The scene inside the paper-windowed house was laid bare—a grotesque play of gluttony, guilt, and grotesque pettiness. The village chief, a barrel-chested man with skin like tanned leather, tore into a chicken leg with greasy fingers, his voice a low rumble of contempt.
"Take the scraps to those two brats later. Three days without food is enough. Can't have them actually dying. Bad for my image as a benevolent chief."
His wife, a woman of similar stout build, bit into a wing, fear flickering behind her eyes. "You go. Those children… they give me the creeps."
"What's to be scared of? Their whole family was odd. Felt nothing special when we put down the parents. Just commoners," he snorted, wiping grease on his sleeve. "They dared accuse me of stealing land. Forced my hand."
"It was convenient," the wife added, a sly glint in her look. "No one in the village associated with them anyway."
But then their expressions soured. "The others who helped you… they've all died strange deaths. And our grandson—that collapsing wall nearly crushed him," the wife whispered, panic threading her voice.
"So what? Didn't I send for a Sorcerer? City folk are never on time," the chief grunted, a feeble attempt at reassurance. "Killing the adults was one thing, but the girls… too young. Bad for reputation if they die now. When the Sorcerer comes, we'll say they're monsters. Let him deal with it. Clean."
"Just… don't get any ideas because they're pretty," the wife warned, her gaze sharp.
"Am I that kind of man?"
"Aren't you? Last time, if I hadn't—"
"Enough!" he barked.
"Don't think I don't know," she spat, rising now, voice trembling with long-held bitterness. "The 'disrespect' was just an excuse. You wanted his wife. When she refused, you held a grudge. We killed her whole family for your pride!"
"You dare—! You're the one who slit her throat when I was almost—!" Rage overtook him. The table overturned with a crash. He shoved her to the floor, the meal forgotten, replaced by a violent, grunting struggle.
Hidden in the shadows outside, Geto and Itsuki had heard enough. The story assembled itself in the cold night air: greed, lust, murder, and a lie so convenient it damned an entire family. The real "monster" here had never been a Cursed Spirit—it was the poison in the human heart, which had then festered into one.
Geto's face was a mask of glacial calm. The butterfly Cursed Spirit quietly returned to his fingertip, its glow dimming.
"Itsuki," he said, his voice dangerously soft, devoid of its usual warmth. "If I decided to kill them right now… you would stop me, wouldn't you?"
Kamo Itsuki did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on the shabby outbuilding at the village's edge, where a faint, desperate flicker of Cursed Energy called out—a fragile, fading signal.
"First," Itsuki said, his own tone leaving no room for debate, "we see the children."
He moved, not toward the chief's house, but toward that faint signal, a silent command in his steps. Geto lingered for only a second, his gaze cutting back to the window where the sounds of struggle still leaked out. Then, with a slow exhale that misted in the cold air, he turned and followed Itsuki into the deeper darkness.
The sight in the ramshackle outbuilding struck Kamo Itsuki like a physical blow, bypassing all his mental preparations. Anger, cold and razor-sharp, coiled tight in his chest.
Huddled in the corner of a crude, oversized cage were two small figures. They were curled together, their thin bodies a map of bruises, cuts, and grime. Their eyes, wide and hollow, held a depth of despair that erased any semblance of childhood. The world had become a trap, and they were its broken, forgotten prey.
Without a word, Itsuki shattered the cage's lock with a flick of his wrist and stepped inside. The girls flinched violently, pressing themselves deeper into the corner, a silent, shared whimper escaping them.
"Don't be afraid," Itsuki said, forcing his voice into a gentle, steady cadence. "I'm here to help you."
Crouching before them, he let the soothing green glow of his Reverse Cursed Technique wash over their small forms. Wounds closed, bruises faded from angry purples to faint yellows before disappearing entirely. From the folds of his jacket, he produced two clean coats—garments he'd taken from an empty hut on the way—and wrapped them gently around the girls' shivering shoulders. The warmth was more than physical; it was a first, fragile promise of safety.
Slowly, tentatively, their trembling hands reached out. They allowed him to lead them from the cage, their steps unsure, as if walking on a surface that might yet give way.
Itsuki turned to Geto. "Suguru. What now?"
Geto's gaze was fixed on the girls, his expression unreadable, a storm held in check. "We leave this place first," he stated, his voice low but leaving no room for argument.
The two girls—Nanako and Mimiko—clutched desperately at Itsuki's legs, their small faces tilted up. "Don't leave us," Mimiko whispered, the words thick with tears. Nanako simply nodded, burying her face in the fabric of his coat.
Geto slowly knelt before them, bringing himself to their eye level. His movement was deliberate, his presence strangely calm amidst the surrounding darkness. He reached out, not to take, but to gently brush the tangled hair from their foreheads. His touch was feather-light.
His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost contemplative, yet it carried a terrifying weight.
"I can help you," he said, his dark eyes holding theirs. "I can kill everyone in this village for what they did. Or I can let them live. But either way, I will take you away from here." He paused, the silence stretching taut. "The choice is yours."
He offered no judgment, no guidance. It was a pure, stark question laid at the feet of two broken children: to condemn, or to simply escape. He waited, his gaze unwavering, as if their answer would determine not only the fate of the village, but something fundamental within himself.
Patreon Seasay, been a busy week, sorry for the update delay