Cackle of a witch

It's nearly night when Atsunori finally returns to the estate. Avery is—surprisingly—sitting on the rock he told her to, eyes closed, fully engrossed in mediation. As remarkable as that is, something else catches his attention even more.

Her cheeks are red—not the flustered kind, but stinging, freshly slapped. A quick glance at the servant yields only a frantic headshake.

Smack.

Avery hits herself again.

"No! Focus, Avery. Out with the fun thoughts," she groans.

Why does he still get surprised at her behavior?

After a slow exhale, Atsunori motions toward the house, and the servant follows.

Once they are out of Avery's earshot, he asks, "How was she during training?"

"She… did her best."

"Be honest. Was she a complete failure?"

"No, no! At least not entirely. She can't stay quiet for more than two minutes, and has to change posture every few seconds… but she really does try. That's why she keeps slapping herself, even though I asked her not to."

"And she didn't fool around with her powers?"

"No, but she would often shout 'I'm bored!' and then dunk her head in the lake. I had to pull her out each time."

"... You're not making this up, are you?"

"I-I swear it's the truth."

"What is that girl?" His fingers brush the bride of his nose. "Whatever. Good to know she's at least trying. Honestly, more than I expected on her first day."

Maybe he should even give her some reward like…

The gift he was supposed to get her.

But completely forgot about.

Dammit.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Atsunori leaves a meeting with one of the Munakata, his frown exactly the same as yesterday's—and the day before that.

Two weeks of having the city's key areas under surveillance, as well as an ear in almost every relevant public conversation, yet they're still no further than where they started.

The early-Autumn pour soaks him almost instantly. No umbrella—not that Atsunori needs one.

Then there's Avery…

Turns out her first day of training had been her best—since then, each session left her more restless. Her self-slaps grew harder, sometimes turning into punches. When Atsunori forbade her from hitting herself, she substituted that for sprints around the estate to tire herself out.

It's like she'll explode if she doesn't stay active.

By now the gift has become nothing more than an endless exercise in procrastination.

Atsunori growls at himself. Overhead, thunder answers in kind. The heavy clouds and the dimming sky throw deep shadows across the city. Evening lights aren't on yet, so almost no one is out—too late for daytime activities, too early for night ones.

Soon, hundreds will swarm the streets, hunting for ways to spend their hard-earned wages. Just the thought of the coming chaos reminds him of Avery's latest insistence on tagging along, as if he were heading to a party instead of doing actual work.

For the time being, he can simply enjoy the calm walk back home. The constant pitter-patter murmurs in his ear, joined only by the occasional passing vehicle.

Then a new, unwelcome sound seeps in.

Atsunori stops beside an alley, listening intently. It feels as if the rain quiets just so he can catch it.

Faint. Barely there. Not quite singing—closer to a thin, distant wail.

Normally, he'd keep walking. But the chance that it might be something unnatural makes him turn in. He steps into the alley, leaving behind the last scraps of light and letting the darkness swallow him.

Rather than fumble for the phone, Atsunori lets his sight adjust.

The sound stops and starts often, shifting across the alleyways as if luring him in. Yet it steadily grows nearer, clearer—until he realizes it isn't a wail at all. It's a cackle.

After a few twists, he reaches a wide dead end, empty except for a lone trash container. The sound cuts off. Only the steady hum of the rain remains.

Then he feels it—a presence behind him.

Turning sharply, his eyes catch a figure blocking the far end of the cross-alley, the only exit. Darkness clings to it so tightly he can't discern a single feature—until a flash of lighting strips away its shadow.

Slender, yet imposing. It wears a dark robe, arms stretching through the sleeves like gnarled branches, parting into spindly fingers elongated three times their normal length by sharp claws.

The terse hair is blacker than the surrounding darkness.

Another flash reveals its face—a faintly twisted smile, piercing eyes, and a pair of short, stubby horns.

When the light fades, the silhouette is gone.

Atsunori draws a sharp breath and forces his body to shift—so fast it sends a pang of pain through his swelling muscles and newly sprouting fangs.

Every sense focuses, taking in what little he can make out beneath the clouded sky and the steady rattle of rain.

A cutting wind warns him just in time to see the claws swinging toward his face. They graze him—barely—but his counterpunch strikes only air.

The apparition glides around him, almost floating.

The cut suddenly burns as if his cheek is being torn apart. The phantom takes advantage of the lapse in concentration, swinging again. Claws meet his raised arm, barely piercing—yet the searing pain is mind-numbing.

After another failed punch, Atsunori dashes to the trash container and rips the lid off in one swift motion.

Even after regenerating, the pain persists. I can't take many more wounds or I'll pass out from pure agony.

It attacks again the instant he lifts his makeshift shield. The metal bends with each hit, but none break through. He bashes the shield forward—the lid connects, but slender fingers catch it, and the creature vaults clean over him.

No dodging this.

From above, it swipes down—but Atsunori simultaneously swings with his other arm. Both attacks connect, yet the enemy's light frame lets it absorb most of the impact using his body like a stepping stone.

They separate again. For a moment, his balance falters under the relentless sting of the hexes.

"Kekekeke!"

The shriek chills his bones, and buckles his knees—another curse.

A roar tears from his throat, raw will crashing against the fear spell and shattering it.

The alley's night lights flicker on—casting a dim glow over the figure. A slow, measured clap echoes through the space.

Then after a bow, the creature's body begins to twist and contort. Atsunori throws the lid, but the spectre bends its upper half backward, dodging effortlessly. When it straightens, its face is even more grotesque—longer horns, eyes glowing red, and a mouth twisted into a sharp-fanged grin.

No doubt—this is a Hannya.

A type of female Oni. One of the most dangerous matchups he could face, since they don't rely on physical wounds—things his regeneration could normally shrug off.

Worse, she's transformed into the second tier: a Chuunari. Whether she can reach the third tier or not, he knows he probably can't defeat this form alone.

To drive home just how screwed he is, the Hannya lifts an arm, and a ball of fire begins forming above her hand.