By the third cycle of Waxing Twilight, the sky had settled into a steady, somber gray, the earlier hues of pale rose and silver washed out by a persistent, chilling drizzle. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and distant woodsmoke.
Just beyond the new perimeter wall of Tasuke, the escort came to a halt. The freshly built gate stood open behind them, unguarded, a testament to a village still finding its feet.
Kazuo stood with a rigid posture, his gaze fixed on the horizon, refusing to look at her. "This is as far as we go," he stated, his voice clipped. "The rest is up to you."
Aya, her arms crossed tightly against the damp chill, met No One's eyes with a look of cold appraisal. "I'd lie low if I were you," she advised, her tone sharp as flint. "It's only a matter of time before they find out what happened here and continue their search."
Izumi took a half-step forward, her hands fidgeting, unable to settle. "I don't hate you," she said softly, her voice a mix of pity and revulsion, "but I don't respect you either. Just don't come back to Tasuke village."
Takeo, silent until now, punctuated the sentiment with a low grunt. His knuckles were white where he gripped the handle of his axe. "And if you do," he growled, "we'll be waiting."
No One offered no acknowledgment, no parting glance. She simply turned her back on them and continued south. As she walked, she reached into her kimono. First, she pulled out a simple cord and, with swift, practiced motions, tied her long, dark hair, which fell to the small of her back, into a tight ponytail. Then, she retrieved her slayer's mask. It was a piece of darkened, lightweight metal, perforated with small holes to filter the air. She tied it securely into place, the cool metal a stark, familiar pressure against her skin, settling just below the faint, scarred outline of the Mark on her forehead. The impersonal barrier hid what little emotion might remain, leaving only the cold assessment of her burgundy eyes visible to the world. It was a return to form.
After she had put some distance between herself and the village, confident that the immediate threat was behind her, she slid the bare blade of her katana into the thick cloth of her obi, positioning it at her right hip. The solid press of the steel against her side was a grounding presence, a reassurance she had been missing. The drizzle deepened, plastering her black kimono to her skin, but the water was an old friend. She knew she had to lie low, to disappear into the wilderness and find shelter while she continued to heal. The goblin caves were gone, but the Shadow-Wood always held other, older threats.
She had been walking for nearly an hour, the sounds of the rebuilding village long faded behind her, when she stopped. A single, sharp sound cut through the patter of the rain. Caw.
A raven swooped down from the bruised twilight sky, circling her once before landing on her right shoulder. She winced involuntarily as its claws dug in, a sharp protest from the still-mending bones beneath, but she made no sound. Her heart, which had felt like a cold stone in her chest, gave a painful lurch. It was not joy, but the relief of a wound finally being bandaged. An old, unsettling alliance had returned to fill the aching void Roki and Sayaka's departure had left behind. She reached up with her left hand and stroked the raven's beak with a single finger, her touch surprisingly gentle. Then, with her lone companion, she moved on.
A few hours later, as she neared the river trail, she heard voices. Three men, their forms just visible through the mist, were heading north towards Tasuke. Just as they rounded a bend in the road, they froze. A lone figure was standing there, watching. A single raven perched on her right shoulder, its head low, a soft, guttural growl rumbling in its throat as her eyes fixated on them.
"You!"
The man in front, his face sallow and haunted, lurched to a halt, clutching a rusted spear with both trembling hands. Behind him, his two younger companions hovered, armed with crude tools—a hoe and a saw turned into a makeshift blade. They were utterly petrified, their knuckles white on their weapons, their eyes wide with a terror that stole the breath from their lungs.
The leader stepped forward, pointing the spear toward her chest, his voice cracking. "Monster. Demon-witch. You think you can just walk here like you belong?! After… after what you did?"
No One's gaze locked onto his. Her own mask, damp and dark, hid her expression, but the cold assessment in her burgundy eyes was clear. She said nothing, letting the heavy rain fall between them like a curtain.
"I've heard the stories—all of them," he snarled, his voice rising in pitch. "You burned the temples, slaughtered the monks! You walk with a raven curse, and leave only smoke and bodies behind! And now you come here, with that cursed mark on your head—like we wouldn't recognize you!"
He jabbed the spear toward her, just short of contact, his hands shaking violently. "What do you want? More dead? More fire? You're not welcome here! Stay away!"
No One tilted her head slightly. Then, at last, she spoke—her voice low and raspy, a raw sound against the storm. "You say you know the stories." She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her limp noticeable but her stance firm. The man braced, spearpoint wavering. "But you don't know the truth."
Her gaze flickered over his two silent companions, and they flinched as if struck.
"Fear twists what you see," she continued, her voice growing colder, like stones shifting in a frozen riverbed. "People burn their own villages when they panic. Then they blame the shadow they don't understand. You create the monsters you fear."
The man held his ground, but his arms were trembling uncontrollably now, the spear a pathetic defense. "Stay back! We don't want you here! Get out!"
She stopped, looking him up and down with a sharp, dismissive gaze. A hollow, bitter chuckle escaped her, a dry sound swallowed by the rain. "I've seen men like you before. Shouting from behind a fence. Spear shaking in your hands like a child's rattle." Her tone sharpened like a blade. "If I were the monster you think I am… you'd already be dead before you finished that sentence."
The man's grip tightened—but he didn't move. Fear held him rooted.
No One's voice dropped to a whisper, carrying an undercurrent of deep, unspoken pain. "You fear me because I survived what you couldn't. You hate me because the stories say I walk out of fire... when the people you loved never did."
Silence fell, broken only by the drumming rain and the man's ragged breathing. Then he shouted again, his voice cracking with renewed terror. "You're cursed! That eye on your forehead—it's unnatural! It's a demon's mark! You're not human!"
No One raised a hand, her fingers brushing over the Mark on her forehead, its scarred outline visible just above her mask. Her expression darkened—not in shame, but with a profound, aching weariness. She let her hand fall, her gaze fixed on his frightened face.
"No," she whispered, just loud enough for them to hear over the storm. "You're right." Her voice was raw, thick with bitterness and the cold truth of her isolation. "I'm not human. Not anymore. Not to your kind." She paused, a flicker of dark, self-destructive defiance in her eyes. "I'm what humans made me."
Without another word, she started walking again. Not away, but around them, giving them a wide berth as she continued south along the river trail, back into the embrace of the Shadow-Wood. She didn't look back. They were just more humans consumed by panic, not worth the energy to kill.
The three men stood frozen, watching her go. As her limping form was swallowed by the mist, the tension that had held them upright snapped. All three of them collapsed to their knees in the mud, their makeshift weapons clattering to the ground, their bodies shaking with the terror of having stood in the presence of a legend and, somehow, survived.
The village had fallen quiet again.
It had been two days since No One left, and the unease never truly lifted from the air, clinging to the new timbers like the perpetual mist. Roki moved through the village like a man shadowed by ghosts. His posture was stooped, his hand resting heavily on his cane as he organized repairs, his movements slow and deliberate. He kept the villagers focused, and in turn, their activity gave the village a new, defiant pulse. They were not scared. They had survived a raven siege and driven off bandits; a grim confidence had taken root. They believed the new Tasuke would stand, no matter what came. But Roki alone seemed to carry the weight of their shared secret. The knowledge of the three dead slayers, and the fear of who might be the first to break under pressure, was a blade pressed to his spine. Sayaka barely spoke. Each twilight cycle, she would place a small bowl of rice at the empty shikibuton, a silent ritual of grief before turning away, the hope in her eyes long since extinguished. The villagers said little, but their distrust was a tangible thing, lingering in the sidelong glances and the way they would fall silent when he approached.
Then they came.
Six demon slayers emerged from the southern mist, their movements silent and coordinated. Their dark green armor was clean, their blades gleaming despite the drizzle, their presence an undeniable weight that settled over the village square. They didn't ask for shelter. They didn't offer names. They moved like wolves entering a den that smelled of blood and unanswered questions.
Roki stood before them in the muddy street, his heart a cold knot in his chest. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice strained, hoping his question sounded more like a polite greeting than the desperate plea it was.
The lead slayer stepped forward. His jaw was unnaturally square, as if it had been broken and healed wrong, giving his face a permanently grim and unyielding set. He didn't answer Roki's question directly. "Three of our own were dispatched to this region," he stated, his voice flat and unyielding. "They never reported back."
The unspoken question hung in the air, heavy and sharp as a guillotine: Where are they?
Behind Roki, a few villagers gathered, tense and uncertain. Most avoided the slayer's piercing gaze. Sayaka stood by Roki's side, her face pale as bone, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Roki swallowed hard, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. "No one here has seen them," he said, each word slow and measured. "They did not return. Perhaps... they continued north, toward the deeper woods."
The lead slayer's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, his gaze searching Roki's face for any flicker of deception. He remained silent, letting the lie hang and suffocate in the tense air.
Then—
"She was here."
The words cracked the tension like thunder. All eyes turned to the man who had just pushed his way through the small crowd—the same sallow-faced villager from the river trail, his eyes wild with a desperate need to save himself. His finger, caked with dirt, pointed like an accusation carved from bone, not north, but south, down the very road No One had taken.
"She was here," he repeated, his voice shaking but loud enough for all to hear. "Burgundy eyes! The mask! The mark on her forehead! She was limping! The one from the rumors!" He looked directly at the demon slayers, breathing hard, fear and a twisted sense of righteousness contorting his features. "She passed me near the river, just miles south of here! Headed for the forest!"
Roki's face darkened, his lie exposed. "You don't know what you're talking about—" he began, his voice tight with fury and despair.
"Yes, I do!" the man shouted back, emboldened by the slayers' silent attention. "You're protecting her! But she's the one! The cursed girl! She killed them! The monks, the slayers! She's a monster, and you're all too blind to see it!"
The slayers exchanged a single, sharp glance, a silent consensus passing between them. The man's fear-driven testimony, wild as it was, provided the lead they needed. His betrayal, a direct consequence of No One sparing him, had just sealed her fate.
The leader turned back to Roki, his gaze cold and devoid of mercy. "If she's nearby, we will find her." His voice was a low warning. "And if you have aided her... the Verdant Guard will consider that a betrayal. There will be consequences."
Then, without another word, the six of them turned, dark shadows melting back into the mist, heading south—armed with information born of fear and unintended mercy.
Nestled beneath the twisted, moss-covered roots of a fallen pine just west of the river, No One had made a crude shelter.
She had chosen the spot with care—deep enough into the Shadow-Wood to be hidden, but close enough to the river to hear its constant roar and access water. Rainwater had carved shallow channels in the packed dirt, and her makeshift shelter—woven from branches, damp leaves, and mud—sagged with a heavy, persistent dampness. But it held. For now.
Inside, her battered body lay curled in near-stillness. The clean, black kimono Sayaka had given her was already stained with mud and grime. Her ribs burned with every shallow breath, a quiet torment in the chilled air. Her thigh ached with a deep, persistent throb, the old spear wound a tight band of fire. Her right arm was a landscape of dull, constant pain, but her left remained capable. The only thing she kept close was her katana, the steel of its bare blade cool against her skin, the hilt resting by her left hand like a second heartbeat.
Rest wasn't enough. Not when her body screamed for fuel to heal, not when she knew hunters might already be on her trail. Hunger was beginning to sharpen its claws in her gut, a gnawing hollowness that threatened to eat her bones before the forest or the slayers could.
She considered her options as she lay in the dark, the scent of rot and wet earth thick in her lungs, listening to the rain drip in an irregular rhythm outside.
Venture farther west into the Shadow-Wood. There were berries, nuts, maybe even edible roots if she dug deep enough—but the forest beyond this point was denser, colder, and known to harbor demons that didn't need to see or smell her to know she was there. Her limp, her fractured ribs... her compromised state meant she couldn't run, hide, or fight effectively if discovered.
Attempt to fish the river. She had no net. No spear. Her only advantage was patience. But the current was a raging beast, swollen by the rains. One wrong step on the slick rocks could drag her under and shatter what little strength she had left. Hunting near the riverbank would also leave her exposed.
Both options felt like gambling with broken dice. Both were a direct challenge to her broken body. Still, she would have to choose soon.
But fate, in the shape of six silent shadows, was already moving through the trees.
High Twilight.
The sky overhead churned in tones of bruised violet and steel, the light filtering thin and weak through the dense forest canopy.
Six pairs of eyes watched her from the cover of the rain-slicked trees above the ridge. The demon slayers crouched in near-perfect silence, their dark green armor darkened further by the rain, blades sheathed but hands never far from the hilts. They had tracked her with grim patience—the distinct, limping trail in the mud, the disturbed undergrowth where someone moved awkwardly, the faint, coppery scent of old blood on the damp air.
They watched her sit by the swollen river for nearly an hour before she retreated to her crude shelter. She didn't move much, only stared into the grey, churning water as if it held an answer she couldn't find, or perhaps the faces of those who had cast her out. She looked like she was waiting. For food. For death. It was hard to say.
"She's weakened," one slayer whispered, his voice a low murmur lost in the drizzle. "But she's alert."
"And armed," another added.
"The Mark is faint, but it's her," confirmed the leader.
"She doesn't know we're here. Not yet."
They held their position with inhuman patience. Caution was their edge. They knew her reputation, knew of her impossible survival against their comrades. They would not underestimate her, not even broken and starving. They waited for the shadows to deepen, for the veil of twilight and rain to offer greater concealment, for her pain and hunger to take a heavier toll.
They did not move at High Twilight. They waited, holding their position with inhuman patience as the sky bled from bruised violet into the deeper, starless black of Deep Twilight's first cycle, the "Hollowed Night." Only then, under the fullest cover of darkness and rain, did they begin their approach.
They moved like ghosts through the trees, circling the area where they had last seen her disappear. After nearly an hour of meticulous, silent searching, moving ever closer, they found it. Her camp was brilliant—a crude shelter woven so seamlessly into the tangled roots of a fallen pine that a lesser tracker would have walked right past it. But it was not enough to evade their eyes.
The lead slayer signaled. One of his comrades produced a spherical object—a poison bomb.
The bomb landed with a soft thud near the shelter's entrance, rolling slightly before hissing. A dull, violet fog clung low to the damp ground, spreading slowly. The six demon slayers waited, silent, blades drawn, fanning out to surround the shelter. They anticipated a choked cry, a panicked burst from the poisonous cloud.
Nothing. Only the soft churn of poison spreading through the inert shelter.
Something's wrong, the leader thought, a flicker of unease. Too easy.
One of his men, impatience burning away caution, cursed under his breath. With a sharp motion of his katana, he swept the structure down, scattering the woven branches and tearing the makeshift tent apart.
Empty.
Their confusion was immediate, a shared moment of startled vulnerability. Where is she?
Suddenly, a single raven plunged from the canopy above, letting out a sharp, piercing caw as it swooped low over their heads before fluttering away into the darkness. Startled, the slayers instinctively flinched back, their arms coming up to shield their faces as they shifted into a defensive stance, their eyes drawn upwards by the sudden motion.
That's when she fell.
From the darkness of the thick canopy above, a shadow plunged with terrifying, silent force—No One. Her black kimono was soaked, clinging to her body, her mask dark against her face, her eyes burning with the raw instinct of a cornered animal. Her katana swung in a perfect, descending arc, a blur of steel cleaving the nearest slayer straight down the middle with a wet, tearing sound and a spray of blood.
Before the others could even shout a warning, she twisted on landing—a sickening crack echoing from her own knee as her leg injury protested the impact. She pushed through the searing pain, using the momentum. Her katana lashed sideways, a desperate, wild swing.
A second head flew from its shoulders, landing in the mud with a soft thud.
Four slayers remained. There was no shouting, no panic. Only the hiss of four katanas being drawn in unison as they snapped into a tight, defensive formation, their faces grim masks of cold resolve.
No One crouched low, her body screaming in protest, pain tightening every muscle, her ribs grinding like wet stone with each ragged breath. Her breathing was sharp, shallow, and she couldn't hide her limp even now.
Flash. A blade arcing towards her injured side, a clean, crippling blow.
She saw it. Her mind screamed the command to parry, but her body, starved and broken, was too slow. The katana cut deep into her left arm just below the shoulder, a searing, white-hot agony that tore through the kimono sleeve. She screamed—not from fear, but from raw rage at her own weakness—and countered, her own blade slashing wildly through the attacker's thigh as he overextended. He crumpled with a cry, and she finished him with a brutal downward stab into his chest.
Three left.
Flash. A kick aimed directly at her spine, the impact a paralyzing agony.
The fifth slayer came from her blind side. She saw the blow coming but couldn't evade in time. She staggered, catching herself against a tree with her right arm, the recovering shoulder flaring with renewed pain. She coughed, a spray of blood mingling with the rain, but her grip on her katana did not break. She turned, using the tree for support, just in time to parry the next strike. Steel rang out, the sound thin against the downpour.
Her breath heaved in ragged gasps. Her vision swam. They pressed their attack, coordinated and relentless, pushing her back towards the river, giving her no quarter. She backpedaled, her steps heavy, her world narrowing to the circle of blades and her own screaming body.
A desperate glance behind her—the swollen, raging river. Its roar was deafening now, a hungry maw of water and thunder. It was her only escape.
She needed a distraction. Just a moment. Her gaze flickered to the raven still perched on a nearby branch, watching the fight with intelligent, black eyes. A silent command passed between them, a shared understanding born of instinct and curse.
The raven launched itself from the branch with a piercing shriek. It dove not away from the danger, but directly into it, a feathered missile of fury aimed at the slayers' faces. It clawed at one slayer's eyes, its talons sharp, flapping its wings violently to disorient him. The second slayer flinched back, momentarily blinded by the sudden, chaotic assault.
The distraction worked. No One turned and ran, ducking under a wild, unfocused swing. She sprinted towards the riverbank, legs shaking, every step a fresh jolt of agony.
Behind her, she heard a sharp, wet thwack. A single, pained caw was cut short. The lead slayer, with cold, brutal efficiency, had sliced her lone companion out of the air.
The sacrifice had bought her the time she needed. The fourth slayer, now clear-eyed and furious, gave chase, his blade raised for a final strike.
She reached the riverbank, mud sucking at her feet. There was nowhere else to go. She turned mid-stride, slashing in a desperate, sweeping arc—and caught his throat. His scream was choked by blood and rain.
The last two surged after her, but she was already in motion. With a final scream of agony and defiance, No One leapt into the current, leaving the two remaining slayers stunned on the bank.
The cold hit her like a thousand hammers, stealing her breath. The immediate force of the swollen river dragged her under, its power unimaginable. She fought to surface, gasping, disoriented, her lungs burning, her katana still clutched tight in her left hand. The current was a brutal, relentless beast, pulling her downstream with terrifying speed.
On the bank, two figures kept pace. The lead slayer, his face a grim mask of resolve, and the last surviving member of his squad, a female slayer whose expression was equally unyielding, gave chase. They sprinted along the muddy riverbank, leaping over fallen logs and navigating the treacherous terrain, but the torrent was faster. They could only watch as their target was swept away, a dark shape tumbling uncontrollably in the raging water, yet still they pursued.
From her chaotic perspective in the water, No One saw things flash by—gnarled roots reaching like skeletal fingers, dark rocks breaking the turbulent surface. Her fingers brushed against rough bark, but her grip was weak, and the current tore her away.
Rock.
She hit it hard. Her side screamed.
Another.
Her leg twisted unnaturally as she scraped against a submerged stone, the old spear wound tearing open.
Third.
Her back slammed against a larger boulder just below the surface. Agony flared up her spine, stealing her breath again. The series of violent collisions, while brutal, had a secondary effect: they had slowed her trajectory in the churning water. On the riverbank, the two slayers, relentless in their pursuit, saw their opportunity. They closed the distance, now running almost parallel to her, their cold eyes fixed on their target, waiting for her to wash up on a sandbar or get snagged on debris. The chase was no longer a frantic pursuit; it was a patient, grim escort towards an inevitable capture.
Fourth.
Her head struck something hard below the churning surface. Her vision swam, a dizzying kaleidoscope of pain and dark water, her eyes squeezing shut against the onslaught.
On the bank, the lead slayer saw his chance. Her disorientation, her momentary helplessness—it was the perfect opening. With a flick of his wrist, he and his companion unleashed a volley of steel. Several shuriken spun through the rain, silent and deadly, aimed at her exposed head and throat.
Flash.—The sharp, metallic sting of steel biting into her face, her neck, the cold water turning warm with her own blood…
Even with her vision gone, the warning screamed through her mind. It was pure instinct, a command from the Mark that bypassed thought. Her left arm, still gripping the katana, moved on its own. She swung wildly, blindly, a desperate arc of steel through the air in front of her face.
Ting! Tink-tink!
The sound of metal striking metal was sharp, almost lost in the roar of the river. The shuriken clattered away, deflected by a parry she hadn't consciously willed, a defense born from a gift she couldn't control.
Fifth—
She was airborne, thrown clear by a violent current. The roar of the river was deafening, but another sound was growing louder, a deep, thunderous rumble that vibrated through her bones.
The waterfall.
She was swept over the edge. The world dropped away. Rain and wind ripped past her ears as she fell, hurtling down into the abyss, her katana still clutched to her chest with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.
On the cliff's edge above, the two slayers skidded to a halt, their boots digging into the mud just feet from the precipice. They stood motionless, dark silhouettes against the bruised twilight sky, and watched as their target plummeted down the hundred-foot drop. They saw her hit the churning water below in a violent explosion of spray, then disappear into the torrent. Her death, it seemed, was absolute.
Beneath the roaring surface of the pool at the base of the falls, No One floated, unconscious, swept gently downriver by the powerful undertow. Her face was pale, serene amidst the turbulence. Her mask was dark and damp against her skin. Her black hair drifted like ink in the current, and her kimono billowed slightly, a dark shadow in the grey water. Her katana was still gripped tight in her left hand, a final, unyielding hold on the tool of her survival.
The light rain kissed the surface of the water above. And the forest watched, indifferent, as the torrent carried its broken warrior away.