The Bandit with the Crooked Horn (Part 1)
The morning after Giru Hazuma's brazen theft, the mansion was chaos. Servants whispered of shadows darting through the halls, of bags vanished into thin air, of a smirking kid with a crooked Oni horn who mocked Yakaziku's guards as if they were children. The nobles raged and demanded punishment, their fat rings flashing as they clenched their fists. The Royal Guard swore they would catch him, yet none could even catch a glimpse of his trail.
Rūpu listened quietly from the corner of the hall, ears sharp. He knew the name now. Giru Hazuma—the smirking thief, the "legendary bandit" whispered of in the alleyways. And something about that crooked horn stuck in his heart like a blade. Not Oni, not human—something in-between. Something that didn't belong.
Every night after, Rūpu began waiting for him. Each sunrise he would rise earlier, sneaking out to sit by the garden wall, pretending to meditate, pretending to train. But his eyes scanned the rooftops, waiting for that crooked grin to appear against the dawn.
But Giru never came. Not when Rūpu waited. Not when he listened. The kid was always one step ahead, slipping in and out of the mansion like smoke.
Isshun, meanwhile, was busy. He clung to Hanae's side more often, trying to distract her from her sorrow. He made her laugh when he could, though her laughter often turned into silence. Hanae kept her secrets buried deep, hiding them behind pouts, shrugs, and the tilt of her chin. Whenever Rūpu asked, she looked away. Whenever he pressed, she folded her arms, biting her lip, refusing to answer.
And so Rūpu was left with silence. Hanae hiding her pain. Isshun filling the gap with chatter. And Rūpu himself, restless, waiting for the thief.
It wasn't until three nights later that Rūpu found him.
He caught the faint sound of coins jingling, followed by a soft laugh. Crawling across the tiles of the roof, Rūpu peered over the edge—and there he was. Giru Hazuma, crouched on the mansion's highest arch, chewing on a stolen rice ball as if it were his victory feast.
"You finally noticed me, huh?" Giru said without turning his head. His grin was sharp, eyes flickering. "Took you long enough."
Rūpu's throat tightened. "You... knew I was watching?"
"Of course," Giru replied, smirking wider. "You sit out in the garden every morning pretending to meditate. You're about as subtle as a pig in a teahouse." He licked rice from his thumb, then swung his leg casually over the roof's edge. "So, what is it? You planning to turn me in? Collect that sweet noble bounty?"
Rūpu shook his head. "No. I just... wanted to know why."
For a moment, Giru said nothing. Then he burst out laughing—loud, full of mischief, the kind of laugh that carried across the rooftops. "Why? Kid, do I need a reason? I'm a bandit. I steal. That's the whole joke."
But his grin wavered, just slightly.
Later that night, when the two sat hidden beneath the sloped roof tiles, Giru began to talk. At first it was all jokes and boasts—how he once robbed a guard of his shoes while he was still wearing them, how he once tied together two nobles' sashes so they tripped during a banquet. He laughed so hard at his own stories he nearly dropped his bag of coins.
But beneath the laughter, Rūpu could hear it—the hollowness. The cracks.
"Truth is," Giru finally said, tossing a coin into the air and catching it, "I didn't start robbing for fun. I ran from home. Thought I'd be an adventurer, live free, eat like a king. Turns out adventures don't pay for themselves. I ran out of money in less than a week." He snorted, shaking his head. "So, I stole. First from travelers. Then from guards. Then from nobles. And it worked. People started talking. The 'legendary smirking bandit.' Pretty funny, huh?"
Rūpu didn't laugh. "And your home? Why'd you run?"
Giru paused. His smirk trembled. For the first time, his crooked horn caught the moonlight, shadowing his face in a way that made him look... small.
"They hated me," he muttered. "Not human enough. Not Oni enough. Just a mistake. A stain. Parents who'd rather pretend I didn't exist. So I made myself exist. You know what they say—if you're gonna be hated, might as well be hated for something you're good at." He tossed the coin again, but this time it fell and rolled across the tiles.
Silence stretched between them.
Rūpu stared at him, heart heavy. He wanted to tell Giru he wasn't a mistake. That he wasn't alone. But the words felt too fragile. So he only sat with him, under the stars, while Giru laughed again—so loud, so reckless, but now tinged with sadness.
By sunrise, Giru was gone again.
And when Rūpu returned to the mansion, rumors were already spreading. Another noble robbed. Another smirk left carved into the dirt outside their doors. The bandit's legend was growing.
But Rūpu knew the truth now. Behind that grin was a kid running from the same pain Hanae carried, just wearing it differently. One cried beneath the moon. The other laughed on the rooftops. Both trapped in curses of their own.
And Rūpu, caught between them, wondered how long he could keep his promise to protect them—when both were already drowning in wounds he couldn't heal.
Clashing in the Kitchen Of Silence (Part 2)
The moon hung heavy over Yakaziku, its pale glow spilling across the rooftops and through the thin paper walls of the mansion. The city was asleep, drunk nobles curled in their chambers, guards posted lazily at the gates, and the whispers of last night's robbery still echoing through the town like fire on the wind.
Rūpu, restless, walked through the dim halls of the mansion. He wasn't looking for trouble, but his stomach reminded him that sleep would not come without food. The scent of leftover fish broth and steamed rice lingered faintly down the hall, drawing him toward the kitchen.
He slid open the door quietly—only to stop dead in his tracks.
There he was.
Giru Hazuma. The crooked-horned bandit, crouched on the countertop, stuffing his bag with whatever silverware and dried goods he could find. The grin on his face was sharper than ever, and when he spotted Rūpu, he didn't flinch. He laughed under his breath, mischief burning in his eyes.
"Caught me, huh?" Giru whispered, holding up a polished plate like it were treasure. "But what'll you do, little Oni KID? Shout and wake them all? Or try to stop me yourself?"
Rūpu's jaw tightened. He stepped forward without a sound, sliding one of his twin blades halfway from its sheath. He couldn't risk waking the house—not with Hanae and Isshun sleeping nearby, not with the Oni guards that would surely storm in.
"No noise," Rūpu said, his voice low and firm. "If you want to fight me, then fight me in silence."
Giru smirked wider. "Oh? Silence, huh? Then what happens if I do... this?"
He let the plate slip from his hand.
CLATTER!
Rūpu lunged forward, catching it with the flat of his blade just before it smashed against the ground. His teeth clenched. Giru cackled softly, leaping back onto the counter like a cat.
"You're quick," he teased. "But let's see how quick you stay when I start making a mess."
The kitchen erupted into a battlefield. Not with screams or ringing steel—but with hushed chaos, plates and pans flying through the air, ladles turned into weapons, steam hissing as spilled soup hit the fire pit.
Rūpu ducked low, using the flat of a cutting board as a shield as Giru swung a ladle like a mace, splattering broth across the walls. He countered with a sweep of his sheathed blade, knocking a stack of bowls into Giru's arms. The bandit only laughed louder, juggling them before tossing them high into the air—forcing Rūpu to dash and catch them before they shattered.
"You're protecting the dishes?!" Giru whispered through his laughter. "What are you, a samurai or a servant?"
Rūpu's eyes burned. "A servant can still defeat a thief."
They clashed again, this time with steel. Giru drew a short blade from his belt, the edge gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Rūpu parried silently, sparks flying but muffled against the clamor of pots sliding across the floor. Their blades sang in whispers, not roars—fast, sharp movements meant to kill, but softened so no one would know.
Still, Giru was louder. He wanted to be caught. Each strike of his dagger slammed into pots, each dodge sent ladles clattering. He grinned through the madness, eyes daring Rūpu to falter.
"You can't keep this quiet forever!" Giru hissed, knocking over a stack of trays with a deliberate kick. "Soon the guards will come, and then what? Who will they blame—me, or the little Oni brat with horns?"
Rūpu's heart tightened. He knew the truth of it. Even if he caught Giru, even if he explained, the nobles would never believe him. They would always see the horns first, the curse in his blood. His fists trembled as he parried another strike, shoving Giru back against the shelves of spices.
But instead of striking to kill, Rūpu did something else. He grabbed a sack of flour from the shelf, swung it wide, and burst it open across Giru's smirking face.
The kitchen filled with a white cloud, soft as snow. Giru coughed, stumbling back, his horn dusted in powder. For the first time, his grin faltered.
"You—hah—you're fighting dirty!"
Rūpu didn't smile. He dashed through the haze, slamming Giru down against the counter, pressing his blade to the childs throat. His eyes burned, not with hatred—but with pain, with desperation.
"Why do you laugh at everything?" Rūpu whispered harshly. "Why do you act like none of it matters? Do you think this is all just a game?!"
Giru froze. His smirk twitched, then softened into something else—something fragile. He stared up at Rūpu, his throat trembling under the blade.
"Because if I don't laugh," he whispered back, voice breaking, "I'll cry."
The words cut deeper than steel. Rūpu's grip weakened. The flour dust settled slowly around them, painting the scene like snow under moonlight.
Giru looked away, biting down on his grin as though it hurt him to let it fall. "I'm not strong like you. Or brave like you. If I don't laugh... I'll remember I'm just a mistake with a crooked horn, running from a home that never wanted me. And I'll break."
Silence swallowed the kitchen. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire pit, the slow dripping of spilled broth onto the floor.
Rūpu stepped back, lowering his blade. His heart ached, but he said nothing. He couldn't. He only turned away, letting Giru sit up and brush the flour from his face.
The bandit forced a grin again, weaker this time. "Heh. Guess you win, Oni kid. But don't think this means I'll stop. A thief's gotta eat, after all."
And before Rūpu could reply, Giru slipped out the window in a flash, vanishing into the night.
When the morning came, the kitchen was spotless. Not a broken dish, not a spilled grain of rice remained. Rūpu had cleaned it all in silence, hiding every trace of the battle.
But the ache in his heart remained.
Because he now knew: Giru Hazuma wasn't just a bandit. He was a kid drowning behind a crooked grin, and no amount of laughter could keep him from sinking forever.
TO BE CONTINUED...