This town is a mystery.
A fucking mystery.
Ever since I left the labyrinth, I've never felt this lost. And something tells me — a little chill down my spine, you know — that it's only going to get worse. Every step here feels like clicking "explore the map" without knowing if there's a hidden boss or just a tofu vendor.
I try to get closer to the central square. Maybe if I listen carefully, I'll catch a word, a name, a concept. Something. But the moment I move forward, some guy bumps into me without warning, rushing past to dive into the crowd.
"Excuse me."
Huh?
I turn around, a bit dazed. He spoke to me. I think. Or maybe I'm hallucinating dialogue now? Thanks, translation bug.
And that's when I see her.
A little girl.
Tiny. Like a mini-human with pigtails and a dirty dress. She's staring at me. Eyes wide, filled with pure terror. And without a word, she bolts like I'm a demon ready to barbecue her soul with ketchup.
"What the…?"
I raise my hand to my head, purely on reflex. That gesture I always do when I don't get what's going on, like my horns might grant me Wi-Fi.
And then I feel the absence.
The scarf.
The fucking scarf.
It fell off.
I glance down — and bam, reflection in a puddle: my face. My horns. My vaguely humanoid, fugitive-Oni-looking face.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
I scan the ground, my wings tensing, my hands almost — almost — trembling, and I spot the fabric, there, crushed between a boot and a cracked cobblestone. I grab it quick, slap it back over my head haphazardly.
No one saw. Or rather, no one reacted.
The crowd is too busy, hypnotized by the news of the day. Good. Let them stay fascinated by their perfect little information bubble. Let them leave me alone just a bit longer.
Because if another kid screams, I'll have to go full old-school RPG mode: run, hide, change name, and hope there's no Wanted Board with my face on it tomorrow morning.
Alright, I have to find her. Now.
That kid… if she opens her mouth, I'm screwed. She saw my horns. My real face. And judging by the look she gave me, she probably already thinks I eat babies for breakfast.
I start running. Discreetly.
Yes, running discreetly is possible. It's an art form. Because you don't want to look like some child-hunting maniac on the loose. And right now, we've got all the ingredients: a fleeing child, a sketchy disguise, and me creeping along walls in pursuit. Vibe check: "red alert in the family district."
No thanks.
I leave the central square, quickening my pace while hiding behind passersby. And I finally spot her, over there. She's running like her life depends on it — which, to be fair, isn't entirely false.
She's heading straight for an alley.
A dark alley. Narrow. Reeking of damp, rancid grease, and trouble.
Great.
But I've got no choice.
I dash after her, my steps steadier than I expected. Outside the labyrinth, I'm supposed to be stronger than normal humans, right? In theory. Only in theory. Because right now, the kid's sprinting like she's equipped Speed Boots +10.
"Well damn… the micro-human's got some stamina."
I feel the adrenaline spike. The fear of being discovered, mixed with that old survival instinct. The one that screams that if I lose her, I lose control of the situation. And when I lose control… I do dumb shit.
She turns sharply to the right, vanishes behind a crumbling wall. I speed up.
No time to waste.
No witnesses.
Well… I'm not gonna kill her.
I think.
She's a kid, not a threat. Just a scared little girl, clueless, too curious for her own good, but not evil. She saw my horns, sure. She could talk. Expose me. But does that justify eliminating her? I'm not a monster, right? I mean, maybe I am. But not that kind. Not yet. Not today. Or maybe I'm just lying to myself and I've already crossed every line.
I shove those thoughts away like slamming a window to shut out the wind, and I keep running, faster, more focused, chasing her shadow like a broken predator in a town that isn't mine, in a setting too clean for a fugitive Oni. The alley she turned into is fast approaching, and when I round the crumbling corner, a jolt hits me — like a mental slap.
She's there.
And she's not alone.
Surrounded by five figures whose posture alone makes me nauseous: two women, three men, all dressed in whitish rags, draped like fallen priests or apostles of some forgotten cult, eyes vacant and mouths half-smiling — not joyful, not warm — a grin dripping with quiet madness and slow perversion. They're encircling her without touching, a deliberately porous ring, like they want her to think she could still escape if she ran, if she screamed, if she dared.
But she doesn't move.
Her little arms are shaking, her knees brushing together, her eyes flicking between the faces and the lack of exit, and I can tell — by the way she clenches her teeth — that her throat is locking up. Too scared. Too ashamed. Too late.
And they speak.
They murmur, almost sing, with a soft voice that has nothing human in it, a voice you could find soothing if you weren't listening to the words.
"Come here, little one… you'll like it, don't worry…"
"Yes, sweet child. Here, you will grow. You will open up. You will learn."
A woman steps forward, her hand extended like a caress, bony fingers reaching for the girl's collar, brushing it, then gripping it — too precise, too practiced — like someone who's done this way too many times.
And in that instant, everything stops.
My thoughts, my logic, my caution.
My world turns red.
I don't think.
I don't assess.
I leap.
"HEY!"
My voice cuts through the air like a blade — sharp, sudden, brutal, loaded with everything I've been holding in for too long. They turn to me, surprised, slow, almost amused. Their eyes settle on me like I'm a distraction, a prop, just background noise.
But I can already feel the heat in my palms, the electricity under my skin, the pulsing of my claws, ready to emerge.
And this time, I won't ask myself if I'm a monster.
I don't wait for them to speak, to defend themselves, to understand.
I charge.
Like a guillotine.
Like a sentence.
My body launches into the fray with fierce precision, my arm outstretched, claws ready, and in a flash of bright red, the throat of the woman who was approaching the little girl tears open without resistance, as if she were just a sack of empty flesh.
Her blood splashes onto the ground — hot, pulsing, thick — and her body collapses with a wet thud, a barely human gurgle, while the girl behind her remains frozen, eyes wide, stunned, unable to tell whether she's just been saved or thrown into an even worse nightmare.
And I stand there for a second, in the middle of the blood, breathing slowly, senses sharpened, watching the others who now stare at me with genuine terror — raw, primal fear that has nothing to do with fanaticism or dominance. They no longer see me as a strange beast or a decorative monster. No. Now, they understand what I really am.
"Huh… they're that weak?"
My voice comes out almost surprised, disappointed, like I've just realized the outside world doesn't even have the decency to fight back properly.
And of course, he had to speak up.
[ You no longer feel pity for killing humans? ]
I grit my teeth. My claws still vibrate from the blood they've just spilled.
"Senpai… I understood something."
I straighten slowly, my gaze fixed on the remaining four who finally pull out rusted knives — pathetic, trembling in their clammy hands, nowhere near an actual threat.
"Some humans are so weak… they must die. Not because they're useless. But because they're monstrous."
The word snaps in my mouth like a reversed echo of what I'm usually accused of.
Monstrous.
I leap again, and this time there are no screams, no replies — only the swift dance of my movements, the slash of my claws, the spray of flesh and cracking of bones, a morbid ballet orchestrated with the precision of a metronome. One man tries to slash my side — I block without thinking, shove my hand into his ribcage. Another figure jumps on my back — I spin and crush them against the wall with a brutal wing strike. And the last one, I burn without mercy. It's over in less than thirty seconds.
Only one remains.
The last one.
He hesitates, steps back, trembling, then turns on his heel and flees down the adjacent alley, his robe trailing behind like a desperate comet's tail.
I brace to jump after him, to finish the job, to stop him from saying a word — but at the exact moment my legs tense, a small hand grabs the hem of my tunic, pulling gently, almost timidly.
I turn sharply — and I see her.
The little girl.
She's there, standing, fragile, trembling, her cheeks streaked with silent tears, her eyes wide and locked onto mine as if she's searching for an explanation, a justification, a truth she might be able to understand.
And I… freeze.
Because suddenly, she's no longer just a girl in danger.
She's a mirror.
I stay frozen, suspended in time, as if the world has slowed down just to let me understand what I'm seeing.
Her eyes.
And in that trembling gaze, half-ruined innocence… I see myself. Before the labyrinth. Another version of me — small, fragile, who hadn't seen anything yet. Hadn't lived through anything.
But her fingers clutch a piece of my tunic like a lifeline, like I've become, despite myself, her only anchor in the middle of a nightmare.
"Thank you… miss… monster."
I blink.
She's trying… to tell me something?
I stare at her, stunned. Unable to tell if she's thanking me for killing those people, or thanking me despite what I am.
I think… I believe… I feel like she tried to thank me.
Maybe not with the right words, but in her eyes, there was that little spark — that thing kids throw out without filters, that instinctive quest for someone to hold onto.
So, gently, with a voice I try to make less harsh, less predatory than usual, I whisper:
"Where are your parents, little one?"
She looks at me with wide eyes, a mix of confusion and curiosity, her head tilted slightly like a puppy hearing a strange sound. Of course. She doesn't understand.
I sigh.
Okay. Let's try something else.
I glance around and spot, pinned crookedly on a decaying wall, a kind of yellowed paper poster, with a printed face — probably an official portrait, an ad, or a wanted notice, I have no idea — and lines of text in that script I can no longer read. A newspaper? An info board? Who knows.
I grab it, fold it awkwardly, crouch in front of her, and begin a miming attempt as ridiculous as it is clumsy: I tap the text, point to the picture, then at her, then I frown and raise my hands like a living question mark. All with the dead-serious expression of a desperate Oni trying to play interdimensional Pictionary.
She stares. Silent. At first lost. Then intrigued.
And after a few long seconds… she murmurs in a timid little voice:
"Linie."
I raise an eyebrow. Did I mishear?
I make a small gesture with my hand, palm open, gently encouraging her to repeat.
She nods, more confident this time:
"Linie!"
Linie.
Alright.
Even without understanding her language — no grammar, no verbs, no context — that... that sounds like a name.
I approach her slowly, without any sudden moves, and this time, she doesn't back away. She looks at me with a new trust — light, fragile, but real. I pull up the torn fabric of her tunic a bit to cover her dusty, frail shoulders, then I whisper, softly, in a voice I know she can't understand but mean with all my heart:
"Stay beautiful, little one."
She doesn't get it, obviously. But she smiles at me.
So, gently, I extend my hand and point to one of my horns, the one half-visible beneath my patched scarf.
She's not scared anymore.
She steps closer. Raises her arms. Hops slightly, as if trying to reach.
So I smile and kneel down, without a word, letting her reach what she's curious about, letting her check for herself.
Yes, little one — they're real.