Yoizumi's grip tightened further, still on Komatsuse's injured hand. Komatsuse was drenched in cold sweat from the pain, her eyes reddening, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping to the ground.
Following the tear with his gaze, Yoizumi closed his eyes. His tight grip loosened but did not separate. His expression calmed, and his thoughts returned. He had almost lost control just now, almost harming Komatsuse.
He looked at her still bleeding arm, pursed his lips, and averted his gaze.
"I'm sorry, I hurt... you."
Seeing Mr. Yoizumi regain his senses, Komatsuse breathed a sigh of relief. Was it her imagination just now? Mr. Yoizumi's eyes had turned into vertical slits, like a demon's. Now that she had calmed down, Komatsuse remembered how many injuries Yoizumi had sustained in the battle, yet he was now standing before her completely unharmed.
Mr. Yoizumi must be a demon!
Even though she had reached this conclusion, Komatsuse felt no fear. Yoizumi was her savior, the savior of the entire village. He had saved her twice. So what if he was a demon?
Mr. Yoizumi was different from those evil demons who killed without batting an eye!
Suddenly, she felt a warmth on her wrist. Komatsuse looked on in a daze. A glow emanated from Yoizumi's hand, a warm and reassuring feeling. The wound on her arm miraculously disappeared, as if it had never been there.
"You still have family... waiting for you... to return. Don't... do this again."
Looking at Yoizumi's pale face, Komatsuse smiled with relief. Perhaps all demons were the same; it was just that Mr. Yoizumi was an incredibly gentle person. It was no wonder she had fallen for him.
During the battle, Yoizumi had learned another Blood Demon Art: Rotation. This art allowed him to absorb the wounds and negative statuses of the target into his own body, bearing the burden himself.
Looking at Ishii Kawa on the ground not far away, Yoizumi propped himself up, refusing Komatsuse's attempt to help him. He knelt on one knee. He could still feel Ishii Kawa's faint pulse; he wasn't dead yet.
He placed his hand on Ishii Kawa's injured chest.
Blood Demon Art: Rotation.
A glow appeared in his hand again, and Ishii Kawa's wounds were absorbed. After confirming that he was fine, Yoizumi uncontrollably coughed up a mouthful of fresh blood. His clear, bright sapphire eyes gradually lost their luster, becoming dim and lifeless. His body, losing its support, fell heavily to the ground.
"Mr. Yoizumi! Mr. Yoizumi, pull yourself together!"
In the last moment before his eyes closed, he heard Komatsuse's helpless cries.
...It had been countless bitterly cold winters, but this year was exceptionally cold.
His small hand clutched a steaming bun, his exposed skin chapped and red from the cold. The thin clothing on his frail body was utterly insufficient to withstand the biting wind.
His messy, unkempt blond hair obscured his eyes, revealing only a hint of their outline. His small, exposed face was smudged with dirt. He was curled up in a makeshift shelter constructed from cardboard boxes, which barely offered him a place to rest.
He took large bites of his only bun, a charitable offering from a shop owner. Everyone knew that countless homeless people would freeze to death on such a winter night.
In this dark alley, countless eyes were fixed on him—no, on the food in his hand. Perhaps they were all waiting for someone to make the first move.
In a short while, he had already eaten most of the bun, savoring the faint sweetness it left in his mouth. He wondered if he should save some to eat later when he was starving. His stomach was still rumbling, but this half-bun was enough to keep him alive for another day.
He clutched the bun tightly, his wary gaze sweeping over the covetous eyes around him.
"Clack, clack."
At the alley entrance, a man in a suit and polished leather shoes, which clacked as he walked, appeared. He carried a wine bottle in one hand, his face flushed. He was drunk, reeking of alcohol, and hiccuping.
His unfocused eyes haphazardly scanned the squalid dark alley, a look of disgust on his face. No one in the alley dared to meet his gaze; they all averted their eyes.
The homeless held an extremely low status here. The slightest trivial matter could cost them their lives, let alone provoking someone who appeared to be living well.
He glanced at the man who had appeared, paying him no mind. He looked up at the hazy sky, where not a ray of sunlight could be seen. It must be almost noon. He should go find some food. He decided to save the bun.
His small body stood up, only slightly taller than the silver trash can beside him. Seeing that the man was still standing in the middle of the only path, he squeezed through the remaining space. Suddenly, the man grabbed him by the collar.
Immediately, the world spun, and he fell onto the cold, snowy ground. With the fall, his messy blond hair swept back, and his lifeless blue eyes stared blankly at the man. The strong smell of alcohol was close.
"What a pretty child, *hic*~"
The man's alcoholic breath sprayed onto his face, making him frown. A large hand caressed his tender cheek, a wicked smile on his face. Seeing the half-bun the child beneath him clutched to his chest, the man snatched it and threw it aside.
He watched as the snow-white bun landed in the dirty snow, quickly devoured by other homeless people who remained indifferent to him. No one would willingly offend such a person for someone unrelated.
Some even looked at him with mocking, spectating eyes.
Looking at his empty palm, he wished he had eaten the bun earlier. He might never taste such a delicious bun again. He looked at the man above him, who was breathing heavily and reeking of alcohol, a suffocating sensation seizing his breath. He reached for the wine bottle the man had placed on the ground, gripped it, and swung it forcefully at the man's head.
"Smash!"
He struggled to push the man off him. The man was no longer breathing. He wiped the warm blood that had splattered on his face. His lifeless blue eyes looked at the man on the ground. He had killed someone.
There was no fear, no unease.
Only calm. Looking at the sticky blood on his hands, he slowly squatted down and scrubbed them clean with the already dirty snow. Yet, his hands remained stained with dirt and impurities. The man's blood soaked into the snow like scattered plum blossoms.
The nearby homeless scattered like birds, shouting that there had been a murder, and fled the dark alley.
As the patrol officers, drawn by the commotion, pinned him to the ground, he thought,
"His blood was warm, very warm."