“One, two, three, Sheriff! Freeze, hands in the air!”
The girl’s voice wasn’t loud, but here it was quiet enough that it carried. In the thick darkness of night, especially for this guilty drunkard, it was like a sudden clap of thunder out of nowhere. He shot to his feet, most of his drunken stupor instantly cleared, fear and alarm fighting on his face.
Who is it?!
Who’s there?!
The drunk looked around in panic, but it was too dark; except for the faint light of a streetlamp at the end of the alley, he couldn’t see a thing. But when he turned, head lowered, he saw a figure shrouded head to toe in a black trench coat.
He sobered up. Even if he’d been thrown out of his house, he could still earn a living with hard work. Ever since the Clerics of the Church of the Machine God had arrived in town, they’d set up factory after factory. If he could master a trade, he might even become a follower!
In this world, the most enviable job besides being a noble was to become a follower of the Church. Especially since, unlike other churches, the Church of the Machine God didn’t have endless complicated rules. The Church of the Holy Light even forbade its followers from marrying, demanding they devote their chastity to the goddess.
Once he joined the Church of the Machine God, he’d have steady work, and nobody would look down on him. His big brother would have to welcome him home with respect, and even hand back the inheritance he’d skimmed off from their father!
Now that he’d sobered up, his dreams seemed pretty sweet.
But for now, he needed to deal with this spooky, mysterious figure in black.
There was a clear difference in build between them. The black-clad figure’s face was hidden, but even standing up, they barely reached his chest. He might have ruined his body with years of drink and women, but surely he could handle this frail, short nobody.
His face twisted into a cruel sneer as he barked, “What the hell are you? Meddling in my business, are you looking to die?!”
He swung his wine bottle, trying to intimidate the stranger. But clearly, they weren’t scared at all—he could hear a disdainful laugh from under the coat’s hood.
“Uncle, drunkenly assaulting a young girl? According to the kingdom’s law, that’s at least three years in prison, up to the death penalty. And if this poor girl’s family appeals, your precious parts—the ones for carrying on the family line—might get cut off and secretly sold to a witch by the executioner~”
Hill spoke lightly, even as her words grew more terrifying: “You wouldn’t want a piece of yourself to end up on some mindless lich, who then rushes into a herder’s sheep pen to attack those poor little lambs, would you?”
Clearly, these words hit the brute hard.
Visibly, his face darkened; the panic in his eyes almost overflowed.
Yet the next moment, the drunk looked all around and found no one else here but this weirdo. In other words, the threats were probably just to scare him into holding back.
Besides, listening closely… was that a girl’s voice?
A young girl’s voice—clear and innocent, a pleasure to hear.
He couldn’t help but raise his voice, threatening, “Little girl, didn’t your parents ever teach you what humility is?”
A girl no older than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in some spooky black trench coat, empty-handed—where did she get the nerve to threaten a grown man?
She wasn’t worried he’d deal with her too?
The drunk stepped forward, wanting to intimidate this reckless girl. The drink had mostly left his system; for now, his desires were under control. But if he didn’t scare this stranger off now, she might go and report him to the sheriff, and he’d end up in jail.
An ordinary girl might have screamed already from fright.
Unfortunately for him, Hill, despite not being in this world for very long, had already shed the timid, easygoing nature of her past life thanks to constant hunting. If not, she’d have starved to death or been shot in the head with a silver bullet by the sheriff long ago.
Sigh! She really didn’t want to waste another word on this stinking drunk.
Hill was impatient—she’d always hunted with efficiency in mind. If her prey regained their senses while being fed upon and started screaming, they’d risk drawing patrolling sheriffs.
“Hey, you little brat, are you deaf? Get out of here right now! Or I’ll—”
Hill sighed, her face twisted in disgust as she reached out and, in a flash faster than the eye could see, slashed the drunk’s neck with her fingertip. If one looked closely, they’d see her fingernails extend in that instant, sharp as blades—enough to cut through the flesh of any ordinary person below Sequence I.
Of course, Hill wasn’t about to kill. Her strike only left a small cut on his neck—enough to draw blood, but not damage the windpipe.
The Bloodkin’s nails and fangs both contained a toxin that could paralyze, its effects depending on the place of injection. The neck or heart were best for this.
Hill had her sights set on better prey, so she wasn’t about to bite the neck of such scum. Fingernails would have to do. Bloodkin nails worked much like fangs: they could extend and retract, draw blood, and inject toxins just as well.
Drunks and vagrants—blood foul and filthy—she wouldn’t feed on them unless she was truly desperate! Fingernails sufficed; no need for her delicate, charming lips to suffer.
The drunk never even saw her move; it was too dark, and she was too fast. By the time he realized, he didn’t even have time to curse before he felt the world spinning. The toxin in the wound spread to his brain almost instantly; within a few breaths, his head spun, his consciousness slipping away from his body.
When the sheriff found him the next day, seeing the bottle by his side, he’d just think him a typical drunk passed out in the alley. The Bloodkin’s toxin had another advantage—it accelerated healing, so by morning, the scratch on his neck would have faded, leaving almost no trace.
With a thud, the drunk collapsed. As luck would have it, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered loudly on the ground.
Hiss!
Hill looked anxiously at the girl sleeping against the wall, hoping the noise hadn’t woken her.
Otherwise… she’d have no choice but to repeat for this lovely girl what had just happened to the unlucky drunk.
Come to think of it…
Hill crouched beside the girl, and seeing her face, couldn’t help but show a look of satisfaction, even unconsciously stretching out her pale hand and carefully retracting her just-extended nails.
She stroked the girl’s cheek; the tender feel was almost addictive.
Strange—skin this perfect couldn’t belong to a poor child. Beans and vegetable soup couldn’t raise such a lovely girl; only sweet milk and soft bread could.
Why was she homeless, sleeping in such a dangerous place?
Hill pondered for a moment, then put the thought aside—she was starving, and tonight she had to eat her fill. Otherwise, come morning classes, she’d have to nap at her desk to save strength, and would get called on by the teacher again.
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