As she gently grabs onto my horn, like it's a door handle, I straighten up slightly — just enough to lift her off the ground a little. Her laughter bursts out instantly, like a flash of light in all the shit she's been through.
I lower myself right away, setting her back down gently, and she looks at me with shining eyes, cheeks slightly flushed, still shaking with euphoria.
"You're a good girl."
I say it in a neutral tone, not expecting a reaction — and obviously, she doesn't understand a word. But my face must say it for me, because she smiles immediately.
But that's not the problem.
I look away, my smile fading, and I turn sharply in the direction where the last bastard ran off, hoping — stupidly — that he might still be there. But the alley is empty. Of course. He didn't stick around. He must've run like hell to the other side of town, or even farther, blending into the crowd, maybe screaming, maybe not. Either way, I seriously doubt I'll be able to find him again without a trail, without a map, without the language.
But luckily, he didn't see my horns. Or my wings. He didn't see the real me.
So he didn't see what could make me a target.
Or a prey.
He can't sabotage my progress, my survival, my evolution.
Good.
That's no longer my problem.
But what is… is her.
I turn back around, and my eyes land on her again — on Linie — still staring at me, smiling, head slightly tilted, hands clasped behind her back. She hasn't moved an inch. As if she's waiting.
As if she trusts me.
What am I supposed to do with her now?
Because she's vulnerable.
Because she's a risk.
And despite that… I catch myself hesitating.
Alright, first logical step: see if this kid has parents.
And let's be honest… if her folks see her show up hand in hand with a bloody Oni who still smells like warm guts, I doubt they'll react with a "Oh thank you, noble traveler, for bringing back our daughter." No. Most likely: a scream, a pitchfork, and a public denunciation. Fast version: instant heart attack, if we're lucky.
So I get dressed again.
I pull my scarf back over my horns, tuck in my wings as best I can, and try to look like a pitiful half-human instead of a walking threat. Linie, for her part, watches me do it with a mix of frustration and fascination. She probably wanted to touch a bit more, climb on me, explore like a child discovering a magical beast, but she gets it. She turns around, glances around to make sure no one's watching.
"She's pretty smart, Senpai."
[ Humans are a species considered potentially significant due to their intelligence, despite their low innate strength. ]
I roll my eyes.
"Seriously, there's something that bugs me: if all living beings have an AI like you in their head… why are some of them so dumb?"
[ Unlike the monsters of the Elroe Labyrinth, humans are divided into civilian and military classes. Naturally, civilians train less, use the System less. Furthermore, even among fighters, the growth of skills often leads to a loss of humility, resulting in poor usage. Ego overrides optimization. ]
I nod.
"In short: the System is like a game console. You still need to know how to use it."
[ Acceptable comparison. ]
I walk up to Linie, crouch slightly, then try to mime the archetype of "parents": two tall people, a hand placed on her head, all paired with a questioning look. It's like a bad silent theater performance, but after a few moments of thought, she seems to get it. She nods, grabs my hand, and starts guiding me through the streets.
Little by little, we move away from the center, from the merchants and the noise, reaching a quieter, more rundown district — weathered stone houses, sagging roofs, the smell of ashes and cheap cooking oil. The kind of place where kids don't run around to play, but to survive.
And then she stops.
In front of a large, old building with a tired but solid facade. A porch without a door. An inner courtyard with a few soil tubs, some clotheslines. And above all… children. Lots. Of all ages. Some play with scraps of fabric, others scrub buckets, others sleep directly on the ground. A few adults watch over them — in plain, dull clothes, but clean, like servants or novices. And in the middle of it all, a man standing, authoritative, giving orders in a calm but firm voice, while handing out rations to two little boys.
I freeze for a few seconds, observing silently.
And Linie, without saying a word, just points at the building with a trembling little finger, as if that's all the explanation needed.
It's not a family home… it's an orphanage.
Oh for fuck's sake… of course.
Here I am, standing in front of this damn place, staring at an orphanage that can't even keep its kids inside — a supposedly "safe" place where a little girl can wander off alone, get lost in a city too big for her, and end up surrounded by rags-wearing lunatics in an alley. Seriously? And I'm supposed to leave her here? Pretend everything's fine? Walk away with a clear conscience and a wink at fate?
No. No, seriously, no.
I sigh — loudly — because I've got no other outlet for this screwed-up dilemma, then turn to her.
"Linie."
She turns instantly, like her name has become a magic word.
So I crouch down, gently place my hands on her shoulders.
"We're going to make a deal, you and me, okay?"
She doesn't understand the words — obviously — but she understands the tone. The seriousness. Her smile freezes, she looks at me, focused, like an apprentice facing a kindhearted witch.
So I continue, a crooked smile at the corner of my lips, half-mocking, half-sincere.
"You're going to teach me your language — the language of this twisted world, the words you use, the phrases, the gestures, everything. In return… I'll take you under my wing."
I extend a finger, as if to seal an invisible pact in the air.
"You'll grow up to be a great, powerful human. Not a victim. Not a girl lost in an alley. A real one. A strong one. And you'll do it under the command of the magnificent, invincible, brilliant, and very humble Oni that I am."
I puff out my chest slightly, like I'm a living statue carved from ego.
And Linie… smiles and nods.
Then she lifts her hand, brings it to mine, and gently presses it against my folded claws.
Contract accepted.
Alright… now that we've sealed this "absurd pact" between a lost Oni and a traumatized little girl, I need to ask myself one very simple but crucial question: how the hell am I going to feed us?
Because we're not in the labyrinth anymore. No more fresh monster carcasses, no more half-toxic prey that's still edible for a psycho stomach like mine. This is the city. The real world. Markets, prices, coin purses, and guards who don't take kindly to stray demons eating their customers.
And then… Linie. That kid.
Can you imagine her nibbling on a Lesser Taratect leg with gastric acid sauce? No. Not her thing. She looks like the kind who eats bread, apples, maybe some lukewarm soup. Not roasted monster with a bonus fang garnish.
So yeah, we're gonna need money.
And now my brain flashes me a mental image as ridiculous as it is painfully realistic: me, half-disguised Oni, sleeping in a filthy alleyway, curled up next to a kid who, two hours ago, still had a bed, walls, and probably a half-clean bowl of water to wash her hands. What a glow-up. Congrats, girl. You've really got a knack for parenting.
Honestly… am I not the best caregiver? A model mother figure? A mom from hell?
I roll my eyes and choke back a snort.
Wait a fucking second.
That makes two kids now.
Two.
I count on my fingers. Seriously.
One: the baby I left with Gried's group, wrapped in its little bundle of misery, entrusted to people I barely know — but still judged stable enough not to eat it by mistake.
Two: Linie. This kid who clings to me like I'm the last branch of a tree hanging over the void.
It's official: I've become a single Oni mom in a post-apocalyptic medieval world, with no money, no home, no plan, and no diapers.
Alright… if I want to feed a child, sleep under a roof, and not end up gutted in an alley, I need money.
And since I have no degree, no clean record, and no decent outfit to work as a tavern waitress, let's keep it simple.
Option A: Steal.
Tempting. But not very sustainable. And with a kid in tow, I can't just snatch coin purses and run off yelling "YOLO."
Option B: Kill to steal.
Hmm… already done.
And then, my brain pops up a little mental window with the keyword "profitability" in golden letters. I slowly turn my head toward the alley where I sliced up those happy cultist nutjobs in their nightgowns, and a smile creeps to the corner of my lips.
"Hmm… hey, Linie?"
She looks at me, curious.
"We're gonna take a little detour. Don't worry, nothing dangerous. Just… an inventory check."
She tilts her head, hesitates, but ends up following me without a word. Granted, I've still got a bit of dried blood on my arm — that helps silence objections.
We retrace our steps through some quieter streets until we find that alley again, where the corpses — cold or half-warm — still decorate the cobblestones like a bad memory no one's cleaned up yet.
And thank god… there's no one here.
Either this town is used to looking the other way, or I've got the luck of a cheat-protagonist. And seeing as I'm walking around with a kid and no plan… I'll take the blessing without complaint.
I crouch near the first body — the woman I slit open without hesitation — and start searching. Her pockets, her sleeves, her belt. Nothing crazy, but…
Clink.
A small pouch. Coins. Copper, bronze, maybe one or two silver — hard to tell in this light. I loot the rest of the bodies like opening chests after a dungeon, the muscle memory coming back fast. I find some trinkets: a pendant, two rings, a well-sharpened knife, a beaded wooden bracelet — too thin to be decorative, probably symbolic. Linie watches me, mouth slightly open, a little frozen, a little disgusted, but not scared. She knows poverty. Maybe she even knows death.
So I shove everything into my grimy bag, do a quick mental tally, and mutter, satisfied:
"There. Not exactly a jackpot, but it'll buy us two or three meals. Maybe even a night at an inn, if we find one that's not too racist."
And Linie… nods.
Like she just witnessed a perfectly logical maneuver.
Like looting corpses is a normal skill for horned people.
She learns fast.
Alright — bodies looted, pockets filled — or at least less empty than before — and kid still functional… we can say today's starting to look like a halfway decent run in a survival roguelike. Time to address the next item on my "essentials when you're no longer a monster in a labyrinth but a lost half-human with a dependent child" list: find a damn roof.
I get up, wipe my bloodstained hands vaguely on my cloak — elegance first, always — and nod at Linie, who's still watching me like I'm some warrior-goddess-school-principal hybrid.
"Come on. Let's go check out the local hospitality."
[ You should find a cheap and usable lodging for two. ]
"Thanks, Senpai. Really. Good thing you're here to tell me we'll have to walk until we spot a sign that says 'Inn for the broken ones.'"
[ Note: sarcasm detected. ]
We walk through calmer streets now. The sky is starting to lean toward the end of the day, a golden light spreading over the buildings like melted honey, and the sounds shift: fewer market cries, more quick footsteps, kids being called home, tired adults closing stalls. Linie walks close to me, pressed against my side, her small hand clutching the edge of my tunic like an anchor. I let her. It's not like I'm capable of saying no.
And finally — bingo.
A sign.
A larger building, with fogged-up windows, a wooden plank sign hanging limply over the entrance, engraved with a symbol I don't recognize — maybe a jug, maybe a mutant bean — but people are going in and out, some with bags, others dragging kids. Smells like a tavern with rooms.
An inn.
I approach. We climb the three steps. Linie follows without a word.
I push the door open.
And bam — the smell hits me in the face: damp wood, lukewarm soup, dried sweat, and spilled beer. The vibe is noisy but not hostile. Tables. People. Conversations in a language I still don't understand. And behind a worn wooden counter, a woman with strong arms, a stained apron, and a gaze that weighs people like a judicial scale.
She sees us.
She frowns.
She hesitates.
And I step up to the counter slowly, with all the natural grace of a monster trying to pretend to be a mom.
I pull out a few coins from the pouch I found earlier, set them softly on the counter, then mime with my fingers: one room, two people, then point at Linie, then myself, then press my hands together like I'm sleeping.
Moment of silence.
The woman watches us, squints, then finally sighs, grabs the coins, and gestures toward a staircase in the back.
Victory.
I give Linie a discreet wink, which she mimics with a proud little grin.
And as we climb the creaking wooden steps toward our first safe night in a long while, I think maybe — just maybe — we've taken our first step toward something other than just surviving.