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**There Is Only One Existence in This World That Deserves Absolute Forgiveness—The Little Girl**

—By Buyeer, *Pandora of the Red Shell*

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Yahara Town—a quaint and picturesque village. It was a place of vibrant, sun-drenched fields of summer crops, flourishing in their prime during the height of the growing season. But just as the earth thrummed with an almost uncontainable energy, so too did another species of beings thrive in such an environment—those notorious little demons of rural life.

Yes, I’m talking about a particularly feared class of organism: Rural Brats.

Now, let’s clear up a common misconception—Japan’s countryside is far from "impoverished" or "backward." Many farms in these parts are surprisingly affluent, their earnings rivaling or even surpassing those of city dwellers. Still, the notion of brats running rampant in a rural town may seem like a relic of the past, but let me assure you, that phenomenon is alive and well.

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead as I trudged along the searing asphalt of the road leading to town. Summer’s relentless heat was putting the full force of its fiery determination on display. And what was I doing, braving this inferno? Not for leisure or entertainment, that’s for sure.

I just wanted to buy something, for heaven’s sake. That’s the curse of living in a Sacred Shrine up on a near-abandoned mountain; the nearest convenience store is an entire trek away, down to the valley.

As my feet thudded against the roasting road and my shirt clung miserably to my back, drenched with sweat, I could feel the weight of despair gnawing at the corners of my soul.

Why did I have to live up on some forgotten mountain shrine anyhow? What was so great about that place?! No A/C, for starters! Cold comfort from the old man who refuses to install it because, according to him, "A Sacred Shrine doesn’t need such worldly luxuries."

Oh yeah? If that’s the case, then why don’t you stop using the fridge, the water heater, and the rice cooker while you’re at it?! Why deny me a blasted air conditioner?!

It wasn’t like I was asking for the moon and stars either. All I wanted was a cold drink in this godforsaken heat! Sure, I’d considered stocking up on them only to store them in the fridge back at the shrine, but the sweltering hike was so long they’d melt before I even got there!

"But you could just grab some bottled drinks, couldn’t you?" you might ask. Sure, I could... If only I didn’t have my *self-righteous grandma* pouring out anything she deems a "garbage beverage" the moment I stash it in the fridge!

So yep, here I was—a parched soul in desperate search of refreshment, condemned once again to brave the oven of the world. Mineral water, you suggest? Please. I’d rather drink the natural spring water back up in this mountainside prison than that tasteless excuse for a refreshment.

As the outline of the little town grew nearer, I couldn’t help but sigh. And then I took my next step—straight into trouble.

Out of nowhere, a group of children suddenly emerged like wraiths from behind walls and fences lining the nearby houses, surrounding me in one swift, coordinated move.

In a heartbeat, I became keenly aware of several school-aged girls armed with sticks and branches leveling their makeshift weapons at me, hostility glowing bright in their eyes. Familiar hostility, at that—this was far from the first time I’d been cornered.

You see, not every little girl fits the typical image of a gentle, obedient child. Some are just outright brats—tenacious terrors armed with more energy than sense. Many adults like to wax philosophical, claiming children are innocent, pure beings. But they overlook one inescapable truth.

Destruction is the most primal instinct of the human soul. People might act like civilized creatures, tamed by the laws and codes of society, but that undercurrent of chaos churns on—raw, unfiltered, instinctive. And children? Vulnerable to its sway in ways we adults can scarcely fathom. They are terrors in their prime before they’ve learned to value life and understand death.

For little girls like this, my existence was a gift-wrapped opportunity. I wasn’t just another target—I was *the* target as far as they were concerned. The weird boy from the mountaintop shrine who had all the social grace of an elderly man trapped in a child’s body. To them, I was an irresistible lure, their ticket to an afternoon of gleeful mayhem.

"Now we’ve got you trapped, Rebel General. Let’s see you fight outta this!"

That smug declaration came from the self-proclaimed Wind King, one of the so-called Four Heavenly Kings who served the infamous Great Demon King of their schoolyard clique. Naturally, I had no idea what her real name was. Not like I’d ask. All I knew about the alleged Great Demon King was that she was older than these little gremlins, probably a middle schooler by now. I think her last name was Takanashi or something? Could be wrong.

Gotta admit though, the act was impressive. The odds had been stacked, the troops were assembled around me—completely in line with their overly dramatized yet undeniably effective battle plans.

"They’re *playing* me," I realized with an inward sigh. Gotta love kids getting their script straight out of cheesy Saturday morning superhero shows. Stil, how to get out of this one? Looking around again—no sign of Nishi or the others. Guess they got ambushed too. Typical.

"You can stop waiting for those boys of yours! They’ve been captured by my sisters! No one’s coming to save you!" The so-called Wind King announced with a triumphant shriek. It was a good impression of a warlord, for a ten-year-old.

"And what if I was?" I shot back, throwing careful disdain into each syllable.

"Hah! You really think you can take us all down by yourself, coward?!"

Defiance flickered in her voice as she leveled her stick at me. I stared for a moment before sighing heavily and didn’t even bother to conceal the mockery in my tone.

"Believe what you want; I don’t expect kids to understand."

"Are you so full of yourself that you don’t recognize when you’re outmatched?!"

From behind me came another shrill voice, full of indignation at my audacious retort.

"No, no—not at all…" I replied, taking my time to make eye contact with each of them as my hands casually remained in my pockets. "You’re misunderstanding entirely. I’m not looking down on you. I’m saying…" A grin crept across my face as I leaned in slightly.

*"...All of you are garbage."*

In an instant, the thunder of outrage erupted. Fury twisted those cherubic faces as swords—well, sticks—and lances—oh, those flimsy branches—were raised high.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!"

I had them right where I wanted them. With my Disney villain levels of smugness intact, I waited for the fiery chaos to unfold, relishing the brief moment of silence before the storm.

Plot twist—I came prepared.

As they surged toward me like a furious pink-tinted tornado, I whipped my hands out of my pockets. Two dollar-store plastic water guns were gripped tightly in my grasp, their triggers itching to unleash watery vengeance.

*“Splash, splash, splash!”* Jets of water shot into their faces with laser accuracy. Screeches erupted as they were caught off guard mid-attack, temporarily blinded by the stinging little streams.

"Arghh! You sneaky coward!"

"Funny, coming from you!" I smirked, raising one of my water pistols to my lips and letting out a victorious whistle.

While their tiny hands fumbled to wipe the water from their eyes, I bolted, a whirlwind of audacity as I broke through their defensive lines.

"See ya later, little ladies! Try and catch me next time!"

I twirled my weapons triumphantly before sliding them back into my shorts. My feet pumped furiously as I dashed down the road toward town, the sweltering humidity only barely registering in the rush of adrenaline.

"Get him!" Wind King shrieked, her tiny fist raised dramatically.

"We can’t let him get away again!" Her underlings echoed in furious unison as they scrambled after me.

I could practically hear their stomping feet as I sprinted toward the convenience store, my sanctuary. I had to hand it to these brats—they couldn’t be outdone in dogged persistence. Everyone else’s parents were surely too busy working to keep tabs on their activities, leaving these little hellions free to wreak havoc unchecked.

Some guys might fantasize about being chased by a mob of cute little girls through a rural hamlet. Some guys might think this whole situation is somehow funny or endearing.

Yeah. *Some guys.*

Not me, though. Because I’m not... you know, *a certain type of guy*. Let’s just say I prefer not to dwell on that kind of thing, alright?

Actually, I’ve mostly resigned myself to the fact that winning over this particular group of rabid elementary schoolers is as likely as building a highway straight to the moon. They’re like an unholy alliance of chaos and bad ideas. You can’t reason with them anymore than you can reason with a summer thunderstorm.

For now, I suppose I’ll just keep surviving them one day at a time. After all, outsmarting them isn't hard—I’ve stored a stash of tricks up my sleeve for just such occasions. Like these "pop bombs" I rigged up with salt packets and baking soda. Sprinkle in a little creepy war cry, toss one at the right moment, and voilà—instant chaos.

And let’s not forget the real showstopper: my small pouches of wasabi and pepper powder. A strategic toss of that stuff could turn even the most unrelenting brat into a sniveling mess.

So go ahead. Let the tempest rage on. I’m ready for whatever these pint-sized hooligans throw at me!