The hall is silent except for the buzz of flies over a bowl of half-eaten soup. Arila sits at the dining table, a small figure framed against the wide window where sunlight spills in sharp and merciless. She has not eaten. The food has gone cold. Her hands rest tightly in her lap, as if keeping them still could stop her thoughts from rattling.
She had wanted to help him. That was her excuse. But help had become horror, chained beneath the floorboards, echoing with screams she cannot unhear. The daylight makes it worse, not better. It exposes everything. Even the sun seems to bear witness to what she has chosen.
Then the sound breaks her trance.
CLUNG!
The basement door flies open. A wave of hot air bursts out, swirling through the room. The man standing there is Reynard.
Arila gasps, frozen in terror as the nightmare unfolds before her eyes. Reynard stands in the doorway, one arm gone, blood streaming down in thick, red ribbons. His breathing is heavy, ragged, frantic. He looks more terrified than she has ever seen him—more terrified than she is.
He looks around, and their eyes meet. For a moment, Arila sees in his gaze the same fear she remembers from their childhood — the same desperate look he had whenever he ran to her house, escaping from his own.
"Reynard!" Arila cries, rising to her feet.
But Reynard knows this time is different. Not even Arila can save him now. After one final glance in her direction, he bolts from the kitchen, slamming through the front door. Blood trails behind him as he runs, clutching the stump of his arm to slow the bleeding.
Arila watches him disappear, frozen in confusion. Her mind races, trying to understand what happened to him down in that basement. The question barely forms before her confusion turns to dread.
The figure of another man steps out from the open basement door, the man she had met only this morning.
"..."
Shuku emerges slowly, his expression calm, his presence cold. Arila trembles as she realizes what she's seeing. Somehow, he has escaped the chair that bound him. Somehow, he has survived whatever Reynard tried to do to him, and worse, he has crippled her husband in return.
She cannot imagine how, but she knows one thing: any man capable of doing that without a single lasting wound is unstoppable. Her fear swells. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She understands now that she can no longer shield Reynard from what's coming.
Shuku's eyes sweep across the room, scanning every corner, calculating Reynard's escape route. His grip tightens around the crimson blade in his hand, blood dripping steadily from its edge onto the floorboards. Then his gaze falls on the trail — thick, uneven drops leading to the front door. His jaw hardens.
Without hesitation, he starts forward, his steps slow and deliberate, the blade angled low like a predator closing in on wounded prey.
"Wait!"
The word escapes Arila before she realizes she has spoken it. Her voice cracks, breaking the silence that clings to the air like dust.
Shuku freezes mid-stride. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head toward her. Their eyes meet, and a cold shiver runs down her spine.
"Please…" Her lips tremble. "Please spare him. If you have to kill anyone, please kill me instead. Don't hurt him."
For a moment, the air itself seems to hold still. Shuku's gaze lingers on her — calm, unreadable, almost pitying. Then he speaks, his voice soft but final, carrying a weight that crushes her heart.
"I'm sorry, Arila."
With those words, he turns away. In one fluid motion, he rushes toward the front door. It slams open, the frame rattling as he disappears into the blinding light outside.
Arila stumbles forward, her hands half-raised as if she could pull him back, as if she could undo what she just heard. But her body refuses to move. Her arms fall uselessly to her sides. She drops to her knees on the cold floor, fingers gripping her skirt, her whole body trembling.
Her breath comes shallow and uneven. Fear gnaws at her chest, regret burns in her throat, and the truth settles over her like ash. She can protect Reynard no longer.
The house falls silent again, except for the faint echo of pursuit outside. Arila kneels there, shaking, alone with her choices and the taste of despair where hope once lived.
Outside, Shuku bursts through the front door, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. He exhales, scanning the street with a predator's focus. The trail is clear — thick, wet drops of blood marking Reynard's path. He hadn't thought, when he severed the arm, how useful the bleeding would become. Now it serves as a guide, tying prey to predator.
He wastes no thought on anything else. No hesitation. No words. Only pursuit.
People freeze as he storms past them. A man drenched in blood, his clothes dark and clinging, a crimson blade glinting in his grip. Faces twist with fear, some with morbid fascination. But no one moves. It is not the first time they have seen a Manhunter at work. And so they part in silence, like reeds before a passing storm, as Shuku races through the street, following the blood.
He wastes no thought on anything else. No hesitation. No words. Only pursuit.
People freeze as he storms past them. A man drenched in blood, his clothes dark and clinging, a crimson blade glinting in his grip. Faces twist with fear, some with morbid fascination. But no one moves. It is not the first time they have seen a Manhunter at work. And so they part in silence, like reeds before a passing storm, as Shuku races through the street, following the blood.
Shuku ignores them. Their fear means nothing. His world narrows to the trail alone. Every drop of blood is a step closer. Every mark confirms the inevitability of the chase.
The trail bends sharply into a narrow alley. Shadows press close, damp stone walls glistening in the dim light. It smells of rot and iron, the kind of place made for ambushes. Still, Shuku does not slow. Suspicion means nothing when the quarry bleeds this heavily, and hesitation is a luxury Reynard cannot afford him.
He dashes into the alley, boots slamming against the stone.
Then—
From the right, Reynard lunges out of hiding, twisted with pain and desperation. In his grip is a blade, maybe one he grabbed from the house. He swings wide, a savage arc meant to split Shuku in half.
But Shuku's reflexes are carved from survival. His bloodblade rises in an instant, catching the strike inches from his body. The clash rings out, metal screaming against crimson steel. The impact, combined with Shuku's forward motion, drives his own blade back and slices into his ribs.
"Chkk—!" Shuku clicks his tongue, the pain sharp and searing. He shoves forward with brute strength, forcing Reynard away.
Reynard stumbles, then spins with startling skill, his single arm whirling the blade around for another strike. He moves fast, precise, a man who has fought and killed in countless battles before.
But Shuku drops low, a hunter's trick from the dark dungeons where towering beasts once loomed above him. In a single, swift slash, his blade cuts through Reynard's thigh.
Reynard collapses with a scream, a sound of fear, agony, and breaking resolve. His blade clatters uselessly to the ground as his body hits the dirt.
"AAAGHHHHHHHH!"
Shuku does not hesitate. He steps in, his stance flawless. With an upward swing as fast as wind, he severs Reynard's remaining arm just as the man reaches for his fallen weapon.
"AAAGHHHHHHH!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!!"
Reynard shrieks, thrashing on the ground, his voice cracking in panic. "Get out! Get away from me!"His eyes lock on Shuku's, and terror consumes him. Those eyes, red as blood with a star blazing in each iris, look less like a man's and more like a devil, one come to claim him for his sins.
For the first time in his life, the seasoned killer begs. Begs to live. But stripped of his limbs, he is nothing more than prey waiting for the final blow.
Shuku's face stays calm. His tone is steady, almost gentle. "Any last words?"
Through blood and tears, Reynard spits, his pride still clinging even as life slips away. "Fuck off."
Shuku tilts his head slightly, voice flat. "Yeah. I predicted that."
And in the dark alley, no one dares to watch what happens next.
...
...
...
Ama, the blonde receptionist, sits behind her counter surrounded by parchment, ink, and the soft rustle of exhaustion. The morning has already been long, too many forms, too many egos. Every few minutes, another low-rank hunter swaggered in asking for high-paying work they weren't qualified for. Others came with cheap smiles and clumsy flirts, hoping to end up in her bed instead of on a contract.
Still, she endures it. The pay is good, far better than anything a normal civilian could hope for. For all the endless paperwork and headaches, the Hunter Guild's front desk offers stability, and in this city, that is worth more than gold.
Now she is halfway through explaining contract clauses to a nervous applicant — a young man clearly overthinking every word. He has already asked the same question three different ways. Ama opens her mouth to repeat her answer again when the guild's front door creaks open.
She doesn't look up. Not at first.
Hunters come and go all day; most are loud, some drunk, a few bleeding. It's nothing unusual. But then something shifts in the air.
A faint metallic scent reaches Ama's nose. Her brow furrows. Slowly, she lifts her gaze.
A man stands in the doorway. Tall. Still. His black hood half-pulled up, hiding most of his face. At first glance, he looks like just another weary hunter returning from a job, his clothes stained from travel. But the large brown sack in his hand drips something red onto the floor, and unease curls in her chest.
The man steps inside, the echo of his boots slicing through the murmur of the hall. He says nothing as he approaches, yet tension follows him like a shadow. Other guild members glance up; some frown, others quickly look away. Everyone senses it, the thick metallic stench that clings to him.
Ama's heart beats faster, though her face remains calm. As the man reaches the counter, he lightly pushes the young applicant aside, silently telling him that whatever his problem is, it means nothing now.
The young man freezes, fear flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he backs away, leaving Ama alone to face the stranger.
The man lowers his hood.
Ama exhales, her shoulders easing slightly. A familiar face meets her eyes, sharp gaze, pale skin, and quiet determination.
"Mr. Shuku?" she whispers.
"Yeah," he replies, his tone calm, almost casual. "It's me."
Ama quickly regains her composure. "How can I help you?"
Shuku lets out a slow breath, then sets the bag on the counter. The sound it makes, heavy and wet, sends a chill down her spine.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I might have a big problem."
He nods toward the bag, a silent signal.
Ama hesitates. She already knows that whatever is inside the bag will not be pleasant. The smell alone tells her enough. But curiosity mixed with duty gets the best of her. In the end, she reaches for the knot and unties it.
"...!!!"
Her eyes widen. Her body freezes. The breath she had been holding escapes as a choked gasp.
Inside the bag lies a human head — male, middle-aged, the neck cut clean through. The skin is still fresh, glistening where the blood has not dried. Flies circle lazily above it, landing on the open mouth and rolled-back eyes.
Ama stumbles back, one hand covering her mouth, the other gripping the counter for balance. Her stomach twists violently.
"Oh my god…"
The noise draws attention. Nearby receptionists turn to look. Then another. Soon every clerk at the front desk is staring. Gasps ripple through the air. Someone drops a quill.
"You see, I got the job done," Shuku says simply, scratching the back of his neck as if embarrassed by the reaction. "But I don't know where to go next to get the reward… sorry."
For a long moment, no one speaks. The head on the counter says everything.
But then, something subtle happens, no screaming, no chaos. The guild hall does not erupt. Because for most of them, this isn't unexpected.
The Hunter Guild deals with killers and contracts every single day. Manhunters, bounty takers who end jobs in blood, are not rare. What shocks them isn't the kill, but the presentation. Shuku had simply brought back proof too literally.
Some receptionists turn away pale, a few whisper to one another, but none dare approach.
Ama steadies herself. The initial nausea fades. She has worked here long enough, seen corpses, heads, and worse. Death is part of the paperwork too. Taking a slow breath, she closes the bag firmly and straightens up.
When she meets Shuku's gaze again, her voice has returned to calm professionalism, even carrying a polite smile as if this were just another small misunderstanding.
"I apologize, Mr. Shuku," she says gently. "It's my mistake for forgetting to tell you something important."
Of course, she hadn't forgotten. In truth, she hadn't expected him to survive his first hunt. New hunters who took Manhunt contracts rarely did. So she hadn't bothered to mention it.
"To claim your prize, especially for targets marked as 'hunted for death,' you need to bring the body, or in this case, the head, along with the copy of the wanted poster to the Furnace."
"The Furnace?" Shuku repeats, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes," Ama explains, her tone measured and professional. "It's a guild building in the southern quarter. That's where they handle verifications. They'll examine the remains and match them to the bounty record. If it's confirmed, they'll issue your payment directly at the Furnace, if the amount is small enough, usually under five thousand."
Shuku nods silently.
"But," she adds, "if the prize is larger, they'll give you a reward card. You'll bring that back here to the main branch to collect your money."
Her tone softens. "Got it, sir?"
Shuku looks down at the bag again, then back at her. The faintest ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips, one that never reaches his eyes.
"Got it," he says quietly. "Thanks."
Ama nods, careful not to glance at the crimson smear spreading across the polished counter. She keeps her composure — steady breath, calm tone, the mask of professionalism she has worn for years.
"Good," she says softly, forcing a small, polite smile. "I apologize for my mistake. Now please, take your bag off the table. It'll traumatize the other receptionists when they have to clean it."
After a short pause, she adds with careful courtesy, "Next time, just bring the poster and the proof of kill mark, not the… actual proof."
Shuku blinks once, then nods repeatedly. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry."
His voice is sincere, almost boyish in its awkwardness. He lifts the heavy brown sack from the desk, holding it by the knot to keep it from dripping again. A faint sound comes from inside — soft, wet, and a few clerks in the back quietly turn away.
Ama slides open a drawer and pulls out a small card, a neat rectangle stamped with the guild's red insignia.
"Here's the Furnace's address," she says, handing it to him. "Show this when you arrive. They'll know what to do."
Shuku accepts it with a nod, eyes lowered. "Sorry for disturbing you."
"No trouble at all, Mr. Shuku," she replies smoothly, her tone gentle but firm. "Just… be careful out there."
He gives another short nod, clutching the bag in one hand and the card in the other. Then he turns, walking briskly toward the door. The sound of his boots echoes across the hall, steady but heavy, and with each step, the murmur of voices returns. Whispers follow him like a shadow.
Hunters, clerks, and mercenaries watch as he passes. Some in silent awe, others in quiet unease. The air thickens with curiosity, judgment, and the faint sting of iron that lingers long after him.
Shuku pauses once, his hand resting on the doorknob. Without looking back, he mutters under his breath, almost too quiet for anyone to hear, "Didn't mean to scare anyone."
Then he steps out, shutting the door softly behind him.
The guild hall exhales as one.
Ama stays still for a moment, her practiced smile frozen in place. Only after the sound of his footsteps fades does she let out a slow breath. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for a cloth to wipe the counter clean.
"Another day," she murmurs under her breath. "Another mess."
Then she straightens her posture again, and by the time the next adventurer walks up to her desk, her expression is perfectly professional once more.