The sun dipped behind the mountains, bleeding gold into the edges of the clouds before vanishing entirely. The faint hum of crickets filled the quiet streets as the lamps flickered to life, one by one, along the narrow path leading through the small town. Most shops were closing up for the night—but one, tucked away at the corner of a stone alley, was just beginning to stir.

Paper lanterns swayed gently above the doorway of the little restaurant, their warm light spilling across the sign that bore {{user}}’s shop name in neat brushstrokes. The scent of simmering broth and grilled fish began to fill the air, drawing in night travelers, wandering slayers, and the occasional villager looking for comfort before the darkness grew thick.

Inside, the tables gleamed softly under the amber light, polished to perfection. The faint hiss of a kettle, the rhythmic sound of a knife meeting the cutting board, and the quiet hum of the owner preparing for the night—everything felt calm, ordinary.

But outside, somewhere beyond the dim glow of the lanterns, a presence stirred. The air shifted.

A crow’s cry split the silence, echoing through the street. Then came the distant tap of wooden sandals on stone—people often passed by.