The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled light over the village as Satoru strolled out of the inn, his shoes crunching on the dirt path. Wearing simple clothes offered by the innkeeper.
The pyres had burned out overnight, leaving a faint haze of smoke and sorrow hanging over the farmland.
He stretched, joints popping, and headed toward Marcille's place.
It was a small wood-stone house tucked away from the main cluster of homes, its sloped roof mossy and weathered.
Smoke curled from the chimney, and the faint hum of something buzzed in the air. He knocked on the door casually, and leaned against the frame, waiting.
Marcille opened it, her golden hair mussed, emerald eyes still shadowed from yesterday's grief. She wore a simple green shift, staff propped by the wall, and blinked up at him.
"Oh… Satoru," she said, voice soft but steadier than last night. He gave her a lazy grin, hands in his pockets. "Morning, kid. Figured I'd check in. You holding up?"
She nodded, stepping aside to let him in, and he ducked through the low doorway into a cozy space. Wooden beams, a stone hearth, shelves stuffed with books and jars.
It smelled of herbs and fresh bread, a far cry from the blood-soaked hell he'd crawled out of, the day before.
She shuffled to a small table, fiddling with a cloth. "It's… hard," she admitted, not meeting his eyes. "They were kind. The merchants, the guards. I keep seeing it."
Satoru nodded, settling into a creaky chair, his long legs sprawling out. "Yeah, that shit sticks with you. Take your time with it." He didn't push, didn't pry; just let her sit with it.
She glanced at him, a faint smile tugging her lips, and something shifted. "You're… nicer than I thought," she said, then caught herself. "I mean, after… you know."
He smirked, leaning back. "What, the bandit blender? Don't worry, I don't bite kids."
That got a small laugh out of her, and the mood flipped. Her eyes lit up when he nudged the convo elsewhere. "So, that magic trick yesterday; spilling your language into my head. How's that work?"
Marcille perked up, grabbing her staff from the wall. "My mother taught me the basics," she said, voice brightening. "She was a mage; really good one at that. I built on it myself after that and practiced a lot."
She waved him over, leading him around the house like a kid showing off a toy. A broom swept the floor on its own, bristles scraping rhythmically; a pot stirred soup over the hearth, no hands needed; a sponge scrubbed dishes in a basin, water sloshing.
"It's all Mana," she said, tapping her staff. "I set these up based on mother's idea; before… before she was gone."
Satoru followed, the Six-Eyes flicking over the spells. Mana weaving through the air, bending to her will. "Neat setup," he said, impressed. 'And they called me a genius.' He thought.
She paused by a shelf, pulling down a thick, leather-bound book, its cover etched with silver runes. "This is her grimoire," she said, holding it out.
"Everything she knew about magic's in here. She left it for me." He took it, flipping it open; pages dense with script and diagrams, glowing faintly under his touch.
He raised an eyebrow, handing it back. "And you just… tell me that? That's some secret stuff, kid." She shrugged, unbothered. "You saved me. I trust you."
He didn't say it, but the ease of that trust pinged something in his head; too open, too fast. He filed it away, keeping his grin light.
She bustled to the hearth, pulling out a tray. "Breakfast?" she asked, setting down plates. Eggs, bacon, toast, a proper English spread.
Satoru's stomach growled, and he dug in, grinning around a mouthful. "Hell yeah. Beats demon guts any day." Marcille tilted her head, a bit confused what he meant by that.
She was sitting across from him, and they ate in comfortable quiet; forks clinking, the pot still stirring itself nearby.
She nibbled her toast, watching him shovel food like a starved man, and for a moment, it felt normal; two people, a meal, no blood or death.
After, he snagged a couple more books from her shelf; another language primer and a basic magic text. "Mind if I borrow these?" he asked, already tucking them under his arm.
She nodded, smiling. "Sure. Bring 'em back, though."
He waved a hand, heading out. "Deal." He spoke with a grin.
Back at the inn, he flopped onto the straw mattress, morning light seeping through the window as he cracked the language book first. The words flowed easier now, filling gaps in Marcille's knowledge.
Verbs, slang, a sharper grasp of this world's tongue. The magic book, though? Gibberish; runes, chants and Mana flows he couldn't touch.
He tried reaching for it, like he had in the forest, but nothing happened. "Figures," he muttered, tossing it aside.
"Need to go through the basics of Mana utilization first." His CE hummed, but Mana stayed locked off, a puzzle he couldn't crack yet.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Marcille's chatter echoed in his head; her mom, the grimoire, that unguarded trust.
She was a sweet kid, tough kid, but something about her openness nagged at him. Still, the morning had been a nice break; good food, a warm house, no screams. He'd take it.
Satoru lounged against the inn's wall as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows over the village. The air buzzed with quiet life.
Farmers trudging to the fields, a woman hauling water, the cluck of chickens scratching in the dirt.
He'd slept decently, the straw bed less shitty than expected, and now he wandered, his shoes scuffing the path.
Marcille's house sat in his peripheral, cozy and humming with her Mana tricks, but he didn't head there again. Instead, he drifted toward the village center, curious about the kid's status in this place.
A farmer waved him over, grunting about a busted fence. Satoru shrugged, hefting a post into place with one hand; easy work, and the guy's thanks came with a nod about Marcille.
"She's our little mage," he said, wiping sweat off his brow. "Fixes leaks, keeps pests off the crops. She's a blessing, that one." Satoru smirked, hammering a nail in. "Handy kid, huh?"
It tracked; her magic was practical, woven into the village's daily grind. He moved on, helping an old woman lug a sack of grain, and she echoed it:
"Marcille's spells keep my stove lit. Sweet girl." Warmth in her voice, genuine. He filed it away; nothing odd yet, just a village leaning on a half-elf kid with a knack.
Then he crossed paths with Robert, Elna's husband; a stocky man with a graying beard, chopping wood near the chief's house.
Satoru gave a lazy wave. "Morning." Robert grunted, axe splitting a log with a sharp thwack, but didn't look up. No words, just a tight jaw and a flicker in the air.
Satoru's Eyes caught it: indifference, edged with something darker, colder. Hatred, maybe, buried deep but there.
He tilted his head, hands in his pockets, but didn't push. "Chatty guy," he muttered under his breath, strolling off.
It was a blip, a minor itch; not everyone's a fan, right? Still, it stuck, a quiet hum in the back of his skull.
He roamed more, lending a hand; shoring up a sagging barn wall, hauling water for a kid too small to carry it. The villagers were grateful, chatty, and Marcille's name kept popping up.
Praise for her magic, her help. But then Elna found him, catching him mid-step near the canal. "Mr. Gojo," she said, voice warm but insistent, "got a minute?"
He shrugged, following her to a bench under a gnarled tree.
She sat, folding her hands, and launched in. "Marcille's been with us since she was tiny. Her mom was an Elf. A mage who married a human; Marcille's dad.
The Elves of course, didn't like that and exiled 'em. Her dad died young, then her mom brought her here. Took her in like our own."
Satoru listened, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other. "Rough gig for a kid," he said, neutral. Elna nodded, too eager to share.
"We've cared for her; fed her, clothed her, loved her. She's our blessed child, you know? After her mom passed, we all stepped up."
Her eyes locked on his, searching, like she needed him to buy it. He hadn't asked; hadn't even hinted at doubting it, but she kept going, piling on details:
How Marcille slept safely, ate well, learned her magic here. He nodded, smiling faintly. "Sounds like she's got a good family."
But inside, the itch grew. 'Why's she selling this so hard? It's not guilt, not quite; more like a pitch, overdone and unprompted.'
He wandered off after, the Six-Eyes scanning deeper. Faces passed; farmers, slightly older teens, an old guy sharpening a rake.
Marcille was on the village square, helping with something. She gave a wave after seeing him and he reciprocated the same.
Most radiated warmth toward Marcille; soft smiles, a quiet fondness. But not all. A boy, maybe eighteen, kicked a rock and glared at her house, fear and disgust rolling off him in waves.
A woman hanging laundry shot a glance that way; malice, sharp and cold. Another man, splitting logs, had it too; hatred, muted but intense.
The good vibes were there, sure, but the bad ones hit harder, heavier, like shadows creeping into sunlight.
Satoru didn't flinch, didn't question; just watched, cataloging it. Something was off, a thread he couldn't pull yet.
Afternoon dragged on, sun dipping low, painting the fields gold. He kept moving, helping here, chatting there, but another detail snagged him: Kids.
He'd seen a handful teens, but not a single around Marcille's age, give or take 8 to 10-year-olds, none were there.
In a village this size; thirty homes, sprawling farms; where were they? No toddlers, no babies crying, no gaggles of brats running wild.
He paused by a fence, staring at the empty paths. 'Weird as hell,' he thought, but didn't dwell and filed it with the rest, a growing stack of "huh" moments.
Night fell, cool and quiet. Dinner at the inn was humble; stew, bread, a mug of weak ale. He ate, swapped small talk with the innkeeper, then headed upstairs, ready to crash.
But as he kicked off his shoes, a hum pricked his senses; a commotion, faint but sharp, from an empty house across the village.
His Six-Eyes zeroed in; voices, footsteps, a cluster of people. Elna was there, Robert too. He could sense emotions swirling, tense and murky.
He sat up, smirking faintly. "Well, that's not bedtime stories," he muttered, slipping out the window. He crept through the shadows, silent as a ghost, and just leaned against the house's wall, his senses picking up everything and everyone inside.
Whatever was brewing, he'd hear it; and the truth, whatever shape it took, was about to spill.
Next Day:
The sky was still gray, dawn barely cracking over the horizon, when Satoru stepped out of the inn. His usual swagger was gone; shoulders tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, blue eyes hard with a gleam that could cut steel.
Last night had fucked him up. He'd crouched by that empty house, ear to the wall, listening to Elna, Robert, and a dozen others murmur about something.
Something that sent him snooping through the village shadows afterward. He'd found a place they'd mentioned, peeked inside, and regretted it the second his Eyes pieced it together.
The truth was a rotting, putrid thing, and it churned in his gut as he strode toward Marcille's house, shoes silent on the dirt.
He knocked; sharp but slow, and the door swung open fast, like she'd been waiting. Marcille stood there, golden hair tangled, green eyes bright but shadowed, staff in hand.
No grogginess, no yawn; just alert, too alert. Satoru forced a grin, shoving the grimness down. "What, no sleep, kid? You look like you've been up all-night brewing potions."
She tilted her head, brow furrowing. "Sleep?" she asked, the word clumsy on her tongue, like she'd never heard it before.
His stomach twisted; matched the shit he'd overheard, the pieces clicking too damn well. He swallowed, keeping his face loose. "Yeah, you know; shut-eye, snoozing... Never mind."
He straightened, voice casual but firm. "Hey, village vendors are low on meat. Elna requested me to hunt some game, restock 'em. Said you should tag along; get some air and help out."
He hated this; lying to her. Kids were his weak spot, always had been, and Marcille's wide-eyed trust was a knife in his ribs. But he couldn't just stand there, pretending he didn't know anything.
Her face lit up, no questions, no doubt; just pure, beaming joy. "Really? I can help the village?" she said, practically bouncing. "That's… that's great!"
He nodded, faking a smirk. "Yeah, you're their little hero. Grab your stuff."
She darted inside, packing a small bag, a staff, a water skin, some bread while chattering about how she'd track deer or boars.
Satoru watched; jaw tight. Her trust was too easy, too blind, and it gnawed at him. When she was ready, he held up a hand. "Wait, wanna see a trick?"
Her eyes sparkled; curiosity dialed to eleven. "Yes!" she chirped, grabbing his hand as he'd gestured.
He focused, CE flaring, and in a blink, the world shifted. They were deep in the forest, trees towering around them and the village, a distant thing.
Marcille gasped, spinning in place. "That was teleportation magic! Amazing!" She turned to him, grinning. "Can you teach me? Please?"
He shrugged, scratching his neck. "Maybe later, kid. Let's focus on the hunt for now."
She took the lead, staff in hand, tracking like she'd done it a hundred times. Her nose wrinkled as she crouched by a snapped twig. "Boar went this way," she said, pointing east.
Satoru trailed behind, hands in his pockets, not lifting a finger. She darted ahead, spotting a deer, its antlers poking through the brush.
"Got one!" she whispered, raising her staff. A green bolt shot out, crackling with Mana but hit a tree instead, its bark splintering.
The deer bolted away, and she huffed, stomping a foot. "I'm terrible at this."
He smirked, genuinely this time. "You'll get it. Try again."
They moved on. She tracked a rabbit next, ears twitching in the undergrowth. Another spell; it was blue this time, a whip of light that sailed wide, scorching a bush.
But the rabbit vanished.
"Ugh!" she groaned, slumping. "I can't hit anything!"
Satoru chuckled, leaning against a tree. "You're good at the chasing part. Killing's just practice."
She pouted but kept going. Another deer, a boar, each spell missing by a hair. Her inexperience showed. She had plenty of power but no aim.
He let her flail, watching her bounce between frustration and stubborn glee, but his mind was elsewhere.
Step by step, he had nudged their path; left at a stream, right past a mossy rock, steering them closer to the village without her noticing.
The Six-Eyes hummed, tracking distance, angles, the faint pulse of life ahead. He'd heard enough last night. Vague plans with some other details, and if it was right, shit had already hit.
He stopped, head tilting as a faint tremor rolled through his senses. Smoke, distant but sharp, tickled his nose. Marcille froze mid-step, staff raised from her latest miss.
"What's that smell?" she asked, frowning. Satoru didn't answer, eyes narrowing. 'Right on schedule,' he thought. The village should be gone by now; or damn close to it.
He turned to her, keeping his voice light. "Probably just a campfire. Let's keep moving. Maybe you'll nail something yet."
She nodded, hesitant but trusting, and trudged on, staff swinging. Satoru followed, hands clenched in his pockets, the weight of what he knew pressing harder.
Whatever he'd dragged her away from, it was unraveling back there, and they'd see it soon enough.
Flashback: The night before-
Satoru pressed himself against the splintered wall of the empty house, shadows cloaking him as torchlight flickered through the cracks.
Inside, voices murmured; low, tense, a dozen villagers huddled around Elna and Robert. His ears sharpened every word, every emotion, cutting through the night's stillness.
It started innocent. Robert's gruff voice first, spitting about the "new guy" who'd rolled in with Marcille. "We can't trust him," he growled, axe resting by his knee.
"He's too nosy, and I felt it too. He's strong, too strong."
Elna hushed him, her tone sharp. "He's no threat yet. He Saved the girl, didn't he? Let's use that." Satoru smirked faintly; fair enough, he was a wildcard; but the convo flipped fast, and his smirk died.
Elna's voice dropped, cold as stone. "Although, I do think that we should've given her up already; Marcille, with the others." A murmur rippled through the group, heads nodding like it was chores they were discussing.
Robert leaned in, eyes glinting. "I can feel it, God's getting impatient. It's Been too long since the last one. Our blessing's fading."
Satoru's jaw tightened, but he didn't move; kept listening, breathing steadily. A woman, voice quavering but resolute, piped up. "My boy's already seven. Strong. He'd do. I can bring him out whenever you want, Elna."
Another man grunted agreement. "Mine's six, good enough too. Our lord hates waiting, we can't delay this any longer." The indifference, the casual fucking chill, hit like a slap.
They rambled on, devout and detached. "The immortality's slipping, even those five couldn't be revived." Elna said, fingers tracing a worn pendant.
"Yes, Last sacrifice was months back; we're treading too sparse on this." Robert nodded, stroking his beard.
"It has kept us young, kept us here, and will continue to do so. We Can't stop now." Satoru's senses caught it all.
Their own kids, flesh and blood, offered up like livestock. Satoru had seen humanity's underbelly; cults, curses, betrayal. But this? This was a new flavor of rancid.
Their pulses steady, no guilt, just warped faith, with a twisted sense of love. He could've stormed in, turned them to paste; fingers twitched at the thought, but he held back.
He needed the full picture first. Then Robert shifted gears, voice lowering. "Money's been tight too. But we've got a chance now.
Marcille's worth a fortune. There's bounty on her head; someone wants her alive. I Found out days ago. There's already a group behind that bounty.
They're a dangerous bunch, that's why I already made a deal. The payment's going to be big too. They'll be here by tomorrow morning."
That was it; Satoru peeled away, silent as a ghost, mind racing up a plan. 'Sacrifice the children and sell Marcille, huh?' He thought.
He slipped through the village, shoes barely touching dirt, Six Eyes scanning for cracks in their story. The well; Robert had mentioned it, offhand, a "holy spot."
It sat at the village's edge, overgrown by creepers, boards rotted over the top. He pried one loose, peering into the black.
And without any hesitation; he dropped in and landed at the bottom, as light as a feather. The dark swallowed him, but his eyes adjusted fast. Stone walls, damp air, and a tunnel yawning ahead, carved into the earth.
He stepped in, and the smell hit first; rot, old and dry, like dust and decay. His Six Eyes flared, painting the cave in stark detail, and his teeth grit; not in rage, but in a sour, bone-deep frustration.
Bones. Small ones; child-sized, piled against the walls, spilling across the floor. Skulls, some cracked, some whole, stared blank from the shadows.
Ribcages, tiny femurs, little hands still curled like they'd clutched something in death. Hundreds, 'fuck,' maybe a thousand; stacked and scattered, a graveyard of kids no older than seven or eight.
Some were fresh, flesh still clinging in patches, others brittle and yellowed, decades old. He crouched, brushing a skull; light as paper, crumbling under his touch. "Shit," he muttered, standing slow.
It clicked; their "god," the blessing, the immortality. Decades of this; sacrificing their own, feeding some twisted power to keep living, keep thriving.
His Eyes traced the cave's edges; crude carvings on the walls, symbols he didn't know but reeked of ritual.
The love they'd shown Marcille, the warmth for their dead; it wasn't fake, not entirely. Distorted, malformed, a sick parody of care twisted into this.
They'd mourned the merchants, the adventurers, but their kids? Just a fuel. He exhaled, sharp and low. Adramalekh's hellhole was cleaner; brutal, sure, but honest. This?
This was humanity at its ugliest, and he hadn't noticed it. Just flaring his senses wide for a single second would have given the full picture of this place, but no, he was too complacent.
He climbed out, teleporting to the surface; air fresher but tainted now. He wouldn't sleep tonight. His mind churned, piecing a plan.
Marcille was the linchpin; bounty hunters in way to get her. The village was ready to bleed her or sell her. The kids; or lack of them, made sense now, their numbers gutted over years.
He couldn't just torch the place, not yet. He needed Marcille out of this place, safe, before the hunters hit or the village acted.
Dawn was close now; he'd move before the hunters were here and get her clear. Whatever this "god" was, whatever they'd built here, it was ending soon.
Satoru lingered in the forest clearing, hands buried in his pockets, the faint reek of smoke curling through the trees from the village's smoldering corpse.
He'd be a liar if he claimed he hadn't pictured what those mercenaries would do when they stormed in and found Marcille missing.
That was the whole damn plan; bring her out here, let the bastards raze the place, spare him the chore of crushing a bunch of powerless lunatics himself.
Their atrocities were vile, no question, but flattening a village of deluded fools wasn't his taste. Now, though, he felt it; a cold, sharp certainty in his gut.
The huts were ash, the cultists were meat, and the mercenaries were furious. Fine by him. His Eyes twitched, locking onto their presence; twenty of them, closing in on them fast.
Mana pulsing like a storm rolling in. The sun glared high overhead, past noon, and Marcille was still fumbling with her staff, every spell missing its mark.
She'd just scorched another tree instead of the deer she'd aimed for, her shoulders sagging with defeat.
"I'm hopeless at this," she muttered, kicking at the dirt. Satoru strolled over, his grin easy and lopsided. "Not true, kiddo.
You've got grit. You kept trying when most would quit. We'll hunt again tomorrow. Trying's worth something." Pure nonsense, and he knew it; wisdom wasn't his trade, and tomorrow was a coin toss at best.
But Marcille's face brightened, her emerald eyes catching the light like he'd handed her a crown. "You think so?" she asked, voice soft with hope; a mentor's words, a guardian's promise, whatever she needed.
He nodded, keeping it light. "Damn right. Effort's the backbone of it." She clutched her staff tighter, a spark of pride flaring, and he let her hold onto it; poor girl had no idea the things that are yet to come.
His Eyes flared; those shadowy bastards were near, their Mana sharp and heavy, outstripping Marcille's by a mile. Twenty signatures, cloaked in dark veils that shimmered like wet ink.
The village's destruction had hit earlier; a faint ripple of fire and screams he'd sensed from afar. The mercenaries had torched it, likely enraged at the empty prize, and now they were tracking her Mana through the woods.
Satoru stretched, slow and deliberate; arms up, spine cracking, a man with all the time in the world. Marcille didn't notice, still grumbling about her aim, but he was already tuned in, counting their steps as they marched to their doom.
They erupted from the trees; twenty figures in black, cloaks swirling, steel flashing in the sunlight. The first charged at Marcille, a streak of shadow betting on speed to slip past Satoru.
Before the guy could gleam her way, a blue surge of cursed energy snapped around him. Amplification flexed, then crushed.
No scream, no fight; one moment he was lunging, the next he was a heap of pulped flesh, bones grinding into dust like a boulder had rolled over him.
Marcille gasped, staggering back, staff trembling. "What-?!" she choked out, eyes wide. Satoru flicked his wrist, casual as swatting a gnat, and didn't spare the mess a glance.
Their leader emerged, stepping from the pack a female dark-elf, only her long dark ears and upper part of her face, visible above the cover.
All lean menace and cold grace. Her shinobi-like attire hugged her frame, dark-red armor pads glinting like spilled blood.
She threw back her hood, dark-silver hair cascading free, and fixed Satoru with a stare that could cut glass. "Hand over the girl," she snarled, voice a low hiss.
"You've no notion of the forces you defy."
Satoru tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging his lips; 'oh, she was serious now? Charming.'
Marcille shrank behind him, her staff quivering as the dark-elf's presence washed over her.
Satoru slid in front, calm as death, and rested a hand on her head; light, steady, a quiet anchor. She looked up, fear fading as he gave her a gentle smile.
"Stay there," he said, voice smooth as silk. Her tension eased, trust snapping back into place.
The dark-elf barked out orders, signaling her crew, of which eighteen were left, still bold, still blind. Satoru didn't wait. Cursed energy roared through him and then-
He vanished, air collapsing where he'd stood. It wasn't speed; it was obliteration unbound. Blue amplified his motion turning him into a tempest tearing through the forest.
Trees shuddered, branches snapped, leaves shredded in his wake. His hands struck; left, right, relentless. Ripping their heads like fruit from a vine.
One merc's neck twisted, skull torn free before his legs buckled. Another swung a blade, but it was too late; Satoru's fingers closed on his head, yanked, and moved on, blood arcing behind.
He didn't pause. A fifth raised a crossbow; Satoru flashed past him, his head gone, bolt burying itself in the earth. A sixth summoned Mana, a spell half-formed, but that was irrelevant.
His skull popped off, tumbling into the ferns. Seven, eight, nine; faster than thought, their bodies dropped, headless, blood spraying in delayed gushes.
Ten through fifteen scattered; a futile endeavor. He carved a jagged path, a blue storm of death. Eleven's cloak snagged, twelve's sword fell, thirteen to fifteen's cries died mid-breath.
Sixteen lunged with a dagger, Satoru shifted, seized his hair, twisted, and hurled the head into the brush. Seventeen to nineteen clustered, shields raised; a pointless effort.
He surged through, hands a blur, snatching all three heads in one fluid sweep, their frames collapsing like felled timber.
All of that, had ended in a heartbeat, silence falling at the end, broken only by the wet splatter of blood on leaves, trailing his path like an aftershock.
Satoru reappeared before Marcille, four heads swinging in his hands; grisly and dripping like a butcher's haul. She flinched, eyes clamping shut, hands flying to her face.
"Don't look," he said, tossing them aside; thump, thump, thump, thump, heads rolling into the shadows. The dark-elf stood alone, her crew now a headless ruin.
Her eyes were bulged, breath ragged, terror clawing her spine as Satoru approached. He was slow and deliberate, with that eerie grin fixed in place.
She stumbled back, legs unsteady, but he was already there. His hand around her shoulder, light as a friend's.
"Easy now," he said. His voice soft and deadly and those chilling blue eyes piercing her soul. Her pulse faltered, dread radiating from his touch; a hunter toying with a cornered beast.
A translucent veil shimmered up, shielding their words from Marcille, she didn't need this filth in her ears. "Who wants her?" he asked, smile unwavering, grip tightening on her shoulder just so.
The dark-elf swallowed, voice fracturing. "A lord… Some lord. They want Her alive, all witnesses about her presence, gone. We burned the village for it."
Satoru nodded; he expected as much. "Which lord?" He asked.
She parted her lips, then- POP- Her head burst open in a sickening sound, like a ripe fruit under a hammer, gore spraying wide.
Probably a suicide spell, locking the rest away. Satoru didn't twitch; Infinity repelled the mess, and not a single speck was on him.
He sighed, hand falling with a slump, "Waste of time." He said in disappointment.
He turned to Marcille, the veil fading away. She peeked through her fingers, bewilderment plain on her face. "What happened?" she murmured.
Satoru crouched, meeting her gaze, that soft smile returning. "Nothing to fret over. I've got you." She nodded, unsteady but clinging to his calm; damn that trust, twisting in his ribs again.
"Thanks for the language gift," he added, rising. "I owe you so, I'll stick close and keep you safe." Her eyes warmed, a faint smile breaking through.
He loathed what came next; returning to the ashes, spilling the truth about her "family." Better she faced it than lived deceived, but hell, what a wretched task.
The forest reeked of iron and char now, corpses strewn like broken husks. Satoru guided her away, pace measured, mind churning.
The village had been erased, hunters slaughtered, an unknown lord waiting for the good news. A fu*king grim day, indeed.
...... To be continued!!!