nogare tilted his head, thoughtful. "That may be true," he said softly, "but silence is a poor strategy for survival."
He straightened, but before he could move again, Zentake stood up, stretching as if he'd just finished a meal. "Let me take over," he said.
Nogare paused, studying him. Then, without objection, stepped aside.
Yoshiya's pulse quickened. Zentake wasn't like Nogare—his eyes held no patience, no method. Only thrill.
The young fighter walked to the captives, spinning a dagger in his hand. "Let's make this quick," he said—and then he stabbed the first man straight in the chest.
Omina gasped. The man's scream was short, wet, final.
Before anyone could react, Zentake turned and plunged his blade into another captive's throat. Blood splattered across his arm, painting the ground dark red.
"Too noisy," Zentake muttered, wiping his dagger on the dead man's shirt.
"Zentake!" Omina's voice cracked, but Nogare raised a hand to silence her.
"You're making a mess," Nogare said quietly.
"I'm making progress," Zentake replied, smiling faintly.
He moved to the woman again. Her eyes were wide with terror. He grabbed her by the hair and tilted her head back until the edge of his dagger touched her neck. "Now speak," he said.
Nogare's voice came from behind him, calm but mocking. "Trying to copy Masaboru?"
Zentake didn't look back. "No," he said flatly. "Masaboru would do worse. He'd start raping her. Right here, in front of them. No questions first."
Yoshiya felt something in his chest snap—the sheer coldness of it.
Before Zentake could press further, the last male captive shouted, "Stop! I'll talk!"
The woman shook her head frantically, whispering through tears, "Don't—don't say anything! We can't—"
"I don't care," the man said, voice breaking. "Your life matters more than the mission. More than mine."
Zentake lowered his dagger slightly, just enough to let the man speak. Nogare approached slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil.
"Then speak," Nogare said.
The man's eyes darted between them. "We're from… Valeria."
The word hit Yoshiya like a stone. He'd seen it before—in guild records, in hushed rumors. Valeria: the hidden empire across the southern sea, the one that trained spies instead of soldiers, assassins instead of scouts.
"We were sent," the captive continued, gasping, "to sabotage the supply routes… scout the forests near Reflynne and Giggleburg. That's all. Please…"
He slumped forward, half-conscious, blood seeping from the torn bindings.
Nogare watched him for a long time before slicing their neck with his blade. "Valeria," he muttered. "That explains their nerve."
Omina finally spoke, her voice trembling. "You didn't have to kill them like that."
Nogare turned toward her, eyes calm as ever. "Mercy earns lies," he said. "Fear earns truth."
Yoshiya looked at the ground, trying not to meet Omina's gaze. His hands wouldn't stop trembling.
He wanted to say something—to question, to argue—but the words died in his throat. Because deep down, he understood what Nogare meant. This world didn't reward kindness. It punished hesitation.
Nogare stepped past him, cleaning the edge of his katana with a strip of cloth. "Bury the bodies after breakfast," he said flatly. "Then we move."
Yoshiya nodded numbly.
The forest wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of smoke and death. Somewhere beyond the trees, a crow cawed—a single, harsh note that echoed through the clearing.
As the sound faded, Yoshiya's thoughts turned over one word again and again, like a curse carved into his mind.
Valeria.
The name promised answers—and blood—in equal measure.