Several pairs of innocent eyes stared at me with undisguised curiosity. The two boys who had been running around and shoving each other moments ago now approached with hesitant steps, their earlier energy subdued. A little girl followed behind them, clutching a worn-out doll to her chest; one of the doll's eyes was nearly falling off, hanging loosely by a few threads. They stopped a few steps away from me, maintaining a careful distance born from lessons learned through experience rather than mere caution.
"Excuse me, sir, who are you looking for?" one of the boys asked. His voice was careful yet polite, like a child accustomed to speaking to unfamiliar adults.
I kept my expression calm—neither overly friendly, which might invite suspicion, nor too stiff, which might frighten them. I softened my gaze just slightly, enough to show that I had not come with ill intentions.
"I have some business with the caretaker of this orphanage. Could you please call the caretaker for me? I would like to speak with them," I replied slowly, deliberately keeping my voice low and steady.
They exchanged glances, as if holding a silent conversation between themselves. After a brief pause, one of the boys gave a small nod. Without asking further questions, he turned and ran back into the building, his sandals slapping sharply against the tiled floor of the veranda.
The others returned to their play, though their movements were no longer as carefree as before. From time to time, they cast curious glances in my direction, their questions clearly unanswered.
Not long after, the main door opened.
Yukina stepped outside with quick yet composed strides, maintaining her authority in front of the children. Her hair was neatly tied back, though a few thin strands had escaped and swayed gently in the breeze.
Her face looked slightly tired—perhaps from lack of sleep or the weight of countless responsibilities—but the faint smile she always wore still gave her a warm impression. She stopped a few steps away from me, preserving a professional distance.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Yukina asked, her eyebrows lifting slightly, curiosity clearly reflected in her eyes.
I explained briefly that I had come to deliver something on behalf of someone. I chose my words carefully, ensuring there were no unnecessary details.
We spoke for several minutes in the yard, long enough to make sure none of the children were standing too close or listening to our conversation. Once she felt the situation was secure, Yukina invited me inside.
The atmosphere inside the building was far quieter. The air carried the scent of damp old wood, mixed with the aroma of simple cooking—perhaps soup or sautéed vegetables—drifting in from the kitchen at the back.
Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating the small living room. The walls were decorated with children's drawings: an orange sun, a small house with smoke rising from its chimney, and stick-figure families with exaggerated smiles.
We sat facing each other on wooden chairs whose backrests had grown slightly worn with time. Between us stood a small table, its surface faintly scratched.
I placed a small bag on top of the table. The sound of the zipper echoed clearly in the otherwise quiet room.
"This is a donation," I said softly.
Yukina's brows furrowed faintly as she carefully opened the bag. The moment she saw what was inside, her breath caught. Her eyes widened briefly before she tried to compose herself. Her hands trembled slightly as she counted quickly, making sure what she was seeing was not a mistake.
"The total amount is around ten million yen," I added, ensuring there would be no misunderstanding.
"Ten million yen…?" Yukina's voice was nearly a whisper, as if she feared the number might vanish if spoken too loudly.
Although the orphanage received funding from the government, they still relied on donations from various sources to cover additional needs—facility repairs, new books, winter clothing, or sudden medical expenses. However, an amount this large was clearly far from ordinary.
As someone who currently lived in this place, I understood very well how donations usually came. Most of the time, they arrived as thin envelopes from generous individuals, or as small bundles of goods sent by local community groups. Government funding was enough to cover basic necessities, but it rarely left any room for comfort, let alone improvement.
It was no wonder Yukina looked stunned. Behind her surprise, I could almost see the rapid calculations forming in her mind—how many beds could be replaced, how many leaking sections of the roof could finally be repaired, how many children could receive new school supplies instead of relying on worn hand-me-downs.
"Who donated this?" Yukina finally asked, looking at me with a mixture of sincere gratitude and confusion she could not quite conceal.
From the very beginning, I had made it clear that I was merely an intermediary. My role was to deliver, not to elaborate. So when the question eventually left Yukina's lips, my answer did not change in the slightest.
"The donor wishes to remain anonymous," I said calmly, without hesitation.
Yukina held my gaze for a few seconds longer, as if trying to read something hidden behind my expression. There was a restrained urge in her eyes, a desire to press further that she ultimately held back.
Perhaps she hoped for at least a small hint—whether the benefactor was a company, a former resident of the orphanage, or a long-time supporter who had been helping quietly all these years.
But I remained consistent. The donor's identity was not meant to be revealed. It would be far too strange if I admitted that the benefactor was me—an orphan currently living here, who now happened to possess sufficient funds after selling Cursed Tools. An explanation like that would not only be difficult to believe, it would also invite far too many unnecessary questions.
A thin silence lingered between us before Yukina finally let out a soft sigh, accepting the boundary she could not cross.
"All right… please convey our gratitude. This will truly help the children," Yukina said with a polite smile, this time carrying a deeper sense of respect.
I gave a brief nod. There was nothing more to discuss. The matter was concluded cleanly.
After saying my goodbyes, I stepped out of the building. The midday sunlight felt slightly warmer than before. The sounds of children drifted across the yard once more, as though our conversation had never taken place. I passed through the iron gate, which creaked softly, and set foot on the sidewalk.
With my adult appearance—black hair, an ordinary face that was neither particularly handsome nor unpleasant—I blended into the crowd of Akiruno City without difficulty. This small city was not as crowded as a metropolitan center, yet it was far from lifeless.
Grocery stores stood side by side with modest eateries. Bicycles were neatly parked in front of a convenience store. A mother pushed a stroller along the pavement, while two uniformed students walked across the street, laughing at some shared joke.
I would be living in this city for several years.
Because of that, I needed to understand it well—not just its surface, but also the invisible currents flowing beneath its everyday rhythm.
With my control over Cursed Energy now far more stable, I focused my inner senses. My awareness expanded slowly, like ripples spreading across the surface of a still lake. Faint waves of energy vibrating in the air began to form a rough map within my mind.
I could sense the presence of Cursed Spirits scattered around the city. Not many. They were spread thinly, with small clusters gathering in places where negative emotions were denser—a narrow alley behind a small bar, a poorly maintained corner of a park, and an abandoned building that carried a heavy, somber atmosphere.
There was no major threat for now. That was reassuring.
Beyond mapping the presence of Cursed Spirits, I also observed buildings that might serve as a temporary base.
An empty warehouse near the old railway tracks. An aging house with a rusted fence that seemed rarely inhabited. A secluded area on the outskirts of town that attracted no attention at all.
I stored each of those possibilities carefully in my memory.
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