The soft steps of sandals moved over the cobblestone path of the village.
A boy wandered alone, his usual spiky grey hair still plastered to his forehead from the hot spring he had just exited.
After the bath he sneaked into the inns washroom and stole his own kimono back before the owner was able to wash it.
Kizutoro's kimono was precious to him, it was a gift from his father and the only thing he was left from him.
He also got his katana with him, ever since he got to the swordsman corps it became habit to go anywhere with a weapon.
His gaze lingered on his sword.
"Why do cats always look so… smug?" he muttered aloud, kicking a pebble that rolled lazily into a gutter. He crouched to watch a stray feline arch its back on a nearby fence, eyes glinting in the lantern light. "Like they know the world's secrets or something. And I… I don't. Not even close."
He straightened with a huff, brushing water from his arms. His grin faltered slightly, fading into a rare quiet as the night pressed in around him. "No… that's stupid. Cats aren't supposed to care about that. I mean… what do I even care about…?"
The alley stretched ahead like a dark ribbon. Kizutoro's hands shoved into his pockets, fingers pressing against cold stone. His voice, usually sharp and loud, dropped to something almost inaudible.
"Do people… really get saved by love?" he whispered. The words felt foreign, awkward on his tongue. "I mean—really saved. Not just… patched up for a moment, not just kept breathing… but healed inside. Fixed where it hurts the most, the part nobody else can see."
He stopped walking, leaning against the side of a house. The wood was rough beneath his back, the scent of pine and smoke faint but grounding. His eyes traced the patterns of the mist curling over the cobblestones, catching the lantern glow in tiny sparks like fireflies.
"When you fight… when you die for someone… or protect them, does it actually… change them?" he asked again, louder this time, almost daring an answer from the empty street. "Or does it just make the weight heavier when you can't… save enough?"
A sigh slipped past his lips. It was softer than he intended. Usually, Kizutoro would have laughed it off, shouted at someone nearby to insult him back, or charged into some meaningless challenge. But tonight… none of that came. Maybe it was because he was alone, he didn't knew the answer himself.
He pushed off the wall, pacing again, slow and deliberate. His fists clenched and unclenched, muscles tense under the lingering chill of the night. "And what about… the ones you leave behind?" His voice cracked slightly. "Do they remember what you tried to give them… or just the failure? The mess you made while trying to be… more than a damn burden?"
For a long moment, nothing answered. Only the distant rustle of trees, the faint chirp of insects, and the ghost of laughter from the hot spring—Aoi's calm, Chika's bright giggle, and the chaos of Kizutoro's own cannonball splash—echoed through the quiet.
A dry laugh escaped him, sharp and bitter. "Hah… and I thought I was done thinking tonight." He shook his head, trying to chase away the shadows gathering in his chest.
He looked up at the stars struggling through the mist. His gaze lingered there, distant and searching, as if trying to see a path where none existed.
"Did I change?"
Part 2
deep in the forest, Tatsuya, Ruza, and Luna moved carefully along the shadowed path, the air growing heavier with each step.
"Tatsuya…" Ruza's voice trembled, almost a whisper. "I…I smell the… the demon scent."
"What?! Don't you smell me?" Tatsuya snapped, eyes narrowing as he scanned the trees around them.
"No… this one is different," Ruza replied, shaking her head.
"Like Rukai?" Tatsuya pressed.
"No, Tatsuya. This smell is nothing like Rukai… It's a smell I recognize…"
Luna's eyes widened, her voice low and taut. "It's the same scent I smelled when Shiloh was attacked."
Ruza's lips pressed into a thin line. "…That's right. The demon who killed everyone in the village is here."
At that moment, in the shadows between the trees, Tatsuya felt it too—a cold weight pressing against his chest, an instinctive dread that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.
Part 3
"What's the cruelest thing you've ever seen?"
Chika lifted her face from where she had been absentmindedly staring at the floor. Warm orange lamplight washed over the six figures sitting in a circle around her, their shadows overlapping on the sliding paper walls. Outside, the cicadas sang lazily, and a soft summer breeze slipped through the open window.
They sat together atop a battlefield of blankets and black, fluffy pillows—soft, plush, and stolen from four different barracks rooms. A secret fortress they had built in laughter and rebellion.
It was peaceful. Warm. The kind of moment that felt as though it would last forever.
And yet, what they were doing was strictly forbidden by the Swordsman Corps' code.
But tonight, none of them cared.
"I am still amazed that black-haired guard agreed to cover for us," the green-haired boy muttered with a grin, holding a pillow like a shield. Then, suddenly, he gasped. "—Hey! Where did you put my writing stuff?"
Kiome, calm as always, held up a brush and a neat stack of paper.
"I have it here, Micah."
Micah lit up. "Oh, you are the best."
He said that with a bright smile—right before taking a giant bite from a snack, crumbs spilling all over his precious notes.
"Micah!" Chika couldn't help protesting.
"Wh—what? I'm being careful!" he lied, brushing crumbs directly into the inkstone.
Chika exhaled through her nose in disbelief, but before she could scold him further, a gentle nudge tapped her shoulder—steady, grounding, unmistakably familiar.
"…Kiome?" she murmured, turning.
"She asked you a question," Kiome reminded quietly, his voice soft but firm. "It's your turn, Chika."
"Oh. Right."
Across from her, beneath the lamplight, sat the girl who had asked it: orange hair draping over her shoulders, faint freckles dusting her cheeks, legs curled beneath her on a cushion. She repeated, smiling with a playful seriousness:
"What's the cruelest thing you've ever seen? You picked truth instead of dare, so you can't dodge this. Answer honestly."
"I always choose truth," Chika replied, puffing her cheeks slightly.
"That's true," another boy—messy-haired and smug—chimed in from her right. "You should try dare for once. Live dangerously."
Chika crossed her arms. "No. Because if I pick dare, I know you'll make me do something I'll never recover from."
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
The room exploded into laughter. Pillows shook. Snacks tumbled.
For a moment, the question was forgotten. Swallowed by warmth and youth.
But as the laughter faded, Chika's thoughts returned to it.
What's the cruelest thing you've ever seen?
At that time… she had no real answer.
She had been—
…lucky.
Back then, she didn't yet understand.
Back then, she couldn't grasp it.
Back then, she genuinely believed cruelty was something distant—something that happened to other people, in other towns, in stories told by older soldiers.
She smiled then, oblivious.
And in the quiet of her heart, a voice from the future whispered:
I didn't realize how cruel the world could be.
The table.
A young girl lay upon it, her body rigid and pale. Her abdomen had been cruelly torn open, from her breast all the way to her mons pubis.
The flesh were ripped of her ribs like, someone enjoyed a piece spare ribs.
The girls colon hang out of her stomach, half of it had hit the ground, like the culprit had no intent on eating it, only the part behind it.
Her heart hang out of her body, helt on by the carotid arteries like they hadn't given up on it, clinging to the faintest hope of life.
Maybe it was, it was faint, so cruelty faint but there was a pulse. At least it appeared to be.
Maybe Chika's vision was fooling her, clinging to the fainted hope of life.
There was one odd thing that her vision was sure about. The way the girls stomach was torn open, it let to one part.
The uterus, like its whole intent was to specifically eat that part.
Blood pooled across the warped wood, gleaming in the faint moonlight. Dark streaks marked the floor and walls as if the room itself had been washed in carnage.
Chika stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her breath hitched, trembling against the metallic stench. She could feel bile rising, her knees threatening to give out.
And there, standing before the table, back first to her, was the figure she had been following.
Slowly, impossibly, the figure turned.
"—"
Her lips were glistening red. The edges of her mouth smeared with blood, still faintly warm. Her eyes, wide and luminous, held a calmness that made Chika's heart slam violently in her chest. And then, impossibly, she smiled. A small, sweet smile that didn't belong to the scene.
The juxtaposition of innocence and horror struck Chika dumb. Her legs wobbled. Her eyes stayed glued to figure, as if the world had narrowed down to a single point of nightmare.
"You… you…" Chika's voice trembled. "Who are you?"
Her lips curled up into a bright smile.
"I am the Demon of Gluttony, Meki Fortuna!"
"Why…?"
Meki tilted her head slightly, the blood at her lips catching the moonlight like tiny rubies. "Why…? They smelled… good," she murmured softly, almost tenderly. "I'm… hungry. So very hungry…"
The room seemed to close in around Chika. She wanted to scream, to run, to do anything, but her body refused to obey. Her hand pressed against the hilt of one of her katanas, but the distance was too great. The sound of her own heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Chika's knees gave way, and she collapsed against the doorway. Tears streamed down her face as she watched Meki's delicate hands, now glistening with blood, slowly retract from the table.
Meki's smile never faltered. She leaned slightly toward Chika, head tilting with that twisted serenity, and whispered in a soft, almost coaxing voice:
"Oh, sweetheart did you just caught me doing something bad?"
"You're…You're." Chika's words came out In ragged, like a broken record player.
"You're a witch!!"
"Oh, a witch?" She questioned, with innocent curiosity. Then she gestured to the mutilated body with a graceful hand. "But just look. This body was filled with delicious mana and warm life. Now it's nothing but an empty shell… a dried-up vessel."
Her lips curled in a soft pout.
"What a waste.."
"What…"
"Hmm??" Meki tilted her head back in place in a childlike motion that made the blood dripping from her chin all the more grotesque. "They're only meant for consumption, it's life's cycle. Eat or be eaten."
"Kill or be killed."
Chika's knees trembled. The floor seemed to tilt under her feet, but she stood, forcing her body upright—one breath, one second, one heartbeat at a time.
Meki's smile widened, delighted.
"Oh? You still stand. Wonderful. Fight? Flee? Or will you freeze and wait for me to chew on your heart next?"
Chika shook her head.
"I will not… hate you," she whispered.
Meki blinked.
"…Come again?"
Chika placed a hand over her trembling chest—not to stop fear, but to steady her voice.
"Your words are cruel. And your actions are unforgivable."
Her voice wavered, but her eyes did not.
"But I won't respond with cruelty. Human life is more than food. More than a resource. People laugh. They cry. They dream. They love. And I won't let you make me fall into sin."
Chika held her ground straightening and a wave of adrenaline and focus washed over her.
She was ready for whatever The Demon Of Gluttony might throw at her.
"—"
Meki moved first.
No warning. No breath. No hesitation.
A crack of lightning split the air as she blurred forward, tearing through the blood-stained room like a thunderbolt in human form. The wooden floor split beneath her feet, boards exploding outward from the force of her step.
Chika barely got her blades up in time.
Meki's twin shan screeched against Chika's crossed katanas, sparks hissing in the dark. The impact rattled Chika's bones — raw strength, inhuman and hungry.
"Too slow." Meki giggled.
Chika didn't answer — she pivoted, letting Meki's weight pass, redirecting instead of clashing head-on. Water-style footwork. Flow, don't break. Her blade flashed in a clean parry, slicing for Meki's wrist—
—SHRRK.
The cut landed.
It didn't matter.
The flesh sealed instantly, knitting back together as if time reversed. Meki only smiled wider, eyes glowing like a starved wolf.
"More. More. MORE!"
Lightning rolled across her skin — veins of electric-blue light crawling up her arms, across her throat, down her legs. A beast wearing a girl's silhouette. She lunged again, spinning, her shan carving arcs of thunder through the air.
Chika spun backward, deflecting one strike, then another, and another — sparks, steel, thunder, speed. Every blow forced her back. Every breath burned.
But she refused to kill.
She aimed only for tendons, wrists, and pressure points — not the throat.
Never abdomen.
Her swords danced defensively — clean, disciplined, precise.
Meki's eyes narrowed.
"You're defending."
Her heel slammed into the ground.
Thunder swelled beneath her.
"THEN BREAK!"
The lightning exploded.
A burst of blinding white and deafening roar swallowed the room. The shockwave tore the table apart — corpse and wood alike flung violently as the entire wall blew outward.
Chika was launched into the night air.
She hit the dirt, rolled, gasped — but she rose.
Her arms shook, her ribs screamed, but her blades were still in her hands.
The village street lay before them now — dark, quiet, unaware. Lanterns trembled in the sudden storm of mana. Meki stepped through the hole she'd created, barefoot, smiling, ash and blood on her cheeks.
She inhaled.
"Can you smell it, Chika? I can. FEAR. It's delicious."
She vanished.
FLASH.
Chika's eyes widened — she snapped her blade up just in time to block the next strike, but Meki was faster now, her thunder burning hotter, her hunger pushing harder.
Strike.
Strike.
Strike.
Chika held — barely — her body pushed past its limit. Sparks scorched her arms. Steel rang. She redirected a stab, slid under a slash, kicked off a broken post and leapt back—
Meki was already there.
A palm crackling with thunder slammed into Chika's stomach.
BOOM.
The blast tore through her, hurling her like a ragdoll. She crashed through a small house, splintering wood and shattering plaster — disappearing into the dust and rubble.
Silence.
Ash floated. Sparks without thunder. Blood without sound.
Meki stepped forward through the wreckage, eyes shining with mania, breath trembling with hunger.
Her voice was a whisper.
"…round two?"
The rubble shifted.
A hand moved.
Chika was still alive.
Barely — shaking, coughing, bleeding — but alive.
Her fingers closed around her sword.
Her eyes rose through the dust.
She wasn't done.
Meki tilted her head, licking a splash of blood from her wrist with lazy delight.
"…still alive. Impressive~" she giggled, eyes wide and shining. "I wonder how long you'll last before you stop getting up."
She took one barefoot step toward the wreckage—
—and wind howled.
A cutting gale tore between them, ripping up dirt and snapping the charred beams of the house further apart. Meki's hair whipped violently. Her eyes narrowed—not with fear, but curiosity.
Kizutoro landed in front of Chika's broken resting place, sword drawn, wind spiraling around his feet.
"Tch…," he spat, pointing his blade at her with arrogant fire. "You really enjoy picking on half-dead girls, huh? You make me sick."
Meki blinked… then laughed, bright and bell-like.
"Oh? Another snack walks in."
"I'll turn you to dust," Kizutoro snapped, shoulders tightening with pride. "You're not even worth the warmup."
His mana flared and channeled his mana into his sword, his Manaflux this was the moment he had trained for his entire life.
Bright turquoise wind circled his blade, sharp enough to slice the drifting ash.
Then—
"Sword Art Of Wind, Tempest Gale!"
A cyclone erupted outward, a spiraling torrent of cutting wind that howled like a dragon. The blast roared down the street, swallowing Meki in a storm of blades and pressure. Stone cracked. Air screamed. The ground split beneath the force.
Kizutoro stood at its center, face twisted in fierce confidence.
"That's right! Crawl and die for me!"
The wind died.
And Meki… stood unharmed.
Not even a scratch.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling, eyes half-lidded in amusement. "Wind," she hummed. "Pretty. Useless. But pretty."
Kizutoro's pupils shrank. "Hah—what…?"
He barely saw her move.
She vanished—then appeared in front of him, hand buried in his gut up to the wrist. Blood burst from his lips as his feet left the ground.
"You're slow," she whispered, voice dripping honeyed cruelty. "And weak. And loud. I hate loud things."
She slammed him into the earth. Hard. The ground cratered.
Kizutoro gasped, trying to breathe through shattered ribs and white-hot pain. But he still snarled, still postured, still refused to submit.
"D… don't get cocky… I'm not done… I'm going to… kill you…"
Meki leaned down, beaming.
"Then stand up and try, little breeze."
Thunder crawled over her skin—cracking, popping, singing with lethal voltage.
She kicked him.
Lightning and flesh collided. His body launched through the air like a ragdoll, bouncing across dirt and stone until he skidded to a broken stop. One eye was already swelling shut. His sword lay several meters away.
He coughed blood, shaking, and still hissed through red-stained teeth:
"I… I'll win… I'll win… I'll win…!"
She giggled.
"You won't. Because you're food. And food doesn't win."
She approached, shadow falling over him as she raised her arm for the final strike—a spear of lightning forming in her palm.
Kizutoro tried to lift his sword arm. It didn't move. His vision blurred. His limbs refused him. His pride, his fury, his hunger to be strong—none of it mattered. In front of Gluttony, Wind was meaningless.
He stared up at death wearing a girl's smile.
"Goodbye, little breeze."
She thrust her arm down—
BOOOOOOM!!!
A shockwave of compressed air detonated against Meki's side before the strike could land, hurling her through the street in a violent blur. Stone split. Dust flared. Meki's body smashed through a vendor stall and skidded across the ground, rolling until she steadied herself, teeth grit, hair wild, and eyes furious.
"What… was that?"
Smoke cleared.
Kizutoro blinked through the haze, barely conscious — but he heard the voice. Light. Bouncy. Almost… excited.
"Hehe~. Wow. You really looked like you were about to die there."
Her tone was playful. Teasing. Completely unfazed by the battlefield.
Kizutoro tried to focus, but he could only make out the silhouette — no face, no details, just a small frame stepping between him and the demon.
Meki stood, cracking her neck, lightning crawling over her skin.
The unseen girl giggled again.
"Since you're still breathing, that means I made it just in time, right? Don't worry. I'll play with the scary lightning monster next."
Kizutoro's consciousness slipped, darkness pulling him under. The last thing he heard was that carefree, almost musical voice:
"—Now then… Round two."