Hayazaki, in Filis's body, must have cut a menacing figure—hunched and hooded in tattered robes, like some harbinger of death. The brother and sister pair soon returned, clutching a piece of bread wrapped in soiled cloth and a crude blade that barely qualified as a scalpel. But for now, these meager offerings would suffice.
The siblings moved with desperate urgency—they clearly didn't want to die. When they handed over the bread, he found it hard and already bitten
Their faces told the real story—neither had eaten from the bread themselves. The mess of bruises and cuts suggested a fierce struggle to obtain even this measly portion. What a rotten world, Hayazaki thought, where people fought so viciously for such a miserable scrap.
He activated his Axis system to scan the bread for contaminants. Surprisingly, it registered as somewhat edible. When he bit into it, his instincts screamed to spit it out, but he trusted the system's assessment—rotten, yes, but not lethal.
He finished the bread and drank the water the children had brought without being asked—a gesture that gave him pause. The power of a simple threat had yielded not just what he'd demanded, but more. The realization left a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the rotten bread. He didn't like discovering this darker knowledge within himself—how easily fear could extract kindness from others—but he tucked the lesson away. In this cruel world, wearing Filis's menacing form, he suspected he would need every advantage, no matter how unsavory.
He dusted the crumbs from his hands, instinctively wishing for water to wash them properly. The fountain he perched on was bone dry, its basin littered with debris and yellowed leaves. The statue at its center—some forgotten noble or deity—was barely recognizable beneath layers of grime and bird droppings. In his old world, such a public space would have been maintained, cleaned. Here, filth seemed as natural as breathing.
People passing by shot him looks of anger and disgust—not at his unwashed hands, he realized, but at his very existence as a Malara. He met their stares unflinchingly, noting how quickly they averted their eyes when confronted. Their hatred might run deep, but their courage did not.
Anger simmered in his chest as he contemplated the cruel irony. Through his Axis system, he'd seen the statistics—the daily toll of deaths in these streets, the constant parade of cruelties large and small. People robbed, beaten, killed in broad daylight while others walked past, eyes carefully averted. The streets operated on their own brutal logic, and everyone accepted it with practiced indifference.
But let a Malara participate in that same survival game, and suddenly these people remembered their moral compass. Their consciences awakened just long enough to judge him, as if his purple-tinged skin made his actions somehow worse than the daily atrocities they overlooked. Their selective outrage was just another form of cruelty, wrapped in a thin veneer of righteousness.
His heart hammered against his ribs, fists clenched beneath his tattered robe. Hatred radiated from him in waves, his hunched form and purple-tinged skin a perfect embodiment of this world's darkness. For a moment, he wasn't playing the role of Filis anymore—he had become something that truly belonged in this cruel place, a creature of spite and bitterness.
Then awareness crashed over him like cold water. Why was he so angry? These weren't even his memories to be bitter about. Something dark had bubbled up from somewhere deep inside—perhaps residual emotions from Filis's life, or maybe his own darkness finding an excuse to surface. He blamed it on the hunger, on the stress of survival, on anything but the uncomfortable truth that such hatred had come so easily to him.
Taking a deep breath, he forced his fingers to uncurl. Let the tension drain from his shoulders. He was still Hayazaki, whatever body he wore. He couldn't afford to lose himself to this world's poison.
A small cough drew his attention to the sister. She stood straight-backed despite her fear, dirt streaked across her hollow cheeks, eyes hard beyond her years. Though she remained silent, her presence demanded attention.
Her brother hunched beside her, more visibly afraid. Like everyone in this world, he wore death's shadow on his face—that resigned look of someone who knew the end could come at any moment. Yet there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes, a spark not yet extinguished.
The sister's expression told a different story. It spoke of someone who would survive her brother's death if it came to that, who would carry on—but would never forget. There was something steel-like in her gaze, an absence of tears that suggested she'd learned long ago they served no purpose. Looking at her, Hayazaki realized she might be exactly the ally he needed.
He could see it in their stance—they expected betrayal, viewing him as just another monster from the city's shadowed corners. The Axis screen beside them gave him glimpses of their emotional state, though not complete clarity: anger at being forced to comply, sadness at their helplessness, disbelief that they'd ended up in this situation. Their feelings flickered across his display like warning lights.
He smiled. "I suppose I should uphold my end of the deal."
"I suppose you should," the girl replied sharply, ignoring her brother's frightened tug at her sleeve, his fingers white-knuckled on her arm.
"Look at the spot where I supposedly poisoned you," Hayazaki said to the boy. "It's just a rash."
The siblings exchanged confused glances, the brother frantically examining his skin where Hayazaki had touched him earlier. Sure enough, the angry red mark was already fading.
"But the purple marks—your touch—" the boy stammered.
"A trick of the light, and your own fear," Hayazaki explained. "Not every Malara touch is poison. Though I must say, your reaction certainly helped me get breakfast."
The sister's face hardened, realizing how thoroughly they'd been manipulated. But beneath her anger, there was a glimmer of something else… relief perhaps.
The boy's face contorted with rage when he realized he'd been tricked. "I'll kill you!" he snarled, launching himself at Hayazaki with wild swings. Each punch met empty air as Hayazaki weaved away, letting out genuine laughs that only fueled the boy's anger.
To passersby, the scene must have looked horrific—a Malara tormenting a young boy, dodging his desperate attacks with cruel amusement. Their disgusted glances said they'd already written their own version of this story.
But the sister stood motionless, watching with growing curiosity. Something wasn't right about this picture. The Malara's laughter wasn't menacing—it was playful, almost childlike. His movements weren't those of a predator toying with prey, but of someone engaged in a game. As she studied him, a realization formed: whoever this person was, he wasn't like any Malara she'd ever encountered. There was something foreign about him, something that didn't belong in their harsh world.
Behind Hayazaki's playful dodges lay calculated observation. Each of the boy's swings and lunges fed data to his Axis screen—muscle density, reaction time, stamina. The display overlaid the boy's form with metrics: lung capacity suitable for ash inhalation, enough raw strength for wielding weapons, decent reflexes for self-defense. Not a perfect specimen, but more than adequate for what Hayazaki had in mind.
The sister required no such technical analysis. While still weaving around her brother's increasingly tired attacks, Hayazaki caught her studying him with those sharp eyes. She'd already sensed something was different about him—an unusually keen intuition that made her even more valuable than her brother's physical potential.
His smile widened. Yes, they would both be perfect for what he needed.
Hayazaki caught the boy's strongest punch effortlessly, grinning as he held it in place. "How about you guys join my group?"
"What ya playing at now, ye dirty Malara?" the boy spat, struggling against Hayazaki's grip.
"What I'm saying is, you're both hungry. You both need money." Hayazaki held the boy's fist but addressed his words to the sister. "I don't have much now, but stick with me, and you won't have to worry about either again."
The boy continued hurling street insults, but Hayazaki barely heard them. His focus remained on the sister, a knowing smile playing across his face. They both understood she was the one who would make this decision.
Hayazaki released his grip, letting the boy stumble to the ground, while maintaining eye contact with the sister.
"And why should we trust you?" she challenged. "We don't even know you. Not long ago we fought you, and you threatened to kill us."
Hayazaki held up a hand. "I never actually threatened to kill you. I was just messing with you."
The logic unsettled her—it went against everything their harsh world had taught them. It wasn't exactly kindness he'd shown them, but he'd had no reason not to hurt them either. In their experience, people didn't pass up chances to be cruel. Still...
"This kindness might just be a longer game," she said, eyes narrowed. "So tell me—if we were to group up, what do you have to offer?" She crossed her arms. "You seem quick enough, but dodging my brother's attacks—"
"—weak as they are,"
"Hey!" came an indignant protest from the ground.
she continued, ignoring him, "doesn't exactly prove you're strong. What do you have that won't get us killed on day one?"
Hayazaki caught the fatalism in her words—"killed immediately," as if death wasn't a possibility but an inevitability, and his only value lay in postponing it. The thought saddened him.
"That infection I pretended to give your brother? I could actually do that in my sleep."
"Bull," she spat.
"Not only that," Hayazaki pressed on, studying his Axis terminal. Though its features were limited, the weapon detection system revealed plenty—the sharper blade she'd hidden away, the obvious alterations to her brother's hand-me-down clothes. He decided to push further.
"For instance, I can see you're wearing your brother's modified clothes," he noted casually, then went for the kill: "And that despite calling each other siblings, you two aren't actually related."
That last observation hit its mark. It got her.
Ironically, that detail had been the easiest to spot. The boy spoke in street dialect, but her speech was structured and precise, bearing marks of education. Most people in this world wouldn't recognize the difference—they'd likely dismiss it as just another strange accent. But Hayazaki knew better. Though her grammar was simple by his world's standards, in this place, such precise speech was practically aristocratic.
Her vital signs on his display told another story—robust lung capacity, strong bone structure, overall health far above the local average. In a world where wellness marked wealth as surely as gold, she was a hidden treasure trying to pass as a street child.
He noticed them both tensing at his observations, and quickly raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "I'm not a threat," he assured them. "I'm just offering a chance—a better chance at survival. I want to live too, but I've been given a condition that I can't meet alone. I need help."
"What kind of help?" the girl asked cautiously.
"There's only one place to find the kind of wealth that buys real security—enough to stop looking over your shoulders."
Her expression darkened with immediate understanding. The dungeons below—where dead spirits haunted the living and corpses piled high for burning. A lawless maze of pillagers and worse, a powder keg everyone knew would eventually destroy their world.
"I'm offering you a chance," Hayazaki continued. "Not forcing you. But in this world, you don't get ahead by playing it safe. If your survival plan is robbing weak Malaras, you'll end up with scraps—if you're lucky. More likely, you'll end up dead."
He leaned forward. "This is your best shot at a real future. I can help you survive down there." A pause. "And I need this too. My life depends on it just as much as yours would."
The girl fell silent, weighing his words, while her brother tugged at her sleeve.
"Don't listen to him!" the boy pleaded. "He's lying—he's a Malara, an evil spirit!"
"Medical abnormality, actually," Hayazaki corrected.
A smile tugged at the girl's lips—the first genuine one he'd seen. In that moment, they shared a flash of understanding: two minds too sharp for their surroundings, somehow finding each other in the worst of places.
"We'll do it," she said, extending her hand. They shook on it.
"When do we start?"
Hayazaki shouldered his stolen bag. "Immediately."
She nodded. Despite her brother's continued protests, they both fell in step behind him.
Hayazaki felt satisfaction at securing such valuable assets—tools he could use to advance his goals while searching for his friends (or while they searched for him). He would descend into the dungeons, grow stronger, level up.
He glanced at the pair following him. The girl caught his eye, her gaze heavy with distrust. He understood her wariness—which was precisely why he intended to prove her wrong. He would honor their deal, ensure they got their fair share, and then they'd part ways.
He wouldn't live as Filis the ratcatcher, defined by survival at any cost. He would live as Hayazaki Daijiro, and he would live right.
At least, that's what he told himself.