Chapter Text
The forest came alive with the soft, persistent melody of birds' chirping, their songs floating gently through the trees like a distant hum. But to Haihime, those sounds carried little comfort. They only served as a faint reminder of the happiness she longed for but had lost. Her heart pounded with a heavy ache, not from the physical pain she endured daily, but from the weight of what she carried deep inside—an agony that made her chest feel tight and hollow at the same time. She moved forward with slow, careful steps, her bare feet scraping over the fallen leaves and jagged stones that dotted the ground beneath her.
Her toes felt every rough patch and sharp edge, but the pain in her feet was nothing compared to the bruises and soreness that throbbed in her joints from years of exhausting toil. Her kimono, once elegant, now hung torn and ragged, sleeves frayed from countless tugs and snags over the week. She bore the marks of her misery not just on her skin but in her soul. Each step was a small act of defiance, a silent protest against the cruelty she endured daily.
Home—the place she was meant to call her refuge—had long since ceased to offer any sense of safety or peace. Since her father’s passing, her house had transformed into a prison. No longer a sanctuary, it became more like a cage. She was no longer the princess of her own life but had been reduced to little more than a servant. Her stepmother, Lady Tremaine, ruled with icy discipline, her eyes sharp and calculating, her tongue even sharper. She issued commands like a judge, her words cutting through the air with deadly precision. Her stepsisters, Anastasia and Drizella, filled the house with mockery and cruel jests. Their words flew at her like thrown stones—loud, aimed to hurt. Every breath she took seemed to be met with scorn.
Her mornings began with the same routine—cold water rudely splashed onto her face, waking her from whatever restless sleep she managed to cling to. That week, Drizella had sneered at her, a wicked smile curling her lips. Without mercy, she had kicked Haihime in the side as she tried to sit up from the floor
"Up, lazy girl," she sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "The floors won’t scrub themselves!" Her words echoed in Haihime’s ears, adding to the ache in her body. Anastasia had joined in, laughing mockingly, curling her lip in a sneer. "Maybe if you weren’t so slow, we’d let you eat," she teased, her voice filled with disdain. It was meant to humiliate her, but Haihime had learned to hide her feelings behind a calm exterior.
Lady Tremaine’s voice was the worst. It carried no warmth, only a cold authority that left no room for argument. Her tone was measured and devoid of emotion, always calculated to make Haihime feel small. “Be grateful,” she had said once, her voice smooth but sharp. “You wear a roof over your head. You breathe under our mercy.” Those words felt like a punch to the chest every time. They reminded her that she was no more than a guest in her own home, her life dictated by others' whims. She worked tirelessly from dawn until well past sunset—scrubbing tatami floors with rough cloths, hauling heavy buckets of water, washing silk fabrics that weren’t hers to dirty, cooking meals she would never taste. Each day was a grind with no relief. Some nights, she collapsed into her futon hungry and exhausted, her fingers scraped and bleeding from countless cleaning tasks. The constant labor chipped away at her strength and spirit, leaving her fragile and worn.
On this day, all the accumulated frustrations boiled over. Anastasia, in her malicious playfulness, had "accidentally" tripped her into a muddy puddle during a brief break outside. Drizella had taken that moment to mock her tattered appearance, pointing and laughing at her soaked clothes as if she was nothing more than dirt herself. The sting of their words and the humiliation of slipping in the mud pushed Haihime over the edge. But she did not cry. Not this time. Instead, her body grew heavy with quiet determination. She needed a break—no she wanted a break.
As the midday sun blazed fiercely overhead, casting glaring light onto the village, Haihime saw no reason to stay. The straw mat she slept on no longer felt like a refuge. Her heart ached for some relief from the endless cycle of suffering. Carefully, silently, she slipped out of her small, dreary home. Moving past the back gate, she brushed past the garden herbs and the cherry blossom grove, their delicate petals fluttering in the breeze like fragile reminders of beauty.
Her feet—familiar and knowing—guided her along their usual path into the forest. To her, this forest was more than just trees and shadows; it was her sanctuary. Here, she found space to breathe, to think. No demands. No sneers. No cruelty. The trees stood silent, indifferent to her troubles, offering her a quiet refuge. The wind played softly in her hair, whispering promises of freedom she knew she would never find at home. In this forest, she could breathe deeply and feel alive again—if only for a little while.
But today, even in the safe comfort of the forest, something was different.
A coppery scent hung thick in the air—metal and blood filling her senses with each breath. It was a smell that made her stomach churn and her skin prickle. Haihime’s steps slowed as she moved cautiously forward. Just beyond a clearing, where ancient camphor trees twisted their gnarled branches toward the sky and cast long, dark shadows across the ground, she saw something unsettling. Beneath a moss-covered stone outcrop, a dark shape was slumped, motionless.
At first glance, it looked like a man—or at least, it had the outline of one. His form was faintly human, yet there was something deeply wrong about it. His hair was a vivid shade of bubblegum pink, short and spiked sharply upward, wild yet deliberate, framing a face that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. His body was draped in torn, dark robes that seemed more like shreds of shadow than clothing, hanging loosely off his frame. Pale skin showed through the rents and wounds, a stark contrast to the dark blood that marred his chest and arms.
The wounds were deep and jagged, as if claws had torn across his flesh in multiple places, exposing raw tissue. But it was not just his wounds that froze her in place. It was the markings. Strange, black tattoos snaked over his body, curling and twisting like angry vines wrapped around his limbs and torso. These tattoos seemed alive, an extension of the scars and scars that marked him. She noticed, too, that he possessed four arms—each hand ended with sharp, claw-like nails, poised with a predator’s grace. covered with fresh blood and swelling. The sight made her stomach turn.
A whisper escaped her lips. "A demon," she breathed out softly. Her hands trembled uncontrollably. Fear pressed down on her, making her legs feel weak. That creature, that nightmare, seemed monstrous and terrifying—a thing born of horror stories and nightmares. Its form resembled something from her darkest fears, a creature that might attack at any moment. The very sight of it was enough to send her heart racing.
Her instinct told her to run, to turn and flee far away from this abomination. Yet, even as her mind demanded escape, her eyes told her a different story. She saw the pain etched into his battered body. The brutal wounds had not been inflicted randomly—they echoed of a fierce struggle, of someone or something beating him almost to death. That pain was real. It was undeniable.
Did hunters do this? she wondered, her voice trembling as she whispered. Carefully, she stepped closer, inch by cautious inch. Broken arrows were scattered nearby—weapon fragments abandoned in haste. Blood stained the dirt beneath him, dark and drying. She looked at his torn robes and battered frame. Why was he here, like this, abandoned and wounded in this forest? It all seemed wrong, unnatural.
She observed his injuries more closely. One of the wounds on his chest was especially severe—deep, raw, and crusted with dirt and clotted blood. It was open, showing raw flesh beneath. Insects had already begun to gather around the open wound, crawling lazily over the crusted blood and dirt, drawn by the scent of death and decay. The sight made her stomach tighten, but she couldn’t turn away. She was strangely compelled to help this creature, despite her fear.
A wave of resolve washed over her. "I can't leave you like this," she murmured softly. Without thinking, she knelt down beside him. Her heart pounded hard enough to hurt. Carefully, she reached into her water gourd, the simple vessel she carried for drinking. She tipped it gently to soften the dried blood on his forehead and then used the sleeve of her kimono—already stained and torn—to wipe the blood away as gently as possible. Her touch was tender, almost reverent.
Maybe it was the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting golden dappled light across his face, making him seem more human than beast. Or perhaps it was because she understood, on some deep level, what it was like to be broken and left behind. She knew what it felt like to be abandoned and to struggle to find hope amid the ruins of pain.
“You’re going to die if you stay here,” she whispered softly as she gently brushed dirt and blood from his cheek. Her voice was soothing, trying to offer comfort in a moment of chaos. “I… I promise I will come back. I won’t leave you like this. Stay with me, just a little longer.”
Tears blurred her vision as she looked at him, her soul heavy with pity and guilt. Without hesitation, she stood quickly, heart pounding faster than before. With hurried steps, she made her way back toward the village, her mind racing for solutions. She dared not waste time; she knew she had to act before nightfall.
《 ✿ 》
It was almost sunset when she finally reached her home. She slipped inside quietly, careful to avoid drawing attention. Lady Tremaine was in the garden, tending to her plants with calm patience. The sisters were busy fussing over their hair and combs, oblivious to her urgency. Haihime moved swiftly through her chores, her mind focused on what she needed to do next.
She darted into the kitchen and grabbed a few supplies. Dried persimmons, a half bowl of old rice that she hoped wouldn’t spoil, and the smallest fish she could find from the pantry. These were simple foods that wouldn’t attract suspicion. She slipped them into her sack, knowing they would be enough to sustain him or perhaps help him recover—if she could return in time.
Then, her gaze fell on the apothecary box her late father had kept. Memories flooded her mind at the sight. Carefully, she reached inside and retrieved bits of crushed mugwort for wounds—a neighbor’s remedy, learned from the elderly lady who lives three streets away. She gathered strips of clean linen, knowing they would serve as bandages. From the last of her mother’s supplies, she took a small jar of pine resin salve, a mixture known to aid healing and prevent infection.
She paused at the door, her hand on the latch, and looked back toward the ancestral altar in the corner of the house. It was a sacred space filled with ceramic figures, incense, and offerings. The voices of her ancestors echoed faintly in her mind, urging her to act wisely.
With a quiet voice, she whispered a prayer. “Forgive me,” she said softly, bowing her head. “But I must help him. I cannot leave him to die.” Her words carried a mix of hope and dread, a silent plea for strength and guidance. She knew this act of mercy might bring danger or hardship, yet her heart refused to turn away from a creature in need.
《 ✿ 》
The demon had not moved. He remained perfectly still, his body lying on the ground as if frozen in time. His chest barely rose and fell, breath faint but still there—weak, yet steady enough to show he was alive. Haihime returned to the scene where she had left him, moving quietly, her steps careful not to disturb his fragile state. When she reached him again, she saw that despite his stillness, the faint movement of breath persisted, offering a small thread of hope.
She knelt beside him, her trembling hands reaching out with a gentle, hesitant touch. Her fingers were clumsy, unsteady from the rush of worry and fatigue, but she was meticulous in her care. With great patience, she unwrapped the cloths that had been hastily wrapped around his torso, revealing the extent of his injuries.
Carefully, she tore a strip from her own sleeve, mindful not to cause further pain, and used it to clean the sticky blood caking his wounds. Her fingers trembled as she worked, but her touch was tender and precise. She first tackled the worst of his injuries, carefully packing the deep and ragged wounds with dried mugwort—a herb known for its healing properties—gently pressed into the torn flesh with deliberate care. Her whispered words, fragile yet earnest, broke the silence of the dying evening.
"Please don’t die," she begged softly, her voice trembling as she looked into his bloodied face. "I know you’re… not like us. But that doesn’t mean you deserve this." Her voice was thick with emotion, as if she understood the full weight of what she was asking.
She knew he was a creature of darkness, a demon cursed with evil and chaos, yet here she was, trying to save him, offering him a sliver of compassion. Her hands worked tirelessly, her fingers smudging dirt and sweat, making do with what she had—cleaning, wrapping, tending. The sunlight gradually faded beneath the trees, and the last rays of day dipped below the horizon. As twilight settled into night, she continued her efforts, wrapping his wounds with pine salve and fresh fabric she tore from her own clothing. She rinsed his face again, cleansing the dirt and blood from his eyes, and brushed the damp strands of hair away from his closed eyelids, trying to bring him to awareness.
Despite her relentless care, he remained unconscious. His body lay helpless, unresponsive to her touch, as if lost deep within a dark sleep. Silence stretched thin around them, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the cooling breeze. Then, as the sun dipped completely beyond the line of trees and the first stars started to twinkle in the darkening sky, a sound broke through the stillness—a low, guttural growl that seemed to echo from somewhere in the shadows.
It was chilling—deep and terrifying, full of menace and predatory hunger. Safe in her quiet sanctuary, Haihime froze at once. Her body tensed, her breath catching as she watched. The demon stirred then, his fingers twitching slightly as if responding to an unseen signal. His upper lip curled involuntarily into a snarl, and for the first time, his eyes fluttered open. But these eyes were not human—they were ablaze with a fierce, unyielding crimson, piercing the darkness. His gaze was wild and alert, full of suspicion, pain, and instinct. He was awake.
His vision blurred instantly. His head throbbed with a pounding that echoed like the relentless drums of a temple ritual, each beat reverberating through his skull with violent force. The scent of mugwort still lingered heavily in the air, mixing with the earthy smell of pine and, strangely enough, a faint sweetness that clung to the night breeze. The scent was familiar, oddly comforting even amid chaos, swallowed by the immediate chaos of pain and confusion.
Then he sensed it—something touching him. A calloused, trembling hand tha t brushed his face with gentle care. His eyes darted toward the source, and through the haze of pain and confusion, he saw her. A girl—delicate and fragile, yet resolute. She looked pathetic at first glance — streaks of soot clinging to her cheeks like a servant’s mask she hadn’t yet scrubbed off. Her face was smudged with ash and dirt, skin pale beneath it, the kind of complexion that should’ve never been exposed to firewood smoke or kitchen heat. Her hair was the color of sunlight filtered through dust — gold dulled by grime, loose strands sticking to her skin. It spilled over her shoulders in uneven waves, too wild to be proper, too fine to belong in a place like this. If he squinted, he could imagine it clean, brushed, braided in silk cords. But even tangled, it was arresting — real.
And her eyes…
That was the part that annoyed him.
She looked at him — a monster, wounded and snarling — with gentle eyes. Soft, steady. As if he were something more than a corpse waiting to happen. There was no terror in them, not the kind he was used to. Just a strange, quiet resolve, like she’d made peace with her own suffering and now had room to worry for someone else’s.
Her face — though dirtied and lined with exhaustion — was delicate, noble even, in a way that didn’t make sense here. A soft mouth, fine bones, lashes dusted with ash. He’d seen princesses in gilded halls with half her beauty and twice the rot. This girl, this peasant girl, looked like something the world was trying to ruin, and failing.
Foolish.
Her gaze stirred nothing in him. Nothing but a flicker. A twitch. Annoyance, maybe. Or something worse. She didn’t flinch when his eyes met hers. She simply tilted her head and looked at him as though he wasn’t a demon wrapped in blood — as though he was a man.
She was kneeling beside him, wiping the blood and dirt from his face with a damp cloth, her movements careful, almost hesitant, as if she feared startling him too much.
For a moment, he doubted his senses. She seemed unreal, a fleeting apparition conjured by his battered mind. That brief spark of doubt flickered and faded as he saw the sincerity in her eyes—soft and trembling, yet unwavering.
"You’re awake," she whispered softly, her voice barely more than a breath. "You’re alive..." Her words were filled with relief, a mixture of awe and hope. She looked at him as if he were a miracle—something rare, something worth saving.
He blinked slowly, confusion flickering across his crimson gaze. His throat felt dry, every movement painful and stiff. "Who… are you?" he managed to rasp, voice rough and unfamiliar. The words felt strange, foreign even, as if he had forgotten how to speak.
“I am Haihime,” she responded quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “I found you. You were hurt and needed help. That’s why I stayed." Her words were simple but honest, carrying a deep sense of compassion that surprised him. She was just a girl, with no armor and no weapons, yet she had come to his aid without hesitation.
He snarled instinctively, the noise rich and feral. His muscles tensed as a surge of primal fear and suspicion flooded him. "Why didn’t you run?" His voice was rough, almost threatening.
She hesitated, her hands trembling slightly. "Because you needed help," she answered softly, steady despite her evident fear. "I saw you bleeding out, and I couldn't leave you like that."
He glared at her, anger flickering within his fiery eyes. "I’m not a man," he growled. "I’m a curse. A demon. A monster." His voice was bitter.
She shook her head slowly, her expression full of sadness. "I know what you are," she said quietly. "But even monsters bleed."
His gaze fixed on her face, studying every feature. No one had ever spoken to him like this—truthfully, with no screams or accusations. No one had looked at him with understanding—or even empathy. His eyes traced the cloths wrapped around his chest, the way she had cleaned his wounds, how she had placed the food beside him. Her tired eyes and bruised hands told him she had gone through her own hardship to help him.
"You… did this?" he asked, voice thick with disbelief and something softer—perhaps a hint of respect.
She nodded slowly. "You need to rest. Please, don’t move too much."
He let out a low, bitter laugh. "Compassion. From a human girl." His words held a sharp edge, yet beneath them was a flicker of something else—resignation, maybe curiosity.
“I’m not much of anything,” she replied quietly, looking away as if ashamed. “Not to the ones I come from. Nobody sees me as anything special.”
They sat in silence for several moments. The night grew darker around them, silent except for the distant chirping of crickets and the rustling leaves.
Then, softly, he asked, “Why help me?”
Haihime hesitated again, weighing her words. “Because no one helps me.” Her voice was barely audible, filled with quiet pain.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, Sukuna—the demon—felt an emotion warm within his ancient, twisted heart. Not pity. Not gratitude. Something else. A flicker of curiosity. And though it was faint, a darker thought stirred underneath—something like fate , as if their meeting was more than mere chance. A quiet, undeniable pull toward what lay ahead, lost in the shadows of the night.