[11:45:10]
The time barely moved.
Don felt as though time itself conspired against him.
He truly felt like someone—or something—was deceiving him, manipulating the very seconds that ticked away his life.
But dwelling on it wouldn't help. He forced himself to focus, to think. The Status Points—he'd almost forgotten them in the chaos. He still had five unused points from his level-up, and if there was ever a moment to use them, it was now.
He gathered his concentration and looked ahead. Miss Mira remained motionless, her grotesque body hunched before the library door like a bloated spider. The blacksmith's workshop lay just beyond her—more than fifty steps away, but it might as well have been fifty miles.
I can do this, Don thought, his jaw clenching with determination. I have to. Her massive body won't let her move quickly. I just need to be faster.
He took a breath and screamed in his mind: "Source! Put all Status Points into Agility!"
[As… you wish.]
The system's voice came with an unusual pause, almost hesitant, but Don had no time to question it. His body answered immediately.
A rush of energy flooded through him—electric, intoxicating. His muscles felt lighter, his limbs more responsive. It was as if invisible shackles had been shattered, as if someone had poured ice-cold water over him after hours under a burning sun.
Every fiber of his being hummed with newfound speed.
His fear transformed into something sharper. Not confidence—certainty.
No. Not "I can succeed."
I WILL succeed.
I WILL survive.
Don moved.
He exploded forward in a sprint, his legs pumping with desperate speed. Ten steps. That was all that separated him from salvation. Just ten steps to the blacksmith's door, to a weapon, to a chance.
One step.
The instant his foot hit the ground, Miss Mira's single red eye snapped toward him.
Damn it!
That eye—that horrible, blood-colored eye embedded in the center of her chest—locked onto him like a predator sighting prey. And worse, it seemed to smile. Not with a mouth, but with the cruel gleam of anticipation, the promise of feast.
Without warning, Miss Mira's grotesque hands slammed into the ground. All of them. Ten writhing limbs pressed down with bone-crushing force.
CRACK!
The stone street fractured like thin ice. Her massive body launched into the air, propelled by raw, monstrous strength. She hurtled toward him—not running, but leaping—her body a mass of flesh and hunger and nightmare.
Don didn't look back. He couldn't afford to.
He just ran.
Step, step, step, step.
Five steps down. Halfway there.
Behind him, the impact of Miss Mira's landing shook the ground. She was close—so close he could hear the wet slap of her hands hitting stone, the scrape of her body dragging forward, the rasping wheeze of breath through too many mouths.
What Don didn't know—what he couldn't see—was that she was less than half a meter behind him. With every leap, she covered ten steps in a single bound. She was a monster in every sense of the word, and she was fast.
But Don was faster now. The Agility boost sang through his veins.
Seven steps.
Eight.
Then he felt it—a prickling at the back of his neck, an animal instinct screaming DANGER.
He didn't think. He acted.
Don threw himself into a roll, his body tucking low and tumbling across the blood-slicked ground. He felt the rush of air as something massive passed overhead—Miss Mira's grasping hand, fingers splayed wide, reaching for where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
She missed.
Her momentum carried her forward, and with a wet, meaty thud, she crashed face-first into the street. Her body skidded, arms flailing for purchase, and for one precious moment, she was off-balance.
She almost had me, Don realized, his heart hammering. Almost.
But rage replaced her hunger now.
Miss Mira's body trembled, then convulsed. A sound tore from her—not from one mouth, but from all of them. From every ear-hole dotting her malformed head came a screech so piercing, so visceral, that Don's newly enhanced body recoiled in agony.
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
The sound was a physical thing, a pressure wave that crushed the air from his lungs.
Don's hands flew to his ears, but it did nothing. The scream burrowed into his skull, vibrating his bones, threatening to shatter his thoughts.
[Warning: Sonic attack detected]
[Immortal Body mitigating damage]
[HP: 10/- (Regenerating)]
The pain faded after a few agonizing seconds, but Don was left gasping, sprawled on the ground in a puddle of congealing blood. He was covered head to toe in filth—crimson and grime and the stench of death.
But he was alive.
And he was so close.
Two steps. Just two more steps to the blacksmith's door.
Don forced himself to his feet, his legs shaking but obeying. He lurched forward, reaching for the door—
—and something cold and wet clamped around his right ankle.
He looked down in horror.
The blood.
The blood had come alive.
It coiled around his foot like a living thing, thick and viscous, tightening with every heartbeat. Tendrils of crimson crept up his calf, holding him fast. No matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn't let go.
Panic seized him.
How?! How is this possible?!
The Source had said it clearly—demons couldn't use magic. They were cut off from the Source. So how was the blood moving?
Unless—
A voice cut through his thoughts, calm and almost amused:
"You're stronger than you look."
Don's head snapped up.
Miss Mira had gone silent. She stood motionless now, her single eye still fixed on him, but the ravenous hunger had been replaced by something else—hesitation. She was waiting.
And behind her, footsteps echoed.
Step. Step. Step.
Someone was approaching, their movements slow and deliberate. Don squinted through the gloom, trying to make out the figure, but all he could see was a black cloak that seemed to drink in the dim light.
Wait… I've seen this before.
His mind flashed back to the Vision—the ritual by the river, the corrupted water, the figures in black cloaks. One of them had stood out. One of them had—
The figure reached up and pulled back their hood.
Don's breath caught.
It was a girl.
She looked young—maybe sixteen or seventeen—with hair as black as midnight and eyes that glowed a deep, unsettling red.
Her face was pale, almost ethereal, and her expression was one of mild curiosity, as if she'd stumbled upon something interesting rather than a boy fighting for his life.
It's her.
The girl who had performed the ritual. The one who had poisoned the river.
She was a demoness.
And she was looking right at him.
"Well," she said softly, her voice carrying an accent he couldn't quite place. "This is unexpected."
Don's blood ran cold—colder than the grip on his ankle, colder than the corpse-laden streets around him.
Because in that moment, he realized something far worse than being hunted by monsters:
She's been watching me this whole time.