The induction ceremony had ended. With that, Yotsuba Mahiro had officially joined the Tendo Civil Security Corporationy.
Though Kisara-san and Rentaro-san had accepted him into their ranks, Mahiro could clearly feel that there was still a thin veil of caution between them. Kisara's eyes, sharp and ever-watchful, carried genuine interest in him, yet a flicker of suspicion lingered as well. Rentaro's attitude was more straightforward—polite, cooperative, but still guarded.
Mahiro didn't mind.
He wasn't naïve enough to expect instant trust. In this rotten world, sincerity wasn't something freely given—it was exchanged. To be met with guarded suspicion was only natural.
"There are plenty of days ahead," Mahiro muttered to himself as he left the Tendo office that night. "Take it slow. Step by step."
Still, there was the problem of work. Without an official IFA license, he couldn't actually take on Gastrea extermination requests with Rentaro-san and Kisara-san. For now, he had no choice but to keep himself busy with other matters.
The first thing he needed to settle was household registration.
Thankfully, the world had changed so much since the Gastrea outbreak that bureaucracy had grown slack. Human survival areas weren't like old nations with rigid systems. Things were… loose. As long as one had money, doors opened.
"No wonder Kisara-san was so confident," Mahiro thought, recalling how casually she had promised to arrange things.
Of course, Mahiro didn't exactly lack funds. By converting pebbles into gold with his peculiar ability, he easily secured the necessary bribes. It was almost laughably convenient. The thought of inflation, devaluing gold, or throwing the market into chaos didn't even cross his mind—why should it? He had no intention of living in this world forever. Even if the pile of gold sitting idly in his office were to circulate in the Tokyo Area's economy, the market could absorb it without much consequence.
After taking care of that, he purchased an apartment once again. A place of his own, even if temporary, was necessary.
A few days later, Mahiro stepped outside for his usual shopping run. He had barely walked down the street when he noticed the sky had turned an ominous gray. Thick clouds pressed down on the city, and soon a drizzle descended.
"…Good thing I brought an umbrella," he sighed, clicking it open.
The rain fell steadily, tapping against the transparent surface of his umbrella as he strolled through the streets. His thoughts drifted, piecing together the information he had gathered these past few days.
Gastrea. The monsters born of the virus that devoured the world.
He had confirmed the classification system: Lv1 through Lv4, each stage representing progressively more dangerous mutations. And above them—the dreaded Zodiac Gastrea, designated Lv5. They were walking natural disasters, each one powerful enough to annihilate an entire human survival area in a single rampage.
Because of them, this world had long abandoned the notion of "countries." What remained were fragmented survival areas, each walled in by Monoliths of Varanium, the only material capable of holding the Gastrea at bay. The Tokyo Area was one such place, just one fragment of humanity's desperate resistance.
Even then, conflict still brewed between areas, and within each area, political friction was constant. Humans couldn't help but fight among themselves—even with extinction looming.
Mahiro's gaze shifted upward through his umbrella, drawn by the glowing screen of a nearby building. A figure of immaculate purity appeared: Seitenshi-sama, the Holy Son, young ruler of the Tokyo Area.
Since taking office, she had done her utmost to protect the "Cursed Children"—girls infected with the Gastrea virus who bore red eyes and inhuman powers. Though society shunned and despised them, Seitenshi-sama dared to propose the New Gastrea Law, a bill granting them basic human rights.
Unfortunately, the Senate rejected her proposal again and again. Instead, her aide, Tendo Kikunojo, nearly succeeded in pushing the Household Registration Deprivation Law, which would strip Cursed Children of even the right to exist as humans.
Only Seitenshi-sama's desperate opposition had prevented its passage.
"An idealist, huh?" Mahiro murmured. His lips curved faintly as he studied her image on the screen. "She's gentle, at least. Even if she's no more than a canary locked in Kikunojo's cage, at least she tries to do something for those children."
In truth, Mahiro didn't dislike her.
Closing his umbrella, he tilted his head back, letting the cool rain patter across his face. Droplets traced the contours of his cheeks and jaw, washing away the tension clinging to him.
"If only the filth of this world could be cleansed as easily as rain washes the streets…"
But then he chuckled softly, a wry smile breaking across his lips.
"What am I thinking? I'm not some savior. Just a traveler passing through. If anything…" His voice lowered to a mutter. "…it'd be more fun to play the role of a demon king who destroys it all."
Suppressing such idle thoughts, he raised his umbrella once more and continued down the nearly empty street.
The rain grew heavier, pooling along the sidewalks and forming shallow rivers along the gutters. The Tokyo Area's drainage system, clearly neglected, struggled under the downpour.
Then—
A faint sound reached his ears.
"…Sobbing?"
It came from a narrow alley where rainwater had gathered, turning the ground into a muddy stream. Curiosity pricked at Mahiro, and he turned his head.
There, half-submerged in the shadows, was an overturned metal trash can. The sound of crying leaked faintly from within.
Mahiro's brows lifted.
"…Seriously? Someone's hiding in there?"
His mind ran through possibilities. A stray old man clinging to life? Some discarded piece of junk like a broken Boqi robot? Or maybe—
His eyes narrowed, and with a thought, his Sharingan activated, vision sharpening to pierce through the shadows of the rain-soaked alley.
What he discovered inside that trash can was not at all what he expected.
"…Ah. So it's not a Boqi-chan at all."
Inside the can lay a girl—no more than seven or eight years old. Nearly half her body was submerged in the filthy rainwater. Her tiny frame, curled up as if discarded, was covered in bruises and cuts. A deep gash along her back still oozed faint traces of blood, staining the water around her.
Her body trembled faintly. Whether it was the biting cold or the pain of her wounds, Mahiro couldn't be sure.
A Cursed Child.
It was rare—no, nearly unthinkable—for one to be wandering freely in the city center of the Tokyo Area. After all, the people here despised them. If discovered, children like her were often dragged away, beaten, and killed in cruel, senseless ways. Even though they were born with monstrous strength, they rarely resisted. They had been taught, again and again, that resistance only brought more suffering.
Mahiro's lips pressed into a thin line. It was tragic, yes—but this was the reality of the world.
Out of grim curiosity, he stepped into the alley, his footsteps splashing lightly through the stagnant water as he approached the overturned can.
"Ugh…"
The girl let out a faint moan, her cracked lips parting as if pleading. The water had stolen the warmth from her small body, numbing her limbs and sapping her strength. Every shallow breath drew in the metallic tang of blood, mixing with rust and rain.
Not someone else's blood. Her own.
But the girl's dull crimson eyes showed no surprise, no fear. This wasn't the first time.
"…She's used to it," Mahiro thought, his expression tightening.
Her trembling quieted slightly, as if the loss of blood dulled the pain. In a cruel way, the icy numbness of the water felt almost comforting against her battered flesh. She almost wished the cold would claim her completely, that it would drain the last of her strength and let her slip away.
But that, she knew, was impossible.
Even as her body temperature plummeted, even as her wounds bled freely, even as consciousness flickered like a candle in the storm—she could not die.
That was the fate of the Cursed Children. Their bodies were abnormally resilient, their regeneration almost monstrous. Unless her brain was destroyed or her heart crushed, injuries like this could never truly kill her.
She knew this because she had seen it herself.
She remembered one of her companions, beaten savagely, only to be finished by a crushing blow to the skull. Another had her chest pierced until her small heart ceased to beat. That was the only way they died.
She had escaped that fate. Survived. But survival didn't feel like a blessing. It felt like punishment.
"To ordinary people, surviving such wounds might seem like luck," Mahiro muttered softly, watching her from the shadows of his umbrella. "But for her… living is the cruelest curse."
The girl hadn't lived this long because of determination or hope. She had no grand vow, no attachment to the world. She lived simply because her body refused to let her die.
Starving, she scavenged half-rotten scraps from dumpsters to fill her stomach. Thirsty, she drank from muddy puddles or stagnant gutters, anything that wouldn't kill her fragile human side. Beaten, she endured. Alone, she endured.
Even now, as the numbness overtook her and her mind began to blur, she knew her body would not allow her to die. Her wounds would seal, the bleeding would slow, and tomorrow she would awaken again.
But tomorrow was no blessing.
Because no matter how her flesh healed, no matter how the scars vanished under the rising sun, the gray haze of despair that colored her world would never fade.
She wasn't human. She wasn't allowed to be. She was a monster—at least, that's what the world screamed at her. A Gastrea's spawn, cursed to live and never die.
Since she could not die, she could only continue.
And so, with a faint, mechanical resolve, she parted her lips, letting the dirty rainwater lap into her mouth. Her throat worked weakly, swallowing.
"…Mm."
A faint spark of joy flickered in her dull eyes.
"Hm… even with the garbage and blood mixed in, it's still better than the water from the gutter…"
The little girl thought to herself, cheering quietly in her heart. To her, this filthy liquid was like nectar. Just this much was already a tiny happiness.
Of course, she knew there was cleaner water in the park, but she never dared to go there. If she did, she would only be seen as a monster tainting the water supply, beaten mercilessly until she could barely crawl away.
And worst of all, they wouldn't even kill her. The law forbade it—so instead, they would torment her endlessly. For someone like her, that was far crueler than death.
That was why, for her, this rancid rainwater mixed with blood could still taste like heaven. Though… if she were allowed to wish for anything, she would have wanted to taste the pure rain falling straight from the sky.
She hoped for that much.
Until—
A warm, gentle touch landed on her head.
"…Eh? Is… God? Has God come to take me away…?"
Her voice was frail, almost breaking. Maybe it was only because she had just drunk water that she could even whisper such words in her weakened state. After all… she had never felt such a tender caress, such warmth in her entire life.
"I'm not God. Are you okay? …No, wait, that's a stupid question. You don't look okay at all."
The voice was low, magnetic, carrying an unexpected calmness.
The girl's body jolted. She snapped awake instantly and, summoning some unknown strength, flipped herself over inside the trash can. She shrank back, curling as tightly as possible as if trying to escape the figure looming above.
But where could she go?
The trash can was small, rounded. No matter how she tried to flee, there was nowhere to hide. And with the hunger gnawing at her insides, the dizziness from blood loss, her body had no energy left to resist. All she could do was shiver and beg in a trembling voice:
"P-please… don't hit me…"
"Relax. I won't hurt you. Don't move."
Despite her weak protests, the boy leaned his umbrella against the wall and reached inside. With surprising ease, Yotsuba Mahiro lifted the frail girl out of the rain.
So light.
He blinked in mild shock. Her weight was like paper, so insubstantial that it almost frightened him.
So this… is a Cursed Child.
The thought ran through his mind as he set her down carefully. But almost immediately, his expression shifted. From his coat, Mahiro drew a compact CAD in handgun form, raising it toward her.
"…Ah…"
The girl let out the faintest sound. The moment her eyes caught the weapon, her body froze. No more trembling, no resistance, no cries. Just silence.
So this is it…?
Oddly enough, she felt no fear. Only a strange relief. Slowly, she closed her eyes, her lips curving in the faintest smile.
If this was the end—then maybe, finally, she could be free.
[Initiating trace of altered information body…] [Confirming point of restoration…] [Restoration commencing…]
Suddenly, she felt it. A glow wrapping around her like a blanket of light. It was soft, it was warm, it was—
"…So this… is death?"
Her lips moved in a daze. Her smile deepened. Wrapped in that comforting warmth, she wanted to sleep, to drift away forever and never open her eyes again.
But fate had other plans.
A single cool droplet slid across her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered open. "…I'm… not dead?"
"Of course not. What do you take me for? I don't have any weird hobbies like that."
The boy's voice was firm, almost scolding. His face was right there in front of hers, close enough to see the raindrops streaming down his cheek.
Was it just rain? Or—
The girl blinked in disbelief. Not only was she alive, but the agony that had gripped her body moments ago was gone. The bruises, the cuts, even the deep wound on her back—all had vanished as though they never existed.
Her body still felt weak, her stomach twisted with hunger, but compared to before… she was whole.
"You're starving, huh? Do you want to come home with me? I'll cook you something to eat."
Mahiro's tone was casual, but before she could even answer, he scooped her up again and started walking.
Because honestly—her answer didn't matter. He already knew she would refuse. A girl who had been beaten, starved, and abandoned would never dare to trust.
So instead, it was like—
"Oi, look! I found a stray cat. I'm bringing her home!"
By the time the girl realized, they had reached Mahiro's apartment. At the doorway, she froze. Her small feet hovered above the clean wooden floor. Shame and fear flashed across her eyes.
"…I'll dirty it," she whispered.
But Mahiro wasn't having it. With a sigh, he tugged her forward, dragging her gently but firmly inside.
Even then, she huddled in the farthest corner, curling her knees up and pressing herself tight against the wall. Her bare feet overlapped nervously, as if she was trying to make herself smaller, trying not to contaminate the place with her presence.
Mahiro didn't say anything more. He simply stepped into the bathroom, unfolded a thick, freshly laundered towel, and draped it gently over the trembling child. The fabric swallowed her like a soft, warm cloud — just enough to cover her small shoulders and damp hair.
He had wanted to clean her up properly, maybe even get her to take a bath, but every time he reached out, the girl flinched two steps back: instinctively, blindly, like a creature who'd learned fear as its first language. Eventually she had nowhere left to retreat and pressed her back against the wall, eyes wide and frozen.
Yotsuba Mahiro watched her. "...."
He wanted to ask a dozen questions: who had done this to her, what those Initials (the underground gangs, slavers, or so-called "hunters") had done to break such a small spirit, why anyone could be so cruel. But his mind had already collected too many ugly answers from the fragments of intel he'd been sorting: kidnappings, experimental abuse, trafficking for weapons tests, organized beatings—the list read like nightmares, things even his imagination hesitated to name.
There was no point in dwelling; it'd only pull him under. Instead, he exhaled, folded the towel more neatly, and stood.
"Stay put," he said quietly. "I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back in about an hour."
It wasn't nobility. He knew very well he wasn't a savior. He was a passerby in a broken world. But that didn't mean he could watch this happen and do nothing. For now, the small, practical things mattered: food, clean clothes, a place to warm up.
He changed into dry clothes, leaving the girl curled in the corner with the towel wrapped around her like a tiny cloak. The sight of her, so small and so wary, tugged at something that wasn't sentimental — it was plain human decency. He locked the door behind him and stepped out into the soft, persistent rain.
The nearest supermarket had fluorescent lights that buzzed like tired fireflies. Mahiro bought more than he strictly needed: warm instant meals, canned stew, a thermos of hot water, some bread, and a small pack of wet wipes. He added extra blankets and a spare hoodie in a size that might fit a child. When he paid, his phone vibrated.
"Hello? Kisara-san?" he answered automatically.
"Kisara here. The IFA exam's tomorrow," the voice chirped, businesslike. "IISO Tokyo Branch, be there first thing. I'll wait for you."
Mahiro blinked. "Got it. Thanks, President Kisara."
He ended the call and felt that familiar pinch in his chest: examinations, paperwork, the bureaucracy of ranks. He hated it, of course — the hollow, performed rituals of a world that worshipped certificates — but he also knew the IFA license meant he could do more. Protect more. So it was worth the tedium.
Back in the rain, the city hummed with quiet life. People darted under eaves, umbrellas bobbing like clumsy mushrooms. He considered the idea of buying a cheap car — relying on his acceleration techniques would be conspicuous — but for now, groceries came first. Thoughts of transport drifted away as he quickened his pace, eager to return and check on the little stranger (and, admittedly, to see if the Pochita he'd picked up earlier had behaved and not chewed through anything important).
When he opened the apartment door, a small, damp puff of air greeted him: the smell of wet hair and the sharp tang of metal-streaked rain. The child had dried somewhat but remained wrapped in the towel, tucked into the darkest corner as if she could disappear into the shadow itself. Her black hair — nearly waist-length — lay in a disordered fan around her, and two red eyes peered from beneath her bangs like cautious little beasts in hiding.
She was a sight both fragile and… unnerving only in the way of something that had learned to survive by force. For a heartbeat Mahiro's mind cataloged the obvious: Cursed Child, red irises, abnormal regenerative traits, social pariah. But then her small fingers tightened around the towel and the fear returned, raw and immediate.
She glanced up when she noticed his arrival, and her expression warred between terror and confusion. She didn't understand why she'd been brought here. In her world, to be taken in often meant abuse—someone else's charity came with a price. It would be cleaner, some part of her thought, to be beaten and left where the blood would wash away; at least it wouldn't leave them with the shame of invading a stranger's home.