Johnsons' Residence
Becky was still in Kite's arms, fast asleep. The poor girl had cried herself into exhaustion—shaking, broken, and inconsolable. Kite had barely managed to calm her down.
Mrs. Johnson sat slumped against the wall, her eyes hollow and unfocused. A few women from the village tried to comfort her, gently shaking her, whispering words of strength—but nothing reached her.
Christy sat in a corner, stiff and silent. She looked like she was barely holding herself together—grieving, but trying to remain strong. She was the last anchor for her crumbling family.
The low hum of gossip began to fill the air, and though Kite usually ignored background chatter, this time, he listened.
"It's Ailak, no doubt about it."
"Yes… that monster's back again."
Ailak…
Kite remembered the stories his father used to tell—of a monstrous, serpentine beast that haunted the Quenara River. Four years ago, its reign of terror had paralyzed Menyver. Fishermen refused to touch the river, children were forbidden to play near the banks. Then… the attacks just stopped. People grew less afraid, and eventually, they forgot.
But it's clearly not over…
Kite held Becky closer, his mind churning with rage and resolve. Chu-Chu sat atop his head, unusually quiet. The mouse had felt the weight of sorrow more than usual these days.
"Kite…" Becky mumbled.
"I'm right here," he said softly.
"I'm scared… Dad is… Dad is dead…"
He squeezed her protectively. He couldn't cry—not now. He had to be strong.
---
Lighthart Residence – Basement
Kite rummaged through storage, gathering supplies in silence.
A week… That's more than enough.
On the dining table, he laid out everything with precision: rope, a lantern, kerosene oil, silver light, his father's spyglass, and a machete. Each tool a step toward the monster's end.
Chu-Chu sat on his shoulder, watching him with anxious eyes.
---
April 20, 1518 – Outside the Slaughterhouse
Kite stood at the edge of the building, the smell of blood heavy in the air.
I really hate doing this…
---
April 21, 1518 – Quenara River
He scanned the riverbank, looking for the ideal spot. It wasn't long before he found a wide clearing with a large, gnarled tree rooted in the center.
Kite placed a hand on the trunk and knocked twice, listening to the echo.
This will do.
---
April 22, 1518 – Riverbank
Before sunrise, Kite crouched behind the brush, spyglass in hand, scanning the quiet river.
No movement. No bubbles. Just a deceptive calm.
---
April 23, 1518 – Forest Edge
He swung his hatchet with focused rhythm, chopping through thick wood. His gaze was sharp, determined—calculating every piece, every angle.
Later that evening, he tied a pig to a tree, baiting it with carrots and fruit. The animal fidgeted anxiously.
"Sorry, buddy," he muttered. "It's nothing personal… but I need this."
Kite looked toward the setting sun, gripping his machete.
"Tomorrow… the monster bleeds."