The sky was overcast, heavy with dark clouds.
Rain hung in the air but had yet to fall, the oppressive atmosphere leaving a faint tightness in the chest.
The fires in the city had not yet been fully extinguished, the ancient walls stained with soot and charred marks everywhere.
Blood and debris mingled in the mud, trampled by countless feet into a sticky, dark mess, indistinguishable and unclear.
Yet, compared to the outer city mired in filth, the towering Gothic castle at the heart of the city remained immaculate.
Or perhaps, someone wanted it to appear that way.
On either side of the castle gates, rows of neatly aligned Quincy soldiers marched past, their postures rigid, their weapons still stained with faint traces of blood.
At the forefront stood two young men, similar in build but starkly different in demeanor.
The one on the left had a bright red mohawk, his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he turned to glance at a street reduced to ashes in the distance.
Years ago, his hometown and castle had been destroyed in flames just like this, hadn't they?
Bazbee thought to himself.
In just a few short years, he had become a candidate for the Sternritter's elite soldiers.
As long as he had enough power.
As long as he could gain enough strength from that man, he could...
Bazbee's thoughts turned to the man who had mercilessly destroyed his entire homeland. His expression remained indifferent, but his heart burned like a raging fire.
Fiercely, intensely.
Just then, as he was lost in thought, Haschwalth beside him suddenly stopped in his tracks, raising his hand.
The entire column of soldiers halted with him.
"Haschwalth?"
Bazbee instinctively turned his head.
Though he saw himself as the 'big brother' between them, even he had to admit that Haschwalth's judgment was far sharper and more precise most of the time.
The man with smooth, golden hair stood still, his eyes closed, his brow slightly furrowed, as if puzzled by something.
Despite having earned the title of 'Quincy Captain,' the power he could gain from His Majesty Yhwach was still too limited.
"Bazbee."
Raingren Haschwalth asked uncertainly, "Do you sense something wrong?"
"Huh?"
Hearing Haschwalth's words, Bazbee instinctively raised his eyebrows, looking at him with confusion.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know."
Haschwalth's tone grew tense and guarded, as if an invisible danger surrounded them, ready to claim their lives at any moment.
Watching him, Bazbee waved his hand nonchalantly: "Haschwalth, you're not too on edge these days, are you?"
"Even if it's your first time killing so many people, you shouldn't look so weak!"
"If it's really too much, there are some dark changers in the west..."
But before he could finish pretending to be a seasoned soldier, recounting what he'd heard from others, Haschwalth suddenly lifted his head, gazing into the distance.
His eyes widened, his pupils constricted, and he instinctively opened his mouth.
"What...?!"
It was the first time Bazbee had seen Haschwalth so shocked. His attention was instantly captured, and he followed Haschwalth's gaze.
Yet, the sky remained heavy and dark, the clouds above showing no sign of dispersing.
"What the..."
Before Bazbee could finish his sentence,
"Thud! Thud!"
The hardened soldiers behind them, who had fought through the entire city massacre, suddenly collapsed like dominoes. Their consciousness vanished in an instant, one after another falling to the ground with dull thuds.
In the next moment, even Bazbee's mind began to fog, his eyelids growing heavy.
His body swayed, nearly collapsing.
"Bazbee! Don't sleep!"
Haschwalth's sharp warning rang in his ears, jolting him awake. Fine beads of sweat broke out on his skin, chilling him to the bone.
Haschwalth stood before him, though Bazbee didn't know when.
Instinctively, Bazbee lowered his head.
Just in time to see Haschwalth's hand, pierced by a dagger.
His pupils constricted.
And not just that.
Haschwalth, usually as emotionless and rational as ice, was now trembling uncontrollably, even the hand gripping his sword shaking.
Fear? Cowardice? Chills?
What was it?
Bazbee's thoughts raced, his mind slowly clearing. But seeing the rows of fallen soldiers around him, he couldn't help but resent himself for not collapsing instantly.
"What the hell is this?!"
He shouted instinctively.
But in the next second,
Bazbee's eyes reflected Haschwalth's back.
His body stopped trembling.
Yet, what was also reflected was a towering monk over two meters tall.
This monk was unlike the clergy commonly seen in this Eastern European country. His head was completely shaved, and he had a heavy black beard...
A race they'd never seen before.
A shaman from the Black Continent? Or from further east than the Ottomans...?
"You're quite good."
"After you die, you'd make a fine Shinigami."
"Raingren Haschwalth."
The monk spoke, his large hand heavily patting Haschwalth's shoulder. He walked toward the castle gates in his wooden clogs.
Bazbee stared, stunned.
He wanted to shout, to pretend bravery, to draw his sword.
But for some reason, all his thoughts were overwhelmed by an intensely powerful emotion, as if acting on his very soul.
Every action he desired became futile.
"Clack, clack."
From start to finish, the monk never glanced at him, brushing past them and heading straight for the deepest part of the castle.
Bazbee merely witnessed it all.
In the next moment, his consciousness plunged into darkness.
Hyōsube Ichibei strolled through the dimly lit corridors of the Eastern European castle, the clacking of his wooden clogs echoing on the stone floor. The Quincy soldiers in the corridor collapsed before he even drew near.
As a 'Transcendent' whose foundation was the 'Soul King's power, Hyōsube Ichibei's strength far exceeded the limits of a mere 'Shinigami.'
All the soldiers around him crumbled from the depths of their souls just by meeting his gaze.
However, this method was only useful for dealing with minor foes.
"Clack."
The monk tucked his hands into his sleeves, his footsteps halting.
A middle-aged man with an eyepatch appeared before him, his expression stern.