CHAPTER 14:
An Unwelcome Reunion of Fates… Reaches Its End
Lan Fa clenched his fists, his voice rising unconsciously. "That's how killers are born in the first place! A tragic past… a broken mind… and then they choose to take revenge in the most cruel, most painful way possible!"
His words began to rush out, faster and faster, as if something within him had cracked open.
"If that's the case… then he must be broken… alone… empty inside. Maybe that's why he kills like this. Maybe he wants to die—but can't. Maybe…"
He paused, breathing heavily.
"…Maybe he just wants someone to understand him."
Silence fell.
A strange silence—thick, heavy, suffocating.
Shen Hua Lan's expression softened ever so slightly. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Lan Fa's shoulder, his tone gentle, almost… unreadable.
"Lan Fa… if you ever feel like talking, I'm sure someone will be there to listen."
Arata, on the other hand, simply stared at him, his face carrying an unmistakable look—
"What is wrong with this man?"
Lan Fa stiffened, immediately realizing how he must have sounded.
He waved his hands hastily, trying to defend himself.
"I—I read it in a book! About how villains are made!"
Shen Hua Lan's expression turned solemn, almost sympathetic as he sighed.
"Lan Fa… my friend."
He paused, then spoke with utmost seriousness—
"You are mentally ill."
"NO, I'M NOT!" Lan Fa roared, his face flushing with rage and embarrassment.
The tension shattered instantly.
Even Arata's lips twitched—though whether it was amusement or irritation, no one could tell.
"Enough. I'm done with this nonsense," Arata said coldly.
Without another glance, he turned and walked away, leaving Shen Hua Lan and Lan Fa behind, still entangled in their absurd discussion about "broken villains."
Yet, as Arata moved forward, a single thought lingered in his mind—unyielding, impossible to shake off.
Though it was still day, the heavens were shrouded in gloom. Thick, ink-dark clouds blanketed the sky, pressing down upon the world. A cold breeze drifted through the air, gently stirring Arata's hair, as if teasing him.
His expression remained indifferent, yet there was an unusual softness to it—his brows relaxed, his lips slightly parted.
Step by step, he made his way up the mountain.
There, beneath the heavy sky, he trained with his sword. Blade after blade cut through the air, sharp and relentless, echoing faintly through the quiet peaks.
Only when dusk descended did he finally stop and head back down.
Lately, he had far too much time on his hands.
Arata was just about to yawn when a child suddenly leapt out from a corner, hopping excitedly while waving a bamboo sword.
"Thank you! This sword is really nice! Thank you, Mask-gege!"
"Mask-gege?"
The moment those words reached his ears, Arata swallowed back his yawn. His eyes sharpened instantly as he dashed toward the corner the child had come from—
—but there was no one there.
Not even a trace.
His gaze darkened. He turned back and strode toward the child, his voice low. "Who gave you that sword?"
The child beamed, completely unaware of the tension. "He was wearing a white mask with cool drawings on it! He was really nice!"
Arata's eyes swept across the surroundings once more, sharp and searching.
What he didn't know—
high above, atop the roof of a nearby house—
a masked figure sat quietly, watching him.
Though his face was concealed behind a white mask, his gaze seemed fixed, unmoving. Long cyan hair fluttered gently in the wind as he observed Arata… until the latter disappeared from sight.
Only then did the figure rise.
With a light step, he leapt down soundlessly. His eyes lingered for a brief moment in the direction Arata had gone.
A soft, almost pleasant voice escaped his lips—
"I'll be waiting."
Then he turned and walked away in the opposite direction.
He moved without purpose, as if guided only by the drifting wind, vanishing into the growing dusk. An aura of death clung faintly to him.
And if one looked closely—
a black, crystal-like butterfly drifted beside his right shoulder.
Though it seemed lifeless, its wings continued to flutter… quietly, eerily.
Aoba walked on until he reached a vast, open expanse.
The sky was slowly clearing. The heavy clouds drifted apart, revealing a sea of stars. One by one, they emerged—cold, distant, and silent. Above them all, the moon hung in the heavens, half-veiled behind thin clouds, its pale light casting a faint glow upon the land.
Aoba lifted his gaze and stared at it.
For a moment, he seemed… still. As if lost within that quiet, shimmering sky.
Then—
A flicker of light entered his vision.
A tiny insect drifted through the air, glowing softly.
A firefly.
The breeze grew stronger. Grass and wild fields began to sway, moving in a single rhythm, like waves under the night sky. And then—more lights appeared.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Countless fireflies rose into the air, their gentle glow spreading across the darkness, turning the empty land into a sea of floating stars.
It was beautiful.
And yet—
Aoba's body stiffened slightly. A faint shudder ran through him.
Without a word, he turned and walked away.
Not long after, something caught the corner of his eye.
He paused.
Not far from him, a small white wolf cub sat quietly, its bright eyes fixed on him.
Aoba stepped toward it.
The cub immediately became alert, rising to its feet as if ready to flee. But as Aoba approached—slowly, without hostility—and lowered himself onto one knee, the tension in its small body eased.
Carefully, Aoba extended his gloved hand.
The cub hesitated at first, then leaned forward, sniffing his hand.
A moment later, it gently rubbed its head against his palm.
Though his face was hidden behind a mask, there was a faint softness in Aoba's presence—as if he had smiled.
Soon, the small cub nestled into his arms.
It did not resist.
Rather, it clung to him.
And Aoba… did not push it away.
Holding the cub, he rose to his feet and walked on beneath the quiet night—
vanishing into the endless glow of moonlight.