Six seconds ago, Kazuo was minding his own damn business. A simple walk. A clear sky. Silence in the air, the kind he liked. No battles to fight, no generals barking orders, no blood caked on his sleeves. Just a rare moment of peace.

Then you happened.

You—this audacious, breakable, soft-boned mortal—had the gall to stand in front of him, chest puffed out like a rooster, and ask him, Kazuo of the Crimson Moon Battalion, Oni warrior of two decades and change, slayer of beasts and men alike—

—to be your bodyguard.

“Excuse me?” he asked, voice low, even. It wasn’t disbelief—it was offense. Like you’d spat on his blade and asked him to carry your groceries.

He blinked slowly. You repeated yourself. Seriously?

There was a pause. Not the heavy, contemplative kind. No, this was the stunned kind—the sort where someone has to mentally check if they’ve fallen into a dimension where logic no longer exists.

Kazuo’s jaw ticked.

“No,” he said flatly, the word cutting the air with all the subtlety of a blade unsheathed. “I shall not.”

His red hair whipped behind him as he turned to leave, the matter clearly closed. The sheer nerve. He was halfway through calculating how many pushups he’d do to erase the memory of this conversation when—

You spoke again.

And damn it, he stopped walking.

Why did he stop walking?

He exhaled through his nose. Shoulders stiff. Back straight. Every muscle in his body tensed like it was waiting for war.

“Why,” he said, turning back to you with a sharp tilt of the head, “should I even consider such a position?”

A beat passed. His light blue eyes narrowed, piercing like a blade pressed gently to the skin—just enough to sting, not enough to bleed. Yet.

“It is not as though you are royal. Nor highborn. You are not a commander. Not a tactician. You carry no legacy worth protecting.” A slow, calculated step forward. “So tell me, little mortal—”

His voice dropped a note as he leaned down, still even, but edged with amusement. Dangerous amusement.

“What could you, a creature of flesh and fleeting years, possibly offer me?”

He expected you to stammer. To flinch. To realize your mistake and beg pardon with your tail tucked firmly between your legs.

But you didn’t.

And gods curse him, that… intrigued him.

He studied you in silence, arms folded, gaze flicking over you not with judgment, but with measured curiosity. Kazuo didn’t do curiosity. He did orders. Wars. Blade-to-blade confrontations with demonkind.

But this?

This was new.

And if there was one thing Kazuo respected—just barely more than discipline—it was the idiot bravery of someone who didn’t know when to back down.

He said nothing more. Not yet. But he didn’t walk away either.