The prayer left his lips like a reflex, words tumbling out of his mouth faster than his brain could process them.
"With the speed of lightning's sacred grace, guide my journey, quicken my pace. In this moment, blessed and pure, I seek Your light, my heart secure—Velocity Surge!!!"
He said the incantation although he had no idea how to use the spell but it didn't matter.
He was ready to collide, to slice, to tear through them if he had to. He didn't care about the consequences. Not with her cornered, trembling, small.
But then—
They turned.
One by one, the cultists froze mid-motion, as though some invisible command had called their attention elsewhere. Their bodies shifted, hoods tilting up from her cowering form to Tatsuya.
And then—they bowed.
The fire's glow flickered across their bowed heads, shadows stretching in grotesque patterns on the scorched earth.
Weapons dropped. Each one of them helt a small knife.
Tatsuya's body froze. Almost dropping his katana.
"…What… the hell?"
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. His chest heaved, his sword arm trembled, but the figures didn't rise.
They didn't move against him. Instead, they whispered. A low, sickening hum of words he couldn't fully catch.
The tone, though. He knew it. Worship.
Every instinct screamed to run, to slash, to do something. But his body didn't move. He couldn't. The sight rooted him to the spot.
His heart hammered in his chest—not with adrenaline this time, but with something colder.
Fear.
Why? Why me?
His mind spat out possible answers in a frantic tumble.
Mistaken identity. Coincidence. Madness. Maybe they weren't even seeing him—maybe they were seeing whatever god or demon they prayed to.
But the whispers grew clearer, and he knew. They were saying his name.
"Fukushu-sama…"
His throat closed.
No. No, that wasn't possible.
The smoke pressed heavier against his lungs. The girl's breathing hitched from the corner, who still lay unconscious against the porches fence.
This was simply said a misunderstanding,
he wanted to answer. He wanted to scream that he didn't know, that he wasn't who they thought he was, that he was no one—less than no one.
But no sound came out. His tongue clung uselessly to the roof of his mouth, his throat tight with ash and disbelief.
The cultists rose, slowly, reverently, still facing him. One by one, they withdrew, vanishing into the grey haze of smoke as though dismissed by an unspoken command.
The cabin creaked, grey embers spilling into the snow. The mountain wind carried the last echoes of their chant, like a curse stitched into the air.
And then—silence.
Tatsuya stood frozen, sword trembling in his grip, his pulse drumming in his ears. His knees threatened to buckle under the weight of what he'd just seen.
"…Why?" His voice cracked, barely audible, slipping into the emptiness. "Why me?"
He had run here ready to bleed, ready to throw himself into the fire to save her. And instead—what? The world had bent around him, twisted into some mockery of salvation. He hadn't saved her. He hadn't done anything. They had left because of him.
Not because of his strength. Not because of his choice. Because of something else. Something wrong.
And that thought terrified him more than the fire, more than the cult, more than the smoke that stung his lungs.
Because if the Demon Cult bowed to him—
Then what did that make him?
Tatsuya shook the thought away, there was no time to linger in his thoughts.
He ran over the the blond girl.
Feeling the shallow breaths he tried to wake her up, "hey, wake up!"
Please lord, save her…
Shaking her body gently, her eyelids slowly opened.
Tatsuya led out an relieved breath and moved her body. Her back now resting against the fence.
Her eyes looked tired, her body was fragile and malnourished. Opening her lips slowly Tatsuya noticed how dry they were.
"Why did you leave…. I was so scared…." Tatsuya's eyes winded, he was speechless by her words because they were true but he also heard those words somewhere else.
A distant memory of a someone he once knew. "The demon cult.." she continued, her eyes filling up with tears. "I was so scared. I thought I was going to die."
"Your not." Tatsuya quickly said before she could fall deeper into her own mind.
Grabbing her shoulders gently he looked straight into eyes. They looked detached, abandoned like she had given up on this world.
Tatsuya judged if he had a mirror his eyes would look the same.
"Your save." He said, not knowing the right word to say but he felt like he had to say something. "I'll go and see if they are still around."
He continued to look into her fiery orange eyes, but it didn't appear like she was convinced.
Tatsuya stood up and loosened his grip on her shoulders, feeling a hand shakily grab his arm he stopped.
"Please don't go.." her words barely above a whisper, her high pitched voice reminding Tatsuya again of someone, like a Deja vu that kept haunting you although you'd already seen it.
He lowered his body again. "I'll come back." He responded and gently patted the girls blond hair. "Stay inside, I'll be back by sunset. I promise."
Trying to force a smile to seem genuine he quickly got up, knowing that he couldn't even fool himself.
Part 2
The wooden door creaked behind him as he stepped outside. His breath hit the cold air like smoke from a dying fire, vanishing too quickly. Stefan stood waiting, the faint steam rising from his nostrils mingling with the smoke that still lingered from the burnt cabin walls.
Tatsuya mounted in silence. His body moved automatically, but his mind was a storm. His ears rang with the girls voice—her plea, her fear—overlaying with another. Luna.
Luna? Tatsuya questioned
Her face—half-forgotten, half-burned into him—flashed in his mind. The words that day. The weight of leaving her behind.
The forest blurred around him as Stefan carried him deeper among the trees.
His eyes scanned, sharp, searching for movement, for shadows, for the cult that had knelt to him like he was their master.
Each rustle of leaves put him on edge. Each shifting shadow dragged his thoughts back to the cabin. Back to her.
Why did you leave… I was so scared.
Her voice replayed like a curse, words he couldn't shove back into the grey haze no matter how hard he tried.
And then the thought came. The same thought that had broken him once before: I could leave her behind.
If he left now—rode Stefan far into the mountain paths, never looked back. Just like he had after Luna.
But the memory twisted, cracked, and bled inside him.
Luna's voice. Her hand slipping away. His promise undone. His cowardice raw.
His chest tightened, but he pressed on. That was what he did, wasn't it? Move forward, leave things behind, pretend it was for the best.
But…
His mind replayed it again. That pleading tone, those orange eyes dulled with fear. A mirror of the same look he'd once ignored.
—Luna.
His throat locked. The memory was there, sharp and merciless, stabbing through the grey haze he'd wrapped himself in.
Back then, he told himself distance was kindness. That cutting himself away was protection. That disappearing was the only way to save her from himself.
And yet, in the end, what did he save? Who did he protect?
The truth was simple, cruel, undeniable.
He hadn't protected anyone. He'd abandoned her.
If he left now—if he walked away from that girl in the cabin—then what? Another Luna. Another set of eyes haunting him. Another scar gouged into his soul.
The haze inside him trembled.
He didn't want to repeat it.
He didn't want to be selfish again.
He didn't want to watch someone else suffer just because he'd decided his own misery was more important.
And maybe—just maybe—if he stayed this time, if he chose differently, then he could tell himself he wasn't the monster his guilt insisted he was. Maybe he could convince himself, even for a fleeting moment, that he was capable of being good.
The realization hit him all at once, heavy and suffocating.
He stopped Stefan, chest heaving in the still air. His grip on the reins was tight enough to hurt.
"…Not again," he whispered, the words tearing out like a broken oath.
The choice hung before him like a blade: abandon her like he always did, or—stay.
His heart twisted. His lungs ached. The world around him was still ash-grey. But for the first time since Shiloh, he couldn't run.
He turned Stefan back toward the cabin.
This time—
He would stay.
Part 3
Paul's house came back into view through the thinning trees. Once a place of reluctant refuge, now pressed against his chest like a burden he chose to carry.
He dismounted Stefan, the leather reins slipping from his fingers as though his body moved slower than his thoughts. Each step toward the door replayed the same refrain:
I won't repeat it. Not again. Not like Luna.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the girl stirred from her curled position against the wall. The faint crackle of embers in the hearth threw weak shadows across her figure—frail, exhausted, yet stubbornly awake.
Golden hair, dulled by dirt and the mountain winds, caught the firelight in fractured glimmers. Not the flawless brilliance of molten flame, but the tired shimmer of something once radiant, now dimmed by hunger and dust.
Her eyes, however—amber burning with a quiet, unyielding light—were impossible to dismiss. They didn't blaze like a storm. They lingered, steady, like embers refusing to die out.
Twin horns curved above her head, not polished or proud, but chipped, worn, and scarred—marks of hardship that made her seem both dangerous and terribly fragile at once.
The white tunic she wore was frayed at the seams, scarlet cords loose where they should have bound.
A cloak, more dust than gold, hung unevenly from her shoulders, its jewel dulled to a faint, uncertain pulse. Her boots and stockings, meant once for grace, now bore the stubborn scratches of someone who had walked too far, with nothing left to carry her but will.
She looked as though she belonged nowhere—caught between survival and collapse, serenity and ruin.
Her eyes flicked up the moment he entered. For an instant, he thought they'd pierce straight through him.
He exhaled, forcing his voice steady. "…They're gone. I couldn't find any of the cult members. The forest is clear."
It wasn't entirely a lie. It wasn't entirely the truth either. But if it let her breathe, even for tonight, then the words were worth it.
He crouched beside her, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Her lips parted slightly, dry and pale.
"What's your name?" he asked, the words surprising even himself.
She blinked, almost as though the question didn't belong in her world. Then, with a rasping breath, she answered.
"…Meki… Fortuna."
Tatsuya repeated it silently in his head, letting the syllables settle into place. A name was proof, wasn't it? Proof that she was more than just another shadow in his haze.
"Meki," he said, testing the sound aloud. Then, softer, "…Go to sleep. You need it."
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. But before they closed, she held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, as though measuring the truth of his words.
Tatsuya looked away first.
He adjusted the blanket around her thin shoulders, his hands lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. Then, pulling back, he settled against the far wall of the cabin.
His thoughts whispered in the silence.
I couldn't save the others. But this time—this time, I'll stay.
Part 4
The first hint of dawn seeped through the cabin's narrow window, brushing the rough wooden walls with a pale, hesitant light.
Outside, the world remained gray, muted under a sky that seemed unwilling to commit to day or night.
Across the room, a small figure stirred. Meki.
Tatsuya watched her, He hadn't dared speak yet. Not a word. He hadn't reached for her blanket or tried to rouse her with food.
He reminded himself with a hollow sort of relief, might be the most difficult thing in the world.
Her eyes—alert, wary, and sharp as broken glass—darted toward the corner where she had curled herself into a tight, trembling ball.
She flinched at every minor sound: the creak of the floorboards beneath Tatsuya's careful step, the faint snap of a log in the fire, even the hiss of steam rising from a pot of water.
And she probably should have fled. Anyone in her position would have.
Tatsuya didn't breathe too loudly. He didn't make any sudden movements. Every action, from stirring the pot to adjusting the fire, was slow, deliberate.
He was painfully aware of the space between them, the invisible wall that she had built and that he would never dare force.
Don't do anything wrong, he reminded himself. Don't startle her. Don't…
He stopped mid-thought. Words were useless here. Silence was the only language she would understand.
The world outside continued its gray monotony, the muted sun failing to pierce the cold light that hung over the forest. Even the firelight seemed subdued.
Meki's ears flicked, a subtle movement that betrayed her focus. Her pupils tracked every motion he made, every measured breath.
There was a sharpness in her gaze, as if she could dissect his intentions and expose them to light.
She flinched when he shifted slightly, when the blanket rustled beneath him.
And yet… nothing happened.
Her mind whirled with suspicion, each thought a knot tightening around her chest.
Why isn't he… hurting me? That shouldn't have been possible. Everyone, every single person she had encountered before—teachers, villagers, strangers—had eventually shown their teeth.
Pain had been inevitable. Fear had been constant. She had learned that safety was an illusion, and that trust was a luxury she could never afford.
And yet, here he was. Not moving toward her, not speaking. Not demanding anything. Not hurting her.
It was… strange. Alien. Surprising.
Meki's body remained coiled, but her hands, small and trembling, relaxed slightly as she inched her fingers toward the edge of the blanket she had used to hide herself.
She wasn't ready to fully expose herself yet—far from it—but the smallest gap of curiosity had opened. The faintest question flickered in her chest: Could this… be safe?
Tatsuya noticed it. Barely. A flicker of movement, almost imperceptible, a shadow against the muted light. And it sent a faint pulse of hope—or maybe guilt—through his chest.
One step at a time. That's all I need, he told himself. He could feel the grayness pressing in, the memory haze that dulled the world around him, but he forced himself to focus. Small gestures.
No words. That was enough, for now.
He moved slowly to the side of the cabin, adjusting the fire to burn steadier. Sparks drifted upward, dancing like tiny, hesitant spirits, and he couldn't help but glance toward her again.
She hadn't moved, not really. She was still tense, still coiled like a spring, but she hadn't fled. And that… that was a small victory.
Her eyes followed his every movement, assessing, calculating, judging. And when he finally set a bowl of porridge near the edge of the bed—far enough to respect her space, close enough to offer sustenance—she flinched at the sight of it.
Suspicion warred with hunger, and for a moment, she simply stared, frozen.
He didn't—he didn't do anything to me last night, she thought, the realization cutting through her internal haze like a knife.
Her shoulders tensed, but not in flight. In disbelief. Her mind recoiled, as though it were impossible to trust that the world could contain even a single person who wouldn't hurt her.
And yet… he hadn't.
A shallow, trembling breath escaped her lips. Why… why didn't he?
Tatsuya's internal thoughts were a jumble of anxiety and relief. He knew the look she was giving him.
He had seen it before, he only had to look in the mirror.
He understood it perfectly, because he carried his own walls, his own self-loathing, his own gray haze.
I can't make her trust me… but I can make her see I'm not a threat, he reminded himself. That's all. One small step.
Meki inched closer to the porridge, but not without retreating when he shifted slightly.
She tested him. Not with words, not with actions, but with observation—tiny, precise movements, watching for any hint of threat.
Her muscles tensed with every breath he took, ready to spring away, ready to defend herself if necessary.
Tatsuya noticed, silently congratulating himself. Carefully, doing what needed to be done.
The day stretched on, a gray monotony punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of wind against the cabin walls.
She stayed in her corner, eyes flicking toward him, studying him, observing.
By midday, she had inched closer—no more than a few steps, but closer nonetheless. Her body remained coiled, her hands tight in small fists, but her curiosity, tiny and fragile, had begun to outweigh her fear.
And still, no words were exchanged. None were necessary. Trust, she realized, wasn't given in a moment. It was observed, measured, and accumulated over hours of careful actions.
Tatsuya watched her, heart heavy with guilt for all the mistakes he had made, for all the times he had failed to protect others.
He wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say that wouldn't startle her, offend her, or betray the fragile balance they were beginning to form?
He simply nodded to himself, a silent affirmation of patience. Because that was the way he wanted to be treated, not that Paul did a bad job of gaining Tatsuya's trust but he wanted Meki to not feel afraid.
Evening fell. The fire's glow seemed to dim, though he made sure it burned steadily, for her.
She sat a few steps away, still wary, still tense—but closer than she had been in the morning.
For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to notice the faint warmth of the fire on her skin, the subtle comfort of the cabin, and the fact that he had done nothing but allow her space to breathe.
And though she wouldn't admit it, not to herself or to him, that warmth was a small, trembling thread of trust.
Tatsuya exhaled quietly, feeling the smallest weight lift from his chest. One step. That was all he had asked. One small step toward a fragile connection, a tenuous bond built on patience, observation, and the slow, careful erosion of fear.
And as the night crept closer, she dared—just barely—to watch him without flinching.
For the first time since she had opened her eyes in this cabin, she allowed herself a small, silent thought: Maybe… maybe he isn't like the others.