Ghoul Ashes

Night fell slowly, yet Korvath remained noisy. From the direction of the Colosseum, cheers and the clash of steel had yet to die down. Ayato for now walked alongside the muscular man he had met yesterday. The man still refused to give his name, only saying, “Later, on stage. More dramatic that way.”

“Korvath’s more honest at night,” the man said casually. “The ones training, the ones gambling, the ones hustling for food… all of them show their faces.”

“Including the ones hiding,” Ayato replied.

The man chuckled. “Heh. Quick learner.”

They cut through alleys, crossed stone streets, passed stalls still open. Smoke of roasting meat and the scent of malt wrapped the air like a warm blanket for stomachs that had lost track of time.

Ayato swallowed—and froze.

“This smell…”

“Hmm?” The man turned.

Something lingered in the air. Not food, not hot iron. Thin, cold, and bitter—like dried blood mingled with dew. With every step, it grew sharper.

Ayato pulled his cloak tight. “I’ll go on alone. Thanks for the tour.”

“Eh, you—"

“I’ll be fine. See you at training.” Ayato was already half-running as he waved. The man shrugged, unwilling to insist. “All right. Don’t die a fool’s death.”

Korvath’s narrow alleys carried their own voices: creaking wood, muffled giggles, and… there. The smell, thicker. Ayato stopped under an oil lamp. The reek pressed closer.

“Hey, handsome,” a woman called from the shadows. Hair tied up carelessly, lips painted bright, thin clothes defying the night air. “All alone?”

Ayato’s nose twitched as she moved closer to tease.

This smell…

The woman reached for his cloak, eyes glinting. Ayato slapped her arm away and drew his sword.

“U-um, sorry if I upset you—I-I’ll just leave now—”

Knew it!

His eyes narrowed at the suspicious courtesan.

“I won’t let you!”

He lunged to stab from behind—yet his blade struck only air. The woman slipped aside with unnatural speed.

“This body was hard-earned.” Her voice dropped half an octave, like two people speaking at once. “Don’t damage it.”

…Ghoul.

“If you’re already a ghoul, that’s enough.” Ayato pressed forward—tep! A strike landed on the shoulder—CLANG! The blade bounced off as if against a thin mana shell.

The woman let out a short laugh, small fangs glinting.

“Who are you?”

“Someone far beyond the league of a mere human like you.” She bent low and shot forward—SHUP!—seeking his blind side.

Ayato spun, blade whipping short. Kreeet! The edge grazed her arm, leaving blackened skin that closed within seconds, only a dark scar left behind. Her mana pressure was strong—this was no wild ghoul.

“Interesting,” “she” hissed. “You slash without hesitation.”

“Ugh...”

His second slash fell vertical—TZING! Sparks skimmed the wall as the ghoul held back with a mana layer.

Ayato dropped his shoulder, breaking rhythm—one feint step, then a thrust for the throat—

He was about to trigger his magic stone when the air behind her split—Zt!

A long scythe swept out of darkness like a black crescent moon. A faint blue glow flashed across Ayato’s vision—cold, merciless. In a single pull, the woman’s head parted. No blood spilled. Her body froze for an instant, then crumbled—shattering into fine ash.

Fwuush…

Ayato held his breath as the ashes swirled softly, like freed from invisible hands.

At the alley’s end stood a small figure cloaked in black. Blue eyes burned, emotionless. The scythe, as tall as its body, rested silently by its side.

“—” Ayato opened his mouth, but too late. The figure glanced once, then vanished—not running, not leaping. Snuffed out like a shadow. The last ash drifted away.

“No doubt about it… the one I saw in the Colosseum yesterday!”

“Oi.”

A casual step echoed. Ragna appeared, hood half-raised. He glanced at the ash, then fixed a sharp stare on Ayato.

“Who are you, really?” Her tone was cold, flat. Her shoulder leaned forward.

Ayato stiffened. “Wait—it wasn’t me—I didn’t—”

Damn, facing her now would be—!

Ragna’s gaze lingered, then the corner of her lips curved. “Figures… makes sense.” She smacked fist to palm, grin spreading. “Whoever you are, you made the right call—joining the Colosseum tournament this week.”

“Huh?” Ayato blinked. “But—the corpse—”

He turned. Nothing. No blood, no body. Just dust, fading. Cold crawled his neck.

The same dust… like inside the Colosseum.

Ragna folded her arms. “In the ring, people’s intent shows. Lies and truth can’t hide once the swords are up.” She tilted her head. “Anyway,” her gaze flicked to the street. A passerby froze. “…Hah.”

“Ragna…?” one whispered. Another echoed, “Ragna? Ragna!”

In moments, voices swelled. “Ragna! Ragna!” A crowd pressed at the alley’s mouth.

Ragna lifted a hand, ready to flash her usual smile, but the mass surged too fast. “Hahaha, my fault for walking somewhere narrow.”

Ayato edged aside. “Then—”

“Just go,” Ragna muttered without looking. “You hate crowds, right?”

“True.”

"Don’t forget to get yourself ready before the colosseum tournament!"

Half a glance back, wide grin. "We’ll have a much more exciting conversation in there!"

Ayato nodded, slipping between bodies chanting Ragna’s name. He ducked low, then out the other side. The cheers rolled behind him.

The small inn room was dark and cold. Ayato sat at the bed’s edge, pulling out a communication stone. He stared a moment.

Wumm… zriing.

“Vin, reporting,” he said quietly. “Target: east Korvath, near the night market. Encountered ghoul. Likely controlled remotely.”

Silence from the stone.

“Proceed,” Aurellia’s calm voice replied.

“Ghoul used the body of a night worker. Faster than human standard. I couldn’t finish it. A third party intervened—small cloaked figure, blue eyes, wielding a scythe. Killed it in one stroke. Then… vanished. No body left. Only ash.”

“Ash?”

“Yes. The ghoul’s body instantly disintegrated into dust, carried away by the wind.”

On the other end, Aurellia drew a slow breath. “I see. Anything else?”

“One more,” Ayato added. “Possible the ghoul’s master was observing through senses implanted in the host. The voice didn’t belong to the woman.”

“Understood. Valuable intel. Well done, Vin.

Ayato bowed slightly, though unseen. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you encounter such ghouls again, keep your distance. Use the marker stone and I’ll come at once.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Contact me if anything else comes up.”

Wumm… the stone dimmed.

Ayato stared at it, then set it on the table. Silence lingered, but memory pressed back—the blue eyes. No voice, no summons. Just the cold on his neck, the dark alley, the curved scythe.

That figure… who are they?

He rubbed his face, shaking off needless curiosity.

Focus. The competition is close. I need to prepare.

If the final prize truly was the black orb Lys spoke of, then this was his first step to reaching the Land of Knowledge—Sanctuary. For that, he had to survive to the final… against Ragna.

Ayato pulled a small satchel from under the bed, spreading maps and notes—purchased the “Vin” way: bar talk, coin for errand boys, rumors traded for bread.

He marked Korvath’s map—training spots, contestant bars, admin posts. Beside it, a name list:

Garron (two-handed, grappling, concise)

Mera (spear, keeps range)

Sael (light sword, quick feet)

…and so on.

His scribbles messy, his mind sharp. Notes simple: prefers left opening, takes bait easily, brawls after loss—risk of foul. Small things that in the ring became big.

He stopped at one blank name—the burly man.

“Later,” he muttered. “On stage.”

Last, he circled Ragna. No style notes needed. Everyone already knew. What Ayato needed wasn’t “how to fight Ragna,” but “how to last until facing her.”

He closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

Not dreams—not the past. Just steps ahead: preliminaries in four days, training tomorrow, sleep tonight.

He snuffed the lamp.

Before drifting off, Ayato peeked through the small window. Korvath’s sky was dark velvet. Far away, the Colosseum still breathed: a low roar rising and falling like the sea.

He shut his eyes.

Behind the lids, black ash scattered once more, then gone. No voice. No beckoning. Just one note: something walked this city with him—whether born of Colosseum’s light, or the alleys’ dark.

Tomorrow, he would step forward again.