Chapter Text
Several years before the tragedy.
Before the Eclipse, before the fall, before the screams in the dark.
The earth still knew the sound of steel for simple reasons: gold, food, territory. And some, very few… for the desire to kill.
It was summer. The heat wasn't suffocating, but it was relentless. The fields surrounding the fortress of Blackstone—a mass of blackened stone nearly devoured by lichen—were torn apart by battle. The banners of nameless mercenaries flapped wearily among anonymous corpses. The air stank of gunpowder, shit, and sweat.
Men spoke, but did not shout. Something in the air kept them tense, restrained, as if the battlefield were a closed mouth waiting to open only to swallow flesh.
At the main gate of the fortress, on a makeshift platform of logs and rusted iron, stood a man who looked like a mass grave. Gigantic. Filthy. Clad in crude armor that looked like it was forged for oxen. His helmet was a twisted hunk of metal with spikes and a black slit like a furnace mouth.
Bazuso.
The Ogre of the Iron Gate.
Veteran of twenty sieges. His sword, wider than an average man's torso, was buried in the mud like a monolith.
And in his voice—there was laughter.
"No one else?! Come on, you shit mercenaries! Cowards! Not one of you has any balls?!
"They said you had a reputation… ha! The only thing I smell is the piss running down your legs!"
He spat. The mud hissed where his spit landed. Around him, dozens of mercenaries eyed one another, tense, sweating. None wanted to be the next corpse.
And then—something changed.
A crunch in the dirt.
The sound of leather and metal.
A shadow walked slowly toward the platform.
Tall. Not as tall as Bazuso, but… broad. Solid. A presence.
Heads turned. Murmurs rose.
"Who is that?"
"What company is he from?"
"Never seen him before…"
The young man wore an expression of boredom. Or maybe just indifference. His black hair, crudely cut, clung to his forehead with sweat. His leather armor was built for endurance, not show. His cape was little more than a torn rag.
And the sword…
The sword was fucking insane.
As tall as he was. Maybe taller. It had no edge—it had weight. It wasn't for fencing. It was for crushing.
He carried it over his shoulder like it was part of his body. A natural extension. As if that piece of steel had a will of its own and whispered to him.
The young man climbed the stage. His boots thudded heavily on the wood. Bazuso looked down at him with a mix of disdain and amusement.
"What the hell is this? Another brainless punk trying to make a name for himself?"
"…"
"Well? Got a name, kid?"
The young man lifted his head slightly. His gaze was sharp, but without rage. A calm slash.
"Guts."
Bazuso laughed. A guttural roar, full of snot and crooked teeth.
"Guts?! What kind of name is that?! Were you born in a latrine, boy?!"
"…Just fight," Guts said, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands.
The murmur of the crowd died. The air grew heavy.
Bazuso raised his weapon. His muscles groaned. His pauldrons creaked like old doors.
"Then die with your guts spilling out, Guts the bastard!"
And then he struck. A horizontal blow like a giant guillotine. The earth trembled as Bazuso's iron slammed into the ground—but Guts was no longer there.
The young man had moved. Like an animal. Like lightning.
And then—his sword roared.
CLAAAANG!
The sound was like thunder splitting an oak. Guts's blade crashed into Bazuso's—but didn't stop. His strength was inhuman.
Bazuso's arms shook. He staggered back.
"What the…?!" he spat, dazed.
Guts didn't reply. He was already on him. Another strike, this time from above. Bazuso barely blocked it. Sparks flew.
But there was something—something different.
Guts didn't fight like a man. He didn't hesitate. He wasn't after glory.
He just wanted to kill.
And his sword… made it possible.
"You fucking bastard! I'll—"
Too slow.
Guts spun on his heel. The sword rose at a crazy angle, impossible for its weight. Bazuso tried to block—but his left shoulder burst in a jet of hot blood.
He screamed.
Guts didn't stop.
Another cut.
SHUNK!
The blade sliced through his leg armor, shattering the bone.
Bazuso fell to his knees, spitting teeth, eyes wide.
Guts brought his weapon down one last time.
A single downward slash.
And the ogre's head bounced into the mud.
Silence.
Then the mercenaries exploded in cheers. Some laughed. Others clapped. The fortress soldiers, now without their champion, began to retreat.
But Guts looked at no one.
He sheathed his sword.
And stepped down from the platform as if he'd just lifted a sack of rice.
"…Fucking lunatic," one mercenary muttered.
"Who fights like that…?"
And far off, among the trees, on a nearby hill…
Someone watched.
Mounted on a white horse, with gray eyes and hair like moon-worn silver…
Griselle.
Her lips curled in a slight smile.
"Interesting…"
From the hill where the wind blew freely and the tall grass swayed like green serpents, the view was clear. The sky burned in orange hues, licking the clouds with a light that seemed to foretell fire, blood… and something deeper.
Below, the fortress of Blackstone began to waver. Not from battering rams or crumbling walls, but from the loss of its most terrifying force: the giant Bazuso, whose head now rested meters from his body like a sacred stone fallen from its pedestal.
There, on that hill—neither too close nor too far—a regal figure stood watching in silence.
Griselle.
Known to some as the White Hawk, the woman who led the famed Band of the Hawk with a firm hand and subtle smile.
Her cloak fluttered behind her like a broken wing. The pale plate armor, accented with dark blue trim, enhanced her figure: strong yet feminine, a balance of power and grace. Her hair, a cascade of silver, fell like frozen water to her waist—loose, unbraided.
Her eyes, crystal blue, half-lidded. Her face, serene. As if nothing ever truly surprised her… except, perhaps, him.
"Tch! Come on, get the hell out of here…" grumbled a sharp voice beside her.
Corkus. Thin, twitchy, with the face of someone who's never smiled honestly in his life. He frowned, arms crossed.
"That kid killed Bazuso? No fucking way! That bastard was a beast—he tore a guy's arms off once with just a shield. How the hell does some punk, alone, with that ridiculous sword…"
"The sword wasn't ridiculous," interrupted Judeau, leaning casually on his spear, with his ever-present half-smile and braid over his shoulder.
"You had to see the hit. It wasn't luck. That guy knew what he was doing… and he didn't even blink."
Corkus clicked his tongue.
"Bah, maybe Bazuso was drunk."
"Did you see his head roll? He didn't look very drunk," Judeau chuckled.
Between them, a large, silent figure barely moved.
Pippin.
A colossus of stone and muscle, with a face like carved granite. He spoke only when needed.
Judeau, half-playing, elbowed him lightly.
"What do you think, Pippin?"
The giant didn't speak.
He raised a thumb.
Didn't turn. Didn't stop watching the man who now walked among corpses.
A brief silence fell among them. Even Corkus shut his mouth for a moment.
Because there was something… something in that mercenary still descending from the platform where Bazuso had been butchered like a pig.
And then, a soft voice. More an exhale than a sound.
"…And you… what do you think, Griselle?"
It was Casca.
Serious-faced, dark-skinned, sharp-eyed. Her dark hair braided short.
The second-in-command. A fierce warrior.
But also… human.
And in the presence of her, of the White Hawk, even Casca had her doubts.
Griselle didn't answer immediately.
She kept watching.
Her gaze wasn't that of a general assessing a threat.
Not even a mercenary interested in gold.
It was something else.
She had seen strong men before. Dozens. Some even better in technique.
But that young man…
He had something.
Not just strength. Not just rage.
A fury that was hollow. As if he didn't fight for glory or pleasure, but to keep something inside him… buried.
And that sword…
It wasn't a weapon.
It was a tombstone.
What does that man bury… with each strike?
Finally, Griselle spoke. Her voice was soft, but clear. Each word a jewel, carved with precision.
"Interesting."
The others looked at her. Judeau raised an eyebrow. Casca tilted her head.
Griselle slowly turned to her troop. The wind lifted a lock of her hair.
"Let's pull back for now. This fortress is going to fall."
"Eh?" said Corkus.
"Our client is dead—or will be soon. There's no more pay here… and if there's one thing I won't waste, it's time in a place with nothing to gain."
She walked to her steed. A white warhorse, proud and disciplined, trained like a soldier.
She mounted with ease, as though she were part of the animal.
Before departing, she cast one last glance toward the figure walking away through the smoke.
Guts.
And for the first time in a long time, her smile turned genuine.
"I'll see you again.
…of that, I'm sure… Lone Wolf."
She turned her horse.
And the Band of the Hawk vanished into the trees like a sigh before the storm.
The thunder of Blackstone's fall still echoed in the distance, like the muffled roar of a storm fading beyond the horizon.
The air smelled of smoke, of burning wood, of flesh that shouldn't burn like that. The wet earth, stained with blood, trembled beneath the boots of the last soldiers—those fleeing, or looting what remained. Fallen banners flapped lazily, caught in their own inglorious demise.
Guts walked the other way.
Uninterested in the mercenaries' euphoria, in the plundering, the shouting, the cheap wine and the whores beginning to appear among the ruins like flies swarming a corpse.
He wasn't there for victory. He never was.
He stopped at the foot of a dry tree, on the edge of the ravaged fields. Sat on a mossy stone, resting his massive sword beside him, as if he could finally breathe without it.
He reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a small leather pouch tied with an old string.
He opened it.
Coins.
Gold clinked in his palm like a metallic heart. Some stained with blood. Others with dirt. A few looked freshly minted. It didn't matter. They were enough.
He counted quickly.
One… two… fifteen.
A fair price for Bazuso's head.
"Tch." He spat to the side, without anger.
He stashed the coins with the same precision someone might use to store a sharp blade. It wasn't ambition.
It wasn't greed.
It was simple calculation.
Once again, he had survived.
He had lived to kill.
And killed to live.
He'd done it for as long as he could remember. Since that day—
The one he didn't even want to recall—
When his first cry wasn't in a mother's arms, but beneath a corpse hanging from a tree.
That was what he did.
Breathe. Fight. Kill. Sleep. Repeat.
It wasn't a philosophy.
It was a sentence.
But in that moment—alone, far from the mud and iron—
A fleeting spark crossed his mind.
A question he usually didn't let himself think.
Is this it?
Just surviving?
Is there nothing more beyond this?
He looked at the sky, blue as an old wound. No clouds. The sun burned without mercy. And for a moment, it didn't seem like the sun at all.
It was an eye.
A red eye. Open.
An eclipse.
He frowned.
Shook his head.
The vision vanished.
Only heat. Only light.
But something remained.
A persistent feeling. A tingle at the nape of his neck. As if he had been watched.
Not during the fight.
Before.
After.
All the time.
He turned slowly.
Nothing.
Only trees. Wind. Branches shifting.
"It wasn't an enemy."
"It wasn't fear."
It was something else.
As if a pair of distant eyes, sharp and silent like a hawk's, had tracked his every move.
Not with intent to strike.
But with… curiosity.
"…Tch." He spat again.
He stood.
The sword returned to his back with its familiar weight.
Sweat rolled down his neck. The gold in his pocket weighed little—but enough to move. To seek the next fight.
The next payment.
The next night that wouldn't kill him.
He walked east.
And the wind at his back
whistled like a hawk in a dive.