As the first cycle of Waxing Twilight, the "Pale Dawn," began to bleed its soft hues of pale rose and silver across the bruised sky, the morning silence was broken. A thin, persistent drizzle replaced the night's violent storm, slicking the mud and ash with a damp sheen.
A gasp rippled through the small gathering of villagers emerging to survey the damage. Confusion warred with a fresh, cold fear. Three figures lay sprawled in the mud outside Roki's home, their forms oddly still. These weren't bandits. The dark green hue of their ruined gear, the symbol of the Verdant Guard, was unmistakable even caked in mud. They were demon slayers from Midorimori. The distinctive gear and their discarded katanas left no doubt.
Questions flew, hushed and frantic, weaving through the stunned villagers. "Slayers? Why are slayers dead here?" "Who could do this?"
A few of the braver villagers, led by Kazuo, began inspecting the area, their gazes wary. He and his companions approached Roki's home, or what was left of it. A wide, jagged hole had been torn through one of the exterior walls, the splintered wood offering a clear, devastating view into the interior.
His hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Kazuo cautiously stepped through the wreckage. His eyes scanned the main room—overturned furniture, shattered pottery, and the undeniable signs of a recent, brutal fight. "Elder Roki? Sayaka?" he called out, his voice tight with unease.
Roki appeared from a back room, leaning heavily on a dark, gnarled cane Sayaka had found for him long ago but that he had never needed until now. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow as she followed closely behind him. They both looked as if they hadn't slept in days.
Kazuo met the elder's gaze, his expression grim. "Roki. What happened here? What is the meaning of the bodies outside?"
Before the old man could form a reply, a sharp gasp came from down the hall. Izumi stood frozen at the threshold of a partially open door, her hand covering her mouth. "Kazuo," she whispered, her voice tight with shock. "There's a woman in here. She's sleeping... injured. And there's a black-hilted katana beside her."
Takeo frowned, his deep voice rumbling. "We were not told anyone else stayed with you, Elder."
The words spurred Roki into motion. He limped forward hastily, his cane thumping against the floorboards as he physically positioned himself between them and the room. Motioning for them to leave the hallway, his movements were hurried, his intent to protect the resting woman clear.
Once he had ushered them back into the wrecked main room, he finally answered Kazuo's unanswered question, his voice low and strained. "She was attacked by them," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the bodies outside. "The demon slayers. She only defended herself. They died for it."
Aya's sharp gaze narrowed, cutting through his simple explanation. "Why would members of the Verdant Guard attack her?" she questioned, her voice calm but insistent. "If she is not a demon, why would they draw their blades?"
The directness of her logic seemed to steal the air from Roki's lungs. Overwhelmed and seeing no easy way to explain the impossible truth, he faltered. "We... we are in need of much rest," he stammered, trying to evade their questions. "We can speak more after we have begun to rebuild."
But it was too late. More villagers, drawn by the commotion, were now peering in through the gaping hole in the wall, their own fearful questions joining the tense atmosphere. The private interrogation had become a public crisis.
"What are we going to do if the Verdant Guard finds out three of their slayers died here?" one of the newcomers cried out, his voice laced with panic. "They'll send more! They could burn what's left of this village for an answer!"
The blacksmith, Daichi, pushed through the murmuring crowd. "Hold your tongues," he said, his voice a steady boom. "There must be a reason for this. Surely there is some mistake."
Kazuo turned from Roki to address him directly. "There is no mistake, Daichi. A woman with a black-hilted katana killed those slayers. It appears to have been in self-defense. She is in that room now."
Daichi's face froze. The blood drained from it, leaving a mask of pure horror as he connected the impossible facts. The skilled girl who had taken his sword. The whispered savior who had killed the bandits. And now, the killer of three demon slayers. He knew who it was.
"Why were they hunting her, Elder?" Kazuo asked, his voice low and insistent, cutting through the renewed whispers. He turned his back on the crowd, giving Roki his full, undivided attention. "The truth. All of it."
Roki's shoulders slumped in utter defeat. He saw the faces of his people, their fear and confusion plain. He had to get ahead of the story. He had to try. He took a ragged breath, his voice strained but clear enough for all to hear. "Those slayers... they came seeking shelter. But they recognized a guest under my roof. A target they considered a top priority." He paused, his eyes finding Kazuo's. "They attacked her. Kinichi Kimiko only defended herself and tried to protect this home, just as she did when the bandits attacked."
The name dropped into the quiet twilight like a boulder into a still pond. A wave of horrified recognition swept through the crowd. Kinichi Kimiko. It wasn't just a name; it was the confirmation of every dark rumor, every whispered fear. The crowd, moments ago just confused, erupted into a roar of panic.
The panic rippled through the gathered villagers, but before the wave of terror could fully crest, a lone voice cut through the noise. It was one of the Higashimori survivors, his face pale but resolute. "That's her!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger not at Roki, but towards the ruined house. "She's the one who saved us from the reanimated corpses!"
Another voice, one of the original Tasuke villagers, immediately countered in her defense. "And she saved us from the bandits!"
The sudden, chaotic shouting was the sound that woke No One. Her eyes snapped open. The dull ache in her shoulder and the fire in her thigh were immediate, but it was the distant, angry voices that brought a cold, familiar dread. Her stiff muscles screamed in protest as she pushed herself up, carefully picking up the katana beside her shikibuton.
She moved cautiously down the short hall, her left hand clutching the hilt, her limp more pronounced from the sudden movement. As she entered the wrecked main room, she saw them—Roki and Sayaka, standing before the gaping hole in the wall, a crowd of angry faces peering in.
Her sudden appearance silenced the chaos for a breath. It was the Higashimori survivor who spoke again, his voice filled with awe. "It is her! The warrior!"
Roki and Sayaka spun around, their faces a mixture of horror and desperation. "No," Sayaka whispered, immediately moving towards her. "Go back to your room. You need to rest."
But No One didn't budge. The cool, damp wind from the broken wall billowed through her new black kimono, revealing the fresh white bandages wrapped tightly around her torso. Her burgundy eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the crowd. The gratitude of the few she had saved was swiftly drowned by a tide of panicked accusations from the newcomers.
"That mark!" one exclaimed, his voice sharp with terror. "She's the one who slaughtered everyone in Hayakawa! The one who burned the temples!"
The crowd roared, a chaotic mix of gratitude and fear. "Monster!" "Savior!" "Demon!" "Get out of here!"
The shouting, the pointing, the fear—it was a pattern she knew all too well. Akamura. Hayakawa. Her paranoia and trauma coiled in her gut, a familiar, poisonous warmth. Her hand tightened on the hilt. Her face was an unreadable mask, but her intent was clear as she took a single, deliberate step forward. She was ready to kill them all.
Roki saw it in her eyes—the shift from wounded girl to deadly predator. He lunged forward, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Don't," he pleaded, his voice cracking. Sayaka grabbed her sword arm, trying to pull her back. But it was like trying to stop a landslide. her broken body preparing for a fight whose victory would be just as fatal as defeat.
Just as No One's advance seemed unstoppable, two figures moved to intercept the chaos. "Enough!" Daichi roared, his blacksmith's voice carrying over the din. At the same time, Kazuo stepped between the villagers and Roki's household, his hand raised. "All of you, silence!" he commanded, his authority cutting through the noise. "Let the Elder speak!"
The dual command from the respected craftsman and the capable warrior was enough to halt No One's advance and quiet the crowd's roar to a tense, simmering whisper.
Roki, standing protectively in front of No One, turned to face the villagers. The weight of his decision was a physical thing, pressing down on him, forcing him to stoop as if his own bones were on the verge of collapse. "We cannot make an enemy of the Verdant Guard," he said, his voice heavy with despair. "If they find her here... they will destroy everything we have built. We will say she was merely passing through, and that the conflict happened. But... she has to leave."
No One looked at him, her hardened expression faltering for the first time. Confusion, then a wave of profound, aching sadness, washed over her unreadable face.
Roki turned back to her, his own face a mask of agony. Sayaka moved behind No One, wrapping her arms around her in a fierce, trembling hug, her tears soaking into the back of the kimono. He met No One's eyes. "You must go," he whispered, his own tears now flowing freely. "You must go so this village can live." He closed the distance and, in a brief, clumsy gesture of desperate affection, pulled her into a hug, his body shaking with sobs.
No One froze, utterly rigid. The physical contact was alien. No flash warnings, no sense of threat—just a strange, crushing pressure around her, and an unfamiliar ache blooming in her chest.
"You've done terrible things, woman," Kazuo said, his voice cutting through the emotional moment, practical and final. He motioned to his companions. "But you've also saved some from the nightmares they've faced. My party and I will escort you out, but you must not return to Tasuke village."
At Kazuo's command, Daichi, alongside Aya, Takeo, and Izumi, began ushering the crowd back. "Give them space," Daichi urged, his voice firm. "There will be no more conflict here. She is leaving." The murmuring villagers obeyed, moving away from Roki's ruined home as a path cleared through the mud.
No One watched them go, her eyes scanning for any sudden movement, any sign of attack. Her gaze finally shifted back to Roki, who was pleading with her, his face a mess of tears. "Please be safe out there, Kimiko. We don't want you to go, but we don't have any other choice."
A single tear tracked a clean path down her cheek. Her voice was soft, almost a ghost in the air. "Kimiko died so I could live."
Bewildered by her words, Roki had no response. She stepped past him, her motives clear. Gripping the katana in her left hand, she walked out of the destroyed home, leaving the only people who had ever shown her consistent kindness behind.
The crowd eyed her fiercely as she passed. Some looked away in shame, others muttered curses under their breath, but Daichi gestured for them all to remain silent as Kazuo and his party formed a loose, protective escort around her, leading her south, the direction she chose.
Sayaka stumbled out into the rain, watching her go. As No One's limping figure finally disappeared beyond the new village wall, Sayaka's strength gave out, and she collapsed into the mud, her heartbroken sobs the only sound to challenge the gentle, persistent drizzle.