Kays Translations

Chapter 22: The Demon-Hunting Fox Maiden

The gun went off—

But the bullet did not strike Marlon. Instead, it tore through the chest of the one standing opposite him—Blood-Eyed Fiend Stuart.

Stuart froze, his crimson eyes widening in disbelief. His clawed hand instinctively brushed against the gaping hole in his left chest, as if refusing to accept reality. Not a single dying word escaped his lips before his body stiffened and collapsed backward, crashing onto the ground with a lifeless thud.

From the shadow of a nearby shack staggered a man. He was clad in the ragged remnants of a Loring National Defense uniform, its fabric frayed and faded from long years of wear. A jagged scar carved across his face twisted his features into something almost beastly. In his hands, he clutched a heavy, steam-driven rifle—a crude but deadly weapon of unmistakably illicit make.

This man was no ordinary passerby. He was a maimed veteran. His left sleeve and right trouser leg hung limp and empty, fluttering with each faltering step. The only thing that allowed him to move forward was the crude wooden crutch wedged beneath his right armpit.

Yet even burdened with both a weapon and his crutch, the old soldier advanced. His gait was awkward, his balance precarious, but his determination—unyielding.

He came, step by stubborn step, toward Marlon and his companions. And as he did, his voice, hoarse and laced with rage, thundered across the street.

“You filthy little brats! If it were slave masters or those rotten parasites you were robbing, none of us would give a damn. But you blind fools dared lay your filthy hands on our little Marlon? Do you think us old relics would hesitate to stain our hands with the blood of garbage like you once more?!”

“Our little Marlon.”

The words struck Marlon strangely. He had heard them before—too many times, in fact. Ever since the White Sands Daily had run that story about the blind veteran who spent his last coins buying newspapers just to hand them out for free, the name had stuck. Everyone had begun calling him that, as though he belonged to them.

Marlon had never liked it. But now—now, in this moment of peril—the nickname stirred something warm and startlingly intimate within him.

The old soldier’s roar carried across the street, and as though to answer his call, flames began flickering to life. One by one, torches sputtered and blazed, until over a dozen wounded veterans stepped forward, the firelight casting long shadows over their scarred faces and crooked limbs. They clutched crude weapons—sticks, clubs, whatever their broken bodies could still manage.

Their curses rang out, a rough chorus of indignation aimed at the startled bandits. Stuart, their leader, had fallen in a blink, and now uncertainty gnawed at them. Fear slithered through their ranks like a viper.

The maimed veteran with the rifle pressed forward, his voice dropping to a hurried, urgent whisper meant only for Marlon:

“Go—go now, before these scum regain their wits! They’ve got guns too! That Stuart wasn’t their true leader. The real one is still in the shadows—more cunning, more ruthless!”

Seeing Marlon hesitate, he added quickly, his tone almost desperate:

“Head for the orphanage! Old Paladin Carnegie has three hundred strong lads working under him there, builders and fighters both. Our sons are with them—you’ll be safe, Marlon! You and that Book of Aery! My boy’s name is Andrews, tell him his father sent you—”

“But what about you?” Marlon blurted, torn by doubt.

He had already seen it—only this one man carried a firearm. The rest of the veterans held nothing but sticks and torches. Their bodies, worn by war and ground down by years of poverty, were frail shadows of the soldiers they once were. Even if the bandits were unarmed, charging them barehanded would mean certain death for these men.

The old veteran barked a bitter laugh.

“Our lives are already forfeit! What does it matter if we die? At least we’d free up a few spots in the veterans’ home for our brothers. But you—Marlon, you’re different. If you live, if you survive and keep that hope burning, you give the rest of us a reason to believe again! Now move! Or do you mean to force these old bones of mine to throw themselves down in suicide just to prove a point to you?!”

His words were trembling, frantic now. This wasn’t the calm reasoning of before—this was desperation, fear, and a naked plea.

And suddenly, Marlon understood.

He understood why these broken men had stepped into danger for him. He understood their hope, their pride, their desperation to protect him.

And yet—how could he accept it? How could he allow them to die for him, while he ran away like a coward clutching his life?

But before he could decide, the veteran with the rifle jerked violently and crumpled to the ground, struck down without warning.

Then—pain.

Marlon felt a crushing blow slam into his gut, stealing his breath. His eyes flew wide just in time to see a glint of steel—thin, sharp, deadly as a scorpion’s sting—driving straight toward his right eye.

Someone wants to kill me!

He had faced death many times in Musa Mein’s fabricated worlds, dozens of illusory deaths that had been nothing more than lies. But this—this was different. This was real.

The instant realization hit, Marlon’s entire body erupted in gooseflesh, every hair standing on end. Terror swallowed him whole, and the rushing blade seemed to slow, moving in dreadful, cinematic slow motion.

He wanted to move—oh, how desperately he wanted to move—but his weak body betrayed him. He was slower than even the creeping advance of that blade.

Am I too weak? Is this because my body cannot keep pace with the mind, with the spirit that can bend even time itself?

Despair clawed at him, but still he resisted. Through searing pain, he forced his mind to utter the incantation, calling desperately for anything—anyone—hidden beyond that crimson door in his heart.

Anyone! Anyone at all! A beauty to save the hero, a hero to save another—it doesn’t matter! Just let me live, let me escape this strike!

But his plea yielded nothing. His vision dimmed, the world snapping back to its normal pace, and no savior came.

I’m dead…

Hopelessness washed over him. He didn’t want to die—not like this, not now!

And in that moment, he finally understood the old veteran’s warning:

“Stuart isn’t their true leader. The real one is crueler, more vicious…”

The blade neared, death’s breath chilling his face. All he could do was tilt his head ever so slightly, shifting the sword’s aim from his eye to the corner just beside it.

And then—

A blur of fur and fury burst from his side.

Little Amy.

The fox-girl, whom he had always treated like a fragile child, launched herself forward like a falling star. Her small hands unfurled, revealing ten razor-sharp claws hidden beneath the soft pads of her paws. With a snarl unbefitting her usual gentleness, she slashed at the darkness in front of Marlon.

Shrrrip!

Her claws tore through the air with the sound of rending silk. Blood spattered crimson across her white fur, droplets glittering like rubies in the firelight.

Then—clang!

The assassin’s needle-like sword clattered to the ground. To Marlon’s ears, that single metallic ring was sweeter than any symphony, the sound of life returned.

A voice, calm and almost amused, drifted from the shadows:

“Interesting… To think I would encounter an Elisa Demon-Hunting Fox here of all places.”

An Elisa Demon-Hunting Fox?

Was he speaking of Amy—the tiny, gentle, ever-adorable Amy?

Marlon, still gasping from fear and relief, stared at her. She stood protectively before him, her small body tense, her eyes flashing with the ferocity of a tigress guarding her cub.

From the side, Lukas, the massive, flower-faced wolverine who had carried their packs, shook off his burdens. With a guttural roar, he bared his fangs and claws, joining Amy in defiance, his eyes fixed on the assassin’s hidden presence.

The voice spoke again, cold and promising vengeance:

“Marlon Lister… Tonight, you live by chance. Stuart lies dead because of you, and that debt will be repaid in blood. Remember my name well—I am Xionado.”

And then—silence.

The assassin was gone.

Amy and Lukas slowly lowered their guard, their postures easing, though the air still trembled with the echo of danger.

Only then did Marlon’s taut nerves release, his hammering heart finally beginning to steady. Exhaustion crashed into him like a tidal wave, the price of forcing his mind’s powers.

Just before unconsciousness claimed him, Marlon hurled The Book of Aery toward the bandits still lingering nearby.

“Take it! The book is yours!”

The tome—worth one hundred and ten thousand lante—arced through the air before landing with a heavy thud.

A weary, faint smile curved Marlon’s lips.

Yes… that should be enough. Enough to keep them from daring another attack, at least for now…

And with that thought, darkness swallowed him whole.

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