The years that followed were a relentless blur of hardship and isolation. Haunted by the villagers' accusations and the lingering, chilling image of Daisuke's cruel smile, Kimiko became a pariah, a ghost haunting the edges of her own community. The Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead—a stark, inky black sigil of a raven's beak and arching feathers—wasn't just a mark; it was a brand, visible proof in their eyes of the curse she carried, the reason for their suffering.
And always, the ravens. A few dark sentinels often perched silently nearby when she was still, their numbers swelling subtly when her frustration or loneliness was most acute, a detail not lost on the fearful villagers who saw them as an extension of her curse, harbingers of ill fortune. Her eyes—a deep, unusual shade of burgundy—only solidified their fear. "Look at those eyes," she'd hear them mutter, "Got the look of a demon in 'em." Parents would quickly pull their children closer, whispering sternly, "Stay away from her, she's cursed. Evil eyes. And those birds always watching..."
And her eyes—a deep, unusual shade of burgundy—only solidified their fear. "Look at those eyes," she'd hear them mutter as she passed, their voices dropping to urgent whispers. "Got the look of a demon in 'em, that one." Parents would quickly pull their children closer, shielding them. "Stay away from her, child," they'd hiss, "she's cursed. Evil eyes... and those birds always watching her, you see? Mark my words, no good comes from it."
Their whispers, sharp as thrown stones, followed her like a persistent shadow. "It's because of her," one might say to another, just loud enough for Kimiko to catch the venom, "that we lost everything." The other would nod, eyes darting towards Kimiko's forehead. "And that mark she bears... a demon's touch, clear as day. She's strange, unnatural. Even the sky seems to darken when she's near."
They watched her with fear and contempt, especially when she practiced. A few ravens would often settle in the branches overhead, silent observers to her odd, jerky shifts—a step correcting itself mid-stride, a head snapping back from an unseen blow, a subtle twist to avoid an imagined obstacle. They saw only clumsiness, proof of her foolishness, another manifestation of the curse that clung to her.
"Still tripping over air, Kimiko?" a voice would sneer from the sidelines during the other slayers' training. "More like stumbling through life," another would cackle. "Just like she stumbled into the palace."
They never understood that she wasn't reacting to air, but to fleeting, involuntary glimpses of the immediate future, warnings from the Mark of the Raven's Gaze. Disorienting flashes—a foot catching on a root a split-second before it happened, the precise angle of a training katana aimed at her head, a hand placed wrong leading to a twisted wrist. It was a chaotic overlay on her already difficult existence, a constant, unwelcome intrusion of potential mistakes and dangers.
As she grew, though, a grim pattern emerged from the chaos. Those painful stumbles and awkward missteps seen in her visions, the ones she couldn't react fast enough to correct in reality, somehow etched themselves into her muscles and reflexes. She realized, with a chilling clarity, that some mistakes had to be felt in the vision for her body to instinctively know how to avoid them in the present.
This understanding forged a unique and brutal self-training regimen. With no one to guide her, she became a silent observer, watching the fluid forms of the other slayers, the arc of their katanas, the snap of a kusarigama chain, the deadly precision of thrown kunai and shuriken. Then, in the deepest parts of the surrounding woods, she would mimic their movements in secret.
Her training was less about simple repetition and more about a savage process of counter-training, forcing her physical form to obey the fragmented warnings of her precognitive mind. She would deliberately run through attack sequences exactly as her foresight showed them ending in failure—a katana strike too wide, a dodge too slow, a block misplaced. She'd push through the awkwardness, the sting of failure, the sheer frustration until her muscles screamed, refining the movements until the "wrong" way became a roadmap to the "right" way.
After one particularly grueling session, she sat panting, wiping down the edge of her wakizashi blade. She glanced up at the silent observers in the trees, the ever-present ravens. "They see clumsiness," she muttered, her voice a low rasp from disuse. "They laugh. They don't see the blow that would have landed." She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips for a second. "You see it, don't you? At least you're paying attention."
She discovered, through harsh experimentation during simulated dangers, how to tap into adrenaline, pushing her physical limits until exhaustion blurred her vision. She wouldn't see imaginary foes, but her foresight would flash with the painful consequences of her own mistakes during her high-speed drills: a vision of her ankle twisting on a root if she landed a leap improperly, or the jarring impact of her own blade striking a tree during a wild swing. These flashes of self-inflicted harm became her relentless sparring partners, teaching her precision through the constant, immediate threat of pain.
Life on the margins was a profoundly solitary existence. She remained a silent observer, learning from a distance, the constant stream of criticism and mockery a dull ache that fueled her resolve but also deepened the cuts of her emotional wounds. Every stumble, whether foreseen or real, every harsh word, was a fresh reminder of her outcast status, echoing the crushing blame she carried.
The weight of that blame, coupled with years of profound loneliness, took a heavy toll on her sense of self. She drifted through her days like a ghost. Was she still Kimiko? No one used that name anymore; it felt like a relic of a life lost, a life she'd destroyed. Could she call herself a demon slayer? She wore no uniform, was excluded from hunts, a perpetual outsider mimicking sacred forms. Facing demons alone, guided only by unpredictable flashes, felt like a suicidal endeavor. The self-blame for her family's deaths and the village's upheaval was a constant, suffocating shroud.
The Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead wasn't just a curse; it was a brand of her broken existence, a symbol of her utter aloneness in the world, save for the silent, black-feathered shadows that seemed to be her only constant companions.
Five years in the wilderness had stripped away every trace of the child she had been. At ten, Kimiko was a small, wiry creature, more akin to the wolves she hunted than the villagers she shadowed. Her long, black hair was a tangled, matted mane, often with bits of leaf or twig caught in its strands. Her face had lost all its softness, leaving behind sharp, angular features and skin tanned by the perpetual twilight.
But it was her eyes that held the most profound change. The warm brown was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling burgundy that seemed to hold the cold light of the sky. They were the eyes of a predator—watchful, intense, and far older than her years. The Mark of the Raven's Gaze was a stark, black sigil on her forehead, a constant reminder of her curse. Her body, though small for her age from years of inconsistent nourishment, was a corded map of sinewy muscle, her hands and feet calloused, her skin littered with the faint, silvery lines of old scars. Clad in the crude but functional wolf pelts she had stitched together herself, she moved with a silent, feral grace that was entirely her own.
The demon slayers had long since cleared the nearby valleys of lesser monsters, or so the others claimed. But as the Waning Twilight began its slow bleed into shades of stormy gray and deep indigo, casting lengthening shadows under the bruised sky, crouched low behind a moss-laden log while foraging near the outskirts of the southern wood, Kimiko watched sharp-nosed goblins jabbering around a half-buried tree stump. Their greenish hides shimmered with faint, blood-rose highlights in the dimming light of the Waning Twilight, like mildew on stone. They were hunched creatures, possessing a wiry strength in their long, spindly limbs. Their wide mouths, filled with yellowed, needle-like teeth, split into cruel grins as they slapped crude bone clubs against their palms.
Flitting among them, she caught sight of smaller, scrawnier creatures with narrow, leathery wings and long, twitching tails—imps. Their bruised-purple skin was stretched tight over their gaunt frames, and their oversized eyes glowed with a malicious intelligence. Their bat-like wings beat in jerky, unnatural rhythms as they darted through the air, occasionally slapping at the goblins' pointed ears and whispering things in a language of hisses and clicks that made the larger creatures cackle with brutish glee. The glistening barb on the end of each imp's tail twitched restlessly, a clear promise of the venom it held.
She didn't engage. Not then. She'd already bested lone wolves and cornered skittish deer. But these things were different. Too many. Too coordinated. She watched their numbers swell day by day, creeping outward like rot across a wound. She avoided the southern glade after that, circling wide even when she needed water or game.
Until one cycle, during the Pale Ascent phase of Waxing Twilight, as the ambient light slowly increased, painting the undersides of the bruised clouds with hints of corpse-pale rose and dusty mauve, she made a mistake. She had finished her bath, water beading off her skin as she wrapped the wolf pelts around her shoulders and hips. Bandages looped around her torso, snug and damp. She had just fastened the final tie when she heard them—low, chittering sounds too deliberate to be animals. She ducked, breath catching in her throat.
Goblins. Too far north. They're expanding.
A sour taste filled her mouth. Where were the demon slayers? Had they grown lax? She stayed low, slinking back into the woods, trying to vanish like mist through trees. She kept her weight on the balls of her feet, making no sound as she took the long, careful route around them.
And then—snap. The world tilted. A hidden rope yanked her upward with violent force, her leg seizing as it was pulled tight, hoisting her into the air. She dangled upside down, disoriented and stunned. Bark and leaves spun around her.
From the bushes, they emerged—seven goblins, armed with jagged stones, rusted knives, clubs made of bone and bark. Three imps fluttered behind them, giddy and shrieking with glee. They jabbed fingers at her and whooped, their laughter bouncing through the forest like the toll of a mockery bell. Prey. To them, she was prey.
Her hand flew to her waist, drawing her wakizashi in one swift motion. She looked down—no, up, given her position. The goblins waited beneath her, licking their cracked lips, slapping weapons into their palms. One imp snapped its fingers and pointed gleefully at her ankle.
A flash hit her—The rope slicing, her body dropping, the thud of impact, her ribs jarring, the goblins piling on, a boot to her face, fists grabbing her pelt—Her heart thundered. She knew she'd be hurt if she cut the rope now. Badly. Maybe killed.
But the rope tightened again, cutting into her skin. She winced. The imps cackled.
Her eyes narrowed. A second flash—this time, a blurred image of her slicing the rope a moment later, the pain in her shoulder as she rolled. It was still pain—but less. Survivable.
She chose. Steel bit rope. She plummeted, twisting mid-air. Her shoulder hit first—jolting white pain—but she tucked and rolled, a cry escaping her throat. She landed crouched, wakizashi in one hand, reaching for her katana with the other.
Before they could dogpile her, she moved. Steel whispered. Blood answered. The first goblin lunged with a crude hatchet. She parried with her short blade, stepped inside its swing, and ripped her katana horizontally across its waist—cutting it in two.
The second rushed her—flash. A rock would have clipped her temple. She dipped low, the stone whizzing past her, and stabbed upward with the wakizashi, skewering its neck. It gurgled, collapsing as she yanked free.
Another flash—club to the spine. She twisted, spun on her heel, and sliced diagonally from shoulder to hip, cutting the third goblin cleanly apart.
They screeched now, the remaining four hesitant. The imps fluttered behind them, chattering angrily. One of them dove.
Flash—claws in her back. She ducked, letting the imp overshoot, and spun, her katana cleaving its wings from its body. It shrieked, crashing to the ground and twitching, but Kimiko gave it no reprieve, immediately driving her blade through its small, struggling form to silence it.
Two goblins charged together. She met them head-on—her wakizashi lashed out, severing an arm, while her katana opened a gut with a wet hiss. The ground turned red. The last goblin turned to flee. She didn't let it. Her blade found the base of its spine, and it fell in twitching pieces, legs spasming, eyes wide.
Panting, coated in blood—none of it hers—Kimiko stood among the carnage. The forest was silent, save for the bubbling moans of the dying imp. Her shoulder throbbed. Her leg ached. But she was alive. Her hands trembled. Not from pain. From fury. They had trapped her. Mocked her. Treated her like meat.
As her fury peaked, she became dimly aware of more dark wings circling high above, the ravens' usual silent watch disturbed by her rage, though the significance was lost on her in that moment. She looked down at the bodies, her face empty, but her chest burned.
They were no deer. They were no wolves.
They were worse. And if the demon slayers wouldn't rid the land of them—She would.
Kimiko sat beside the river again, where the water still ran clear despite the blood on her hands. Her shoulder throbbed—purple already blooming beneath the skin—and her leg was raw where the rope had gripped her. She'd bound both with steady hands, never once flinching, not even as the sting crept in beneath the cloth. The goblins and imps lay behind her now. Broken. Silent. A few ravens settled in the distant trees, their watch resuming its quiet intensity as her rage subsided.
She stared at her reflection, eyes calm, expression unreadable. "So that's what you get for bathing before checking the trees," she muttered dryly to no one. Her tone was flat, almost amused. "Lesson learned. Stay dirty. Stay alive." A humorless grin tugged at her lips. But it faded.
She looked past her own face in the water. Saw the faces of the goblins again—how they laughed before the pain. How they were clever enough to build traps, work together. How they waited like men around a fire, like wolves with thumbs and worse ideas. They weren't animals. Not quite. And they weren't demons either. Not strong enough. Not smart enough. They were something worse: just smart enough to enjoy what they did.
Her eyes narrowed. They didn't kill for food. They didn't defend territory. They caught her for sport. For play. They knew what suffering was—and chose to inflict it.
She breathed slowly through her nose. Her fingers still clenched the hilt of her wakizashi, knuckles pale. "The slayers missed something," she whispered. "Maybe they forgot. Maybe they got lazy. Maybe they think small things don't grow into big ones."
She dipped the blade into the river, letting the blood swirl away into the current. "But I saw them grow." And she knew they'd keep growing, keep spreading, unless someone stopped them. Unless someone made them afraid.
She wrapped her pelts tighter and stood. She was only ten. But that was old enough to remember the first time she was hunted like prey. Old enough to carry the memory like a wound. And old enough to sharpen it into a weapon.
"No more hiding," she muttered as she turned away from the river. "Next time… I'll catch them first." Her quiet footsteps vanished into the trees. Behind her, the forest was no longer innocent.