I Only Want To Kill-Chapter 147: The Village

The so-called "cemetery" has no walls, no fences, and nothing to protect it. It stands completely open, like an invitation to danger. Because of this, any creature, whether a wild beast or a nightmare monster from the Dream Layer, can easily enter. Once inside, they can wreck the place, absorbing the lost souls and corrupting them to their ugly counterparts.

Using a simple illusion, the Dream Layer can easily trick travelers. Someone walking here might see a safe haven, but the layer shifts things just a little, like a gentle push to the right. Before the traveler understands what happened, they already find themselves standing in the middle of the twisted, broken graveyard.

Exactly this trick caught Blaze off guard. The illusions covered his eyes and ears, making him believe he was going the right way. He walked straight into the graveyard trap without any awareness. But the dark woods made a big mistake, they didn’t know how strong Blaze truly was. The Pig Butcher monster never even came close to defeating him.

However, if it’s only his soul that went into the Dream Layer, the Pig Butcher would have had a very good chance of killing him.

Blaze now understands the real danger of these woods. It doesn’t come from monsters outside, it comes from what the woods do to an Awakened’s power. The woods put heavy chains on their abilities. Without their power, an Awakened is weak. They become a training dummy, a thing that can be hurt easily and can’t fight back. And if it takes away their body too? Then they become truly helpless. With no power and no body, they can do nothing at all.

Blaze follows Peter into the village and frowns. This place is nothing like the bright, golden wheat fields he saw in the illusion. Instead, a cramped, forgotten town hunches in a tight area. The houses are short, sagging, and built from scraps: rotting wood, cracked mud bricks, and rusted metal sheets patched together. Walls tilt sideways. Roofs dip like tired shoulders. Every structure trembles in the wind, as if one strong breeze can blow them into pieces. It isn’t a village; it is a pile of kindling pretending to be a home.

"I’m leaving now, sir! If you need a place to stay, go find Mr. Cavanaugh at the inn."

"Will do, boy. Watch yourself out there, Peter."

Peter runs away and turns back a few times to wave at Blaze. He waves back at the boy, the porcelain white mask shows a gentle smile, a rare emotion to be shown on the Tattered Mask.

Blaze steps into the village. Near the edge, a group of men huddles on the grass, shaking dice over an upside-down bucket they use as a table. As Blaze moves closer, one man looks up and freezes. His eyes go wide with terror.

"H-Holy smoke!" he chokes out.

Another follows his gaze. "Wretched!" he screams, scrambling backward. "The Wretched is HERE!"

Instantly, chaos erupts. Dice flies everywhere as the men lurch up, knees buckling, hands slipping on the grass. They stumble over each other like frightened deer, legs tangling as they try to run. One falls hard on his backside, kicks wildly to escape, then crawls frantically toward the nearest hut. Blaze could’ve easily grabbed any of them... but he let them flee. He knows too well that his appearance can be a real heart shocker.

Then CLAAAAAANG! A panicked man near the well swings a rusty pipe at a hanging metal gong. The ear-splitting crash tears through the village, alarming danger.

Doors fly open all around the village. Men, women, and even teens surge into the muddy street like a flood. Scythes, rusty shovels, and splintered wooden stakes are gripped in their hands. Their faces are filled with terror, but their voices scream rage.

"GET OUT, WRETCHED!"

"Leave now, or we’ll carve you to the bone!"

"Monster! This is OUR place! GO BACK TO THE

GRAVEYARD!"

A burly man with a chipped axe shoves to the front, swinging it wildly.

"I’ll cut your head off!" he shouts, spit flying.

Beside him, a boy no older than fifteen trembles but aims a wobbly pitchfork at Blaze’s chest. The crowd presses closer with fear and determination in their eyes.

Blaze doesn’t move. He just stares, his burning eyes moving slowly over each strained face, each shaking weapon. The silence that falls is heavier than their shouts. No one dares step closer.

Heavy work boots stomp through the mud as a stooped, leathery-faced man pushes past the villagers. His overalls are stained with dirt, and his eyes are as hard as flint. In his hands gleams a double-barreled shotgun, oiled and ancient, and it points straight at Blaze’s chest.

Silence takes over the scene. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

"Enough." The man’s voice is like cold iron. He doesn’t shout, but every word cuts through the silence like a knife: "You don’t belong here, Wretched. Turn around. Walk back the way you came. Now."

He pumps the shotgun. The sound echoes like a coffin slamming shut.

Villagers edge backward, eyes darting between Blaze and the gun. A young woman drops her scythe, it sank silently into the mud. The man never blinks. The shotgun’s twin black holes stare at Blaze, hungry. For blood.

Blaze slowly raises his hands, palms open.

"I’m not a monster," he says, his voice quiet but piercing through the silence. "This?" He gestures at the inky cloak swirling like oil smoke around his shoulders. "This is just my power. Like armor. Like... a uniform."

The man’s finger tightens on the trigger. "Uniform? Demons wear uniforms now? Your eyes are yellow fire."

"A side effect," Blaze insists. The eerie glow in his eyes dims slightly, like coals banked for the night. "When I use my strength, they flare. Right now, I’m holding it back. See?"

The light fades further, revealing tired, deep brown human eyes beneath. Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

"And that... that face!" a woman cried, pointing at his smooth, pale, featureless skin. "Like a doll’s!"

"A mask," Blaze explains, tapping his temple. "It is also a power of mine, but in return, it makes me look... blank. But I bleed red. I breathe air." 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

He takes a slow, deliberate breath. A visible plume of white mist curls from his lips into the damp air. "Just like you."

The man squints, the shotgun lowering an inch. "Prove it."

"The graveyard," Blaze says, voice tight. "Its damp sinks into my bones. Makes my joints ache. Monsters don’t feel cold. Humans do. I met a boy, Peter, he called himself the Wandering Boy. He led me to you guys.

Before that, I also met the Trader, who gave me this map."

Blaze takes out the map to show the villagers.

"My name," Blaze adds softly, "is Jake. Before the woods... before the power... I fixed tractors. Drank bad coffee."

The man lowers the shotgun. "...Jake?

I don’t believe a single word you’re saying..." He spits into the mud." But a man that was helped by both the greatest spirits of these woods? That ain’t no Wretched. Can’t be."

"Spirits?" Blaze frowned, the faint yellow glow flickering deep within his brown eyes like distant lightning.

An old woman shuffles forward.

"That’s right, son," she rasps. "The Trader and the Wandering Boy. Been here longer than the oldest tree. They ain’t human... but they ain’t filth like what is crawling out there. They help lost souls... like us."

Blaze’s shadow-cloak ripples, pulling tighter around him. "Peter... before he vanished... told me to find a Mr. Cavanaugh."

"You found him." The man with the shotgun says. Cavanaugh jerks his chin toward a building. A chipped sign above its door shows a faded painting of a cracked mug.

"My place. Offer drinks and a bed to sleep in. Come on." He turns, shotgun now resting loosely over his shoulder, not aimed, but not put away.

The rest of the villagers scatter back to their homes. Some are still observing Blaze with great interest, but none are scared anymore.

Inside the inn is cramped and smells of damp wood and something sharp like fermented grain. Weak lantern light illuminates the wooden floor.

Cavanaugh moves behind the bar counter without a word, pulling two cloudy glasses and a clay jug from beneath the counter.

"Sit," he grunts, pouring a clear, potent-smelling liquid into the glass. He slid that glass across the warped wood toward Blaze. "Local courage. Brewed from the last decent barley patch... before the rot set in."

Blaze hesitates, then lowers himself onto a wobbly stool. He doesn’t touch the glass. His porcelain face catches the lamplight, looking unnervingly smooth against the bar’s gritty surface.

Cavanaugh knocks his own drink back in one practiced gulp, wincing as it burns its way down. He studies Blaze.

"The Trader and the Boy... They don’t bless just anyone, Jake." He refills his glass.

"They bless tools. Survivors. Folk who might... tip the scales." He leans forward, his leathery face grim. "So tell me, tractor-fixer. Why would they pick you?"