Every night, without fail, the dreams return. No — not dreams. Memories.
I see everything that Laplace saw during his reign of terror—the endless slaughter, the screams of the innocent, the helpless, the damned. Entire villages burning beneath the blood-red moon. Fields of corpses left to rot in rivers of ash. Men torn apart, women defiled, children crying until their voices broke into silence. I watch it all through his eyes, feel the weight of every life he took, and yet, deep inside, I know he feels nothing. It's all mechanical to him — slaughter as a form of art.
Each image repeats itself endlessly in my mind, looping like a curse carved into the back of my skull. The cycle never ends. The killing. The cursing. The burning. The laughter. I can't escape it.
I've tried. Gods, I've tried.
The first time, I slit my wrists, watching the blood flow freely down my arms — but it never reached the floor. It simply vanished, dissolving into crimson mist before my skin knit itself back together. The second time, I tried hanging myself from the rafters of my room. The rope broke—not because it couldn't bear my weight, but because he wouldn't let it.
Every time I try to end it, I wake up again in that same place — the shrine of red spider lilies.
The air there is heavy, metallic, thick with the stench of blood and iron. The lilies sway without wind, their petals whispering in languages I can't understand. Laplace always waits there — standing in front of the ancient shrine, his long white hair glowing faintly in the crimson mist. His face is neither angry nor kind. It's worse than that. It's apathetic, like I'm a plaything he's slowly breaking for amusement.
Each time I appear, he greets me with the same cruel smirk."Still trying to run?" he says, his voice like silk over a blade.Then, before I can speak, he steps forward and drives his hand through my chest. His blood seeps into me again, hot and suffocating. My body spasms, screams, breaks—then reforms.
"Live," he whispers, every time. "You don't die until I say you die."
And I wake up, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my wrists unscarred. The nightmare continues.
Training Days
Despite everything, training doesn't stop. It can't. The Slayers Association doesn't have room for weakness, and if I show even the smallest sign of losing control, they'll put me down like one of the monsters we hunt.
Hana and Reo train with me every day now. The routine is brutal — meditation at dawn to stabilize my resonance, sparring drills by midmorning, and controlled senjutsu channeling by afternoon. Every session pushes me to the edge, and yet, I can feel the fragment inside me pulsing, thrumming with power, always watching, waiting for me to slip.
I've learned something terrifying during these sessions: I can control the horned transformation — but only if Laplace doesn't fight me for it. When he sleeps, or when he's merely observing, I can direct the energy, shaping it into raw power. My strength multiplies, my senses sharpen, and the world slows down to a crawl. But when he stirs, when that ancient will awakens, the control becomes a tug of war. One wrong thought, one burst of emotion, and I could lose myself entirely.
Reo and Hana both know it. That's why they hold back during sparring — even though I can tell they hate doing so. Hana's strikes are always measured, her movements fluid but restrained. Reo's attacks are powerful enough to crush stone, but he never follows through. They know one hit too deep, one push too far, could trigger the monster sleeping beneath my skin.
Still, I'm getting stronger.
Every day, I can hold the transformation a little longer without blacking out. Every week, I can channel more senjutsu without tearing my body apart. The horn doesn't grow as fast now; it stabilizes when I focus, its glow steady and contained. For the first time in months, I start to believe that I might be able to live with this… this curse.
Then Reo changes everything.
The Gift of Iron
It happens after a particularly brutal training session. I'm panting, drenched in sweat, my arms trembling from overuse. Hana is wiping the blood from her cheek — I accidentally clipped her during a sparring match — while Reo watches us with his usual unreadable stare.
Without a word, he walks over to the weapons rack, his footsteps echoing through the silent chamber. Instead of reaching for a sword or a gun, he pulls out a pair of metallic gauntlets, their surface engraved with flowing sigils that shimmer faintly in the dim light.
"Your sword keeps breaking," he says finally, tossing them to me. I catch them awkwardly, surprised by their weight. "That's because you're not meant to fight like that."
I blink. "What do you mean?"
Reo crosses his arms. "You keep trying to mimic other slayers — sword forms, weapon stances, all that disciplined garbage. But that's not how you move, Jin. You fight like a brawler. When you go in for the kill, you don't think about precision — you think about impact. Every hit you throw has intent behind it. So stop pretending to be someone you're not."
He nods toward the gauntlets. "These are Beast-Core Gauntlets, made from the essence of an old tiger-class monster. Strong, flexible, and designed to withstand your resonance output. If you're going to fight, fight your way — with your fists."
I slide them on, and immediately, they hum with life. The metal seems to mold itself to my forearms, locking into place with a satisfying click. I can feel the senjutsu flow differently — cleaner, more natural, like the gauntlets are drawing out my rhythm rather than resisting it.
Hana watches quietly, a faint smile curving her lips. "He's right, you know," she says softly. "You've always been reckless. Might as well make it work for you."
Reo snorts. "Reckless, yes. But that recklessness might be exactly what lets you fight Laplace's influence. You don't overthink. You act. Sometimes, instinct is the only thing that saves us."
I look down at my hands — the new weapons that feel more like extensions of myself than any blade ever did. The weight is perfect. The balance, flawless. For the first time in a long while, I feel right.
The darkness inside me stirs again, but this time, it doesn't whisper of control or conquest. It murmurs something different.
You're adapting, Laplace says in the recesses of my mind, his voice distant, almost approving. Good. The stronger you grow, the closer we become.
A chill runs through me, but I don't let it show. I clench my fists, the gauntlets sparking faintly as energy hums within them.
If Laplace thinks he can take over my body, he'll have to earn it.
Because this time, I'm fighting back.