The snowstorm swallowed the world.
Wind tore through the streets of the city like a thousand knives, carrying flecks of white that stung against skin. Lanterns swayed and hissed, their flames flickering out one by one, leaving the alleys and squares in fractured darkness. People rushed to their homes, doors slammed, shutters rattled, and still the storm howled as if the sky itself mourned.
Through it ran Rūpu Rīpā.
His breath came ragged, his stomach heaving from the fight with Isshun Shinda. The image of Isshun's face—angry, broken, fleeing into the night—haunted his thoughts. Rūpu had lowered his sword, sparing him. But sparing him had left a wound of its own. He didn't know if Isshun would ever forgive him, or if sparing him had condemned them both to endless battles.
Still, he chased. Through the streets, past people who parted at the sight of his horns. They no longer hurled stones, but the whispers followed him, thin as frost in the storm:
"There's the oni-child..."
"Even in this snow, he runs like a shadow..."
"Don't look at him too long, or he'll bring you sorrow..."
Kind words mixed with quiet fear. Some faces even softened as he passed, pity hidden behind folded arms, but Rūpu felt it all the same. He was an outsider walking through kindness painted over distance. The warmth was there, but never for him to touch.
And then—he froze.
The storm shifted.
Amid the shrieking wind, amid the crunch of snow beneath his sandals, another sound crept into the night. A sound that did not belong.
Footsteps.
Not hurried. Not frantic. But slow. Deliberate. The rhythm of boots striking stone in a world that should have been drowned by wind. Each step carried like thunder, echoing between the narrow alleys, magnified until it felt as if the whole city walked with him.
Rūpu turned, his breath caught in his throat.
At first he saw nothing but snow. White flurries danced in the dark, veiling the streets. But then, between the storm's curtains, a figure emerged.
He was tall, his presence filling the alley even from a distance. His hair was white, but not with age—wild curls that spilled to the tips of the snowy winds, tipped with streaks of blood-red at the ends. His kimono, torn at the hem, billowed like a shadow alive, its black and crimson fabric blending into the storm.
And then the horns.
They jutted long and cruel from his skull, sharper than blades, their points glistening faintly in the moonlight. Rūpu felt his knees weaken. His own horns—small, stunted things—felt like a child's play compared to these monstrous spires.
Four swords hung from his hips, two on each side, their hilts wrapped in black cloth. Even through the storm, their steel gleamed with a faint crimson sheen, as if already drenched in blood.
But it was the eyes that held him.
Both glowed red, yet not the same. One eye blazed like a coal, searing through the snow, its scarred lid stretched tight over the glow. The other shimmered faintly, dimmer but deeper, like a candle burning low in endless dark. Together they pierced Rūpu's heart.
The being smiled. A smirk sharp enough to wound.
Rūpu could not move. His breath fogged the air, his hands trembled near his sword, but no strength reached them. He had faced Isshun's rage, bandits' blades, and the hatred of the world—but this was different. This was not hate. This was inevitability, walking toward him one step at a time.
The storm itself seemed to bow before the Oni. Snow swirled at his feet, his steps thundering louder than they should have, each echo drilling into Rūpu's bones.
Run, something inside him whispered. Run, or you'll never move again.
But Rūpu did not run. He could not. His legs rooted to the ground, frozen as the figures gaze pinned him in place.
For the briefest instant, the world stilled.
The storm hushed. The wind died. The snow hung frozen in midair. In that silence, the Oni figure tilted his head, studying Rūpu as one might study a broken toy—or a weapon yet to be forged. His smirk deepened, the scar beneath his burning eye twisting.
And then, just as suddenly as he had come, the storm surged again. The figure's form blurred in the snow, vanishing as though swallowed whole. The echoes of his steps still lingered long after he was gone to, pounding in Rūpu's flesh.
The child collapsed to his knees, clutching at the frozen earth, his breath ragged.
Who was that figure?
No—what was he?
Rūpu's fingers shook as they touched his horns. For the first time, he felt not cursed by them, but terrified of what they might mean. The stranger's horns, long and terrible, had been like a mirror stretched into a nightmare. Was this what he was meant to become? A creature who carried death with every step, who needed no words, only presence, to break another's soul?
Tears blurred his vision, hot against the winter air. He thought of his father—of the warmth that had kept him human despite the world's cruelty. He thought of Isshun—running, wounded, furious, yet alive.
And he thought of those glowing red eyes, burning through the storm.
Somewhere deep within, he knew: that figure was not a passing phantom. He was a shadow cast across Rūpu's path, one that would never fade. Their fates had brushed, and the world itself had trembled in response.
Rūpu rose slowly, his sword heavy at his side. His heart burned with sorrow and fear, but beneath it a new thread pulled taut—resolve.
If such monsters walked the world, then he could not stop here. He could not let his father's legacy, or his sorrow, end in trembling. He would walk forward, step by step, even if the path led him to that smirk, those horns, those eyes.
As the storm raged and the city slept, Rūpu whispered into the snow:
"I'll face you. One day. Even if I have to die a thousand times."
The snow carried his words away, vanishing into the night. But somewhere, beyond sight, a faint laugh echoed back.
And the Loop Slasher's tale spiraled deeper, into darkness.
TO BE CONTINUED...