Creaaak.
The grinding sound of rusty iron competed with the screaming "Btoom!" Of the comet bombardment, a sound so sharp it bleeds Hiro's ears dry.
Slowly, the mouth of the stone fortress opened as the drawbridge descended.
Hiro stared, his mouth slightly agape.
He'd seen "immersive" architecture before, but this was ridiculous. The gate was a monstrous fusion of granite and black industrial iron, weeping rust like dried blood.
We didn't have that in Tokyo Disneyland. Hiro thought, his mind desperately clutching at straws of normalcy. Though they have a similar blue flag.
To Hiro, the world was 100% absurd. And he was the only seriously normal person here.
He hadn't fully accepted this reality—he was just "humoring himself" to stay sane. Between being impaled by Reinhardt's halberd or being tenderized into a beef patty by a falling boulder, getting into the "Cinderella Castle" with his coworkers seemed like the safer shift assignment.
Thump.
The bridge gate dropped to the ground with a final, heavy resonance.
"Move your ass!!"
Ah, there goes our Prince Charming, Hiro sighed internally.
The Halberd Man, Reinhardt didn't just command; he "managed" by force. The giant yanked the chains with a violent snap.
Thud. Thud.
They moved in a unison straight line. The soft squelch beneath their boots was gone, replaced by the hollow drum of iron and stone.
Hiro glanced down as they crossed the threshold. Below the bridge lay a ditch deep enough for several men to huddle together, though he didn't plan on joining. The ditch encircled the fortress, branching out toward the deeper, dying woods.
He remembered this from his high school field trip to Osaka Castle.
Another Trench, Hiro noted.
Hiro could understand the lack of labor; he had ten years of struggle in that. Finding an honest, diligent worker was hard indeed. Even more so in a warzone, and he was sure HR wasn't the problem.
"Here comes our new duty, Einar."
The Brown-Haired Man had been talking to him for a while now. At first, Hiro was slow to adapt to the new name. But, It was the next part—the constant preaching about repentance, forgiveness, and redemption—that was getting under his skin. Back in Japan, he'd dealt with a religious cultist who stood outside the shop and preached with the exact same "passion."
This was annoyingly the same.
Minus the smile.
The man's piercing blue eyes conveyed no blessing or promise of heaven. It was just a cold mask with grit beneath it.
Clank. Clank.
Reinhardt brought the line to a halt at a smoldering smithy.
Inside, dozens of shirtless, muscled old men were hammering iron like there was no tomorrow. Sparks flew into the cold air with every strike, and a wall of heat engulfed Hiro, offering a brief, blessed relief from the trench chill.
He unconsciously leaned closer to the forge. After hours in the mud, the "kitchen heat" felt almost like home.
"Eager for your duty?" Reinhardt suddenly loomed beside him. "Seems like your brain has started to work again."
Bam.
Reinhardt shoved him forward, right into the heart of the smithy.
"Start with this one," the giant barked.
An old man with a soot-stained grey beard paused his hammer, glanced at Hiro, and gave a sharp nod.
"Place your shackles here, lad." He pointed a calloused finger at the anvil beside him.
He stepped closer and laid his wrists on the iron.
The blacksmith positioned a cold-chisel bolt in the center of the shackles—
CLANK.
The iron snapped. The heavy rings dropped to the ground, nearly crushing Hiro's toes. He jerked his feet back just in time, his reflexes saving his boots in a way that looked comically clumsy to anyone watching.
"Next!"
Reinhardt pointed him back into the line. Hiro nodded sheepishly, rubbing the "taste of freedom" into his raw wrists. He raised his palms, staring at the unfamiliar thick callouses and scars. This wasn't the hand of a man who flipped burgers.
This is my hand now, Hiro grimaced.
Stepping outside the smithy, the chilly wind immediately reclaimed him. The cold clung to his bare wrists like a fresh pair of invisible handcuffs, a sharp reminder of how hollow this "freedom" actually was. They say freedom is the power to say "no." But here, he didn't even have the power to say "hello" without risking a halberd to the throat.
If this isn't a nightmare. Then what? Hiro let his shoulders slump.
One by one, his coworkers filed out of the heat.
Without a word, they snapped back into a perfect, disciplined line. Hiro found himself imitating them—partly because he didn't want to irk Reinhardt, and partly because his body was moving on its own. It was that "Einar" muscle memory again, an automatic SOP programmed into his very bones.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Heavy footsteps.
The sound of steel meeting cold stone echoed from behind.
Dozens of men materialized, surrounding them. Their black armor seemed to suck the moonlight right out of the air, giving them a void-like, eerie silhouette. Each wore a white cloth tabard stained with a red cross, their black helmets featuring slit visors in the same cruciform shape.
They looked gothic, monastic, and incredibly expensive to maintain.
A welcoming ceremony? Hiro gulped.
"You guys are late."
Reinhardt stepped out from the smithy, unimpressed.
"My apologies, Vice-Commander. The heretics sent another one of their abominations to the west gate. Clogged up the logistics."
Answer coming from the black helmet.
"Hmph. Useless acts." Reinhardt grunted, resting his massive halberd on his shoulder with a smirk. "Fortunately, the prestigious Royal Knights have graced us with their presence now."
Grrrit.
The sound of grinding teeth rippled through the line of prisoners. Hiro felt the shift in atmosphere instantly. Even the calm, Brown-Haired Man's eyes turned piercingly cold.
And strangely, Hiro felt it too. Something bitter and hot boiled up in his chest at the sarcastic mention of "Royal Knight." His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles turning white. It wasn't his anger—it was Einar's.
"Were we here to talk rubbish, Sir Reindhardt?"
The Blond Man—the one who had glared at Hiro with frozen disgust before—had broken his silence; a hoarse rasp that cut through the chilly night. "How fancy, coming from someone who talks so much about honor."
"How dare you!!"
The black-armored man snapped at the remark. Around him, the sharp hiss of steel leaving scabbards echoed through the courtyard.
Hiro flinched, the glistening steel reflecting the fire of the forge.
"Halt!"
Reinhardt raised a gloved hand. To Hiro's surprise, the giant's fiery temper vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling calmness that was far more terrifying.
"It's fine," Reinhardt said, walking slowly toward the Blond Man. "If the Vice-Commander of the Royal Knights has opened his mouth, then I truly must have crossed the line."
He rested his raised hand on the Blond Man's shoulder.
"It seems they couldn't wait to join the Crusade," Reinhardt smirked. "Escort them to the Armory!"
"At once!"
Hiro wanted to ask for a repeat—a clarification on the "crusade" part of his job description—but the line was already moving.
The black-armored man led them toward a stone building beside the smithy. He signaled his men to heave the doors open, then turned back to the group. The cold bite in his rough voice made it clear he wasn't interested in being friendly.
"Clothes and armor to the left, weapons to the right. It is mandatory to use a sword as a primary weapon. You may choose whatever you deem fit as a secondary. You have fifteen minutes."
Kreaaak.
The large wooden doors groaned open, revealing a vast square of steel.
Hiro stepped into the silence, his boots clicking against the stone floor.
Inside, hundreds of weapons were fitted into heavy wooden racks that stretched into the gloom. Some racks were filled with gleaming, untouched swords; others held a notched steel that seemed to scream of a thousand deaths.
Then there was the armor.
The Black Armor.
Hundreds of black plate suits were propped up on wooden stands. Beside each one hung a white cloth tabard emblazoned with a blazing red cross—the same uniform worn by the men who had just threatened to gut them.
The air was thick with the scent of cold oil and old blood.
A cathedral of violence.
"What are you gaping for, Einar?"
The Brown-Haired Man nudged Hiro with his elbow, his voice a low, urgent rasp.
"Go change first. No need to think now. We can have our vengeance later."
He brushed past Hiro toward the weapon racks, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind.
What vengeance? Hiro's mind stalled. Einar's fragmented memories were a mess. I haven't even processed the crusade part.
"Now isn't the time for this, Hiro," he muttered to himself, trying to reboot his focus.
Inventory first.
Hiro ran toward a row of unclaimed black armor. He knew nothing about medieval armor, but he could imitate what his coworkers were doing. He watched a nearby friend clasping a lock on the back of a breastplate and reached for a heavy piece of steel—
A hand suddenly slammed into his shoulder, shoving him into the armor stand. The black steel clattering like a box of dropped silverware.