Cyr didn't care what the others were thinking. Right now, he was eagerly searching for traces of yokai and ghosts.
Twilight hung heavy over the land, casting the world in a warm, orange filter.
Normally, this was when certain yokai loved to jump out and parade around in front of humans.
But Cyr waited until the sun completely dipped below the horizon—and still, not a single yokai appeared before him.
Not even one within a ten-mile radius.
Within the range of his Six Eyes, he could only sense a few minor spirits. As for those notorious, rumor-stirring great yokai? Not a trace.
Could it be that the big ones only bothered with Heian-kyō? Only showed up around there?
"I only remember something about a place called Mt. Ōe…" Cyr rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
That's where Shuten-dōji supposedly lived. But he had no clue which way to go to reach it.
Seems like running into yokai or bumping into ghosts was a matter of fate after all.
Night fell fast, and the scattered villages he passed along the way each had only a handful of households. Wooden doors were shut tight, and the lights inside went out early.
Cyr had no intention of traveling at night. He casually picked a spot and waited for Maro to pitch the tent and set up camp.
Since arriving in this world, Maro still hadn't realized that the language spoken here was different from the one used in the Hunter world.
He quickly got the tent set up and even lit a fire nearby.
"How do I disguise myself as a normal person while fishing…" Cyr muttered to himself, lying inside the tent.
His dangerous aura was apparently too obvious…
After over two years in the Hunter world, he'd killed way too many things. Especially if you included the Chimera Ants later on—a conservative estimate would place the number of lives taken by his hand at over ten thousand.
The system had even stated it clearly:
[Your kill count has surpassed five digits. Title acquired—Massacre of Ten Thousand.]
[When this title is equipped, everyone who faces you will feel a deep sense of dread.]
The murderous and bloody aura rooted deep in his soul couldn't be hidden no matter what.
That's why most sensitive beings reacted to him with instant fear.
Even unthinking, instinct-driven creatures would immediately flee upon sensing his presence.
"Hm…" Cyr stared at the ceiling of the tent, lost in thought.
He didn't think he radiated killing intent when he got angry. Even when he smiled, people still thought he didn't look like a good guy.
"So weird… why does my face look meaner and meaner as I grow up?" he murmured, touching his face in confusion.
Honestly, he was starting to look more and more like his mother.
When he was younger and his face still had baby fat, it wasn't that obvious. But now that he was older and leaner, his features had grown more defined—sharper cheekbones, a cleaner jawline. Still absurdly good-looking, of course. Just… not exactly hero material.
His mom was a mixed-blood beauty with the face of a classic femme fatale. In acting, she could only land roles as vicious villains.
And Cyr looked a lot like her—except less glamorous, more… gloomy.
Like some twistedly handsome guy living in a shadowy old castle, locked away and mentally unwell.
"Dark-looking and dripping with murderous aura…" Cyr muttered, sighing to himself.
If he were just a regular person, he'd steer clear of someone like that too.
Who knows, maybe they had some kind of mental or psychological disorder—stab someone and it wouldn't even count as a crime.
But now, that kind of person… was him.
"Whatever," Cyr murmured, closing his eyes and preparing to sleep.
It's not like he could choose how he looked anyway.
---
In the Heian era, few people dared to sleep on the streets at night—because… monsters truly roamed after dark.
A shadow stood outside the tent, its silhouette cast ominously across the fabric. The nearby campfire seemed to fizzle out as if extinguished by some unseen force.
The figure stood still, apparently trying to determine whether the tent was a building. After a moment, it raised its hand and knocked.
When no familiar knocking sound came, it let out a strange, whispering hiss.
Then came the sharp rip of claws tearing through canvas—clear as day in the silence of night.
"Bring me something tasty… and some sake…" the intruder growled, its voice savage and arrogant.
In response, a flash of steel met it head-on—biting cold radiating from its edge.
It was a blade made of ice.
"What kind of blind idiot dares disturb the master's sleep?" Maro hissed through clenched teeth. His hand, wrapped in white waterproof bandages, gripped the icy blade as he stabbed toward the monster outside the tent.
The creature was blood-red from head to toe, like its skin had been flayed. Its jagged fangs jutted out from its mouth, and its long hair was a wild, filthy mess. Its eyes bulged wide.
And it had the gall to come begging for food and drink in the middle of the night.
Maro's grip tightened on the blade at the thought.
The bandages on his hands served two purposes—one for grip, the other for insulation.
Even though it was his own ability, that didn't mean he could handle the ice barehanded without getting frostbite.
The uninvited nighttime guest—the Flayed Ghost—was forced into retreat by blow after blow.
Its already skinless body now bore even more wounds, but instead of bleeding, frost began to form along the tears.
"You're not human," the Flayed Ghost snarled, glaring at the blond man wielding ice magic.
And he wasn't an onmyōji either—those always needed incantations, hand signs, and ofuda talismans.
But this guy? He hadn't used any of that.
Unfathomable. Unknown. Best to retreat for now.
With that, the ghost vanished on the spot in a puff of white smoke.
Maro's blade hit nothing but air. He glared at the empty space in front of him without saying a word.
"Flayed Ghosts," came a lazy voice from behind him, "are said to wander door to door in the dead of night, asking for food and sake… and scaring misbehaving children."
Maro turned to see the speaker.
A white-haired boy leaned casually against the tent, arms crossed, expression indifferent.
"A creature born from folklore," Cyr said lazily. "Because enough people believed in the tale, it came into being."
"A bit like gods born from faith, really…" His voice took on a curious, amused tone.
By that logic, creating gods would be ridiculously easy.
Of course, Cyr had no intention of becoming one. It just seemed like an easy thing to do.
A divine position built on human belief was utterly useless to him.
Needing faith meant having to solve human problems—or risk losing that faith. Over time, you'd end up completely tethered to humanity, dependent on their belief.
And how would that be any different from being a pet?
If you think of faith as dog food… it's no different at all.
"That thing wasn't strong," Maro muttered.
He had just been trying to avoid making too much noise. That was why he'd held back the entire time, never using his full strength.
But… there was no way the master hadn't noticed. He probably sensed it the moment the thing appeared—he just deemed it too weak to bother with.
"He really wasn't strong. Doesn't seem like he was a particularly well-known character either…" Cyr rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Then… are there any characters you, my lord, would consider strong?" Maro asked hesitantly.
"In terms of power… hard to say. After all, we haven't encountered any true ōyōkai yet," Cyr shook his head.
Though he was quite confident in himself, it was better to wait until an actual fight to find out for sure.
°°°
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