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"HAVE YOU HEARD OF THE AKUMA NO SAIBANKAN?". "Or in English, the Devil’s Judge?” Satou’s voice cut through the bar’s lingering hush, roughened by alcohol and excitement. “A serial killer, roaming the lands of Japan, killing those who have sinned. Walks the night, axe in hand, red eyes glinting in the dark. Lives for the hunt. Wants their targets to run—”
“Satou-san, enough. You’re scaring the customer,” Miki interrupted, exasperated. Her fox ears twitched above her head, the amber fur catching the dim bar light. She reached for a glass with a practiced hand, tail swishing in irritation. Satou, deep into his fifth cup, giggled and slumped over the bar, his face a blotchy red.
He was half-goat, half-human, the large curling horns jutting from his messy curls, and his dress shirt was rumpled—probably straight from some city office job.
“Sorry, Miki-chan, just warning her about our little serial killer,” he slurred, gesturing to the petite, dark-haired woman beside him.
She was a curiosity in herself, her clothing oddly formal for a countryside bar—pressed blouse, tailored skirt, a faint shimmer of rhinestones on her glasses. Yet she smiled with gentle amusement, almost serene. “No, please, I was very interested! This is my first time in Japan, you see. I’ve come from very far away.” Her accent was crisp, but her words warm.
“Mhm,” Miki replied, drying a glass. “Hope Japan treats you well. But why here, and not the city? It’s not really safe out here, not without the king’s protection.”
The hour had grown late. The bar, now emptied, echoed with the occasional clink of glass. Even Miki’s partner Yoko had gone home, leaving Miki to close up. Yoko had kittens at home who needed her attention.
“Oh, I’ve always been a village girl,” the stranger said, a wry smile on her lips. “Can’t handle the city bustle.”
“Ah, understandable. I hate working in the city,” Satou groaned, rubbing his temple. “Wish I could stay here. It’s hell commuting back and forth.” He hiccuped, dissolving into a fit of giggles.
“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be alone at night,” he added, with a drunken sort of gallantry.
The woman laughed, shaking her head. “I doubt I’ll be in any danger! This village seems so calm.”
Miki only rolled her eyes, ears flicking. “Oho—what’s your name again?”
“Hukom,” the woman replied.
“Hukom-san. These days, even us Japanese aren’t safe. So be careful,” Miki warned, her tone gentle but firm.
“Of course, I will listen to the locals!” Hukom grinned, cheeks dimpled, as Miki rolled her eyes again.
“It must be different from where you came from—maybe safer?”
“Quite safe, yes,” Hukom replied, voice softening.
“And where exactly do you live?” Miki pressed, curiosity piqued.
For a moment, Hukom froze. Where did she live, again? The thought slipped away like water through her fingers.
Satou leaned in, still giggling. “Hukom-san’s a bit of an airhead, huh?”
Miki shot him a glare, baring her fangs. “Don’t call Hukom-san an airhead!” she snapped, ready to thump him.
Satou raised his hands in surrender. “Chillax, Miki-chan!”
Hukom only sighed. The side effects of that old bargain, perhaps. “It’s fine. Satou’s not wrong. It’s… Have you heard of Monarchs?”
Silence fell. Satou and Miki stared, eyes wide.
“Oh my god—are you?” Satou stammered, pulling away.
“Yes,” Hukom said, cheeks flushing as she rubbed the back of her neck. “I am one.”
Miki gasped, paw to her mouth, ears flicking in awe. “A Monarch, blessed by a god? Unbelievable…”
“What path do you follow, Hukom-san?” Miki whispered, reverent.
“The Path of Judgement,” Hukom replied, her voice almost ceremonial. “The Goddess Eion has placed her gaze upon me.”
“My goodness…”
“Goodness indeed! This is the first—and last—time we’ll meet a Monarch in person!” Satou crowed, half-rising from his stool. “Miki-chan, get the camera!”
“Achk! Satou-san, you’re so embarrassing!” Miki cried, swatting at him.
Hukom only smiled, watching their playful quarrel. The Goddess of Judgement, Eion, gazed upon this beautiful woman—but who was she, truly? Her name was Hukom, yes. But was she just a businesswoman, a baker, an artist? Or something else entirely?
Was she, as Satou claimed, simply an airhead and a beautiful woman? Or was she something more?
Would a god choose such a simple woman? Would she? Would she?
No. No, the Goddess Eion would never choose such a simple-minded, boring woman at all! Who stands beside Miki and Satou is no gentle soul. No, she is a killer—a woman who wears a thousand faces of deceit, whose tongue drips with lies, and whose eyes see everything.
She sees what you are, what you truly are. She offered her eyes, and in turn, she sees all: every lie, every hidden truth, every secret—judged by the same dark obsidian gaze. So black that if you look into them, it was as if hell itself had come to claim you, to weigh your sins on an ancient scale.
Hukom has walked the world, passing judgment in her goddess’s name. She exists to make Eion proud. Yet there was one who captivated her—a single person who drew her gaze like a moth to a flame.
The Devil’s Judge, they called her. The Devil’s Judge! How blasphemous, and yet, how fitting. This was the individual Hukom sought: a serial killer who hunted those who had sinned beyond forgiveness.
Hukom remembers the night her goddess set her on this path. Eion’s voice, soft and honeyed, her lips brushing Hukom’s ear as she whispered:
“This woman is passionate, greedy, oh, so delectable. I want her. Bring her to me. I will offer her my power. I will make her my blade.”
And Hukom, devoted to her goddess, obeyed. If Eion loved this woman—wanted her with such fervor—then Hukom must see her for herself. She must!
And it did not take long. The Devil’s Judge was infamous, her trail marked in blood and whispered stories. Hukom, ever the chameleon, played her part: the wounded beauty, the fragile girl with bruised arms and haunted eyes. Men turned when she passed; women envied her grace.
That night, in a rain-soaked alley, they met.
“Are you alright?”
Her voice was gruff, rough as gravel. Hukom understood, then, why Eion coveted her. There was passion in those red eyes, strength in those scarred hands. This woman—this Devil—could kill Hukom with a single swipe of her blood-stained axe.
“I-I’m fine,” Hukom managed, her heart pounding with awe as she was hauled to her feet. The woman wore a black hood, face shadowed, but Hukom’s eyes, sharpened by divine gift, saw everything. She saw the soul beneath the skin, the ledger of sins written across her aura.
The Eyes of Judgement—that was her gift. She had traded her memories for it, her past erased. It didn’t matter; Eion cared for her, gave her everything she needed.
“Are you sure? Your legs are shaking,” the woman murmured.
Hukom’s eyes glimmered, not with fear but with excitement—pure, giddy fascination. She understood her goddess’s obsession now. Her name, she needed her name!
And there it was, whispered like a secret. “Thank you, Zo…” Hukom breathed, utterly besotted.
The Devil’s Judge—Zo—recoiled, shock flashing in her crimson eyes. In one swift, practiced motion, she raised her axe, the blade cold against Hukom’s throat.
“Who are you, and how did you know my name?” Zo’s voice was a snarl, her eyes darting, searching Hukom’s face for any sign of a lie.
Hukom smiled, unafraid. She had found her. She would bring Zo to Eion, make her a monarch of judgment, a queen among sinners.
But that night, Zo vanished as quickly as she had appeared, leaving Hukom trembling with exhilaration, a feverish flush on her cheeks as she remembered the blade at her neck.
“I must have her. I must!” Hukom whispered to herself, a wild, deranged smile curling her lips. She didn’t need to hunt Zo down. She knew, with a certainty born of prophecy, that Zo would return. She had to. She would.