The temple was quiet. Only the faint crack on the roof let a thin line of moonlight slip through, painting the floor in silver dust. Laine sat in the shadows, his back against the cold stone wall, the Berserker Sword resting beside him. The mask clung to his face, its single crimson eye dim but alive, as though watching the silence itself.
Across the room, Airi sat curled up on the floor. She held the last piece of bread close, nibbling at it slowly. Her hunger wasn't wild like before, but her eyes kept returning to Laine. That mask… that sword… that heavy air around him.
She hugged her knees tighter. Finally, her small voice broke the silence.
"…Who are you?"
Laine didn't move. His head lowered slightly, the mask hiding any trace of expression. When he spoke, his voice was steady but cold.
"No one important."
Her brows furrowed. "You're lying."
The words hung in the air, sharper than they should've been from a child. But her wide eyes didn't waver. She wanted the truth.
For a long moment, Laine said nothing. Then, with a quiet breath, he replied:
"…I am someone you shouldn't be near."
Airi's grip on the bread tightened. "Why?"
Laine's hand brushed the hilt of his sword. Memories flashed in his mind—the thugs screaming, the food seller collapsing pale as ash, the blood the mask had fed into his veins. His chest tightened.
"I've killed," he said finally, his tone flat, almost empty.
"I've taken lives."
The girl froze. Her little body pressed against the wall, eyes wide, breath quickening.
"You… kill people?" she whispered.
"Yes." His answer was calm, almost too calm. "And if you stay close to me, you'll be dragged into the same darkness."
The temple grew colder. The silence between them carried a weight heavier than the sword on his back. Airi stared at him, trembling—not from hunger this time, but from fear.
After a moment, she forced herself to speak again.
"…Then why? Why kill them? Did they hurt you?"
Laine's fingers curled slowly. His chest felt heavy as old memories stirred—the mocking voices, the beatings, the endless starvation. Every scar, every bruise, every cruel laugh pressed against him like a chain.
"They called me trash," he said quietly.
"They laughed while I starved. They would have killed me, like they killed others. So I killed them first."
The girl gasped softly. Her eyes glistened, unsure whether to cry or keep staring. Laine caught that look—it wasn't just fear. It was pity. That cut deeper than any blade.
His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but firm.
"Listen… life has no promises, little one. Pain will touch you. Betrayal will follow. People will fail you. But that is not your weakness."
Airi blinked, her tears pausing.
"Every tear, every scar," Laine continued, "they are proof your heart survived when everything tried to break it. Even in the darkness, a small light burns inside you. Fragile, yes… but unyielding. One day, that light will grow so fierce that nothing—not sorrow, not cruelty—will ever touch you again."
His words lingered, heavy yet strangely gentle.
"Remember this: survival itself is beautiful. And enduring… is power."
The girl hugged her knees tighter, staring at him through the dim glow. She didn't understand everything, but she understood this—his voice wasn't just warning her. It was carrying pain he had already lived through.
Silence stretched. Then, timidly, she whispered:
"…If you're so dangerous… then why bring me food?"
Laine looked at her. The mask hid his eyes, but his voice cracked ever so slightly.
"…Because no one did it for me."
The words stunned her. She lowered her head, lips pressing together. Slowly, she whispered back, almost too soft to hear:
"…You don't look like a monster to me."
Laine froze. The crimson eye of the mask flickered faintly, but her words pierced deeper than any hunger, deeper than any fear. For the first time, the whispers of the mask fell silent.
The thin line of moonlight watched them both. Laine stayed still, his body unmoving, his thoughts tangled. The mask pulsed faintly against his skin, but the only voice he could hear was hers.
And for that night, in the silence of the broken temple, the man the world called a monster sat listening—not to screams, not to hunger—but to the fragile voice of the only one who hadn't yet run away.