Nine exhaled sharply, tilting his head in mild disbelief. "Ah, shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders slumped as he surveyed the wreckage before him—the shattered windows, the door barely hanging on its hinges, the faint scent of splintered wood and dust thick in the air. A dry chuckle escaped him. "Hasn't even been a week since I got her this house."
He took a step forward—
THUNK!
An arrow whistled past, slicing through the wooden door, missing his eye by a hair's breadth.
"We're under attack," Aya said, voice sharp, already moving to take cover.
"Obviously," Nine replied, scratching his cheek, his gaze flicking toward the source.
"That's not the point—" Aya snapped, only to be cut off.
"Colla, give her meat."
Aya's eye twitched. Without hesitation, she grabbed a cup from the table and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall just inches from his head. Nine merely tilted his head, unfazed, as though dodging projectiles from her had become routine.
"Hmm… four of them," he murmured, rolling his shoulders. He dragged a chair across the floor, the screech of wood against stone grating through the tension-filled air.
Then, in a blur of motion, he launched it upward. The chair crashed into the ceiling, sending dust and splinters cascading down.
The momentary distraction was all he needed.
Nine moved.
His body blurred, cutting through the dim light like a specter. His short sword flickered into his grasp, an extension of his will. One step. A pivot. A sharp exhale.
The blade left his hand.
A wet thunk echoed as the sword buried itself deep in a man's chest, slipping through bone and flesh like a knife through silk. The attacker staggered, blood bubbling from his lips as he crumpled.
The others reacted—too late.
Nine twisted, his wrist flicking. Three poisoned needles whistled through the air, deadly and precise. One struck a man's throat; the venom took hold instantly. He convulsed, hands clawing at his neck as his knees buckled, gurgling.
Another enemy lunged. Nine barely shifted—just a tilt of his head—and the blade meant for his ribs scraped uselessly past his coat. He caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing, fingers like an iron vice. With a sharp twist—
CRACK
A pained scream ripped through the air as the bones snapped. The man reeled, staggering back—only for Nine's recalled sword to return, spiraling toward him like a silver fang.
The enemy barely managed to deflect it. But his movements faltered. His stance wavered. His leg buckled.
A thin strand of hair—cowhide, laced with venom—had coiled around his ankle, unnoticed in the chaos.
SCHAK!
A dagger buried itself in his spine. Colla twisted the blade mercilessly before yanking it free, her movements silent, precise—lethal.
The last enemy stumbled back, his breath ragged, his grip tightening around his blade. He scanned the room—his fallen comrades, the two figures standing before him. He was alone. Outmatched.
Yet, instead of fear, he sneered. "So you're the so-called Saint?" His voice dripped with disdain. "I see nothing but a hypocrite."
Nine arched a brow, smirking. "Aren't we all?"
The man's gaze flicked to Aya. His lips curled in a sickening grin. "That your bitch? Pretty one," he leered, licking his lips.
Nine's smirk twitched. His fingers flexed.
"Ah, I wanted some rest," he sighed, stepping forward. "But I guess I'm famous now."
Before the man could react, Colla moved—a shadow darting through the dim light.
A blur of motion. A flash of steel.
SLAM
The man hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs as Colla pinned him down. Her blade hovered near his throat, a silent promise of death.
Nine crouched beside him, gripping the man's face with a mockingly gentle touch.
SLAP!
The first strike landed, sharp and deliberate.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
Blood splattered as the slaps turned brutal, the sharp cracks ringing through the broken home.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
By the time Nine stopped, the man's face was a swollen, unrecognizable mess.
"Fuc—"
"Nuh-uh-uh," Nine interrupted, gripping the man's jaw with bruising force. "I nearly forgot something important." He chuckled, voice rich with amusement.
The dagger flashed.
SHKKK—
A gargled scream tore through the air as Nine sliced the man's tongue clean off. Blood gushed from his mouth, his body convulsing in agony.
Nine picked up the severed tongue, tilting his head. "Come on. Eat. It's an honor. I stopped feeding Aya a long time ago."
The man's wide, panicked eyes reflected nothing but pure horror.
Nine's laughter was soft at first. Then it grew. A rich, unhinged melody, intertwining with the muffled cries of his victim.
"Nine," Colla's voice cut through, calm and firm.
Nine's mirth faded instantly. His eyes flicked toward the doorway.
Aya stood there, bathed in fractured moonlight, her silhouette rigid, fists clenched at her sides. Shadows carved sharp angles into her face, but even in the dimness, he caught the slight tremor in her fingers as she reached down, grasping the hem of her dress.
RIP
Fabric tore beneath her grip. She didn't hesitate as she freed her legs for movement.
She was leaving.
Tsk
Nine didn't waste a breath. In one swift motion, he drove his dagger into the skull of the half-conscious man beneath him. The body spasmed once before falling still, blood pooling across the floor.
Then, in a single, fluid motion, Nine vaulted, the night air biting against his skin as he landed gracefully in front of her path.
"Aya." His voice softened, losing its usual playfulness.
She didn't stop.
"I'm tired of this," she said, shaking her head, her breath uneven.
Nine hesitated, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "Aya—"
"Enough!" She whirled on him, her eyes burning with frustration. "I don't want this."
Nine frowned but forced himself to remain relaxed. "Okay, okay," he conceded, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll step away from the battle."
Aya stared at him, unimpressed. "I don't believe you."
Nine exhaled, his shoulders shifting with the weight of her words. Then, with deliberate slowness, he unclasped his belt.
One by one, he dropped his weapons.
The soft clinks and muted thuds of steel on dirt filled the silence.
By the time he was done, the pile at his feet looked less like a mere collection of weapons and more like an arsenal.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Better?"
Aya's expression didn't shift.
"Stop that," she snapped.
His grin faded immediately.
"You can't just say it, Nine," she said, quieter this time. "You have to prove it."
Nine studied her in silence, his gaze lingering on the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself.
"Fine," he relented. "We'll leave. Now, if that's what you want."
"I want to bring Colla."
For the briefest moment, irritation flickered across his face. A beat too long of hesitation. Then he nodded, voice measured. "If… that's what you want."
Aya's posture remained firm. "Good. Then we leave now."
Nine clicked his tongue, feigning exasperation. "Anything else, princess?"
Then, without missing a beat—"Meat."
Despite himself, Nine huffed a quiet laugh. "Of course."
Nine extended his hand toward her, waiting patiently for her to accept.
Then, slowly, she placed her palm against his.
Nine's fingers curled around hers, his thumb brushing idly against the back of her hand. Her skin was cold. He pressed against it, rubbing warmth into her fingers.
His voice dropped, gentler now. "And where would you like to go?"
Aya exhaled, her gaze distant. "I heard the monks in the western region have the most peaceful land right now."
Nine hummed. "Then we'll head west."
Something in her seemed to loosen. The sharpness in her expression softened, tension slipping from her frame like sand through fingers. "Let's build a garden," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
"Mm-hm."
"I want wooden floors," she continued, a small flicker of warmth returning to her voice. "It's comfier for being barefoot."
Nine smirked. "And?"
Aya glanced at him, lips pressing together for a moment before she admitted, "Colla's been teaching me some basic martial arts."
His brow lifted in surprise. "Oh?"
"She says I need better reflexes."
Nine huffed. "She's not wrong." He tilted his head, intrigued. "I can teach you, too."
Aya considered this, then nodded.
"Then we should have a vacation by the sea someday," she added, almost as an afterthought.
Nine paused at that. Then, voice quiet but sure—"Sure."
And he meant it.
Aya glanced at him, searching his expression, as if testing the weight of his words. Whatever she saw, she seemed to accept.
The night stretched around them, endless and quiet. The scent of blood still lingered in the air, but for now, it didn't matter.
As they moved through the darkness, their voices intertwined, painting fragile dreams of a future neither knew they could reach.
For the first time in a long while, Nine didn't look back.