Mob Yandere

Chapter 216

Chapter 216It could only be called a banquet masquerading as rustic fare.

The northern lands were cold and barren—the leanest of the Five Regions of Fusō. Their people lived on what endured: foods brined for long winters, broths meant to kindle warmth, and crops hardy enough to grow in frozen soil—potatoes, millet, mountain herbs, and the pure harvests of sea and forest alike.

Compared to the elegance of the capital or the fertile Center Province, the dishes lacked refinement and color. Yet in that roughness dwelled a kind of grace: honest, nourishing, and true to the flavor of the earth itself.

A lacquer bowl gleamed black beneath the candlelight, holding a steaming taro stew. Someone had shaped the carrots into blossoms—a whimsical touch that brightened the dish.

The broth sang with the layered essence of kombu kelp, bonito, and shiitake. Subtle, yet strong in its country heart.

The grilled ayu was another marvel—large, fat with rich oil, the salt measured so precisely it never drowned the fish's sweetness.

A stalk of young myoga bamboo lent a vivid accent. At the touch of chopsticks, the flesh yielded, and a gentle savor melted across the tongue.

A side of tamago kanten and jellied konjac sat in an elegant ceramic bowl.

Their flavors had soaked deep, steeped in thick broth. It was hearty but clear—something that could cleanse the palate as well as satisfy it.

In another small dish rested a baked akebia fruit stuffed with miso—surely the first of the season.Three kinds of pickles joined it: eggplant, cucumber, and yellow daikon. Their colors shone like jewels beside the earth-toned plates.

Even the rice was artful—not the heavy taro-mixed grain one might expect, but a porridge gentle to the stomach, rich with five wholesome grains.

The blend was no filler, but a choice of balance—adding depth of flavor and beauty of texture. Shredded ginger and fresh shiso leaves crowned it with brightness and warmth.

...And then, one dish broke the harmony.

It didn't pretend to be rustic—it was rustic. The plate itself was elegant, but its contents were crude, almost jarring against the rest.

The color alone was poor: a dull brown drowned in soy sauce, monotonous, lifeless. The broth smelled shallow, the chopped vegetables uneven.

No care in the cut, no balance in the taste. It was a stew that dragged down the whole feast.

The servant girl—born to poor soil herself—glared at it with silent shame. It was as if she were spitting at heaven. For that stew was hers.

Her own creation. A reflection of herself served on a noble's plate. No polish, no disguise could hide what it was.

"..."

"...?"

Suzune's eyes shifted to the culprit—the one who had arranged this as some cruel joke. The Princess.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence, that same coy air she used when flaunting indecent tales of romance. It made Suzune's blood boil.

"A—"

She hadn't even noticed until now; her mind had been fixed on the Princess. By the time she looked back, her brother's chopsticks had already reached for the dish.

He plucked up a misshapen carrot and slipped it into his mouth before anyone could stop him. Overcooked, soft... he swallowed.

"...Mm. Good. Tastes nostalgic."

The quiet words carried warmth.

Suzune—no, Yukine—felt something loosen inside her. The bandaged man's eyes were kind, full of love that pierced through the gauze and years alike.

"Sorry you went to the trouble," he said. "It's just like home. You learned from Mother, didn't you?"

That stew—once their family's humble treat—was nothing more than root and leaf simmered long in thick soy. To have him recognize it filled her chest with quiet joy.

"I thought... maybe it could be part of the evening meal," she murmured. "But... forgive me. It pales beside the rest."

He laughed softly, sunlight breaking through years of storm. "It'd be rude to say it outshines the Princess's feast... but it's in a class of its own.

"Thank you. Truly. It means more than you know."

His eyes narrowed with genuine joy, heavy with longing.

In that smile she saw all the years he had borne his suffering, missing home, missing them. To think her dish—this clumsy thing—could soothe even a sliver of that ache made her want to weep.

...Wait. The Princess's feast?

Her brother's words replayed. Did he mean the elegant meal—the one she thought came from Miyataka's kitchens?

"...?"

"My heartfelt handiwork," the Princess declared, puffing her chest. "Something wrong with that?"

Handmade—by her? Yukine stared.

"That's... handmade? Really?"

If it had been badly done, she'd understand. If the maids had cooked, that too would make sense.

But this woman—with her wild habits, her scandalous reputation—and such refined dishes? Impossible.

"Cooking happens to be one of her hobbies," her brother added, smiling faintly. "I'm fortunate to enjoy it often."

"That's right~," the Princess sang.

"I... I see."

Yukine stiffened. It felt like defeat—in skill, in pride, in everything.

The rumors of her debauchery clashed with the evidence before her eyes. How could both be true?

"I thought the maids prepared it..." she muttered.

"Not at all," her brother said with a teasing grin. "Every dish here is steeped in love, isn't it, Princess?"

"Fufu~ you know it~."

Yukine bit her tongue. No point in arguing. In wealth, in ingredients, in grace—there was no competing.

She was just a country girl, uneducated, unrefined. It didn't bother her. No, not at all. Not even a little...

"...More importantly," her brother said, "the road here—was everything peaceful?"

"The road...?"

He ate another bite of her stew, thoughtful. Yukine tilted her head, uncertain.

"The Princess told me things outside have grown dangerous. And with... my situation... I worry for you. Be careful at night. If something happened because of me, I could never forgive myself."

"Spoken like a man wrapped head to toe in bandages," the Princess teased.

The concern in his voice was real, but the Princess's mocking tone soured it. Yukine frowned, yet her brother only chuckled, glancing at the Princess with weary affection.

They looked almost like lovers flirting, and that irritated her all the more. Still, she told herself—it was just his kindness, his position.

"Please don't worry," she said at last. "Iruka's with me. She's a woman, but she's used to trouble. Could knock out most men bare-handed."

"A dependable friend, then."

"Yes. Completely."

If Iruka wanted, she could do far more than knock someone out—she could tear a thug limb from limb. But Yukine kept that thought to herself.

"Besides," she added, "our host family provided guards for us."

"Ah, the Onitsuki house, wasn't it? I'm grateful. Do you know their names?"

"They go by aliases... I believe Chidori-san and Tsunoha-san."

For a moment, he froze—then managed to recall and name them.

His brother. Yukine knew well that failing to remember those who had aided her brother, no matter their rank, would not reflect kindly on her.

"I see. Iruka-kun as well—be sure to thank them for me. ...Princess, may I ask a favor?"

"A souvenir, is that it~? Hmph, fine. If you insist that much, I'll throw in some sweets. You'd better be grateful."

"Heh. Of course. Yukine, make sure to deliver them, all right?"

"Eh—ah... y-yes, sir!"

Caught between their easy rhythm, Yukine blinked, then hurried to answer. She understood—her brother was asking for her sake. A gift of sweets bought goodwill; those who offered such courtesies earned protection more willingly than those who didn't.

But what struck Yukine most was that her brother could ask this of the Princess so naturally, with such comfort. Their closeness stung more than she could admit. It turned swiftly to jealousy.

Why were they so close? Even the first time she had met the Princess, the woman's manner had been far too familiar.

Perhaps this was simply how she was—brazen, thoughtless. But remembering the rumors about the dissolute Princess of Miyataka, Yukine could not help but imagine darker things.

(She's... a glutton for vice...)

Despite noble blood, her reputation was anything but noble. Old and young, highborn and low—no boundaries, no restraint.

How true the stories were, Yukine didn't know. Yet the way the Princess stood beside her brother, the distance too narrow for propriety, lent them credibility.

Her mind began to wander.

She saw, in her thoughts, that licentious Princess whispering empty sweetness, clinging to her brother with feigned innocence.

She saw her—half-dressed, straddling him. And she saw her brother, breath ragged, giving in, hands roaming that tainted skin that had known so many before...

Ridiculous. Impossible.

It couldn't be. Her brother wasn't that kind of man. He couldn't be.

Couldn't.

...

"...Yukine?"

"...Brother."

Later she would remember how harsh her face must have looked then. But in that moment, Yukine had no room for reflection.

Her thoughts raced on one track only—to save him, to reclaim him. Her brother belonged to her. Not to that woman.

"...Brother, I have a proposal."

Her voice softened, lilting almost like a song as she began to speak—of their future, the two of them.

She painted it bright with words, full of warmth and confidence. She never imagined he would refuse.

Because how could he? He had never refused her before.

He had never once turned her away. He was always on her side. Always.

So when he said—

"...I'm sorry. I can't do that."

—her mind went blank. His apologetic face froze her where she sat. The words refused to make sense. What did he mean? Why?

"As for where I'll go once things settle... it's already been decided."

He glanced aside, toward the Princess. She smiled gently.

A bad feeling struck Yukine's chest. Stop, she begged silently.

Don't look at her like that. Don't smile that way at anyone else.

The next words cut deep.

"It was the Princess's suggestion. I didn't want to burden the family anymore, so she offered me work here—as one of her attendants."

He explained easily—how he'd been invited to stay, to serve as a companion of sorts to the Princess. He described the duties, the pay, the modest comfort of the life he could lead.

It was all so reasonable, so kind, so final. He even spoke brightly, as if to spare her feelings.

"...So don't worry," he said. "You don't need to sacrifice your life for mine. I'll manage. Somehow, I'll make it work. You don't have to push yourself, all right?"

So gentle. So kind.

He thanked her with the same warmth he used to reject her.

It was love, yes—but a brother's love. And that made it unbearable.

All his words—his concern for their parents, their brothers, for her future—none of it mattered to the girl before him.

To her, there was only one truth burning inside.

"...Why?"

The whisper was so small it never reached his ears.

"Fufu."

The fallen princess beside him gave a soft, cruel laugh.

Her eyes gleamed—a mix of pity and triumph.

* * *

"Heyyy! Welcome!"

"Reservation, right? I'll take you to your seats. This way, please!"

The curtain lifted, and a lively voice greeted them—a brash young waitress, full of cheer. Another, sharp-eyed and bespectacled, followed with polite precision, pointing down a narrow corridor toward the inner tables.

"..."

"Well then, shall we?" said the ghost, smiling as he turned back. "Don't worry. Within these walls, you and your companions are safe. Not that you need me to tell you that, do you?"

His grin was so free of malice it was almost irritating.

"You expect me to believe that...? Brother?"

Shirowakamaru's tone was sharp, accusatory. I raised a hand to still him.

Stay with the car, I told him. Guard the women. Watch Kamui.

"But—"

"It's fine. He's telling the truth. Don't worry about me. All right?"

"...Understood."

When I reached out and ruffled his hair, the boy's tense shoulders eased.

He nodded—reluctantly, almost shyly. There was something fragile in the way he looked at me, and I hated having to leave him behind.

"Kamui, you wait outside too," the ghost added. "He wouldn't be able to eat in peace with you watching."

"Seriously? And here I thought I'd get a free meal out of this. Don't be so cold, kid—let's be friends, huh? We're both the leftovers here."

Kamui's voice was lazy, teasing, as he glanced sideways at Shirowakamaru's glare.

"Oh, right," said the ghost, as if remembering something. "If you get hungry, here—have this. Homemade."

"What's this?"

"A snack. Half-eaten."

He pulled a crumpled paper bag from his coat and handed it over. Kamui peered inside—then instantly regretted it.

For just a moment, a wave of hot steam rose from the bag, followed by a faintly fishy stench, a strangled screech—◼️◼️◼️ッ!!—and the squirm of something that looked disturbingly like a tentacle. A splash of white, sticky fluid shot out; Kamui dodged just in time.

Damn. So close.

"...You want it, kid?"

"Hell no."

"Didn't think so."

The two exchanged a tired look, then left together in silence. Only the bag's faint screams and retreating footsteps remained behind.

"Oh? Not for eating, then? Pity. It did look tasty... Anyway, right this way!"

The two who left—and the "something" in that cursed paper bag—were gone, but the brash fox waitress lingered, watching them go with wistful eyes.

Especially the boy, Shirowakamaru, and the bag. Then she sniffled, swallowed her drool, and turned back toward us with a grin.

Apparently, foxes had odd tastes.

The tavern's inside was far larger than its humble exterior could ever suggest. No way the building we'd seen outside could contain this vast courtyard, this open space lined with rooms divided by sliding fusuma painted with intricate scenes.

Warm lanterns bathed the corridors in amber light, rising level upon level—five stories? Six? It was like stepping into the estate of a noble family, hidden in the heart of the city's underbelly.

That's when it became clear: the waitresses bustling about—each identical face, each swaying with the same seven tails—they weren't different foxes. They were one.

Copies, conjured through yokai fox magic.

Ruri Aoya and Ruri Ryokka—the twin fox sisters who ran the infamous izakaya Kitsune Town-an, a den well-known to players of Firefly of the Dark Night (Yamiyo no Hotaru).

In the "Dark Tamaki Route," their shop had often been the meeting ground for the protagonist, the enigmatic staff-wielder, and the twisted Minister. Fans still remembered the still-image where their silhouettes appeared in the background—just enough to prompt a thousand forum jokes.

Back when the game first launched, before its true grotesque nature was known, these two had been the mascots. Cute, chibi versions of themselves adorned the official site, cracking jokes and explaining mechanics in cheerful promo videos.

People loved them—innocent, comic relief in a bleak world. When the white fox species entry was later added to the character encyclopedia, everyone expected a cameo in the main story.

Then the tone of the series shifted—dark, cruel, erotic horror—and the foxes vanished from the game entirely.

Fans were relieved; they had been spared. The official website, however, kept them as chibis, their bright presence a last shred of innocence.

That ended the day the "Dark Tamaki Route" dropped.

The artist posted new art online: the same chibi foxes—smiling, rosy-cheeked—amid a red-black kitchen, chopping flesh.

Human flesh. One of them held a cleaver; from the pot behind her, a leg protruded.

The sanctuary was gone. God damn it.

"Right this way, folks!" the fox chimed. "Beyond this point, our barrier of silence and recognition ends—so please, no shouting or spellwork, okay? Oh, and we're not liable for... interpersonal conflicts between guests. Keep your curses contained and your fights private!"

We entered a private room. A hanging scroll and a vase of fresh flowers decorated the alcove.

Cushions on tatami, and a low table. Beyond the sliding doors lay a courtyard with a small pond reflecting bamboo stalks in the lamplight.

Across the garden, silhouettes dined in other rooms, though what they were was impossible to tell.

In this room, there's no clatter. Not even the sound of breathing carried over.

Complete, unnatural silence.

As the fox had explained, each private room was sealed in its own bubble—its own Barrier Curse.

A perfect isolation chamber.

"Here's your water and appetizers. You left the menu to the chef, correct?"

With a snap of her fingers, two glasses of water and a pair of simple starters appeared: chilled tofu and salted edamame. Refreshing fare for summer drinking—if not for the fact we were in a den of monsters.

The outer slums of the capital's Gai-Kyou district were full of strange company—fallen samurai, con artists, back-alley doctors, half-yokai mercenaries, even exorcists gone rogue. In this place, monsters and men mingled freely, bound by profit and necessity.

You could hire an oni one day and slay him the next.

The police—Kebiishi—rarely came this deep. Because it's too dangerous, and it's too entangled with noble interests.

Only one man ever had: the Ako family's second son, who'd led a reckless raid and wiped out a third of the red-light district in a single night. He was promptly dismissed.

Kitsune Town stood in the deepest heart of that chaos—a maze of curses, illusions, and traps layered upon one another.

Even a master ninja would struggle to reach it. Which made it the perfect neutral ground for forbidden dealings.

Monster to monster.

Human to monster. Human to human.

Deals no one could acknowledge in daylight.

Even nobles and licensed exorcists came here under false names.

"Come now," said the ghost cheerfully. "Sit. You must be starving. Let's fill our stomachs first."

Without hesitation, the hundred-faced ghost sat down, sipped his water, and sighed in satisfaction.

I followed, reluctantly. The water was cold and clean.

The edamame were lightly salted—under-seasoned, if anything. Not carelessness, but confidence.

For all its reputation as a scam tavern, this place guaranteed two things: the safety of its food, and the anonymity of its patrons.

Even attacks from outside were warded off. Everything else was your own problem.

For me, that was enough.

No tracking, no leaks, no hints that I was still alive. That was all that mattered.

"This tofu," the ghost mused, "cheap, watery... but saved by the condiments."

"Agreed," I muttered. "Terrible."

We spoke little, chewing in rhythm. Empty words filled the silence until one of the blue-tailed foxes returned, arms full of dishes and bottles.

"Here we go! First wave of food! And for your drink—our special, 'Hito-de-nashi,' straight from the Eastern Lands! Please, drink to your heart's content~!"

She slapped the plates down with gleeful disregard for decorum.

Chawanmushi, ohitashi, pickles, kinpira burdock, rolled omelet, vinegared greens, simmered pumpkin, hijiki, taro stew, and grilled eggplant cut like a whisk broom.

Light, delicate fare—meant to tease, not fill. A handful of bites each.

"'Hito-de-nashi,' huh," the ghost chuckled. "You know the story? The drink was so weak that customers cursed the tavern's owner, calling him a 'good-for-nothing.' It stuck."

"Fitting for us, then," I said.

I answered the ghost's trivia with a dry quip as he inspected the sake bottle. Of course, he didn't mind the jab—he only laughed, cheerful as ever, and poured the pale liquor into two small cups, offering one across the table.

"Let's start with a toast, shall we?"

I ignored his raised cup and drank straight from my own.

Just as he'd said, it was weak—almost flavorless.

I could've downed an entire bottle and stayed perfectly sober. No drowning this reality in alcohol.

"...Honestly," he sighed theathetically. "How lonely. Sharing a drink with my grown-up 'son,' and he won't even toast. Is this what they call rebellion?"

He shook his head, sighing again for effect.

"Please," I muttered. "Don't call me that. Stop inventing family. I've had enough of that sort of madness."

Truly enough.

I'd already endured people claiming to be my long-lost mother, daughter, sister—it was horror in the flesh.

My family tree looked like the scribbles of a deranged god. Even the pantheon of a polytheistic cult had more order.

"I do sympathize," said Nue, smiling faintly. "But you should tell that to the others. Chronologically speaking, I came before your mother or your daughter, after all."

"...Before? What the hell does that mean?"

He spoke so casually, so detached, that I paused mid-motion with my refilled cup in hand.

Studying him, I saw it—the sly curl of his lips, the glint of amusement behind his eyes. A predator playing with its prey.

"You—"

"It isn't uncommon," he interrupted softly. "Remote villages slipping beyond the Empire's grasp. Forgotten places, left to rot. Such villages often fall under the rule of yokai... or worse, men."

The Empire of Fusō had always expanded outward—feeding its surplus people to the frontier, fortifying its borders inch by inch. Many times, those settlements met monsters or barbarian tribes.

Some were conquered, others wiped out, the survivors absorbed into alien dominions. And sometimes, when all else failed, they submitted to roaming bandits.

"My power isn't omnipotent," Nue continued. "Tracing bloodlines, inhabiting them—it comes with conditions. Genetics, as you might call it, is rather complicated. You understand that, don't you?"

Simplified, a child inherits half its code from each parent.

But not every trait manifests. Some remain dormant, waiting.

"I was never much interested in procreation," he said lightly. "After the Great Uprising, most of my vessels were purged by the Ministers of the Right. They feared what I might hide. Oh, I could've bred more bodies in vats, of course—but maintaining them, placing them in safehouses across the land... tedious. Far better to anchor myself in existing bloodlines, scattered across regions and classes."

He spoke so casually, poking at the side dishes with his chopsticks as though discussing the weather.

Through the open shoji, I glimpsed movement in the neighboring room—shadowy figures arguing behind the barrier of silence.

"There was one such village," he went on. "Far north. Remote enough to be a forgotten speck. They mined fine spirit-silver there, until monsters overran the region. The hired guards fled or were eaten. Eventually, they pledged themselves to a band of bandits."

The bandits ruled brutally, but at least they kept the villagers alive. Fusō had long since forgotten them; even the local governors didn't remember the settlement existed.

No rescue would ever come. Survival meant submission.

"I can't recall which number she was," Nue mused. "The girl they offered up."

A village girl, orphaned and alone, given to the bandits for their amusement.

She served, slaved, and was broken for their pleasure—morning, noon, and night. A life of labor and violation.

"One of my bodies then happened to be the bandit chief," Nue said, almost fondly. "I was scouting the frontier, looking for useful specimens. And then I found her. A promising vessel."

He had never cared which of his underlings lived or died before. But this girl—she drew attention even from him.

"A fight broke out among the men," he continued. "Apparently she was... exceptional. I hadn't expected them to kill each other over her. So I checked. And indeed—she was remarkable. Resilient, vital, a perfect subject."

He spoke as if cataloging insects. It wasn't impossible, he explained—such bodies did appear now and then.

She had survived endless abuse because she was strong enough to endure it. It was sheer chance that he had discovered her then, on the verge of moving on. The bandit chief had grown bored.

"To be precise, I wouldn't call myself her father," he said. "But I did prepare the seed and egg, adjusted them, and implanted them within her. A fine womb like that deserved proper use. I ensured germination. One of my backups in the Northern Region. I even gave her medicine—something to alter her nerves and spiritual flow. The results were... satisfactory."

She kept serving the bandits as before—cooking, cleaning, pretending nothing had changed. One night, she slipped something into the pot.

By dawn, every man lay dead in their sleep.

And she vanished into the snow, clutching her swollen belly.

"...Lies," I spat. "If that were true, you'd have revealed yourself long ago."

Across the garden, the neighboring room's argument grew louder, but I kept my eyes on him.

There was no reason to trust this specter. Every word from his mouth was a snare.

"You overestimate your own importance," Nue said gently. "Not that you lack worth—you do—but it's a value you earned, not one I built into you."

"..."

His smile widened, cruel and amused.

A question masked as praise.

A test he already knew I'd fail.

After possession, of course, he'd tinkered with the genes—enough to enhance spiritual capacity, immunity, pain tolerance, and regenerative ability beyond human norms. But only just enough to avoid suspicion. A child who frightened their caretakers with inhuman traits would be abandoned before maturity. Some of his earlier "releases" had failed that way.

To him, each one of us was livestock—backup vessels to be claimed in emergencies. The body didn't need to be perfect yet; it only needed potential. The real modifications would come later. Nue's so-called "creations" were insurance—nothing more.

That was why, when he'd found me in the Tsuchigumo den, sampling specimens, he had been surprised.

Regretful, even, that he hadn't been around to observe the entire process firsthand. "What valuable data I must have missed," he'd said with perverse curiosity.

"Go ahead then," I growled. "Try it. Possess me. Right now. Why bother explaining if you can just prove it?"

Nue only smiled, almost wistfully. "Ah, but I can't. I'd love to dissect that body, to see how far my handiwork's evolved. But to capture you now—let alone to take your flesh—would be suicide. The moment I entered, I'd be devoured."

He sipped and studied me, savoring each bite of the small dishes before him. His gaze slid from my face to my eyes, to the depths behind them.

"Besides," he went on, "possession is delicate. Even a crude charm or ward can burn a bodyless spirit. It's like peeling your own skin off to expose the nerves. Painful, dangerous, and in your case—utterly suicidal."

His airy tone grated against my nerves. He knew exactly how to needle me.

I downed more of the weak liquor to quell my anger. It didn't help.

Just then, the fox waitress arrived again, perfectly timed, bearing the next course: mentaiko, seared bonito, seaweed, squid noodles, simmered tuna, slices of sea bream, steamed turban shell, grilled saury, and clam soup. The paired drink this time was "Shiofuki"—sharp and briny.

"Excellent," Nue hummed. "Fresh from the sea. Eat up. Nothing spoiled here, I promise."

He didn't wait for me to answer—just dug in, drained three cups, swallowed a slice of sashimi, and spoke again.

"You called yourself a fake," he said. "Let me correct you. You're far more than that."

Across the garden, chaos erupted in the other private room. A large silhouette split another's head open. Tentacles flailed.

Plates shattered, food and sake spilling. No sound, no screams—just silent violence through the barrier. The foxes ignored it. So did Nue, who watched it with amusement.

"As I said," he continued calmly, "your body was made from seed and egg I prepared. The womb influenced it, yes—but in essence, every fiber of your being is mine. You understand what that means?"

The blood that flowed through me, the code in my cells—he had written it all. Which meant he could, in theory, do it again.

"Of course, minor adjustments are always necessary—memories, personality, all that. Fortunately, I had references."

From recovered flesh, from siblings' recollections, from fragments of my childhood—he reconstructed a plausible past.

Where memories were unclear, he blurred them deliberately to make them fit. The result, he said, was his masterpiece.

"Not perfect, perhaps," he mused. "Ten out of ten would be arrogance. I had to compromise on certain divine components—deadlines, you know. But ninety percent? Ninety-four, maybe? Before you absorbed that earth-mother essence, I'd say I reached ninety-nine point six. Not bad, hm?"

His eyes gleamed with pride.

He looked almost... fatherly.

He drank deeply, smiling as the shadow play of carnage flickered in the next room.

"Utter nonsense," I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed.

"Nonsense?"

"There's no proof. Nothing you've said can be verified. No evidence, no relics, and no record. You think I'm some gullible farm boy who'll take your word for it?"

Words are cheap. He'd offered no proof—only riddles.

Even if fragments were true, the whole could still be a lie. Classic deceit: bury truth in falsehood, falsehood in truth, until you can't tell one from the other.

"I'm me," I said. "Even if your seeds started it, I was born from my mother's womb. And souls—you can't replicate those. Mine is mine."

Half of it was for him. Half for myself.

Nue was a manipulator by trade. His words were traps.

Even the most perfect imitation—a sculpted soul like Juuyaku Ichishen—remained only a mimicry.

An individual was still an individual.

"So," I said, "why don't you drop the family reunion act? You didn't drag me here for nostalgia. Or what—wanted to share a drink with your 'son'? Pick someone else."

Don't take the bait.

Don't get lost in his narrative.

There had to be another reason he'd risked meeting me like this. Some purpose behind all the theatrics.

"That's it," he said suddenly.

He raised one finger toward me, smiling.

I fell silent, feeling the trap snap shut.

"That's exactly why I came," he said. "You see, it's interesting. Worth the risk."

He nodded approvingly, chewing a bite of mentaiko before washing it down with sake.

"When I manufacture beings like you, I cultivate the soul first. A broken one is useless, after all."

He spoke as if describing a production line. He grew souls, split them, refined them—making them docile, moral, dutiful.

The perfect hosts stayed alive longer that way. Few caretakers would bother raising a willful monster.

"In theory," he said, "no matter how much the environment changes, they should remain stable—predictable. That's how I designed it."

"...So what are you implying?"

Feigning calm, I met his gaze.

Nue leaned forward, eyes gleaming with avid curiosity.

"I'd heard about it from her," he whispered. "But seeing it for myself... fascinating. The false memories etched into your soul—memories I never programmed."

He smiled.

"Tell me, then. Who put them there?"

Notes:

• Chidori - a guard female provided by the Onitsuki house, working under an alias to protect Yukine and her brother, mentioned by Yukine to reassure her brother of their safety.

• Tsunoha - a female guard provided by the Onitsuki house, working under an alias to protect Yukine and her brother, mentioned by Yukine to reassure her brother of their safety.

• Ryokka - a female yokai fox and co-owner of Kitsune Town-an, sister to Ruri Aoya, sharing the same dark secrets and involvement in the game's narrative.

• Aoya - a female yokai fox and co-owner of Kitsune Town-an, known for her role in the game 'Firefly of the Dark Night (Yamiyo no Hotaru)', initially portrayed as innocent but later revealed to be involved in darker activities.