The dream was always the same: a silent, effortless glide on currents of wind, the world a sprawling map below. Through familiar eyes—the sharp, knowing eyes of her constant companions—she would gaze down upon unfamiliar territory. This time, she saw a ribbon of road with tiny travelers and, in the distance, the faint shape of a village she had never seen. The feeling of soaring freedom was a welcome, if fleeting, escape from her harsh reality.
These dreams occurred frequently now, and the thrill of flying above the trees, even for a moment, was a brief respite from her life on the ground.
She awoke on the cold, damp ground as the sky shifted to the Pale Ascent of Waxing Twilight. The memory of the flight lingered as she looked up. It was a cold, gray light that offered no warmth, only a reprieve from total darkness. Above her, the ravens watched—the same familiar eyes from her dream—as she efficiently packed her meager belongings.
The wolf-pelt cloak felt stiff with dried blood and her muscles throbbed with a familiar ache. It was proof of existence. She continued her journey northward, the rough road a steady rhythm beneath her bare feet.
Realizing her rations were dwindling—a few hard, tasteless stores she'd grabbed in haste and the questionable remnants of the rabbit—she decided to leave the main path and venture into the adjacent forest. It felt different from the woods surrounding her former village, thinner, less alive, yet somehow more watchful. The twilight shadows here seemed to have teeth.
Within the oppressive quiet, she found some much-needed berries and nuts, their faint sweetness a stark contrast to the bitterness that usually filled her mouth. The search for meat proved a bit more challenging. She spotted several deer, their forms elegant and swift among the trees, but she dismissed them. Too big. A wave of practicality, honed by years of scrounging, overrode any hunter's instinct. Too much to carry, too much to eat before it spoils, too much to waste. Waste felt like a sin, a careless squandering of life she couldn't afford, morally or practically. Smaller game was far more practical.
She soon located a scattering of squirrels, their tiny bodies twitching with nervous energy. Drawing several of her kunai, the familiar weight a comfort in her hand, she tested her accuracy. The first throw went wide, chipping a branch above her intended target. She took a breath, centered herself, and threw again. The second found its mark, and the small creature fell to the forest floor.
Her third throw was perfectly aimed, but in a burst of unpredictable energy, the squirrel leaped to another branch a split-second after she released the blade, leaving the kunai to thud uselessly into the tree bark.
Gritting her teeth at the miss, she sent two more flying in quick succession, each finding their mark and felling a squirrel. Three out of five. Still too much wasted movement, she thought, a familiar dissatisfaction settling in. Still breathing heavier than I should. A small, grim victory, marred by the lingering awareness of imperfection.
She meticulously retrieved all five of her thrown blades—the two embedded in bark and the three from her kills. Ammunition was finite, and every tool was precious. After wiping them clean with handfuls of leaves, she skinned her kills with practiced, dispassionate movements. Before packing the meat away, she left the unwanted remains of the rabbit on a flat stone, a silent, pragmatic offering for the patient observers in the trees. Storing the meager meat in one of her packs, she returned to the main road.
Storing the meager meat in one of her packs, she returned to the main road, a flicker of something akin to curiosity, a rare passenger in the emptiness she carried, pushing her forward.
Just like the day before, she encountered other travelers. Merchants with guards whose armor looked heavier than their katanas, solitary figures who hugged the edges of the road as if the trees might eat them, small groups huddled together for false courage. Their eyes would linger on her – the mask, the weapons, the wolf pelts, the stark black sigil on her forehead, the raven perched on her shoulder, and her burgundy eyes. Suspicion and apprehension clouded their faces, quickly averted as they gave her a wide berth. Her formidable arsenal served as a silent deterrent. At least they're learning, a dry thought surfaced. Some lessons are best learned quickly, preferably before the pitchfork comes out.
This reluctance to engage, however, led her mind down an unexpected path. She seemed to be the only one on this road so visibly prepared for violence. Were these people simply naive? Or did they genuinely not fear the demons that surely lurked just beyond the tree line, in the deeper, older shadows of Vorlag? Had the demon slayers from her old village – the true slayers, the ones who cast her out – been so effective that they had purged threats from such a vast perimeter? How far did their influence extend? How much of this apparent safety was real, earned by others' blood, and how much was simply ignorance, a fragile reliance on a world they didn't understand? The questions swirled in her mind, like dust devils on the road, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable in the vast, indifferent twilight. She glanced at the raven perched on her shoulder, its head cocked as if listening to her thoughts. "Are they lambs unaware of the wolves," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, "or are they bait?"
Lost in these thoughts, her gaze fell upon another village, nestled just off the main road, visible down a distinct, less-traveled path. After the brutal, necessary mess of the previous day's encounter with the fearful, hateful humans, the last thing she wanted was a repeat. She intended to simply pass by, a silent shadow avoiding any interaction.
However, as she drew even with the path leading to the village, a child suddenly darted out in front of her—a scrawny boy of perhaps seven or eight, a whirlwind of small limbs in a patched, earth-toned tunic. His dark hair was a messy mop over a face smudged with dirt, but it was his eyes that held her. They were wide, brown, and shone with a desperate, fearless hope that seemed far too large for his small frame.
"Did you come to slay the demon terrorizing our village?" the boy, Toru, asked eagerly, his voice high with a desperate hope that felt like a physical blow.
No One stopped abruptly, halting her forward momentum, her body instinctively freezing a breath before she would have collided with the child. The sudden halt left her unbalanced for a microsecond. Curiosity, a rare flicker of something other than grim determination, held her in place. She had only ever faced smaller, more bestial demons – goblins, imps, the occasional pack of wolves whose danger lay more in their numbers than their individual might. A demon terrorizing a village presented a different kind of challenge, a "mission." A task with a clear objective. If completed, it might offer a sense of accomplishment, a validation she desperately craved, a way to feel like something other than just "no one." Perhaps, a chance to prove the old village wrong.
Just as she hesitated, the boy's mother rushed forward, her face a mixture of panic and apology. She was a thin woman, made gaunt by fear and hunger, with tired lines etched around her weary brown eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a simple, practical bun, and her clothes—a faded, homespun tunic—were clean but patched. She tugged the child, Toru, back firmly, shielding him with her body.
"Heel, Toru! Stop that! Get back here!" she admonished the boy, then glanced apologetically at No One, her expression wary but not hostile, only weary. "She's not a demon slayer, sweetling, and we don't have the money to hire one anyway. We're on our own." The last sentence was quieter, heavy with resignation, a familiar tune of helplessness No One knew well.
What struck No One was the absence of hostility. This woman didn't yell, didn't hurl accusations, didn't cower in outright fear or reach for a weapon with trembling hands, ready to strike. She was simply... defeated. It was confusing. A desire, sharp and sudden, surged within her – a desire to test herself against this unknown demon, to confront a threat that felt like a true demon slayer's work. Perhaps, a chance to earn the title they had denied her. It might, just might, fill a tiny corner of the vast emptiness within her soul.
For the first time, No One spoke to a stranger who wasn't spitting venom. Her voice, unused for so long in conversation, was low and raspy, like dry leaves skittering across stone.
"I will slay this demon," she stated, the words feeling foreign on her tongue, a promise made as much to herself as to them.
The mother, Naomi, turned back, startled, as if she hadn't expected the silent, masked figure to speak, much less respond to her son's desperate plea. "But... we don't have any money to pay you," she stammered, confusion warring with a flicker of desperate hope in her eyes. The demon slayers always demanded a price.
Money held no value for No One. It couldn't buy back her family, couldn't fill the vazio – that vast, aching void in her soul – or erase the burning memories of her past. It couldn't quiet the whispers in her own head or the echoes of the ones she'd left behind.
"I want the demon," she replied, her intent clear, stark, and unwavering. "Not your money."
Surprised by her words, by this strange warrior's willingness to face their nightmare without compensation, Naomi hesitated, searching No One's masked face for... something. Trust? Deception? She seemed to find only grim determination, a dangerous competency that felt more real than her own helplessness. After a moment that stretched taut with unspoken questions, she nodded slowly. "Come with me to the village then," she said, motioning for No One to follow down the path.
A wave of hesitation, cold and unwelcome, washed over No One. The last village encounter had ended in bloodshed and fire, a grim testament to human fear and cruelty. A fresh moral dilemma pricked at her, sharp as a kunai. These seem different... less immediately hostile. But are they truly? Will their fear turn on me once the demon is gone? Is saving them worth the risk after what others did? Is there a fundamental difference between the cruelty of fear and the cruelty of malice? She didn't have an answer.
"I just want the demon," she clarified, her voice lower, a warning hidden beneath the rasp, stating the terms of her presence. "That's all. I don't want any trouble with the villagers."
Naomi seemed confused by this statement from the strange, masked warrior who had just offered to be their savior, as if the idea of a demon slayer not causing trouble was alien. But she didn't question it further. The desperate need for help, the hope rekindled in Toru's wide eyes, outweighed her confusion. She simply nodded and led the way into the village.
Once inside, the villagers stared, their fear evident, their eyes fixed on the masked figure and her weapons, but held in check by Naomi's presence and the knowledge that this stranger was here about the demon. They parted as Naomi led her through the simple streets. Naomi introduced herself and her son to those nearby, explaining in hushed tones that this warrior would face the demon. When asked for her name by a curious bystander, a bold young man near the well, No One hesitated. Kimiko. The name felt foreign, a relic belonging to a lost, broken past she had abandoned by the flames of her tent, a child who no longer existed.
"I'm No One," she finally answered, the words barely a whisper, a stark declaration of her current existence, a challenge tossed at the world that had stripped her bare. "Where is the demon?"
Young Toru, perhaps too young to grasp the weight or the sorrow of that chosen name, simply pointed towards the overgrown fields and mumbled, "She's... strange." It was a label that, sadly, felt all too normal to No One. His mother quickly hushed him, urging politeness towards the woman who had offered help, however unlikely her success seemed against the creature that had terrorized them for weeks.
Naomi explained that the demon appeared periodically, a terrifying apparition that snatched victims before burrowing back underground. It had terrorized the rice fields, leaving the villagers too frightened to tend to their essential crops. Even when they gathered in numbers, hoping for safety in strength, the creature would simply emerge, take one of them in a horrifying flash, and vanish again. They were helpless.
No One listened, the cold, calculating cruelty of her former village's mercenary code echoing in her mind. A demon like this, unpredictable, difficult to track and capture, a constant drain on resources without guarantee of success, would have been swiftly deemed too costly or risky by the elite slayers. Payment always upfront. Cannot afford further compensation? Without aid in the future. This village would have been left to suffer alone, their lives less valuable than the risk to the slayers' coffers. How cruel they were... trading lives for coin. Letting people die because the numbers didn't add up. But then, she remembered the burning village she had left behind yesterday, the screams swallowed by flames, the blood of the fearful on her cloak. Was she any better? Was her cruelty born of revenge, or was it just the same survival instinct wearing a different mask? Was there a fundamental difference between the demon's hunt, the slayers' pragmatism, the first village's fear-fueled attack, and her own vengeance? A heavy question with no easy answer, no clear lines between right and wrong, only shades of grey painted in blood and ash.
She found herself standing in the center of the village, lost in thought, wrestling with these moral dilemmas, with the blurred lines between human and monster, hero and villain. The raven on her shoulder shifted, a low, guttural click in its throat, mirroring her own disquiet. She only realized how long she had been contemplating when she noticed that none of the villagers were attacking her. Their fear remained, but it was directed at the unseen threat, not at her. It was a different kind of fear than the one that had fueled the pitchforks and hatchets yesterday.
Naomi motioned her towards a larger building to the northeast. Inside, Naomi introduced her to Seiji, the village elder. He was an old man, his frame made frail by the weight of his village's fear. His face was a web of deep lines etched by worry and sleepless nights, but his eyes, though clouded with exhaustion, held a sharp, discerning intelligence. His thin, white hair was neatly combed, and he wore the simple, clean robes of his station. He bowed deeply, his back stooping with age but his gratitude palpable, expressing genuine thanks for her willingness to help, acknowledging the danger and their inability to pay.
No One, her mind already shifting from philosophical debate back to the grim pragmatism of survival and the task at hand, cut directly to the point. "Where is the demon?" she asked, her masked face unreadable, her voice still raspy but gaining a low resonance.
Elder Seiji exchanged a bewildered glance with Naomi. The warrior's directness was jarring, her lack of interest in pleasantries even more so. Most slayers, even the grim ones, would at least state their terms. This "No One" was like a phantom focused only on the kill. Still, their desperation was a heavy cloak, smothering any caution or curiosity about her motives.
"Our village of Inaho is yours to use," Seiji said, his voice raspy with emotion, formally welcoming her. "We have an empty storehouse where you can rest and keep your things. Please, make yourself comfortable while we await the demon's unpredictable appearance."
No One gave no reply, her masked face unreadable as she turned to leave the building. It wasn't a rejection of his hospitality, but an immediate shift toward the task at hand.
"Wait," Seiji called out, following her into the brighter, clearer light of early High Twilight. "Before you go to the fields... I must ask." His expression shifted from gratitude to deep concern. "A traveler came through early this Waxing Twilight. There was a report... the new settlement to the south, Hayakawa, was found burned to the ground. It was only a few years old... destroyed overnight."
He looked at her, at her blood-stiffened cloak and the cold stillness about her. "You travel the northern road. You came from that direction. Did you see anything? Do you know what happened?"
The question hung in the air. Behind her mask, No One's expression remained unchanged. Her mind flashed back to the previous night: the ring of hateful faces, the glint of farming tools turned into weapons, the screams swallowed by the roar of the inferno she had created. They had judged her in an instant. They had tried to kill her out of blind fear.
They chose their fate, she thought, a cold certainty settling in her soul. They paid the price of fear.
Without a word, she began her walk towards the haunted rice fields, leaving the deeply unsettled elder in her wake. Her silence was more chilling than any answer she could have given.
"Where do you think the demon will strike next?" she asked, the rasp in her voice adding an unexpected edge to the practical, tactical question. It wasn't a question about time; it was about pattern, about predictable instinct.
Struggling to process the shift from offers of rest and Hayakawa burning to tactical inquiry, the elder rubbed his chin. "It's unpredictable," he replied slowly. "Sometimes early, sometimes late... but usually around the rice fields or the forest edge. Only once or twice has it come close to the village itself. The fields are where it takes people most often now. That's where the food is..."
Food. No One walked towards the neglected rice fields, the stalks overgrown and untended, a symbol of the fear that gripped the village, but also the source of their survival. She began picking the rice, her movements deliberate, almost mimicking the rhythmic task the villagers feared. She gathered it into an abandoned pouch she found near the path. Here I am, she thought with a flicker of grim amusement, risking my life, potentially saving theirs, by pretending to steal their dinner. To her, it was a calculated move, a deliberate attempt to mimic the villagers and lure the demon out. Bait, her mind supplied dryly. She was the bait. A lone figure in a field, doing the very thing the demon attacked them for doing.
To Elder Seiji, Naomi, Toru, and the bewildered villagers who began to notice the strange, armed woman working alone in the haunted fields, it seemed like madness, or perhaps even outright theft of their last hope. They were plagued by a demon they couldn't fight, unable to afford help, and now this insane woman was seemingly stealing their remaining rice. Yet, Elder Seiji, perhaps sensing something in her quiet intensity, simply watched patiently, gesturing to others not to disturb her, a silent gamble placed on the strange outsider.
As the twilight deepened further, casting long, distorted shadows that danced among the rice stalks like predatory spirits, No One had cleared a significant section of the field on her own. Ravens began to circle high above the rice field, their silent watch growing more intense. Then, the Mark of the Raven's Gaze flared—not a subtle flicker this time, but a violent, all-consuming flash that stole the air from her lungs, a raw scream ripped from the future. She saw it with terrifying clarity: the earth giving way directly underneath her, launching her upwards into a cavernous, waiting maw as she was swallowed whole—
Reacting instantly, a raw surge of adrenaline overriding conscious thought, her body moving before her mind could even process the command, she threw the rice pouch aside as if it were burning and dove out of the way, hitting the ground hard and rolling, dirt and torn rice stalks flying.
Just as she cleared the spot, the demon burst from the earth where she had been standing—a colossal serpent of dark scales and dripping fangs. The raven on her shoulder, a loyal sentinel, had no time to take flight. It was violently thrown upwards with the erupting earth, straight into the path of the monster's gaping maw. Its sharp cry of alarm was cut short, a final, choked caw swallowed by the darkness as the demon's jaws snapped shut around it.
No One scrambled back to her feet, her katana flashing into a ready guard as she faced the behemoth. Then, for a single, absurd moment, her posture sagged. She lowered the blade slightly, her burgundy eyes narrowing, not at the colossal demon, but at the empty air where her companion had been.
"Really, bird?" she muttered, her voice a low, raspy sound of profound disappointment. "You couldn't have dodged that?"
She rolled her eyes behind her mask. Then, just as quickly, the moment of exasperation passed. Her grip on the katana tightened, the blade rising once more as she readied herself to face the new threat, now alone.
Infuriated at missing its intended meal, the massive snake-demon remained above ground, its huge head swinging, observing the strange, quick creature that had evaded its strike. Its eyes, dark and ancient, seemed to hold nothing but primal hunger. Villagers screamed from the safety of their homes, some scrambling further inside, while others, a mixture of terror and morbid curiosity on their faces, watched intently from a distance at the edge of the fields, huddled together, wondering how this bizarre, masked woman would possibly defend herself against that.
No One scrambled back to her feet, drawing her katana, the familiar weight a comfort against the cold knot of fear tightening in her stomach. Her mind raced, assessing the threat. It moved with incredible speed, far faster than anything she had faced before. It struck again, a blur of scales and fangs, a living wave of predatory instinct, but she jumped away just in time, her foresight from the Mark screaming warnings, her body reacting a split-second before the attack reached her.
A chilling knot of doubt tightened further. This demon felt far beyond her current capabilities, a stark, brutal reminder of the harsh reality she had tried to forget: some threats truly required the combined strength and resources of skilled demon slayers – a price this village couldn't pay, and a resource she no longer had access to. This is suicide, a voice whispered in her mind, the voice of the old village's pragmatism. Yet, escape was impossible; the demon was between her and the road, between her and the village. This wasn't just about saving the villagers anymore; it was about her own survival, a primal drive as strong as the demon's hunger. This was her chance, a brutal, terrifying chance, to prove herself, to face a challenge that felt worthy of a true warrior, even if she was still "no one." She had to fight.
She realized something crucial about the Mark of the Raven's Gaze, a dark, philosophical mirror to the demon's instinct. Her foresight didn't just show her impending danger; it also instantly highlighted the fatal flaws in her own planned attacks by showing her the resulting pain or demise. As the massive snake lunged again, she jumped aside, studying its movements, focusing on surviving long enough to find an opening, a weakness. She began visualizing attacks in her mind—a lunge to the head, a slash at the body, aiming for the eyes. Her ability would immediately show her the likely fatal outcomes: a vision of being crushed, her katana glancing harmlessly off scales followed by swift retaliation, a brutal, killing blow. Her foresight wasn't a path to invincibility; it was a brutal editor, highlighting only the scenarios that ended in her demise. It was a constant lesson in "Choosing the Lesser of Two Evils"—accepting a suboptimal outcome over a fatal one. She would only act when she visualized an attack and received no flash of pain or death, trusting that the absence of a vision meant the action, while possibly resulting in failure, wouldn't be immediately lethal.
Her first attempt was a swift lunge towards its head, aiming to sever it in one clean stroke. She visualized the move, and her foresight offered no chilling glimpse of her own death. So she struck. The demon was too quick, its massive head pulling back with astonishing speed, easily dodging her blade. It coiled around with startling agility, forcing her to scramble away and re-orient herself for its next move, the missed opportunity a bitter taste of almost-failure, but she was alive and unharmed.
The snake opened its mouth impossibly wide, a cavern of fangs and foul breath, and charged directly at her, a living battering ram of predatory instinct. The Mark didn't just scream a warning; it shrieked it, a terrifying, overwhelming flash of herself being swallowed whole, the darkness and the crushing pressure. It was the most fatal of all futures. She threw herself violently to the side, scrambling away on hands and knees, narrowly escaping the gaping maw by an impossible margin, the rush of air against her cheek. This demon was incredibly fast, impossibly fast. Without her foresight, constantly showing her the path not to take, showing her the myriad ways she could die, she knew she would have been dead countless times over already. She couldn't seem to land a decisive blow, her attacks too slow, too weak, too predictable for its speed. And grimly, neither could the demon land a killing blow on her, thanks to the split-seconds of warning she received. It was a stalemate, a dance of death where she could only react, not dictate, while the cawing of the ravens above was a chaotic storm mirroring her frantic evasions.
From the edge of the village, the huddle of onlookers held their breath. Elder Seiji watched, his heart a cold stone in his chest. When the girl had walked into the field, he had considered it a fool's death. When the serpent had erupted from the earth, he had thought her already gone.
But she was not.
The beast was a force of nature, its lunges like avalanches of scale and fang, each strike powerful enough to shatter stone. It slammed its head where she stood, churning the rice paddy into muddy craters. Yet, she was never there. She would move a moment before—a sharp sidestep, a sudden duck, a fluid roll—not with the wild panic of a desperate flight, but with an impossible, almost serene precision.
"How...?" Naomi whispered beside him, clutching Toru's shoulder so tightly her knuckles were white. The boy, however, was no longer afraid. His eyes were wide with pure, undiluted awe at the spectacle.
The girl would dart in, her own blade a flash of silver, only for the demon to recoil with impossible speed. Then the monster would strike back, and again she would evade by a hair's breadth. It was a terrifying, hypnotic rhythm. A back-and-forth battle where neither could land the final blow.
"She knows where it will strike before it does," Seiji murmured, his own voice filled with disbelief. This was not the clumsy brawl of a desperate warrior. It was a dance on a razor's edge, performed with a grace that defied all logic. He was witnessing something that did not belong to the world of ordinary slayers.
A brutal realization set in, heavy as a tombstone. This wasn't a fight she could win through attrition. Her stamina, honed by brutal counter-training but still finite, would give out long before the demon's. Kunai and shuriken would be useless against its massive size and thick scales. Repeated katana strikes weren't working against something so quick and agile despite its bulk. What could she do? How do you kill something you can't outfight and can only barely outlast? The brutal dance continued, a test of endurance she knew she couldn't win. Frustration tightened in her gut. Blades and conventional tactics were proving useless against the snake's speed and size. Her mind, sharp and desperate, sifted through possibilities, her foresight a constant, silent judge, showing visions of failure or injury for every standard attack she considered. Then, as the monstrous maw gaped open for another terrifying lunge, a risky, unconventional idea seized her – born from raw necessity and observation. It wasn't elegant, but it might work.
Reaching into her sack, she pulled out a poison bomb, a potent concoction she had prepared herself for unexpected threats. As the demon surged forward, a flash from her foresight screamed a warning of its imminent, devastating impact. Acting on the vision of danger, she simultaneously launched the bomb with a swift, accurate underhand toss deep into the creature's throat and threw herself violently out of the path of the crushing jaws, rolling as the enormous head slammed into the ground where she'd been moments before.
The demon recoiled violently, the bomb exploding inside its throat in a puff of acrid smoke and a horrifying wet sound. It thrashed and shook its massive head, a grotesque, gurgling sound emanating from within, trying desperately to expel the burning poison. But it was too late. The poison took effect, wracking its colossal body with convulsions, its movements becoming erratic, slower.
Seeing her opportunity, No One gripped her katana, the blade feeling suddenly light, charged with grim purpose. Driven by a desperate surge of adrenaline and cold resolve, she leaped into the air, arcing high above the thrashing head. With a single, powerful, downward strike, fueled by years of solitary practice and the cold fury in her heart, she brought the blade down. The steel met scales and flesh, severing the demon's head from its massive body in a spray of dark blood that misted the twilight air.
The massive head crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, its fangs digging into the earth, followed moments later by the immense, slithering length of its headless body, which convulsed for a final few seconds before lying still, the silence of the fields returning, thick and heavy.
The villagers, who had gathered cautiously at the edge of the fields, watched in stunned, disbelieving silence. The silence hung heavy for a moment, broken only by the sounds of the forest and the echo of the demon's final thrashings. Then, as the reality of their deliverance set in, they erupted in a wave of cheers, shouts, and celebrations. Their nightmare was over. They could tend to their rice fields and trade once more.
This victory, earned not by brute force but by cunning and her unique, cursed ability against a threat that should have been fatal, brought a flicker of accomplishment she hadn't felt in years, a fleeting warmth in the emptiness of the vazio. She turned from the cheering villagers and began walking away.
Elder Seiji, Naomi, and young Toru chased after her, reaching the village entrance as she approached it.
"Are you leaving us so soon?" Toru called out, his voice filled with the disappointment of a child whose hero was departing too quickly.
This time, No One felt a strange, unfamiliar pull, a flicker of connection in the emptiness. She felt compelled to respond, not with the silence she had cultivated, but with words.
She stopped and turned back to face them briefly, her masked face still unreadable, but her posture conveying a sense of completion. "I came to slay the demon," she said, her voice still raspy but firm, a statement of purpose fulfilled. "The job is done."
She turned back to the road and continued her journey northward without another word, leaving the cheering, grateful villagers behind. As she walked away, the sounds of celebration fading, she heard their hushed voices, tinged with wonder and confusion.
"What a strange woman she is," Elder Seiji murmured, shaking his head slightly, a note of awe, not fear, in his voice this time.
"She... she saved us," Naomi whispered, her voice filled with disbelief and gratitude.
"She's strong!" Toru added, his childish voice loud and full of admiration, a simple label for complex capabilities.
Leaving the village behind, the echoes of their cheers and gratitude a stark contrast to the curses of her past, No One walked on. The lone raven that had been circling overhead descended, landing softly on her shoulder once more. She reached into the pouch at her hip, the one she had filled with rice from the haunted fields, and pulled out a few of the hard, uncooked grains. She held them out on her palm, an offering. The raven hopped from her shoulder to her arm, its small black eyes meeting her burgundy ones for a moment before it delicately plucked the grains from her hand.
She processed the events, the unexpected kindness a sliver of possibility that chipped away at the hardened shell around her heart. Not all humans, she realized, were hateful and cruel like those who had cast her out; these had shown fear, yes, but also hope and thanks.
But if not all humans were bad, a profoundly unsettling thought followed, a dangerous idea that challenged the very foundation of her burning hatred and the crushing burden of blame she carried: did that mean not all demons were bad either?
As she continued her solitary journey, walking barefoot under the twilight sky, the lines between instinct, fear, and cruelty, between human and monster, began to blur in her mind, leaving her with much to ponder.