Midnight came quickly, without special warning. The air was cold. The village slept; footsteps were lost in the depths of the alleys.
Arai lay on the floor, his fingers stiff from the cold, his chest bound by a bandage. He breathed slowly, measuring each breath. The long silence seemed firmer than usual.
A sound slowly came from beyond the walls, a distant rustling, footsteps in the grass.
KHH! KHhh! KHHH–KHhh–khhh!
The fit came without warning, as usual. The cough shattered the night's darkness. Pain in his chest increased, his bronchi constricted. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.
Each exhale was crossed by a muffled sound that in the house sounded like a challenge. The mother, who slept in the next room, did not wake. She was already used to Arai's coughing fits and subconsciously ignored them in sleep.
Arai tried to suppress the sound of the cough, covered his mouth and held his breath.
'I must stay quiet, for mother,' he thought.
He did not know what was hiding outside and certainly did not want to find out.
But his body would not obey; the cough broke the night's surface of silence.
Two steps headed for the window. Something touched the windowsill. Arai hissed, gripped the handle of the knife his father had once hidden under the board by the bed. The knife was not large. It was a piece of metal meant for work, not for fighting. The handle was smooth from touch. Arai clutched it in his palm and tensed his muscles; he had to protect his mother — he had promised his father.
The sound outside changed. Several steps, quiet, muffled by some unknown creak. The creature passed along the wall, stopped at the door, rustled. Arai felt a draft of air gently touch the curtain. His lungs tightened. He tried to hold his breath, but a cough interrupted the attempt. Instead of silence there was sound again.
In the house across the way a girl sat at a table watching the dark. Her eyes were open. When she heard the cough, she shivered. Her senses forced her to look outside. She saw movement. Something rose from behind a shadow; she held her breath. A piece of wood appeared in her hand, which she gripped like a weapon. She stared toward their house.
Arai stood up. The cough weakened him, but he stood. His step trembled, but he moved toward the door. He pressed his hand to the wood so it would not creak. His heart beat faster. In the dark he saw the outline of an external shadow. The shape was indistinct. Its eyes fixed on the black space between the trees. Suddenly those eyes turned directly toward him. The creature moved quickly.
There was no time to think. He shoved the door, shot his arm out with the knife and struck. The knife cut through the darkness. Pain in his chest multiplied; blood ran from his nose. A cough interrupted his motion, but the knife hit its mark. The sound of metal in the dark night. The demon roared. At that moment a gate opened between them and the girl fainted on the threshold.
The neighbor's door burst open and fell to the floor. The air smelled different. Something heavy scraped on the ground. The demon was wounded, standing on two legs marked with dark streaks. Blood ran from a wound in its side. Arai felt his own blood on his hand. He was weak, but he held the knife tightly.
It might have seemed illogical to some to risk life so fiercely, but for Arai it was necessity. That demon had been watching their house for some time; it was clear it harbored no good intentions. It could have attacked them when Arai was unprepared and he would not have been able to protect his mother with all his strength.
The demon charged; its movement was fast, irregular.
Arai stepped back but tripped on the threshold. His chest constricted sharply and a coughing fit burst out on its own. He coughed, the air expelled in a series of broken breaths. The pain hit harder. He raised the knife and attacked again.
This time it struck flesh. The demon screamed; its arm moved, blood sprayed to the ground. Arai bent over, his palms slipping on the surface of the knife. He felt the danger, but he did not retreat.
For a moment after the attack there was only silence. Then more movement came. More creatures stepped from the shadow. One loomed over the girl lying on the ground. Arai saw her fingers curled in an unnatural pose, her hair disheveled. In that instant he decided he would do anything. He was weak, but the action did not require strength so much as resolve.
Arai dashed forward. Again the cough shattered his stride. It was plentiful, irregular. He threw himself between the demon and the girl with the knife in his hand. This strike was faster. It hit the demon's flank. The creature fell, leaving a dark trail. In that moment everything seemed to freeze. He stood, breathing slowly, blood dripping from his mouth.
Relief did not follow the fight. The stream of pain turned into deep exhaustion. Arai sat on the ground, closed his eyes, his hand stiff on the rapidly cooling knife.
The girl woke and cried out, "Mom! Dad!"
Her voice was weak, full of fear. Arai turned to her and tried to smile, but the smile was cut off by a cough. The mother rushed to the door and lit a lamp. Her gaze was swift and sharp.
Neighbors gathered at the gate. They looked at one another. Some stepped forward, others stared at the remnants of the fight.
Arai lay knee-deep in mud, his hand trembling. Blood on the knife blurred his vision. In his chest he felt an empty space that steadily reduced his breath. The girl took his hand and squeezed. Arai felt, in that moment, something other than fear replace him. It was not anger nor joy. Just a calm knowledge that he had done what was necessary — saved someone's life.
It was a strange sensation he had never felt before.
Distant sounds indicated movement. Some doors opened and closed. Who had come was unclear. Then footsteps sounded unlike the village ones. The steps were hard, precise.
A figure crossed the yard and stood by them. He did not look like a merchant or a farmer. His posture was composed; his clothing arranged to conceal weapons. In his hand he held a long cloak, which he shrugged off to reveal his belt.
His eyes scanned the faces of those present. Then they fell on him. He looked at the hand with the knife, at the blood on his skin. It was not hunger. It was not pity. Just an expression of understanding without emotion.
The man stepped closer, inspected the demon's wound; it seemed Arai had struck some muscle nerves that had immobilized it. The man finished it off quickly and ordered several villagers to remove the remains.
Arai felt the weakness that gripped him. He wanted to stand, but his knees gave out. The stranger bent and helped him sit up.
He did not ask questions, only placed a palm on his shoulder and felt his pulse. His hands were steady, experienced. His movement was precise. The man took a small vial from his belt and put it in Arai's hand. The smell was sharp.
"This will help you for now," he said curtly.
His voice was cool, without unnecessary words. Then he looked straight into his eyes. In those eyes there was not only admiration. There was analysis. The man had noticed something the villagers overlooked: not courage. It was not the look of a hero.
It was the look of someone who knows pain and the resolve that comes from it.
The man said something without sweetness or encouragement. "You have potential," he said. "You can make decisions in the midst of pain, for your age and with no training."
"I work for an organization that hunts these creatures," the man said.
"We need people who can move their bodies through pain. If you want, I can take you with me. It is not easy. It is not for everyone. You will die if you are not prepared. But you can learn to defend yourself." His voice remained cold, steady.
Arai sat. He thought of his mother, of her face at their door, of the girl who held his hand. He thought of his father and sister, of the knife that had been more a work tool than a weapon. He thought of the pain that had become part of his being.
One simple thought appeared in his mind: Breathe. To breathe meant to live, and to live meant to have will.
Arai looked the man squarely in the face and said honestly, "You're a demon hunter, right? I don't know what you see in me when I'm such a weak thing. But I want to see in myself what you see in me. I want to feel that saving a life again, take me with you."
The man nodded. He did not smile. He did not seem to expect anything else.
"Prepare yourself; we leave in the morning," he said.
He then gave him another small vial, ordered him to rinse the wounds and bandage them carefully. The village retreated into its silence again, but a new presence remained in the house; Arai's mother allowed the hunter to spend the night with them. It was unclear what would follow, but one step had been taken.
Arai lay with two empty hands, still with blood on his fingers. The air moved slightly. The cough subsided, if only for a moment. Then it returned, quiet and persistent.
He pressed his hand to his chest to find that he was breathing...