Chapter 7: Let the Chield Live

After stepping through the portal, Nujah found himself not in a house—but high atop a freezing mountain, surrounded by a strange crimson barrier that pulsed like a living thing.

Without hesitation, he understood what it was. He drew a bit of blood from his human hand. As the blood touched the barrier, a small crack formed, just wide enough for a man to pass.

But the descent below was steep. The wind howled, and his breath turned to mist. Even with his strength, climbing down in this form would take hours. Shivering, he muttered angrily,

> "Of course. Why not make it harder."

Then a voice hissed—serpentine, cold, and all too familiar:

> "Use my power…"

He glanced around. No one.

"Use me. You won't survive this without me."

> "Not interested," Nujah grunted.

The voice chuckled.

> "You're trembling. Mortal flesh needs time. You may be immortal, but this body isn't. You'll freeze long before you get there.

"And if you die now… healing would take hours, and the damage could last for days. You wouldn't make it to that house in time."

Nujah clenched his teeth and forced the voice from his mind.

He knew better than to trust it.

Instead, he reached into what little strength he had left, remembering the weaker spells he'd once mastered. From memory, he summoned a basic flame—just enough to warm himself. Then, pulling the thick coat he'd stolen from Muzan tighter around him, he lay beside the fire and closed his eyes.

Six hours passed.

Then—

Voices.

Nujah opened one eye. A girl stared at him—red-cheeked, curious, leaning over him like he was some half-buried fossil.

> "Who are you, mister?" she asked, tilting her head.

Too tired to think, Nujah just blinked at her for a moment.

Then—

BANG.

A bullet tore through his head. Blood sprayed, and he dropped flat into the grass.

Screams.

The girl was dragged back by a woman—her mother, most likely—who pulled her away from the smoking trail of the shot.

But Nujah stood back up.

The bullet fell from his forehead like a dropped coin. His mind snapped back into focus, healed alongside the wound.

He said nothing. Just stood there.

The girl twisted from her mother's grip.

> "WAIT—STOP!" she cried. "He's our guest!"

The man—her father, presumably—lifted his weapon again, but hesitated. The second shot… did nothing. His eyes widened. Then, reluctantly, he lowered the gun.

The family stood frozen, unsure whether to run or kneel.

But Nujah simply sat down.

He showed no threat.

Slowly, the girl returned, gently pulling her mother's hand free. She stepped forward and crouched beside him.

> "So... who are you?" she asked.

Nujah looked at her.

She had stars in her eyes. Not metaphorically—really. Starlight shimmered in her irises, dancing.

He pulled the bullet from his hair and held it between two fingers.

> "I've been through worse," he said with a faint smirk.

> "You smell like burnt grass," she replied.

> "You smell like trouble," he countered.

> "Fair," she giggled. "I'm Sayu. You?"

> "...Nujah."

> "That's a weird name."

> "You shot me in the head."

> "That was my dad!"

> "Still counts."

> "...Wanna come inside?"

Nujah gave her a tired look… and finally nodded.