With a sound like church bells, the deed was done.

The last of the beasts slipped away into the night, bloodied compatriots left behind. Gascoigne watched them go grimly, Henryk behind him already walking away.

"Another night gone, Hunter." He grumbled, hefting his axe. "And still no leads."

"We must keep looking." Thin lips tightened behind a shadowed collar, Yharnam-suited Hunter standing ill-at ease in the wet streets. "This is where they crawled out of the sewers en masse, they will have reason to be here."

"Good hunter!" Henryk catcalled behind them. "Oh moon-scented hunter, oh lord, oh savior! Please, oh please, let me shoooow you my leads!"

Gascoigne let out a hoarse chuckle of his own, finally letting his shoulders slump. Turning away from the mound of bodies, bells rang once more as Gascoigne finally dismantled his axe. "Henryk is correct again. No further clues will be found this night." He grunted, turning away from the cowled man. "Hunter, these streets grow bright once more. It's time for you to go."

"I understand." The Hunter spoke soberly. "I am sorry, Father. To have raised hopes where-"

"Where none previously existed." He said shortly. "We have hope, of ending these days. That alone will bring me home to my Viola. Take your leave Hunter, tomorrow will be another long night."

"I understand."

"Fare thee well brat!" Henryk cried. "Keep your copper clean, ay?"

Smiling faces and grim smiles and bloody streets, swirling in mist, faded like the night as dawn broke.

Gyomei Himejima awoke, alone save for the sound of birds above, and wept for the loss of innocent souls once more.

"Gyomei."

Gyomei remained silent.

"Gyomei, please rise."

He did not rise, remaining in dogeza at the foot of his lord.

"Gyomei, you haven't failed yet."

"I have again failed to gain any answers, Oyakata-sama."

He could not see, but he could hear the rustling of robes as Lord Ubuyashiki adjusted himself. His dreaming eyes did not follow him to the waking world, and he was pathetically grateful for it. He couldn't bear to see disappointment in his Lord's eyes, even as it trilled his heart.

The Dreams, he'd been blessed with them. He'd closed his eyes in this world and opened them in another, one Oyakata-sama had understood to hold answers to the questions that plagued them. Perhaps they had understood this too, those bloody hunters, for they had understood him as kin on sight. Muzan was unfamiliar, though his touch was not.

And yet.

"Another night has been wasted." Gyomei said sorrowfully. Hot tears ran down his face once more, well-worn tracks aching. "Innocents suffer for my laziness."

"None doubt your effort Gyomei." The words were kind, but they stung.

"I will strive evermore, Oyakata-sama."

He felt the attention of his Lord and the Heir upon his scarred brow.

"It…" There was a catch to his Lord's voice. "No. Nevermind. I will trust you, Gyomei."

I am unworthy.

He held his tongue. It would not do to burden his Lord's shoulders with evermore worries.

Bowing his head lowly once more, he retreated from the mansion, to his forest exile.

Thud

His hands struck stone once more. He drew a stiff breath, in and out, and struck.

Thud

The basics. Whether awake or dreaming, his Breath kept him alive and moving. His nights were rarely restful, but he took solace in these quiet moments.

The Breath of Stone was a harsh one. Unending weathering, constant refining. Every day, he stood, and he struck stone, until his palms turned to basalt and his bones to granite. Then he struck again, and felt himself compress further. Breathe, but breathe slowly. Let the air filter through your body. Like water through stone, trickle down. Slowly. Expand, contract, and strike.

Thud

Again.

Thud

Until you are strong.

Thud

Until you are worthy.

Thud

Thud

Thud

"Oh, good hunter..."

He sat, there, on the cobbled floor. The poor doll sat beside him, jointed fingers beseeching.

"Good hunter, why do you not partake?"

She had asked him, over and over. The blood echoes she described whispering to her, the torpid wash of runes unspeakable, gems like jewels dancing in the light. Round and round and round, they circled the drain, the abyss of madness just beyond. Perhaps she didn't understand, she was simply a doll, the poor thing. Made to know, but perhaps not to understand. No matter, her kindness was real, and for that he would teach her.

No peace would man find of such depravity. The prayer fell from his lips easily, and for a moment the doll and he bowed their heads to the souls of the lost, those whose graves anchored this world to another in lost memory.

"I will never." He spoke, finally, gently but firmly. Her wooden fingers tightened on his sleeve.

"You will die, good hunter. The scent of the moon is upon you, they will follow. The beasts are human no longer. They will track you to the ends of the earth."

"Then I will die." Words he'd long accepted to be true. He'd fight and die for people to live on. He would never disgrace his beloved lord with anything less. "But until then, I will fight Demons for the people, and you."

She had a kind smile. He was glad when she'd learned how.

He had no use for them, these gems, so he gave them to her. Bloodstones and droplets, congealed gore. They were as dreamlike as the world, but he found she enjoyed looking at them. She wore them now, about her wrist, sliding them bead after bead down the twine tie. He'd made it similar to his own prayer beads, in hopes it would grant her kind soul similar comfort.

She was scared for him, he could tell. But perhaps she was a little relieved as well.

The demons were a constant presence. Bestial or humanlike, they without fail sought the flesh of innocents for some unseen master's sick pleasure. He had seen it take hold, the darkening of pleasure, the dilation in dim candlelight and flickering torchlight. He didn't approve of Gascoigne and Henryk partaking, but he'd say nothing. He would watch, and support, and if need be put them down. They knew, and chose to do so anyway to aid him, and for that he was grateful.

Eileen however, was a different sort. The aged woman was spry for one so infirm, hopping rooftop after rooftop in those thin leathers of hers. She rarely walked with them, choosing instead to range afar, to find others willing to aid their mission. And yet every time she returned was to be celebrated, for he always welcomed her wry intelligence.

"The path is blocked." She said bluntly, and Gyomei turned to the two aged men beside him. They exchanged looks.

"We could-"

"-absolutely not." Gascoigne shot down Henryk before he could speak. Henryk shot the man an unknowable look, but spoke no further.

Gyomei watched. He watched. To see again was no blessing however, and his ears grew dull with their reliance. This world was not one so pleasant to witness, daubed in blood as it was.

But Eileen was no stranger to silent men, and she understood.

"Cathedral Ward." Was the simple answer, and Gascoigne growled his rejection.

"We will not approach the church." He snapped. "That's final. We need nothing to do with them, or they with us."

"They have answers." Was her quiet response.

The reply was near feral.

"They will have no part in this, do you understand? The church does not aid, it gives and then it takes."

Eileen did not respond, though the grip on her blades grew tight. Gascoigne's eyes narrowed.

"We will need another path then." Gyomei spoke haltingly. He was unfamiliar with this land, but he was no stranger to the beastlike grips of rage. Gascoigne would not budge.

"There is no other path." Eileen hissed. "Every path leads to the church, every path moves fromit. The church is the beating heart of Yharnam."

Gascoigne moved to reply, but Henryk's raised hand held his tongue.

"They come."

Slinking from the darkness, the demons prowled. Their eyes were maddened, and beneath the flesh crafted stood another innocent life stolen. Gyomei slowly drew forth his axe, flail uncurling itself as beside him bells rang.

They paused, good sense warring with the foreign need for flesh. All newborn were like this, the instincts raw, the need unpolished.

The moment where the last of their humanity fell away. Tears streaked down his cheeks, as he watched them die a second time, become fully the monsters another wished them to be.

His body was already moving, axe swinging as he tore one's head clean off. Gascogne was not far behind, roaring beside Henryk as they dove together at the largest of the brood. The beasts scattered as Gyomei slammed into them, one arm releasing the axe to slam an open palm into a beasts skull.

Like wet fruit it pulped, a smooth, grainy texture beneath his numbed hands. He swept his hand to the left, crushing into another like an overripe melon, knuckles sending bone skittering into the dark. It was soft, it was moist, it was warm, but his heart remained stone.

In, out

He wept a prayer for the lost. Another night, and yet more innocents cried to be freed.