“Ye, you know… [Monstrosity], right?”

[Monstrosity]… the so-called [Monstrosity]… monsters and fiends, not human at all… a [Monstrosity], right?

But… what is it, really?

A chill pricked Ye Weibai’s gut like frost on glass; he had no clue. The word glittered with fantasy, and it stunned him.

He felt a prickle of dread, like storm scent before thunder; he’d guessed wrong. This World wasn’t the simple, peaceful, scientific world he’d imagined.

A true scientific world wouldn’t have [Monstrosity], he thought, like clean steel without rust.

Unless he’d misread Owen’s definition; maybe [Monstrosity] was a pastry brand, a silly label on sweet bread.

Owen’s eyes held that “you must know” look, like lamps insisting on light; Ye swallowed the truth. He didn’t say “I don’t.”

If [Monstrosity] was common here, a word everyone knew, like “car” in a modern city, denial would paint him in suspicion like ink on snow.

He didn’t know what that suspicion could do; he knew he wanted less trouble, like sails lowering before a gale.

In a breath, he laid his thoughts flat like paper; he smoothed his surprise and nodded, a quiet “Mm.”

Owen asked again, the question tapping like fingers on wood. “So you know, right?”

“Ah, anyone would have heard a bit,” Ye said, voice steady as a pond. “[Monstrosity], and the rest…”

Owen leaned back, shoulders opening like wings; his body stretched, and he watched Ye. His mouth curved, a bright smile flaring like dawn at a word he loved.

Ye felt a wrong note snap in him, like a string under strain. What had he said wrong?

He’d only followed Owen’s certainty, like a boat drifting with the current. If he’d erred, the river had already passed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Owen shook his head, slow as falling leaves. He glanced at Philia’s door, shut tight like a sealed chest, and lowered his voice.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll tell our family’s story,” he said, a whisper like ash. “We shouldn’t hide this from a guest.”

“I just hope you won’t be too afraid—”

He paused, then added, hope dim as a candle. “But if it’s you, I don’t think you’ll scare.”

Ye sat as if washing his ears in rain, ready to listen; Owen smiled and began, a tale soaked in [Misfortune].

“Where should I start?” He looked past the window at a plant swaying like green flames. His voice carried memory like a river’s gentle hum.

“Half a year ago, we were a complete family of four. Simple days, clear and sweet.”

Half a year ago they were whole—so what were they now?

Owen picked up small stories like shells—between him and Philia, between Philia and their parents. He only touched them briefly, yet happiness shone on his face like warm light.

His father was a soldier from Central Town, discharged when his leg was injured; his mother was a gentle teacher, voice soft as silk.

They married and settled in Xibei Village, roots set like stones in soil; life began anew, and soon Owen was born.

Ten years later came Philia, a red-haired, red-eyed little star; with her arrival, laughter doubled like spring birds.

Four people, life plain and perfect; no big-city glitter, no knives behind smiles. It streamed on like water—humble, priceless—until—

Owen’s face twisted, smooth voice turning winter-cold. “Until the [Monstrosity] appeared.”

“It killed my parents. It made Philia stutter. It broke me.”

“Our perfect life shattered like porcelain on stone.”

“It was so happy, so whole; and then, because of the [Monstrosity], because of that [Misfortune]—it turned to trash.”

He lifted his head, his voice soft and shadowed, like moonlight over a blade. “Hey, Ye, do you know why Phil stutters?”

He didn’t wait for Ye to answer; he spoke on, the words falling like black rain.

“Because when the [Monstrosity] burst in, Phil was under Mom and Dad’s bed.”

“She was probably playing hide-and-seek with them, like usual. I can’t bear to picture it.”

“She waited there, heart quick and bright, for Dad to laugh and say, ‘I found you.’ And what came instead…”

His voice blew cold and pained, a cutting wind that stitched images in Ye’s mind—harsh, cruel, relentless.

…

“Phil, Phil—where’d you hide? Dad can’t find you!” Uncle Weng—Owen’s father—limped into the bedroom, step rough like a drum.

He saw a hem peeking under the bed—her brand-new birthday dress, red as a tiny flame. His mouth curved; he played dumb, then crept closer to pounce.

“Can’t find you, can’t find you…” His voice bobbed like a fishing float, teasing the surface.

Hee-hee—can’t find me!

Under the bed, a red-haired, red-eyed girl curled tight, hand over mouth, stifling giggles that shook her like grass.

She spotted Dad’s big foot near her face; she knew she’d been found, tricked like a fox pulled from brush.

She tensed to squeal and dash out.

Suddenly, another “foot” stood there, and her breath snagged like thread.

Not a foot—more a “paw.” Huge, pitch-black, skin wrinkled, veins bulging, twisted and vile—an ugly, monstrous paw.

Its owner stood behind Dad, a shadow thick as tar; Dad didn’t notice. He laughed and shouted, “Found—”

Fear slammed her small heart like ice; she tried to scream.

“Ah—ah—!”

Dad’s voice stopped, clean as a cut; pain took its place, a howl torn like cloth.

Splurt—

Blood burst like a fountain, spraying hot across the girl’s face, drowning her voice as if a hand clamped her throat.

—Eh…?

—W-what… happened?

—B-blood… is this blood… whose… blood?

Her right hand trembled to touch the wet on her cheek; the metallic stink crawled over her like ants. She tried to wriggle out, to see—

A hand slammed her back, hard as a falling hammer, pinning her under the bed.

She knew that hand; Dad’s big, rough hand, warm as sun-baked bark. He’d pressed it to her head countless times, and she’d puffed her cheeks and scolded, “I won’t grow tall!”

Now it was slick with blood.

There was no warmth at all.

D-dad…?

Philia’s pupils pinched to pinpoints like stars collapsing; her body quaked. Instinct clawed a scream up her throat—

That blood-soaked hand clamped her mouth, iron-fast, stealing all sound.

“Mmph—”

Her mouth filled with rust, tongue tasting storms; words died in iron. She tried to crawl out, but the hand’s strength was desperate, as if his whole body pushed.

There was none of his usual gentleness, only force like a door braced against a flood.

She couldn’t move; she lay trapped, helpless, listening to a sick, wet sound seeping into her ears—

Splurt—splurt—splurt—

Her eyes went wide, red irises reflecting the source of that sound, clear as glass.

Her father slumped by the bed, half-kneeling; a warped, disgusting black hand, like knives bound into a fist, speared into Dad’s chest again and again.

It stabbed, withdrew, stabbed, withdrew—rhythm cold as rain.

Blood spread across the floor, flowed under the bed, pooled at the girl’s bare feet like dark ponds.

Then the girl heard a sound that rattled bone—a noise that crawled like spiders over her skin.

Glug-glug, clack, crackle—

Chewing.

Meat torn from bone, dropped into a mouth, teeth tearing like dogs at flesh.

It sounded exactly like the chicken drumstick she’d eaten at dinner tonight.

Understanding smashed into her like lightning; her face went chalk-white, and she thrashed, frantic.

But… that hand…

Even with its owner dead, it pressed on, relentless, a grave-stone weight.

Her eyes stretched wide, mask of pain and despair; tears brimmed, twin lakes trembling. She cried without sound, like rain behind glass.

—Dad—dad—w-why—why—

And then she heard a voice soft as silk—a voice that gave her deeper despair, sharper [Misfortune].

“Honey, honey…”

—No—no—don’t go—

“Have you found Phil yet?”

—Don’t go! I—I’m under here—

“You’re so silly, honey.”

—No—don’t look for me—

“I told you, she’s under our bed.”

—No—no—don’t—don’t—

“You—”

Splurt—

Her mother’s words cut off like a candle pinched, and with them went the tattered rest of the girl’s heart.

…

“So you get it, right?”

Owen’s breath came rough, eyes locked on Ye Weibai; his face was pale, twisted, like paper crushed in a fist. Red bangs shadowed red irises blazing with hate.

The killing will in him felt solid, a blood-red gleam; it flickered in his pupils like embers, staining the dark with iron light.

“I hate [Monstrosity] more than anything.”

“If I catch a [Monstrosity]—I won’t just kill it—”

“I’ll make it feel what it means to be [eaten], the pain, the despair, the helpless gnawing.”

“Do you understand, Ye?”