The village was eerily quiet, the faint creak of wooden signs swaying in the cold night breeze the only sound to accompany Irene’s heavy breathing. She was exhausted, her legs numb from riding for days without rest. Her horse, equally fatigued, trudged beside her, its breaths labored and its coat damp with sweat. Irene’s vision blurred slightly from exhaustion, but she pushed herself forward, her sharp instincts overriding her body’s pleas to collapse. She needed shelter—for herself, and for the loyal creature that carried her this far.
The small village appeared deserted, the roads empty and shrouded in darkness. A handful of homes emitted dim, flickering light, their shutters tightly closed as if protecting the inhabitants from some unseen threat. Irene walked further until her eyes landed on a small shop tucked into the side of the road. Its modest structure gave away its purpose—a seller of hats, baskets, and simple goods. Her jaw tightened as she approached, every muscle in her body screaming for rest.
She raised her gloved hand and knocked on the door, her strikes firm but restrained. After a moment, she could hear the shuffle of movement from within. The door creaked open slightly, revealing a man and an older woman. The man was middle-aged, his face weathered with years of hard work. The woman beside him, perhaps his mother or aunt, squinted at Irene with cautious eyes, her hand gripping the edge of the door tightly.
Before they could speak, Irene fixed them with her sharp, icy gaze. Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of her exhaustion and resolve. “Please let me in,” she said, her tone cold but sincere. “I’ve been traveling for days without pause. I haven’t slept in two nights. I need water—and my horse needs food.” She paused, her piercing eyes locking with the man’s. For the first time, her tone softened just slightly. “I beg you.”
The two villagers exchanged a wary glance. It was clear they were nervous, but Irene’s disheveled state and her pleading eyes seemed to sway them. The older woman hesitated before nudging the man forward. He sighed and opened the door wider, gesturing for her to step inside.
“Come in,” he muttered, his voice gruff but not unkind. “But keep your voice low. We don’t need any trouble.”
Irene nodded once, her expression unreadable as she led her horse to a post nearby and tied it securely. She patted its flank gently, whispering, “You’ll be fine soon.” Then she stepped inside the small, dimly lit shop, her boots scuffing softly against the wooden floor.
The older woman quickly brought out a bucket of water and placed it by the door for the horse. Irene’s cold demeanor melted just slightly as she murmured a small “Thank you.” She watched as the man prepared a few scraps of food for her animal—a handful of hay and an old carrot. The horse whinnied softly as it ate, and Irene felt a fleeting pang of relief.
Inside, the room was cramped but warm. A modest hearth glowed faintly in the corner, and shelves of woven baskets and straw hats lined the walls. Irene removed her gloves, revealing calloused hands, and flexed her fingers stiffly.
“You look like you’ve been through hell,” the man commented, his eyes narrowing as he studied her.
“You could say that,” Irene replied, her voice flat as she sat down on a wooden stool near the fire. Her body felt as if it might give out, but her mind remained alert. She wouldn’t allow herself to relax completely. Not here. Not yet.
The woman handed her a small cup of water. Irene accepted it silently, drinking in slow, measured sips. She felt the liquid cool her parched throat, but it did little to ease the turmoil in her chest.
“Why are you traveling at this hour?” the man asked, his tone cautious. “There’s no one around these parts who rides in the dead of night unless they’re running from something—or someone.”
Irene’s eyes flickered to him, her expression hardening. “It’s better you don’t ask questions,” she said simply, her voice cutting like a blade. “I only needed water and food for my horse. I’ll be gone by morning.”
The man opened his mouth to press further, but the older woman touched his arm, shaking her head. “Leave it,” she whispered. “She’s not here to hurt us.”
Irene gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, her gaze falling to the flickering flames in the hearth. She stayed quiet, the weight of the past few days pressing heavily on her. Despite the warmth of the room, an icy resolve burned within her.
As the villagers quietly moved about, tending to their own evening tasks, Irene’s mind drifted back to Sukuna. She could feel the phantom weight of his presence, his fiery red gaze haunting her even now. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She didn’t have time to rest—not truly.
The man hesitated at Irene’s words, his eyes flickering to the weapons strapped to her back—the dark, imposing sword and the smaller, intricately designed dagger at her side. Both bore the marks of someone well-versed in battle, and the faint scars across her arms and hands only confirmed it. But her tone, while cold, carried no immediate threat.
The older woman glanced at her cautiously, then at her companion, before stepping forward. “You carry weapons like that, yet you call yourself a traveler?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with suspicion.
Irene met her gaze with a calmness that betrayed none of the turmoil roiling inside her. “Don’t be afraid of my weapons,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m not here to harm you. I’m just… passing through. A traveler, seeking shelter in small places like this.” She paused, her eyes lowering briefly to the fire as her voice grew quieter. “I don’t know where I’m going yet. It’s… complicated.”
The man furrowed his brow, studying her carefully. “Complicated, huh? You look like someone who’s seen their fair share of battles. A person like you doesn’t just wander without a purpose.”
Irene’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t lash out. She had no strength left for confrontation, and there was no point in antagonizing these villagers. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees, and exhaled slowly. “You’re right,” she admitted, her voice low. “I’ve seen my share of battles. Too many. And maybe you’re right—maybe I do have a purpose. But not one I can share with you.”
The older woman frowned but seemed to sense the weight behind Irene’s words. She sighed and gestured for her to finish the water. “Well, traveler or not, you’re not going to get far in the state you’re in. Drink, rest. You can leave when you’re ready.”
Irene nodded slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Thank you,” she said simply, the words coming out more genuine than she expected. She glanced toward the door, where her horse stood quietly, its hunger and thirst finally sated.
But even as she sat there, allowing her muscles a brief reprieve from the strain, her mind refused to rest. The image of Sukuna’s fiery red eyes burned in her memory, his low, commanding voice echoing in her ears. She knew he wouldn’t stop. He was relentless, his pride and fury driving him forward like a storm.
As the flames in the hearth danced and flickered, Irene’s fingers absentmindedly brushed against the hilt of her dagger. Her expression hardened. Whatever complications lay ahead, she wouldn’t let him catch her.
The older woman approached Irene cautiously, her hands folded in front of her apron. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but laced with curiosity. “I’ve never seen a woman with these kinds of weapons,” she said, her gaze falling to the sword and dagger at Irene’s side. “That’s not usual. How does it come? Are you a foreigner? How? How do you wear such weapons?”
The woman’s eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and awe. “My daughter,” she continued, “I married her to a man here in the village. She tends the fields, raises their children. I could never imagine her… like you, carrying those weapons, walking into the dark like some kind of warrior. It’s… it’s unnatural.”
Irene’s cold eyes met the woman’s curious gaze, and for a moment, she hesitated. Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s edge, the ghost of a memory passing through her mind. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, steady, and almost devoid of emotion.
“Unnatural, you say?” Irene repeated, the faintest edge of bitterness creeping into her tone. “Maybe it is. I wasn’t born for this. I didn’t ask to carry these weapons or walk the path I’ve walked. But the world doesn’t care about what’s natural. It cares about survival.”
The older woman’s lips parted, her curiosity now mingled with something deeper—perhaps unease or pity. Irene continued, her voice growing quieter but no less sharp.
“Your daughter married, settled down, and raised children because she could. She had that choice.” Irene’s gaze dropped to the blade at her side, her fingers brushing over its worn hilt. “I didn’t have that luxury. My weapons became my choice, or rather, my chains. And now, they’re the only thing keeping me alive.”
The older woman stepped back slightly, as though the weight of Irene’s words pushed her away. “That sounds… lonely,” she murmured.
Irene’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Lonely,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. For a moment, her expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across her face before the coldness returned. “Perhaps. But loneliness is better than weakness. Weakness gets you killed. I experienced it myself that’s why I am going far away from my weakness.”
The woman didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she simply stood there, staring at Irene as if trying to piece her together like a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Finally, with a slow nod, she turned back to the hearth.
“You’ve seen much more of the world than anyone in this village,” the woman said softly, stirring the embers. “But it’s a heavy price to pay, isn’t it? For survival.”
Irene said nothing, only looking down into her empty cup. The weight of the woman’s words settled in her chest, though she refused to let it show. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her icy composure unwavering.
“Some prices,” Irene murmured, more to herself than anyone else, “are worth paying. And some… are not.”
The older woman’s hands trembled slightly as she stirred the fire, her voice soft and concerned. “Please, my child, be careful. It’s better to stay with someone—maybe a man—who could save you, help you. It’s not safe to wander alone in the night like this. The world isn’t kind to women on their own.”
At those words, Irene froze for a moment before letting out a loud, sharp laugh that startled even the older woman. It wasn’t a laugh of amusement, but one filled with bitter irony. She leaned back in her chair, her lips curling into a smirk as her cold eyes glinted with something darker.
“A man? Are you sure about that?” Irene asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. She shook her head, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “No. I think it’s better not to have a man. They aren’t saviors. They’re destroyers.”
Her words were pointed, but deep inside her thoughts, a darker truth lingered. She thought of him—Sukuna. The man who was unlike any other. Tribal, vicious, and undeniably evil. A force of nature cloaked in a man’s form. If any man were capable of saving or destroying her, it was him. And yet, she had chosen to leave.
Irene’s gaze hardened as her laughter faded, and she leaned forward, her tone now sharper. “I’ve experienced men of all kinds,” she said, her voice low but steady. “I’ve seen the worst they have to offer. Greed, cruelty, violence. You think a man can protect me? No.” She shook her head again, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
“They drive us—women—to madness. All of them. Their egos, their need for control, their endless hunger for more. A man isn’t a protector. He’s a storm that tears through everything in his path, leaving nothing but ruins behind.”
The older woman opened her mouth to respond, but Irene cut her off, her voice now colder than before. “I will never belong to a man again. Never.”
The older woman stared at her, silent for a moment, her face pale in the dim firelight. There was no pity in Irene’s words, no plea for understanding. Just a simple, cold truth that she carried like armor.
The woman finally lowered her gaze, her tone soft. “You’ve been hurt,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Irene stood abruptly, brushing off her cape and turning toward the door. “Hurt doesn’t begin to describe it,” she said, her back to the woman. “But it’s nothing I can’t survive. I always survive.”
The older woman froze, her hand halfway to her mouth as Irene’s words cut through the silence like a blade. Her tone was low but fierce, each word dripping with pain and bitterness. Irene stood straighter now, her sharp features illuminated by the dim firelight, her presence commanding the room in an almost intimidating way.
“This man I’m talking about,” Irene began, her voice unwavering, “he turned me into a monster.” She gestured down at herself, her gloved hands sweeping over her weapons—the katanas strapped to her back, the nigayata resting against the wall, the knives carefully secured to her belt. Her armor, once pristine black with intricate dragon carvings, was now dulled from battle, yet it still held a menacing beauty. “Take a good look at me. These weapons, this armor, my very being—everything you see on me is his doing.”
Her eyes narrowed, glinting with a mix of fury and something far more vulnerable. “He didn’t just teach me to fight. He showed me how to be cruel. How to find joy in it. How to let blood spill without hesitation. He turned me into something… unrecognizable. A whole demon. That’s what I am now.”
The older woman’s face paled, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Irene didn’t give her the chance to interrupt.
“And now,” Irene continued, her voice breaking slightly before hardening again, “now, I’ve made the choice to leave him. To leave behind the life he built for me, the life he controlled. I don’t want to be a monster anymore. I want to live like a normal villager. To have a simple, quiet life. I wanted to stop working for his bloodshed, stop killing for him, stop being his weapon.”
Irene’s voice dropped to a whisper, filled with a sorrow that made the older woman’s heart ache. “But the man I’m talking about… he’s a monster himself. He’s not human. He blinded me for years—blinded me with his care, his affection, his appreciation.” She shook her head, as if the memory disgusted her. “And I gave him loyalty in return. I gave him everything. And he turned me into this.”
Irene stepped closer to the woman, her shadow flickering in the firelight, her presence almost too much to bear. “It’s a curse, my dear woman,” she said, her voice softer now, but no less intense. “A curse that clings to me, that I can’t shake. So don’t tell me a man can help me. Don’t tell me that any man can protect me. Because the only thing they’ve done is destroy me.”
The older woman trembled, her hands gripping the edge of her shawl tightly as she tried to process Irene’s words. There was nothing she could say, no comfort she could offer to the fierce, broken woman standing before her.
Irene turned away, her shoulders stiff, her steps heavy as she walked toward the door. “I’m not in the mood to be with a man anymore,” she said coldly, not looking back. “And I don’t think I ever will be again.”
