The main road, freshly cleared by the snowplow, gleamed with a cold bluish sheen. The snow walls on either side rose straight and sharp like crystal cutouts, the morning sun scattering gold across their edges.
The boy and girl started toward the bustling village square, then suddenly veered off the main route, slipping into the quieter outskirts.
Go Fujiwara followed them from afar.
"So, they really are Devil Hunters. Official ones, or freelancers?"
He squinted at the boy's back—where muscle swelled unnaturally under his jacket, forming the shape of a massive arm.
"Eh. Doesn't matter. Either way, they'll be dead soon."
Just in case, Fujiwara made a quick call. A short exchange later, the voice on the other end said they were on their way and told him to wait.
Caw—
A black crow landed on the budding branch of a fir tree, its wings ruffling. The bird's soot-colored neck feathers trembled as it let out a low, raspy call.
"A messenger of the Old Gods bringing me good news?" Fujiwara licked his cracked lips, a sneer tugging at his face.
He didn't wait for backup. He started forward.
The four-meter walls of snow on either side parted as if split by an invisible force, opening a perfect square of flat ground around him.
Snow gathered beneath his boots, layering itself into solid steps of ice.
Fujiwara climbed casually, step by step, like a man ascending a throne—like a master commanding nature itself, the storm bowing at his feet.
Each time he did this, the thrill of killing surged inside him again, impossible to suppress.
He couldn't help but marvel—Devil power really was above all else.
He thought back to his childhood rival, the one he'd envied to the point of hatred—his childhood sweetheart's fiancé.
A model student from their tiny combined school of thirty kids, who'd gotten into a top high school in Tokyo, then Tokyo University itself.
The entire Okura Village had watched that man—"that kid" every parent bragged about.
And what good did it do him?
In the end, Fujiwara had filled his lungs with snow and wind, and the bastard died gasping.
That had been his old joy.
Now, he had a higher calling.
Up ahead, the boy was visibly alert—scanning around, weaving through trees, changing direction repeatedly.
"Heh. Smart ones are the most fun to kill."
Fujiwara's gaze slid to the girl. The memory of his childhood sweetheart's sobbing, grief-torn face burned bright in his mind.
Years had passed, but the sound was still delicious.
"Yeah… killing people with bonds—that's the best kind of kill."
The boy, unable to resist the girl's whispering, traded her a rice ball for a piece of sushi from his pack.
"Hm?" Fujiwara's eyes narrowed.
When the boy reached into the bag, something small and bright tumbled onto the snow—a flash of gold against the white.
Neither of them noticed. They kept walking, laughing and teasing each other.
Fujiwara approached.
Even under the dazzling white, that faint glimmer stood out—a little gold nugget in a pile of silver.
"What's that?" he muttered.
He was close, but still couldn't make it out. Whatever it was, it had sunk into the soft snow, only a shining edge visible.
Not one to take chances, Fujiwara didn't touch it. He used his Power to sweep the snow away.
The object's shape emerged.
A small, round hand mirror, gleaming under the sunlight.
Flap-flap—
Almost as if in response, a crow swooped overhead.
For a split second, Fujiwara could've sworn it was watching him.
Caw!
The harsh cry pierced through the chill morning air, cold enough to sting the bones. It sent a shiver crawling down his spine.
Years of killing had honed his instincts—his body moved on its own, stepping back, away from both the crow and the mirror.
But a hand moved faster.
At the exact instant the crow cried out, a pale hand shot out from within the mirror, lunging straight for his throat.
He twisted violently, barely dodging. The fingertips grazed his neck—then snapped down onto his shoulder blade.
His skin turned sallow, wrinkling and collapsing. The flesh withered in seconds; bones cracked in a horrifying series of pops.
In the blink of an eye, half of Fujiwara's burly frame shriveled into a sagging ruin.
He summoned his Power, commanding the wind and snow to slice the arm apart, but countless muscle fibers burst from that hand, wrapping around the rest of his body.
Pain exploded through him, followed by the sickening crunch of more bones breaking—one after another after another.
The frozen snow blades he'd conjured disintegrated midair into sparkling dust.
And just like that, Go Fujiwara had no fight left in him.
There was no struggle, no exchange—just a trap sprung and instant death.
Footsteps approached through the snow.
A boy appeared, smiling faintly.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Countryman himself. You really are down-to-earth, huh? I've seen people dressing trees for winter, but a guy becoming the blanket for the ground? That's new."
Fujiwara's body had caved in on itself, flattened like a sheet.
The agony was unbearable, but he didn't beg. His nostrils flared, breath coming in ragged bursts, yet not a single plea escaped him.
Begging wouldn't save him anyway.
"Say it," the boy ordered. "Say, 'I'm sorry, Daddy.'"
Heh. So he's lost his mind from rage.
Fujiwara managed a weak, mocking smirk—and spat at Hoshino. The spittle barely made it past his chin.
"Daddy… I'm sorry."
Fujiwara blinked.
What?!
He must've been hallucinating from the pain.
"Too quiet! Where's that proud country-boy spirit, huh? Louder!"
"Daddy! I'm sorry!"
Fujiwara's bloodshot eyes widened, lucidity snapping back for one final moment.
What the hell did he do to me?
The boy's grin was pure Devil, while the girl looked down at him with pity—sincere, almost sympathetic.
"Tell me everything you know," the boy said, then turned his head toward the direction of the Onsen Area.
"Tch. They're fast."
He muttered, then scooped a handful of snow and stuffed it into Fujiwara's hand before dragging the girl into a nearby drift to hide.
Moments later—
"Fujiwara?"
A short, heavyset man in his fifties appeared, wearing the same uniform as Fujiwara.
Seeing his colleague barely alive, he immediately tensed, scanning the surroundings. His sharp gaze landed on the hand mirror lying beside Fujiwara.
It's Naoto Kobayashi. I have to warn him—they're right behind me!
Fujiwara's lips moved. "Don't… don't touch the mirror."
"…"
"Hmph!"
Instead of gratitude, Kobayashi's face twisted in anger.
"You're getting sloppy! Falling for a setup like that—you deserve what you get!"
Fujiwara went quiet for a few seconds.
"…Sorry," he whispered weakly.
That surprised Kobayashi.
So the saying's true—'a dying man's words are kind.'
After two years working together, he knew Fujiwara well.
The man was rotten to the core—a twisted pervert who'd grown up jealous, obsessed with torturing couples ever since his childhood sweetheart chose someone else.
"…Yeah," Fujiwara rasped. "I'm… dying."
"Save your breath. Who were they? What did they look like? What could they do?"
"…Their power… was aging. The hand came out of a mirror… and there was… rope…"
Kobayashi nodded, piecing the scene together from the wounds.
"I'm… done. Just… one favor…" Fujiwara's gaze blurred. "Put… the snow in my mouth… and bury me… back home…"
"Huh?"
Kobayashi frowned.
Fujiwara's home was Okura Village, so technically this place still counted as his homeland—but barely. Out here in the wilderness, far from the village center, it didn't really qualify.
As for the snow—some rural traditions had the dying take a mouthful of home soil. Maybe snow was just the local variant.
Kobayashi remembered once finding a corpse with a four-leaf clover in its mouth—gift from a daughter before cremation.
So yeah, the logic checked out.
Still, his instincts screamed caution. He decided he'd just bring the body back instead.
"I'll just—"
"Complete… the mission… I'm… happy…" Fujiwara's voice trailed off, eyes dimming to nothing.
Kobayashi's expression softened.
He thought of the years they'd worked together and sighed. "Fine. Just this once."
Even then, he was meticulous—checked the pulse, confirmed death, kicked away the snow in Fujiwara's hand, and scooped a new handful to place in his mouth instead.
Everything went smoothly. Nothing happened.
"Guess I was just being paranoid," Kobayashi murmured. "Makes sense. They ran from the inn—means they're scared of being cornered. No way they'd stick around without backup."
He hoisted Fujiwara's body. "We'll regroup, then—huh? Why's your chest so cold?"
Something was wrong. A fresh corpse couldn't be that cold.
He knew this sensation. He'd felt it dozens of times, knife in hand, as life drained from his victims.
But this wasn't that.
His dilating pupils reflected Fujiwara's reanimated face—mouth agape, the snow inside forming a jagged blade that punched straight through Kobayashi's heart.
"You… you…"
Panic twisted his voice. He flailed like every one of his own victims before death.
A flash of blue light sliced through Fujiwara's head, turning it into a spray of snow—but the damage was done. Kobayashi's heart was already pierced.
The nearby snowdrift collapsed.
A boy rose from it, reaching out to grab Kobayashi by the throat. A whirlpool of light swirled in his eyes.
"Who are you people? What are you doing here? Where's the Silkworm Devil?"