Yukiori was taken in by the little girl's family, whose modest home spoke of meager means. Her parents were startled when their daughter brought home a stranger.
The gentle-eyed woman, noticing Yukiori's wounded hands and disheveled state, decided to shelter him for a time.
Her husband disagreed, wary that Yukiori's escape spelled trouble that could bring disaster to their family.
In this chaotic world, he only wanted to protect his own.
The woman thought little of it.
"He's likely just upset with his family. He'll return when he's ready."
"Besides, with sorcerers guarding this place, it should be fine."
The man glanced at Yukiori, sipping thin porridge, and sighed helplessly.
This boy was clearly no ordinary soul, and sorcerers were far from benevolent. The man knew their true nature.
Yet here, Yukiori felt the warmth of home, long absent.
The little girl adored him, drawn to this beautiful older brother, as lovely as the snowmen she built in winter.
"You must've fought with your family, right? Whatever's upsetting you, running away isn't the answer. It's dangerous out there."
Candlelight flickered as the woman wove clothes, speaking softly.
Yukiori sat by the fire, the girl asleep in his lap.
He pursed his lips. "I… didn't run away because of a fight."
The woman, so like his mother, drew out his story. Yukiori poured out everything.
Listening, she stroked his hair with pity.
"Poor child. If you've nowhere to go, stay with us for now."
"But you can't stay long. That man won't stop looking for you…"
Sure enough, days later, strangers arrived in the area.
Yukiori hadn't fled far; the journey from Momoto's estate was mere hours.
"The streets are crawling with sorcerers. They're searching for someone."
The man's gaze fell on Yukiori as he spoke.
Yukiori, playing with the girl, froze. He knew they were after him.
"You…"
"I'll give you some money and take you away tonight."
"Not because I don't want you here, but they'll find you eventually."
The man sat, and the girl, not understanding, clung to her pretty brother, unwilling to let him go.
"I understand. You and your wife have been so kind to shelter me. I can't bring you more trouble."
Yukiori had wanted to leave, but the woman, citing new clothes she was making, had given him a few days of peace.
"This cloak will hide your face. Don't let prying eyes see you. Once you leave, protect yourself well."
Before dawn, Yukiori followed the man from their humble home.
He was handed a bundle—clothes, food, and coins.
Thus, Yukiori embarked on his escape once more.
The journey was harder than he'd imagined. Muddy mountain paths and the roars of wild beasts kept him awake at night.
He longed to find his way home but didn't know the path.
Along the way, he saw the stark lives of common folk and the opulence of sorcerers.
His once-cherished memory of being saved shattered. Who was good, who was evil?
Yukiori could no longer tell.
He'd seen his uncles turn monstrous, and sorcerers reveal their vile sides.
Whenever his face was accidentally revealed, he fled to a new place, fearing Momoto's pursuit and dreading what others might do.
Over time, Yukiori understood why this family hadn't become monsters.
He saw no unsettling glint in the woman's or man's eyes, only pure innocence in the girl's.
It was all because of his face…
Dodging another drunkard, Yukiori curled up in a dark alley. He should have ruined this face long ago.
If not for it, his parents wouldn't have died, and he wouldn't…
He picked up a sharp-edged stone, its angles honed as if a single cut could kill.
Pain could sharpen the mind, like the stone he now gripped, blood dripping onto the filthy ground.
He raised it to slash his left cheek, but rapid footsteps interrupted.
Thinking it was pursuing sorcerers, Yukiori hid, but the sounds weren't right.
Peeking out, he saw a group of sorcerers surrounding someone, wary, hesitant to strike.
Their words suggested the figure was a sorcerer—one who'd killed many civilians.
For a moment, Yukiori considered fleeing, but before he could, the sorcerers lay dead.
Warm blood steamed in the cold night.
Yukiori saw the figure clearly—a cursed sorcerer.
A cursed sorcerer?
Panting, the cursed sorcerer stood dazed, having just slain a dozen foes.
Then he sensed a harmless gaze and looked up, eyes meeting Yukiori's.
Crimson eyes, still steeped in slaughter, startled Yukiori, who stumbled back.
This man should despise everyone—civilians, sorcerers, all deserving death.
Yet, strangely, he felt no urge to kill Yukiori.
In Yukiori's eyes, the shadowed figure came into focus.
A cursed sorcerer with four arms, black tattoos sprawling across his bare torso, four eyes gleaming.
Thick blood coated him, dripping endlessly, the stench filling the air, urging Yukiori to retreat further.
Unbeknownst to him, his cloak had fallen during his stumble, exposing his face to this killer of sorcerers.