We walked farther down Street 13.
The houses stood scattered in neat columns, orderly in their arrangement, but the noise was relentless and chaotic. Loud music thumped from one direction, a heavy rhythm that rattled the air. Dogs barked in shrill bursts, clashing with the sounds of parents arguing in half-open doorways. Kids pounded on makeshift drums, sticks and pans, creating a jarring symphony of clamor. On some porches, people lounged in groups, trading stories with booming laughter that spilled freely into the street; like a party no one had invited us to.
It was all deeply irritating to Van. He squinted hard, pressing both palms flat against his ears as if to shield his skull from cracking under the assault. His jaw tightened, lips drawn into a grimace while his shoulders hunched forward, every sound crashing into him like waves against rock.
This street belonged to Exo-hunters, their main work was capturing spirits, slaying demons or exorcising ghosts; they did those occasionally, but spirit hunting was their lifeblood.
Van's shoulders stiffened even more as his eyes flicked nervously at windows and half-open doors, suspicion in every glance. His voice quivered as he spoke, "They give me chills, Master. Won't they come for me because I don't have a vessel?"
I didn't answer. What was I to say, I had no way of convincing him otherwise. They had tried coming for him before, when he was still only a ghost. And every time, it was either me or Grandma's spirit, Clara, who kept him safe.
Even in their laughter and arguments, the Exo-hunters' senses never rested. Their eyes shifted in subtle ways; sideways flicks, quick cuts to corners, silent signals passing between them. They had already picked up on Van and me. A vessel-less spirit never went unnoticed here, and he was being accompanied by someone's strange grandson.
Each house along Street 13 bore a surname engraved or painted beside its door, a marker of lineage. Yet somehow, I had forgotten Grandma's. My eyes darted from door to door, searching for something familiar, but no name stood out.
I glanced back over my shoulder, Van's footsteps had grown faint, almost absent. He dragged his feet heavily, each step sinking into the ground as though the earth itself wanted to swallow him before reluctantly letting go. His whole posture screamed resistance, his expression silently begging, Let's turn back. Let's go home to the woods.
It wasn't only that Van hated walking, he also feared Grandma's house. She had a habit of teasing him mercilessly, and her jokes always carried the kind of weight that scared him for his life.
"Van, I think I forgot the way to Grandma's house. What was her surname again?"
"Silverblade." The word left his lips slowly, hesitant. His eyes shifted sideways, uncertain, as though he wanted to lie but couldn't decide on the details. Since I myself had forgotten, I had no way of telling if he was lying or not.
After veering past a few houses, we stopped in front of a modest two-story home. Beside the door, etched clearly into the wood, was the word Silverblade. The house wore dull colors, plain but sturdy, with a warm glow of light spilling from the inside. Yet outside, not a single bulb lit the porch, same as the rest of the houses, all swallowed by shadows.
I stepped onto the porch while Van stayed back, several paces away, as though the ground itself turned venomous beneath him. Before my knuckles touched the door, he muttered a warning. His voice was low and strained; something about not knocking yet but when I asked why, he faltered. No reason, just instinct, his intuition.
I brushed off his unease and knocked anyway but silence answered, even though the lights glowed behind the windows.
I knocked again, and this time the door creaked open, just halfway and what greeted me was—
CLANG!
A frying pan came swinging out of the shadows like divine judgment, striking me square across the face. The weight was brutal and my instincts had deserted me, leaving me wide open to the blow.
From the side came a sound; stifled laughter. I turned, vision spinning, to find Van – the ever-intuitive boy was snickering, his shoulders shaking as he tried to turn away, hiding his grin.
This was not how Grandma used to welcome guests. Yet, something about the chaos felt oddly familiar, like a temptation.
"Who is it?" a woman's voice barked sharply from behind the door, not even bothering to look.
"Uhh… it's me, Fiel," I answered, my voice unsure, like I doubted my own claim.
"And who the heck is Fiel!?" the voice snapped back, sharp as steel. And another frying pan was already arcing toward me with merciless speed, slicing the air so fast I barely had time to register it. My body froze, rooted to the spot.
Oh no. I forgot. Grandma calls me Little Ash. So much for surprising her.
"Fiel Ashenhive!" I blurted, words tumbling out before I could choose better ones.
But the frying pan was already descending until Van phased through my body, stepping in front and shoved his head into the strike.
CLANG!
The pan smashed into his skull with a sound like metal against iron then it ricocheted violently, bouncing back like a bullet and slamming into the door. The shockwave hurled its wielder backward, crashing them into a pile of furniture with an explosive bang.
My jaw dropped. Definitely not the warm welcome I had pictured, but at least the door hadn't flown off its hinges.
"I have no idea what you just did, Van," I muttered, stunned. "But trust me, we won't be eating for three days after this."
"I only reflected the force," Van grumbled, rubbing the side of his head. His brows furrowed as he muttered, "Strange… the first hit didn't send you flying."
"Was it supposed to?" I asked, pushing the door slowly open, peeking inside.
There, amid broken chairs and a toppled table, a young woman groaned as she sat up. Her lips curled faintly in a grin even through the pain. "What the heck?!" she muttered.
She looked far too young to be my grandma but the resemblance was there, undeniable. Rising to her feet, she brushed debris from her clothes and rubbed her forehead. "I feel like I've just been hit by a train," she whispered, dazed.
Her golden eyes narrowed on me, sharp and calculating. "You said… Ashenhive!?"
I nodded slowly, hesitantly, unsure whether to raise my hands in surrender or duck for cover.
She froze, silent, processing the word. Then she suddenly snapped out of it. "Wait—you can't be serious. My Little Ash?"
"Umm…" I nodded again, stiff.
She rushed forward, arms wrapping me in a crushing hug. My lungs fought for air as she pressed her cheek against my chest, her grip testing me, squeezing at my stomach as though checking if I was real, my height disappointed her though.
"When did you come back? No, how did you come back? Wait…" She lifted her left hand, pointing an accusing finger at my face, eyes scanning me from top to bottom, analyzing every detail like I was a puzzle she had to solve.
Her voice deepened, tone dark and heavy. Her golden eyes shifted, burning with a dangerous glint. "First, when did you get this big yet skinny? Have you been starving yourself to death, or have you been working out to force your body taller?"
I chuckled dryly, scratching my cheek.
I'm confused. Is she happy or furious? I can't read that face at all.
But she wasn't done yet. "Look at you, all bones, yet tall almost twice my height… just like your father."
Yeah, I think she's both impressed and upset.
Still, it had been so long since anyone had spoken of my father. The only one who ever did was Grandma Elunara.
"I got a letter from Wilson Castalis Academy," I explained quickly. "They let me enroll, but I wasn't told when to appear. So I decided to come and surprise you, just didn't expect a frying pan as my welcome."
"That's what you get for showing up unannounced at an old woman's house." She muttered, pinching my belly hard.
"Ouch…" I winced.
"They still denied you the title of a hunter, didn't they?" she asked, her eyes sharp, the kind of look that promised she'd storm over and raise hell if I said yes.
She studied me for a long moment, arms folding across her chest, different emotions flickering in her gaze, as though trying to place me.
You've really grown, Little Ash, and you look exactly like your father. I hope you grow to be a man like him in every way. Her thoughts seemed to whisper to the air.
I stared at her, confusion screaming in my gaze. Why does she look so young though
Could it be a secret of aging? Or some kind of a technique? After all, she's an Obliva.
In the outside world, an Obliva is known as a gatherer. They gathere long-lost knowledge and forbidden techniques, often inventing their own. Also known as tricksters by nature and always looking younger than their age yet older than imagination. And Grandma Elunara is one of them.
She turned toward the hallway, her voice sharp but oddly calm.
"Clara!..."
I flinched at the sound of that name.
"You better get down here ASAP, Pickle brain is back and you might miss him if you take a minute longer!" She grinned, teasing with the same mischievous edge she always carried.
My eyes snapped back at Grandma Elunara. Her golden eyes gleamed faintly beneath her grey hair as she adjusted her loose ponytail, brushing a stubborn strand over her ear. The plain shirt and tight jeans she wore only made her look younger, like she had shed the years instead of carrying them.
Someone my age might actually fall for her if they didn't know better.
I let my gaze wander the house. The broken furniture neatly piled itself in a corner, and the living room stretched wider than I remembered yet it looked emptier too, as though silence had eaten half the warmth away.
Does she still have the habit of 'break and bills!'? And… It seems she still lives alone, too.
Grandma Elunara's house always looked bare when she hadn't renovated yet, and I knew exactly why: she used to bait me into breaking things on purpose, then send Dad a bill seven times the cost.
Before I could bring it up, something soft padded toward us; a cat, small, trembling in fear.
Grandma's voice suddenly shifted, sharp as a blade.
"First, let's talk about the real issue at hand. You show up unannounced, you knock your Grandmother off her feet, and you destroy my furniture on top of it? That's three strikes and you're paying for the damage one way or another."
Oh boy… 'break and bills' again. But this time, I'm the one paying.
The moment Van heard "paying," he vanished, reappearing lazily on the roof outside, arms folded behind his head, pretending not to be involved.
"You do the paying, Master, I'm broke." He muttered knowing I would hear. That traitor.
Grandma rubbed her forehead with a sigh. "Seriously, what's your skull made of? That pan ricocheted back at me!"
The real question should've been, why does she attack strangers with a frying pan?
I couldn't exactly tell her it was Van's head and not mine. But honestly, I was wondering the same thing, was his skull made of stone and rubber fused together?
"Grandma… we're kinda tired and hungry too. Can I sit down first? I might fall anytime soon."
Her gaze slid toward the broken furniture, then a smirk tugged at her lips. "Well, I don't have any furniture left, guess you'll have to sit on the floor."
I didn't mind the floor, so I sat cross-legged around the low table, while Grandma folded her legs neatly beneath her. The living room unfolded in a serene, open layout, spacious and uncluttered resembling the quiet grace of a traditional Japanese home.
Her eyes narrowed suddenly, brows furrowing. "Wait. You said we?"
I blinked at her. She hadn't even noticed Van the entire time, not even when he slipped out.
"Yeah. I came with… with… um, a friend you could say."
She raised a brow, clearly unfazed, urging me to spill. "Go on… is it that ghost boy?" Her voice dropped low, all seriousness.
I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. Although he now claims to be a spirit, funny huh…!" I tried shifting the topic with humor, but she wasn't buying it.
"I would believe him," she replied flatly. "After all, you've been together for over nine years. Although, the real question is, how come I don't sense his presence? Not as a human, not as a ghost, not even as a spirit. He must be hiding it unconsciously… or he's just too good at it."
I tilted my head, struggling to make sense of it. "But… doesn't evolution happen both ways?"
"Yeah…" her gaze flicked back to the pile of broken furniture. "But I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't apply to you, since you can't die, no matter the cause… it's possible you can't become a demon, even when your soul gets corrupted a thousand times."
But deep down she knew that wasn't it all, it was because I was already half demon, and my demon was far greater than any to exist.
Her words puzzled me, but I hated overthinking, so I let it slip. My attention shifted to the hallway, the cat still stood pressed against the wall, trembling; its fluffy white tail curled tight around it, ears flat against her skull. The way it shrank into the corner twisted something in my chest.