Ryuta And His Little Journey (2)

Ryuta hesitated, the warm tea still in his hands. The old woman's kind smile hadn't faded, but there was something different in her eyes—something unreadable.

"You should rest, child," she said softly, her voice carrying a strange, rhythmic tone. "The road ahead is long, and tired feet will only drag you down."

Ryuta wasn't sure why, but his body felt heavy, as if exhaustion had suddenly caught up to him all at once. His vision blurred slightly, and before he could protest, his head dipped forward, his body surrendering to sleep.

—

A loud noise made him awake.

His heart pounded in his chest as he blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dim candlelight of the small house. He had fallen asleep at the table. How long had he been out?

That's when he saw her.

The old woman was standing by the doorway, her frail figure barely illuminated by the flickering candle. She wasn't moving—just staring at him.

Something felt wrong.

Then, with a sickening pop, one of her eyes fell out of its socket, rolling onto the floor.

Ryuta's breath caught in his throat.

"Ah… sorry, young one." The woman's voice took on an eerie, hollow tone. "I can't see clearly. Do you mind picking it up for me?"

Her smile never wavered.

The room felt colder. The candlelight flickered violently, as if trying to fight off the creeping darkness that slithered into the corners of the house.

Ryuta didn't move. His muscles tensed, ready to react, but his mind raced.

Was he still dreaming?

The woman tilted her head unnaturally, her remaining eye bulging as if it might fall next. "What's the matter? It's just a little favor…"

The eye on the floor twitched.

A deep sense of dread settled in his gut.

This wasn't normal.

This wasn't real.

Or rather… it was something worse than reality.

Slowly, carefully, Ryuta reached for the eye—

And then, the shadows in the room moved.

Something else was here.

But then—

He smiled.

No, not just a smile. A grin, wide and unnatural, stretching across his face like a twisted mockery of amusement. It was cold. Unsettling. Scarier than the old woman herself.

The shadows hesitated.

The old woman, still grinning, cocked her head further, bones creaking as if her neck might snap. "Oh? You're not afraid?"

Ryuta chuckled lowly, his voice dripping with something wrong.

"Afraid?" He leaned forward, the dim light catching his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes. "You're the one shaking, grandma."

The room shuddered.

A cold gust of wind howled through the wooden house, rattling the walls. The old woman's grin faltered, just for a second. But Ryuta saw it.

She wasn't expecting this.

With a slow movement, he reached for the hilt of his sword. As soon as his fingers brushed against it—

Light.

A radiant glow burst forth, illuminating the room in an instant. The blade hummed with a silent, sacred energy, cutting through the darkness like a beacon.

Ryuta's grin widened, his eyes gleaming dangerously in the golden glow.

"I don't pick up trash," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath—yet it cut through the thick, suffocating tension like a knife.

The old woman's empty socket twitched. The shadows recoiled.

Then—

She laughed.

A dry, brittle cackle that echoed through the tiny house, growing louder, more distorted. Her frail body convulsed with unnatural jerks, as if something else inside her was trying to crawl out.

"Ohh, child," she wheezed between her laughter. "You might just be more fun than I thought."

Her body snapped.

Limbs twisted, her spine arching backward at an inhuman angle. Her skin darkened, cracked like old porcelain. From the darkness behind her, more eyes blinked open—dozens of them. Watching. Staring. Hungry.

The candlelight died.

And then—

She lunged.

Ryuta didn't flinch. As the old woman lunged at him, her limbs twisting unnaturally, he gripped his sword and swung.

A single, clean slash.

The blade shimmered with a soft, holy glow as it carved through the darkness. The moment steel met flesh—

Silence.

No scream. No cry of pain. Just the sound of wind rushing past as the old woman's body stopped mid-motion. Her twisted form wavered, flickering like a dying ember, before she slowly began to crumble into ash.

Her grin never faded.

Even as her face dissolved, the hollow sockets where her eyes once were seemed to see him—to memorize his expression, as if his presence had left an imprint in her very being.

The last thing to disappear was her laughter. A whisper in the air, stretching long after her body was gone.

Ryuta stood still, his sword still glowing in his grip. He exhaled, watching the remaining embers drift into nothing.

And then—

He grinned.

A wide, eerie smirk, far more haunting than hers ever was.

Even in death, she had felt it.

The fear.

Not of the sword. Not of the light.

But of him.

With a slow exhale, Ryuta sheathed his blade and turned toward the door. The house, now empty, felt lifeless—as if it had never been lived in at all.

Stepping outside, he glanced back one last time. The walls had already begun to rot, the wood decaying at an unnatural speed. Within minutes, the entire house would be gone, erased from existence like a bad dream.

Ryuta sighed and rolled his shoulders.

"Guess I should get moving."

Without another word, he walked away, leaving behind the haunted place and the lingering whispers of laughter that no longer belonged to the old woman—

But to him.

Ryuta continued his journey for two days after his unsettling encounter with the old woman. The road was long and lonely, but he kept moving, his mind lingering on the strange events he had experienced. The world was changing, and he needed to be prepared for whatever lay ahead.

As he walked, he finally came across a village. A worn-out sign at the entrance read "Yami Village." The name struck him as odd, but he shrugged off the feeling and continued forward. At first glance, the village seemed normal—wooden houses, market stalls, and villagers moving about their daily routines. But as Ryuta walked further in, he noticed something disturbing.

People were suffering.

Thin, malnourished villagers sat against the sides of buildings, their eyes sunken and filled with despair. Children clutched their stomachs, too weak to cry, while others simply stared at the ground, hopelessness evident in their expressions. Meanwhile, a group of well-dressed individuals walked through the village without a care in the world. Unlike the struggling villagers, these people were clean, well-fed, and adorned in expensive fabrics.

Ryuta's fists clenched. He had seen oppression before, but this felt different. The rich villagers didn't just ignore the suffering of others—they reveled in it. He watched as one of them kicked over a small basket of food that an old man had gathered, spilling its contents onto the dirty ground. Laughter echoed in the air as the poor man scrambled to pick up the remains of his meal.

Ryuta took a step forward, ready to intervene.

But then he stopped.

His sharp eyes caught sight of a lone figure standing nearby. Unlike the others, this person wasn't laughing or ignoring the suffering. Instead, he was part of the cruelty.

A man dressed in black clothing that didn't quite fit the world around them—his attire was too modern, too close to what Ryuta remembered from a place long lost to him. A strange blend of real-world fashion mixed with the robes of this land. He wasn't just watching the suffering. He was participating in it.

Without hesitation, the man kicked one of the starving villagers, sending them tumbling into the dirt. The victim let out a weak gasp of pain but didn't fight back. No one did. It was as if resistance had long been beaten out of them.

Ryuta's expression darkened. His initial thought of merely observing vanished in an instant.

He wasn't going to walk away from this.