Nine clenched his fists, every muscle coiled tight as he sat cross-legged in the temple courtyard. The monk's voice grated against his patience like steel against stone.
"Inhale… Exhale… Inhale…"
His jaw locked, fingers twitching as he fought the urge to snap.
"You cannot find inner peace if you let tension fester within you," the monk said, his voice irritatingly calm—almost amused.
Nine's eye twitched. In his mind, he had already stabbed the old man a hundred times.
"I can sense your murderous intent," the monk chuckled, unbothered. "Chop wood for the coming winter, then return home. You won't be back here for a while."
Nine frowned. "What do you mean?"
The monk merely hummed, offering nothing but a knowing smile that only deepened Nine's irritation.
Clicking his tongue, Nine snatched an axe and got to work. The rhythmic thud of splitting wood echoed through the courtyard, each swing a release of pent-up frustration. He finished quickly, stacking the logs in the temple's shed.
Nine months had passed since he and Aya had begun their journey. They had settled in an abandoned villa near the temple, where Aya insisted he train with the monks. He had begrudgingly agreed, but meditation was torture. He preferred fighting, moving—anything but sitting still.
At dusk, Nine leaped through the trees, his movements swift and silent as he made his way home. Aya always waited at the entrance.
But tonight, she wasn't there.
His step faltered. Sharp eyes swept over the villa's surroundings.
She must be inside.
But a strange unease settled in his chest.
Landing lightly on the doorstep, he pushed open the door. The villa was eerily silent.
No presence.
His stomach twisted. The air thickened, charged with his rising fury. The wooden floor beneath him splintered under the pressure of his restrained aura.
Inhale. Exhale.
But something was wrong.
A slow, unhinged smirk curled his lips, though his hands trembled. "No... hahahaha, no." He shook his head, as if trying to hold onto his sanity.
Then—he vanished.
The impact of his departure cracked the ground, sending tremors through the earth. Trees bent under the sheer force of his movement as he streaked toward the nearest village like a phantom.
Faint. He could still scent her. But it was weak.
He landed hard, the force of his arrival shaking the village square. Dust kicked up in thick clouds, sending villagers scrambling in fear. But Nine paid them no mind, his gaze razor-sharp as he searched—
There.
Colla.
She stood near the marketplace, scanning for the source of the disturbance.
Before she could react, Nine was on her.
A vice-like grip closed around her throat, slamming her against the wall. The structure cracked under the impact.
His voice was low, dangerous. "...Aya?"
Colla gasped, clawing at his wrist. She barely managed to raise a trembling finger, pointing toward a small shop across the street.
Nine didn't release her immediately. He studied her face, searching for any sign of deceit. Then, finally, he let go.
Colla collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.
His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he stormed inside.
And there—
Aya.
Seated, her face pale and drenched in sweat. Her hands gripped the chair's edges, knuckles white. Her belly—round and full—rose and fell with each labored breath.
Nine's rage evaporated, replaced by something far worse.
Helplessness.
He dropped to his knees before her, his hands shaking as he reached for hers.
"Aya..." His voice was hoarse, raw.
She turned to him, her pained expression softening slightly. "Nine…"
SMACK
A wrinkled hand clapped against the back of his head.
Nine flinched, startled.
"Idiot boy," the elderly midwife scolded. "She's in labor!"
Nine blinked. "Ah?"
SMACK
"She's about to give birth!"
He stared, the words taking an absurdly long time to process.
The midwife clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Tsk, tsk. Useless men."
Nine's delayed reaction made her scoff.
"Why aren't you helping her?" he demanded, irritation returning.
The old woman huffed. "You're the father. It's your job."
Nine's world tilted. "What?"
"Help her walk, ease the pain, support her through the process. I'll prepare the hot water," she snapped. "Move!"
His body moved before his mind caught up. He helped Aya to her feet, guiding her as she staggered. His hands smoothed over her back in slow, comforting circles, his voice whispering reassurances he wasn't sure she even heard.
Time blurred. Hours crawled by.
Aya gritted her teeth through the pain, fingers digging into his arm as he wiped sweat from her brow, his own heart hammering.
Then—
He was shoved out.
The door slammed shut.
Aya's piercing scream rang through the walls.
Nine stood frozen, fingers clenched against the wooden frame, fighting every instinct to break it down.
Then—
A baby's wail.
His breath caught.
The door creaked open.
The midwife stepped out, cradling a small bundle in her arms.
"It's a boy," she said, her voice softer now. Carefully, she placed the tiny newborn into Nine's trembling hands.
Nine could only stare.
Small.
Warm.
His.
His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, his gaze shifting to Aya. She lay exhausted, but a weak smile curved her lips as she reached out.
With delicate hands, she brushed her fingers over their son's tiny face.
"Name him," she whispered.
Nine didn't hesitate. "Seven."
Aya blinked. "Why?"
Nine smirked, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. "Odd number. Like mine."
A breathy chuckle escaped her lips, though exhaustion quickly overtook her.
Nine placed their son beside her, watching as she cradled him close.
"How do you feel?" he asked softly.
Aya pressed a gentle kiss to Seven's forehead. "It wasn't too hard. I think Seven was thoughtful of me."
Nine exhaled, relief washing over him. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Aya smiled against his mouth. For the first time, she truly believed—Nine would keep his promise.
Seven began to wail again, and Nine instinctively picked him up, cradling him with surprising ease. He swayed gently, humming a quiet lullaby.
Aya watched, warmth spreading in her chest as she drifted into a peaceful sleep.
By the door, the midwife nodded approvingly. "A lovely family," she mused before turning away.
Colla, however, lingered.
She rubbed her neck, the phantom ache of Nine's grip still fresh.
Her gaze flickered to Aya, then to Nine—now rocking his newborn son with an unsettling tenderness.
Nine was unpredictable. Dangerous.
Colla clenched her fists.
She would stay. For Aya.
Because someone needed to protect her—when the time came.