Hera was living a surprisingly peaceful life in a small rural village.
Although the village itself was poor and modest, its people were warm-hearted and welcoming. Once they became accustomed to Hera, they often greeted her while working in the fields or gathering crops.
Even when Hera occasionally used unfamiliar terms like "Monjushiro" or "Chandora," no one paid it any mind.
She was simply an outsider. A stranger from another place. That alone explained everything.
The village was mostly populated by the elderly and children. The younger generation had left to work elsewhere, leaving the settlement quiet and aging.
Yoshio's parents were no exception to this reality.
At night, Yoshio would often cling to Hera, asking her to tell stories about the outside world.
To the villagers, Yoshio was only eight years old just a child. No one found anything strange about him sleeping beside her.
Because that was all it was. A child seeking comfort.
Nothing more.
Hera lay beside him, gently patting his back in imitation of human caretaking, attempting to lull him to sleep.
"The outside world… I don't really know much about it. There are so many things I've never seen before."
Yoshio tilted his round face upward.
"Then… Sister Hera, where is your home?"
Hera paused for a long moment.
"Home…" she repeated softly. "I don't have something like that. I don't have family either."
Later, the elderly woman who had taken Hera in learned fragments of her past.
A child she once had… had been taken from her.
The old woman wept upon hearing it, and soon the other elderly women of the village joined in sympathy.
Such a tragic life. So young, yet already carrying such loss.
In rural villages of this era, rumors and interpretations often grew beyond reality, shaped by empathy rather than truth.
And so Hera was simply accepted as a "poor girl who had lost everything."
No one questioned further.
Occasionally, however, outsiders would arrive.
Bandits.
Not swordsmen. Not trained warriors. Just violent men who preyed on weak villages.
That day, they came again.
Their leader was a man named Ishidajima, known for leading raids in nearby settlements.
"Boss, look over there."
One of the men pointed toward Hera, who was helping in the fields.
The moment they saw her, their expressions shifted instantly.
The villagers around them froze in fear.
The elderly woman quickly grabbed Hera's hand.
"Run," she whispered.
But Ishidajima stepped forward.
Too late.
He shoved the elderly man aside.
"What do you want?" the old woman shouted, shielding Hera. "You parasites will go to hell for this!"
Ishidajima scoffed.
"Old woman, don't get in the way."
He raised his hand to strike.
But the blow never landed.
Hera had already moved.
She pulled the old woman back in one smooth motion.
"Danger detected," she said quietly. "Intruders."
Ishidajima clicked his tongue.
"Shut up."
He reached out toward Hera.
The next moment
A sharp crack echoed through the field.
Ishidajima screamed and fell backward, clutching his hand.
His wrist had been cut open by a single motion.
The weapon had not been a blade.
Just a thin wooden branch.
But in Hera's hands, it had been executed with precision resembling a breathing form.
The villagers froze.
That stance… that movement…
It resembled
Breath of the Moon.
But it was not truly Moon Breathing.
It was imitation. Pure instinct shaped by memory.
The bandits hesitated.
Then panic set in.
"Get her!" Ishidajima roared.
The men charged with rusted swords and improvised weapons.
The villagers tried to intervene with farming tools but they were no match.
Hera moved.
Not violently.
Efficiently.
A single sweeping motion scattered them.
The rhythm of her movements resembled a technique never meant for human use.
In an instant, the attackers collapsed or fled.
Only Ishidajima remained, glaring through pain and rage.
But even he understood.
He was not dealing with a normal girl.
And so he fled.
The village slowly gathered around Hera afterward.
Not in fear but in awe.
Yoshio watched from behind, surrounded by admiring children, his chest swelling with pride.
"She's amazing… Sister Hera is amazing…"
For the first time, Hera experienced something unfamiliar.
Acceptance.
Belonging.
Warmth.
And within her… the deeper directive embedded in her very cells began to weaken.
The command to "hunt" blurred.
The instinct to "consume" dulled.
For the first time since her creation
She hesitated.
That night, as she sat alone near the house, Yoshio's voice echoed behind her.
"Sister Hera! Dinner is ready!"
She turned slightly.
Inside the house, light spilled warmly through paper doors.
A simple meal.
A simple life.
Hera stared at it for a long moment.
And for a brief moment
She considered staying.
Far away, within the unseen depths of the world, a consciousness observed.
Not human.
Not demon.
Something far older in intent, if not in form.
The Monjushiro "network" continued to spread silently beneath the surface of existence, recording, adapting, learning.
A faint signal pulsed.
Deviation detected.
But no response came.
Only observation.
And patience.
Elsewhere, far beyond human awareness, the shadow of Kokushibo's world still lingered in motion…
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