Time crawled forward through agony.
Senya didn't know how long had passed—perhaps an hour, perhaps only a few tortured moments.
Then—
From the narrow alley outside, piled high with rotting garbage and discarded debris, a short, bloodcurdling scream suddenly erupted.
The sound was cut off halfway, as if a sharp blade had severed the throat before the cry could fully form.
Immediately afterward came a dull, heavy impact—
Thud!
Followed by the nauseating crunch of breaking bones.
Senya's eyes flew open.
His pupils contracted sharply in the dim light.
That sound—
It came from the dead-end alley beside the house.
A wave of unease surged through him, instantly amplifying the icy pain ravaging his body. Gritting his teeth, Senya forced himself to move. He practically tumbled off the narrow couch, collapsing onto the floor, then crawled toward the dilapidated window on all fours.
The window paper had long since torn apart.
Holding his breath, Senya pressed one eye against a narrow crack.
The alley was dim, saturated with the sour stench of decay—and the heavy, metallic smell of fresh blood.
Three tall figures surrounded a body curled on the ground, kicking it without restraint.
The figure wore old gray clothes, tall and thin. It lay motionless as a dark stain spread beneath it.
Not Yukimura.
Thank goodness—it wasn't him.
Senya's heart pounded violently, threatening to burst from his chest.
"Pah! Tough little bastard, huh?"
A coarse voice drifted in on the wind.
The man holding a short club spat on the motionless body, then kicked it again.
"Damn it, what rotten luck. Thought we'd find something valuable—this trash barely had anything."
Another voice urged impatiently, "Enough. Finish it and move. Boss said the real target is that sick weakling inside."
The third man laughed, glancing toward Senya's house.
"Heh heh, that half-dead Young Master inside—heard he's still some kind of noble."
Senya's blood ran cold.
Their target—
Was him.
The man with the club sneered and pointed toward the rotten fence by the house.
"Let's go. That door's already falling apart. Smash it open and slaughter the brat."
The three men turned and strode toward the house, laughing loudly.
Arrogant. Careless.
Then—
A thin, elderly figure suddenly rushed out from behind a tall pile of abandoned wooden crates near the back door.
Like a small beast forced into a corner.
It was Yukimura.
He clutched a rusty short knife used for chopping firewood. His hunched body trembled violently from fear and rage, yet he stubbornly planted himself in front of the intruders.
"D-don't… don't go in!"
His voice was sharp and trembling, yet startlingly clear.
"Get lost! Stay away from the Young Master!"
The three men froze for a brief moment—then burst into harsh, grating laughter.
"Hahahaha! Look at this old fool, delivering himself to us!"
"Tsk, he's even got a weapon."
"Brothers, take him down."
The man with the club stepped forward, sneering. His large, fan-like hand reached straight for Yukimura's frail neck—fast and brutal, not even sparing a glance at the knife.
Yukimura screamed, shut his eyes, and swung the rusty blade with everything he had.
Clang!
Metal screeched.
The blade struck a crude leather bracer on the man's arm, leaving only a shallow white mark.
The recoil tore open the webbing of Yukimura's hand. Blood spilled instantly as the knife flew from his grip, clattering into a pile of garbage.
"Damn it! You're asking for death!"
The man roared, eyes blazing. He backhanded Yukimura across the face.
Slap!
The sharp sound echoed through the narrow alley.
Yukimura's frail body lifted off the ground and slammed into the rotten wooden doorframe. Splinters burst outward as he slid down limply.
Half his face swelled instantly, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
He didn't move.
"Stupid old bastard."
The man spat, lifting his foot to stomp down again.
Behind the shattered window, Senya's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
Something inside him—pressed by despair, rage, and helplessness—snapped.
A violent, chaotic power surged forth, breaking through the fragile restraints of his will like a dam collapsing under pressure.
"Ghh—!"
A hoarse, inhuman roar tore itself from his throat.
That was not his voice.
It was cold. Metallic. Like grinding steel.
A gray-red Spiritual Pressure, thick and tangible, erupted violently from his frail body, sweeping outward like an invisible storm.
The rotten window frame groaned—
Then shattered.
Wood splinters and dust exploded into the air.
The three men felt as though an invisible hammer had smashed into their chests. Their movements froze mid-step, triumph instantly replaced by absolute terror.
The air became thick, heavy like mud.
A suffocating pressure—cold, ravenous, filled with the desire to devour—wrapped around their throats, stealing their breath.
The most primal fear buried within their Souls ignited.
"W-what is that?!"
"M-monster!"
"Run!"
They turned to flee, panic-stricken, but their legs felt unbearably heavy. The gray-red pressure clung to them like a living thing.
From the shadows behind the broken window, Senya slowly straightened.
His head hung low, messy black hair obscuring most of his face.
Through the gaps—
His eyes were no longer black.
They were a cold, ghastly white.
At the center of each pupil burned a faint crimson point, like ghostly fire from hell, locking onto the three men.
His voice emerged—low, hoarse, metallic.
"Die."
A monstrous hand of pale bone, fingers ending in scythe-like claws, extended from the shadows beside him.
It swept forward.
The three men collapsed simultaneously, their bodies falling limply to the ground—utterly silent.
The alley returned to stillness.
"Ding."
"Family System loading complete."