No One forced her aching body forward, each step on the weathered planks of the long bridge a conscious effort. The prolonged, brutal battle within the goblin cave had left her drained, a deep weariness settled into her very bones. The constant sound of the river flowing below was a low drone, a stark contrast to the ringing silence in her ears now that the screeching of goblins had ceased.
The chorus of agitated caws from her raven escort had subsided with her own battle fury, their calls dissolving into a watchful quiet that felt heavy beneath the near-black canvas of the sky, now awash with the deepest indigos and bruised purples of the Stirring Dark.
Her mind replayed the events of the past few cycles, a dizzying collage of violence and contradictory feelings. The memory of the Inaho villagers, their faces filled with gratitude, felt like it belonged to a different lifetime. Their unexpected kindness had suggested a world where not all humans were eager to cast stones and light torches.
But that fragile thought was now caked in the gore and filth of the goblin nest. She had been hunted for sport, a humiliation that sparked a cold fire within her. In response, she had invaded their home and systematically slaughtered every last one, driven by a methodical fury that left no room for mercy. The first villagers had attacked her out of blind fear. The goblins had acted out of cruel sport. Was her own vengeance—this act of total extermination—truly born of a different root? Or was she just another monster, defined by her own brand of cruelty in a world that bred little else? The question was a dangerous fissure in her worldview, and she had no answer for it.
Along the road, she passed a solemn procession of men in simple, earth-toned robes, their heads shaved, prayer beads clutched in their hands as they walked with a quiet purpose. Monks. A pilgrimage, perhaps. No One couldn't help but draw a silent parallel to her own solitary, uncertain path, but the similarity ended there. Where the villagers of Inaho had shown fear mixed with hope, these men offered only awkward, unveiled suspicion. Their eyes lingered on her—the wolf pelts, the array of weapons, the stark black sigil of the Mark of the Raven's Gaze on her forehead.
Above all, they watched the handful of ravens that flew in a lazy circle high above her, their silent escort a detail no one ever missed. The monks would mutter to one another and quicken their pace, as if she were a predator stalking them. The feeling was intensely familiar, a bitter taste she knew well. Back in the village, the elders had whispered about her "unnatural" burgundy eyes, calling them evil. She wasn't a demon, she thought with a familiar pang of isolation. She was human, wasn't she? The world seemed determined to convince her otherwise.
Further on, a new path branched away from the road, leading to a towering mountain where a seemingly endless series of stone stairs climbed relentlessly upwards. The ascent continued ceaselessly until the steps seemed to dissolve into the cold, distant brilliance of High Twilight. Near the peak, the faint outline of a temple was visible, a dark silhouette against a vast expanse of luminous, pearlescent silver-gray, shot through with veins of washed-out lavender. A flicker of her dream-flights—soaring on raven's wings, seeing the world from a high vantage point—sparked a rare impulse that was not born of fear or rage. She wanted to climb. She wanted to see. The ascent was grueling, her muscles aching by the time she finally reached the summit, but the sight of the ancient stone temple brought a flicker of hard-won accomplishment.
The temple was a place of profound stillness, the air heavy with incense and the quiet harmony of chanting. No One's presence was an immediate violation of that peace. She stepped past the threshold, her long black hair tied in a high ponytail, her burgundy eyes scanning the tranquil hall from behind her mask.
A tall, gaunt monk approached, his robes hanging loose from bony shoulders. He wore a string of prayer beads that seemed to pulse with a faint light. His voice, though soft, cracked with a hard edge.
"What are you doing here? Demons are not allowed in this sacred place!"
Demon. The word struck her with the force of a physical blow. It was the same accusation, the same immediate judgment she had endured her entire life. She thought of Elder Tanaka's face, contorted with hatred. She heard the whispers of the other slayers, blaming her for the loss of their families. For a long moment, she stood frozen, the silence stretching. Her near-nonexistent social skills offered no script for this, only the cold, hard reality that any word she spoke would be twisted and used against her. Her silence was a fortress, but also a prison. With a barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes, she stepped around him as if he were merely a stone in her path, her quiet dismissal a profound insult to his authority.
Tension stirred through the temple. Monks rose to their feet, their prayers cut short. When she reached the main hall, she was surrounded. Some held consecrated staffs, others prayer slips that glowed with purifying energy. The head monk—an ancient figure with snow-white brows and sunken eyes—stepped forward.
But as the head monk moved, No One's eyes narrowed. Her honed survival instincts—sharpened by years of relentless threat assessment—screamed that something was profoundly wrong. His limbs moved with an unsettling, disjointed fluidity, like a puppet's, and his smile was too wide, lingering unnaturally. The other monks, bound by reverence, were blind to it, but she was already shifting her weight, her hand hovering over the hilt of her katana.
The head monk took another step, and then his body lunged forward with impossible speed. In that same instant, the Mark on her forehead flared with a violent, searing premonition: a split-second vision not of the monk's hand, but of glistening, needle-like mandibles snapping shut where her throat would be.
Her reaction was pure instinct. She threw herself backward, her katana clearing its sheath with a metallic whisper. The monk's hand, now visibly contorting into a clawed appendage, swiped through the space she had just occupied. The sheer force of the lunge tore the fragile human skin of his face, revealing the chittering, monstrous mandibles of the creature beneath.
Before the other monks could fully process the horror, their own bodies began to convulse. Robes tore as thin, spindly spider legs erupted from their backs, and their prayers warped into guttural screeches. Within moments, she was surrounded, a circle of scuttling horrors moving in.
Realizing her single blade was ill-suited for a multi-front battle, No One took a deep breath, centering herself in the storm. She sheathed her katana in one fluid motion and her fingers unlatched the kusarigama from her waist, the chain unfurling like a whip. She swung the iron weight in a brutal one-handed arc, crushing the face of the nearest demon-monk. In the same motion, she whipped the chain back and launched the sickle end forward, burying it deep in another's chest. A sharp yank on the chain pulled the impaled demon off-balance, stumbling forward. As it came, her free hand drew her katana in a flash of steel, bracing the blade so the demon's own momentum forced its impalement. With a flick of her wrist, she freed the sickle and coiled the chain, ready again.
A demon lunged from behind. The Mark flared again—a vision of claws tearing her back—sending her twisting low. She snatched a torch from a nearby pillar and rammed it backward into the attacker's gaping mouth. Fire met webs and chitin. The creature ignited with a screech, its inner workings combusting. It was at this moment, with the first scent of burning flesh and the surge of her own battle fury, that the curse resonated outwards. As if mirroring her own internal state, the flock of ravens that had followed her into the temple swelled dramatically, their frantic caws becoming a churning vortex of black wings that added to the chaos.
No One hurled the burning corpse into a demon skittering along the ceiling. The dry, silken webs lining the roof beams caught fire instantly, the flames beginning to snake across the ancient timbers.
She rolled under a sweeping claw from another demon, using a fallen monk's back as leverage to spring upward. A kunai flew from her thigh, burying itself deep in a spider-monk's eye. Landing silently on the temple wall, she kicked off it to launch herself toward the towering central statue, scrambling up its stone surface to gain a vantage point. At the statue's shoulders, she hurled her kusarigama again, the chain wrapping securely around one of the statue's stone arms. She swung down like a pendulum of destruction, crashing into a cluster of spider-monks below, her sickle carving through them as she landed.
The fire she had started now spread with terrifying speed, blackening the ancient stone and sending plumes of thick smoke billowing toward the ceiling. High above, the churning vortex of ravens began to fray at the edges. Their frantic caws grew more desperate as their supernatural tie to her rage warred with their instinct to flee the growing inferno. Many broke away from the flock, crying out as they escaped through the temple's high windows, while a core group, bound by the peak of her fury, continued to circle in the smoky haze.
Freeing her weapon, No One sheathed it and drew her katana once more, turning to face the true leader emerging from the flames. The main demon, wearing the head monk's ruined skin like a grotesque mantle, let out a piercing screech and leaped at her. The Mark warned of its lunging attack, a vision of its massive claws crushing her torso. She slid under its legs and, as she rose, brought her katana up in a vicious slash that severed the tendons in both its knees. It spun with unnatural speed, but she was already gone, rolling into the shadows, only to emerge with her katana and a burning torch snatched from the floor. She struck low, setting the creature's remaining legs ablaze.
It shrieked, writhing as the fire consumed it, its movements becoming wild and uncoordinated. Its agony gave her the only opening she would get. She seized it, leaping onto its burning back and driving her katana down through its spine with all her weight. The blade pierced deep, and the colossal demon convulsed before collapsing.
The temple groaned as its main roof beams gave way, the likenesses of its gods now blackened with soot and blood. No One stood in the center of the conflagration, ash falling like snow. The last of the ravens, the most resolute of the flock, finally abandoned their vigil, crying out as they fled the now-unbearable heat and smoke.
She watched them disappear into the silver-gray sky. A cold resolve settled in her heart. They had called her a demon. And so she had brought hell to their doorstep to cleanse a deeper evil. Perhaps this was her purpose. Not a slayer, not a hero, but a necessary monster. A walking, breathing pyre for a world that had already been reduced to ash. She sheathed her blade and walked out through the inferno, leaving the burning temple to its purification. Her mind was already drifting, a single, practical thought emerging amidst the chaos and ash: the cool, clear water of the river, and the need to wash away the filth of the battle that clung to her like a second skin.