The female monkey stared at Milo as if she were engaged in deep contemplation, her golden eyes gleaming with an intensity that pierced straight through him.
A fleeting glimpse of emotion — something fragile, — trembled across her features, only to be quickly masked behind the stoic, impenetrable facade she wore like a second skin.
"I felt like it," she said curtly, her voice devoid of warmth.
Without another word, she turned away, her fiery tail swaying behind her as she approached what appeared to be a doorway, crudely carved into the trunk of the massive tree house.It appeared as though it led to a room in the tree house.
'Yeah right,' Milo thought bitterly, narrowing his eyes.
Suspicion gnawed at the back of his mind like a ravenous rat. To him, no one — absolutely no one — ever helped another out of pure goodwill. That was a naive fantasy reserved for children and fools. In his world, in the fetid alleys and broken streets of the slums, every smile hid a knife, and every hand extended in kindness was simply seeking leverage.
Milo had learned this the hard way, battered and beaten by a thousand betrayals. Survival in that world demanded a heart encased in iron and a soul sharpened like a blade.
"Anyway," he muttered reluctantly, "thank you... I would've been a goner if you didn't swoop in and save me."
Liora paused in her step. She offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod — a silent acknowledgment of his gratitude, yet cold enough to remind him not to read too deeply into it.
"What did you say your name was again? Mine's Milo," he said, attempting to mask his unease beneath a thin veil of nonchalance.
Liora turned to glance over her shoulder, her brows furrowing ever so slightly in confusion. She studied him for a long moment, the tension palpable between them.
"It's Liora," she answered finally, her tone clipped. "I think I told you this before."
Indeed, she had — right before scaling the towering tree. But Milo's memory for names was atrocious, even in the best of times.
"Oh yeah, you did... I think," he mumbled, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug, exuding that same infuriatingly carefree attitude that he clung to like armor.
A heavy silence fell between them, the air thick with unspoken suspicion.
"Can I ask you one question?" Liora's voice broke through, colder now, edged with something dangerous.
Milo tensed instinctively. Her hand was already resting atop the hilt of her cutlass, fingers coiling around it with the casual grace of someone who wouldn't hesitate to draw blood.
"How do you know your name — don't you have amnesia? Also," her eyes narrowed slightly, "Milo is a strange name for a Langur."
'Shit — wait, when did I say I have amnesia?!'
The realization hit Milo like a freight train, knocking the breath from his lungs. He hadn't explicitly said he had amnesia — but his disoriented behavior must have led her to that conclusion. In his reckless desperation to hide his true origins, he'd stepped squarely onto a landmine without even realizing it.
Exactly the situation he had most wanted to avoid.
There was simply no way anyone here would believe the absurd truth: that he was a human from another world, reincarnated into this strange existence. Hell, even he barely believed it. The only thing crazier would be proclaiming himself a god.
His heart pounded erratically, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs.
"Why have you grown so quiet?" Liora asked coolly.
Her voice had darkened, like the sky before a brewing storm. Milo's instincts screamed at him, a primal warning that danger was imminent.
Her hand tightened around her blade.
'Damn... guess this is how it has to go.'
In a heartbeat, Milo made his decision. He had one trump card — his silver tongue. If he could weave a lie intricate enough, convincing enough, maybe... just maybe, he could escape this mess.
Summoning every ounce of deceitful artistry honed from years of surviving the slums, he pressed a hand to his temple and winced, contorting his face into a grimace of agony.
"Agh... I don't know," he groaned hoarsely, forcing his voice to tremble. "All I remember is this name... I was called by it."
'Perfect.'
Milo allowed himself a small smirk deep inside. His performance, he thought, was Oscar-worthy.
Liora, however, was not so easily fooled.
With a whisper of steel against leather, she drew her cutlass and leveled it at his throat — the blade so close he could feel the chill emanating from the metal.
"You're not exactly fooling anyone ,you know," she stated flatly.
'Damn, she caught on.'
A bead of cold sweat trickled down Milo's temple, trailing a freezing path along his skin. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to flee, to fight — but he forced himself to stay rooted, trembling.
"P—Please don't kill me!" he gasped, dropping to his knees in a desperate bow, forehead pressed against the splintered wooden floor. "I swear to you, I truly don't know!"
The words burned his throat as he spat them out, each syllable tasting of bitter humiliation.
Milo gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. His pride — a towering, monstrous thing — roared in protest at this pitiful display. Yet he endured it. He had to endure it.
"Why would I believe you?" Liora pressed, her voice a scalpel slicing through the air.
Milo felt the first stirrings of triumph coil in his chest. The fact she was asking meant doubt had crept in — and where doubt lived, manipulation could thrive.
"Why would I lie in such a situation?" he whispered fervently, eyes wide with fear. "Surely I value my life!"
Slowly, cautiously, he raised his head to meet her gaze.
Liora studied him intently. Then, in one smooth, lethal motion, she sheathed her blade.
Milo exhaled sharply, relief flooding him like a broken dam.
Only to be immediately blindsided.
In a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow, Liora lashed out — her cutlass singing through the air, leaving a shallow, stinging gash across his cheek.
Milo stumbled backward with a choked yelp, tripping over his own feet and sprawling unceremoniously onto the floor. His heart battered against his ribs, wild and unrestrained.
He shuddered violently, his entire body quaking as raw terror devoured him. His palms slapped against the floor in a blind scramble for balance, but his muscles felt like jelly, useless and insubordinate.
'What the hell?!' his mind screamed. 'How is she this fast?!'
Milo curled into himself instinctively, shielding his head and vital organs with trembling arms, every instinct screaming at him to protect, to survive — even though he knew it was utterly futile. Against someone like her, no amount of pitiful shielding would save him.
His mind flashed back to the scene where Liora effortlessly dismantled the monstrous shadow tiger, carving through its massive form as if it were made of paper.
Compared to that beast, he was less than an insect.
And yet... some stubborn ember within him refused to completely surrender.
He didn't beg. He didn't whimper. He merely remained curled there, waiting for the blow that would surely end him.
It never came.
"Alright," Liora said at last, her voice lighter — though only marginally. "I believe you... I think."
"Seems as though you too are lost"
Liora said coolly her voice steady as she turned away, sliding her blade back into its scabbard with a definitive click, and disappeared into the adjacent room.
For several long moments, Milo remained frozen, his heart thundering like a war drum.
He dared not move, lest he somehow provoke her ire anew.
Finally, when he was certain she was gone, he slumped against the wall and let out a long, shaky breath.
'Dumb monkey bitch,' he seethed internally.
Still, he couldn't shake the irrational fear that she could somehow hear his thoughts. His gaze darted to the doorway she had vanished through, ensuring she was well and truly gone.
Only then did he allow himself to relax, his trembling limbs slowly regaining their strength.
'What have I done to deserve this?' he thought bitterly.
Now, left alone in the dimly lit room, the whirlwind of adrenaline began to ebb, and in its place came memories — memories he hadn't had time to process until now.
Betrayal.
Death.
Rebirth.
They surged through him like a tidal wave, dragging him beneath their merciless current.
He didn't know what he felt anymore — anger, grief, hatred — it all blended into a chaotic maelstrom.
But amid that storm, one emotion burned brighter than the rest: hatred — white-hot, searing, all-consuming.
His fists clenched so tightly that his nails pierced the flesh of his palms. Blood welled up and trickled down his fingers in thin, crimson rivulets.
"Ethan, you bastard," Milo whispered under his breath, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury.
The rage coiled tighter inside him, a serpent poised to strike, promising that one day — somehow — he would have his vengeance