Bang!

At Owen’s home.

At the moment Ye Weibai utterly slew the black-robed woman—

“Aaaah!”

The sleeping girl ripped into a scream, pain like a blade tearing her dream-silk.

Owen leaned in, worry surging like a storm—then blood burst across his face like sprayed paint.

Philia’s left chest detonated, a crimson flower exploding into shards.

A pale thread drifted up, riding shreds of flesh like snow in a gale.

It dissolved midair into powder, ash blown by an unseen wind.

“It really… happened.” Owen drew a long breath, steadying his storm-tossed heart.

If that man spoke true… then what comes next—his nerves braced like a tree in hail.

Hands shaking, Owen drew out a red Demon Core, a smoldering ember of a heart.

It carried Ye Weibai’s scent; smaller, like his Demon Core split into twins and halved.

Hunger clawed at him; he fought it, and set the core gently into the crater in her chest.

The red Demon Core pulsed with breath-like crimson light, a lantern heartbeat.

In the next heartbeat, her ash-gray face twitched, death retreating like fog.

Her chest wound squirmed; blood and flesh reeled back on invisible threads.

With a breath, the blast seemed a mirage; her wound sealed, embracing the core like roots around a seed.

Her color faded; sleep took her like a tide, yet life clung like a warm ember.

“...”

Owen’s face held no joy; sorrow hung on him like mist that wouldn’t lift.

Hands trembling, he stroked his sister’s hair, gentleness flowing like water.

“Thinking it through… it’s been half a year. That’s enough.” His voice settled like snow.

“Then… let’s begin.” His words slid free like a blade from a sheath.

…

After dinner.

In the living room.

“B—Brother, how… was it? Tasty?” Philia smiled, eyes bright as stars.

Owen looked pale, mouth twitching. “How to put it… it tasted… curious,” he said, like rain on iron.

She puffed her cheeks, indignation blooming like cherry petals. “So long without my cooking, and it’s just ‘curious’?”

Wryness pricked him like a thorn. For a Monstrosity eating human food, “curious” was praise; not spitting it out took iron self-control.

He gave a small laugh, dodging the moment like a fish. “By the way, Philia, remember the question I asked?”

“Mm? Wh—what?”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” His voice was soft as evening.

“Be… what?”

As a child, her focus fluttered like a butterfly; she cupped her chin, thought, then brightened. “I… want to be—a lady knight!”

“...A lady knight?” A ripple of surprise crossed Owen.

“Y—yes! In our lesson, I saw her—long sword in hand, gleaming armor on her— isn’t that super cool?” Her words darted like sparrows.

She turned to him, excitement flowing; colors swam in her eyes like festival lanterns.

That glow dazzled, brimming with hope and tomorrow, like dawn pouring over mountains.

Owen found it blinding, like staring into the sun of youth.

“A lady knight… upholding justice, slaying Monstrosities…” he murmured, words drifting like petals.

“Mm, mm-hmm!” She hopped down, swinging invisible blades, quick as fireflies.

Her red hair flew; her small body leapt, lively as a fox on snow.

“B—Brother! How is it?” Philia asked, cheeks pink as peaches.

Gazing at her, Owen’s mouth curved, a warm-water smile. “Very cool.”

“Heh… hehe…” She giggled, then a sly smile curled like a cat’s tail.

“Take this!”

She leapt, both hands in sword grip, chopping toward his head like a falling axe.

“Sc—scared you, right?” Joy bubbled like soda.

Pale, red eyes shading like embers, Owen smiled softly. “For a moment I thought I’d actually… be killed.”

“...”

His ill-timed words froze her smile like frost on glass.

Her smile thinned; she stammered, “Wh—what—death? Don’t… say stuff like that!”

On other days, Owen would drop everything, shelter her like a bird shielding a chick.

This time, he didn’t; resolve stood like stone in rain.

He just watched her, then smiled, voice soft as mist. “Philia.”

“Wh—what?”

“Let’s play a game,” he said, like offering a kite.

“Hm?”

At “game,” her mood lifted like birds; she held his knees, bouncing. “Wh—what game?”

Owen looked at her, eyes drifting like boats on a river of memory.

Deep and wistful, like autumn wind through old pines.

“We’ll play…” His voice was cloud-soft. “Hide-and-seek.”

“Are you hiding yet?”

“N—not yet~”

“So slow.”

“W—wait a bit~”

Laughing, she ran, mind scattering sparks, hunting a perfect hiding spot.

The yard? No; too small, like a birdcage.

Her room? He’d guess in a blink, like reading a cover.

The kitchen? Nowhere to hide; cupboards like barren cliffs.

Hm… the house was small, hiding places thin as mist.

She hurried room to room, worry fluttering like moths; nowhere felt right.

“Ah!” She stumbled, almost fell, balance cracking like a twig.

The stumble sent her hand to a door, dusty as old books; it pushed open.

Huh? A room here? Why don’t I remember? Doubt pooled like water.

She stood, ready to enter. At the threshold, a chill swept her, freezing her step like winter.

Don’t. Don’t go in! The whisper slid along her skin like knives of ice.

“Wh—who’s talking?” The voice brushed her ear like cold silk.

She glanced around, fear rising like smoke, yet saw nothing.

It’s my house! What’s there to fear? Bravery tried to bloom like a stubborn flower.

It’s so hidden; Brother won’t guess. I’ll hide here. Her resolve sat like a pebble.

She steeled herself and stepped into the dark, courage a lantern in her chest.

No electric light; moonlight sketched the room like silver ink.

A bed, a wardrobe, a table—plain as bread, nothing special.

A guest room? I’ve never seen it… strange. The thought drifted like fog.

It’s pitch-black, great for hiding… but… unease rustled like dead leaves.

A voice kept whispering: Go! Leave! Don’t stay! It beat like raven wings.

A ghost? The idea crawled like ice down her spine.

She shivered; her decision tilted like a reed. Don’t hide here.

As she turned to leave, Owen’s voice flowed from the living room like a bell.

“I’m coming to find you, Philia.” His tone was warm, like tea steam.

Panic flared like sparks: If I go out now, he’ll see me!

Philia startled; anxiety spun her in circles, eyes skimming like swallows.

“I’m coming; hide well,” he called, words pattering like rain.

Footsteps drew closer, drumbeats marching; she bit her lip, resolve knotting tight.

Forget it! I’ll hide here! The choice fell like a stone.

She slid under the bed, quick as a fox into a burrow.

“Hmm? Where are you? Good hiding,” he teased, voice like a cat’s purr.

His voice circled outside, skipping the room; she muffled a giggle, joy fluttering like silk.

Silly brother! The thought sparkled like a firefly.

“Oh? This door’s open.” Surprise rippled like a pebble in water.

His steps approached, shadows stretching like vines.

Click. Owen entered and lit the oil lamp, flame blooming like a flower.

Darkness fled; light swayed, his shadow dancing like reeds.

“Not hiding in here, are you?” he chuckled, laughter soft as rain.

Under the bed, red-haired, red-eyed Philia curled, holding her breath, laughter trembling like a trapped bird.

Huh? No sound? Did he leave? Hope rose like steam.

She peered out, watching his feet like a hunter through grass.

One glance, and shock snapped like a trap; he was already at the bedside.

She understood at once: found, and teased, like a cub caught mid-play.

She readied a squeal and a dash, energy popping like corn.

Suddenly, she saw another pair of “feet” behind him, and froze, mind icing over.

What… is that? The question hung like smoke.

Her eyes hurt; crouching too long? Vision wavered like heat haze.

Those feet… seemed to change, morphing like shadows.

At times feet; at times claws—huge, black, veined, twisted, ugly as roots.

Those feet—like—memory stirred like mud.

Suddenly, her heart pounded, drums slamming like thunder.

So loud the whole World could hear, an echo of storm bells.

She didn’t notice; she stared, one seed thought sprouting: this scene… familiar, an old dream waking.

But—when? When? The questions pecked like crows.

A night like this, in this room, a memory lantern flickering.

Also hide-and-seek, laughter like wind under eaves.

Me, giggling under the bed, and… who?

…With your father and mother.

Boom!

A deep-water charge exploded in her head, shockwaves tearing like tides.

Memory shards, blade-sharp, churned her mind; she almost screamed, pain slicing like hail.

Blood, meat froth, tearing, chewing—the images gnawed like rats.

Agony surged, black waves roaring; she drowned in a breath.

No, no, no! Don’t! Don’t remember! Fear clawed like thorns.

Why not?! Why forget?! What did I forget?! Her mind spun like leaves.

I forgot… I forgot… The words frayed like broken strings.

Splat!

“Eh?”

Her pupils pinpricked; hand shaking, she touched the wet on her face, shock cold as ice.

Sticky… this feeling… familiar, like syrup turned to rust.

It’s blood. The thought dropped like a stone.

Why blood? Am I hurt, or is it from outside? Questions scurried like mice.

Suddenly, a huge shadow covered her face, darkness sliding like a curtain.

Owen knelt, blocking all light; his form loomed like a cliff.

But… why kneel? To find me? Hope flickered like a candle.

Splat!

“No—” She trembled, staring out; a purple claw speared Owen’s chest, almost kissing her cheek, terror frosting her skin.

Instinct surged; her scream rose like steam.

In the next blink, a blood-slick hand clamped her face, strangling the cry like a rope.

She knew that hand; it had stroked her head softly, and now felt rough, like bark.

It was all blood, warm as spilled wine.

Not warm at all; the touch chilled like river water.

B—Brother…?

Why! Why… why?! Her heart clawed like a trapped animal.

Her body shook; her pupils quivered; something glassy pressed to fall, tears gathering like dew.

But she couldn’t cry. The sobs locked, stuck like stones.

No! Don’t cry! Smile! Smile! The command crackled like iron.

Why? Why not cry? Why smile? The questions spiraled like smoke.

Because… if you cry, it will…

What will happen?! Tell me! If I can’t cry, what can I do?! Tell me! Her mind wailed like wind through ruins.

A purple fingertip traced on the floor, lines curling like snakes.

Maybe that's because—like a blade that sharpens on its own—

Hard truth is, you can only save yourself—like a lone skiff mending its sail in the rain.

...

...

End of this volume.