He awoke to a sight most unsettling. The sky was dark, void of trees or vegetation. The ground beneath him felt unnaturally hard. But more importantly, the entire surface seemed to be shifting and writhing.
He glanced down at himself, still clad in traditional Japanese armor—he appeared to be a swordsman. Looking around, he spotted a katana embedded in something nearby. He approached it cautiously and grasped the hilt. As he pulled the blade free, the ground beneath him trembled violently. Confusion overtook him—was this an earthquake? Or was he about to wake up from a dream? There was no clear answer.
"What is happening?" he muttered. The tremors intensified, shaking the very air around him. Then, without warning, the "thing" in which the katana had been embedded revealed itself as the true cause of the quake. But what was even stranger—he could feel it growing.
It felt as though he had just awakened a living creature—one that had been dormant for a thousand years. He had no idea what was happening, but he had unknowingly roused one of the ancient demons simply by pulling out the katana. And this was no ordinary demon—it was the very foundation of this world. Its body stretched over 70 meters long, possibly even more if its buried portion was measured.
Its name was Moryoku, the demon that served as the root of this world. It could not move in a conventional sense, but it could attack with the massive tentacles that now emerged from its immense body. The swordsman's initial confusion quickly gave way to terror. He instinctively backed away, but one of the tentacles lashed out, guided by sound, and struck him with immense force. He was sent flying, crashing into something solid with a sickening thud.
Groaning in pain, his body weakened, barely able to move. But as he forced his eyes open, he noticed a rolled-up piece of parchment lying on the ground nearby. He ignored it at first, but Moryoku now conjured dense orbs of magic from its writhing limbs, hurling them toward him. Desperate, he willed his muscles into motion, grabbing the parchment on impulse before rolling out of the way. The magic orbs obliterated the massive rock that had been behind him.
Panting heavily, he unrolled the parchment in haste. But the symbols inscribed upon it were unlike anything he had ever seen before. Then, a whisper echoed in his mind—just once:
"Speak the name."
The world around him remained unstable, the ground trembling beneath his feet. Without fully understanding why, he spoke:
"Hibiki Yasuho."
The parchment vanished from his hands. A searing sensation tore through his body as blinding light enveloped him. He could not tell where the light came from, but it filled him, bestowing a newfound strength. As the glow subsided, his wounds had vanished, his body fully restored.
"What… just happened?" he murmured.
Moryoku wasted no time, launching another volley of magic orbs toward him. Acting on instinct, Hibiki planted his feet and pushed off the ground. He moved—faster, stronger—barely escaping the onslaught.
"What!?"
The realization struck him—his body had changed. He had become stronger after receiving that mysterious blessing.
Then, the whisper returned:
"Give the sword a name."
Still running, Hibiki glanced at his katana and, without hesitation, spoke:
"Ibuki."
For a brief moment, the blade glowed.
"Ibuki can put the demon back to sleep."
The whisper was clear, and Hibiki chose to believe it. He charged toward Moryoku, weaving through the flailing tentacles that lashed out in all directions. The dark energy surged around Ibuki's blade as he closed the distance. With a swift motion, he slashed through the demon's massive body. Moryoku roared in defiance but soon began to weaken. Its movements grew sluggish, and finally, it ceased entirely.
It was not dead—only slumbering once more.
The dark energy that had enveloped Ibuki dissipated, but the whisper came again:
"Now, use the spell—'Iron Maiden.' Say the words, and I will handle the rest."
Hibiki took several steps back, ensuring a safe distance from the dormant demon. Then, with a deep breath, he uttered the words:
"Iron Maiden."
The moment the name left his lips, a massive black box materialized around Moryoku. From within, a gruesome sound echoed—flesh being torn apart.
Then, the ground quaked once more—far more violently than before.
And as the black box began to collapse, so too did reality itself.
•.
Return to the Kingdom of Supply
In one of the grand residences, a minister resided—a man responsible for managing the people and all affairs of the kingdom. That night, in a dimly lit room illuminated only by candlelight, a man entered the hall.
He bowed deeply, his shoulders wrapped in neatly applied bandages. The wounds on his body still throbbed, but something far heavier than mere physical pain weighed upon him—the burden of the message he had to deliver.
Before him, an elderly minister sat calmly. On either side of him, two guards stood watchful, their hands ready to grip the hilts of their swords.
"So, what is it you want?" The minister's voice was cold, sharp, yet unhurried.
The man knelt, lowering his head even further before finally speaking.
"Forgive me for disturbing you, Lord Minister. However, there is someone... who claims to be the 'Dark Sorcerer.'" He swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. "He said I must deliver this message to you."
The room grew deathly silent.
The minister did not respond immediately. His gaze was vacant, yet behind his aged eyes lay something unspoken—an awareness of something he knew or, perhaps, something he had long feared.
Several seconds passed in suffocating silence. Then, at last, he spoke.
"I see. So, you've returned."
---
Deep Within the Forest
A lone sorcerer lay on the grass, letting his body sink into the serenity of the evening. The sky had turned a brilliant shade of orange, signaling the arrival of dusk. It was a rare moment of peace—one he intended to savor.
But the tranquility did not last.
Suddenly, he sensed a powerful surge of energy pulsing through the air—resonating in rhythmic waves, like an eerie sound echoing through the void. The atmosphere around him grew heavier, more suffocating. A thin mist crept in, swallowing the forest in an unnatural silence.
Then, from behind him, a voice emerged.
A whisper—soft yet undeniable in its presence.
"Von Bishop Joshua Van Radcliffe."
Joshua did not turn, but he knew. Something—or someone—was there. It was not a being of flesh and blood. What lingered behind him was nothing but dense mist, coiling into an indistinct, formless shadow.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice flat, unshaken.
"Kukuku..." A chuckle slithered through the air—cunning, enigmatic. "I only wish to warn you. In the end, you will never find your true identity... nor happiness. You will wander in emptiness for eternity."
Joshua remained silent.
"Kukuku, yes... Even death will reject you. There is no escape, Joshua. You will forever walk in the void, trapped in an existence you never desired."
Joshua stared blankly ahead. "I see."
The misty figure drifted closer, extending something akin to a hand. It brushed against Joshua's cheek—a touch that should have been warm, yet carried only emptiness.
"But don't worry," it murmured. "I won't let you leave so easily..."
In an instant, the mist vanished, as if it had never been there. Night had fully descended, swallowing the remnants of twilight.
Joshua rose slowly.
At first, he had merely wanted to clear his mind.
But as his gaze stretched into the distance, his breath caught in his throat.
The Kingdom of Supply—once mighty and unshaken—was now on the brink of destruction. Flames raged across its buildings, painting the sky in a searing glow. The inferno's light stretched far, piercing even the dark expanse of the forest.
•.
A Few Hours Earlier...
The minister walked alone toward the king's residence—a secluded place, far from the rest of the kingdom's housing. No guards, no attendants. Only him and the suffocating silence.
As he stepped into the residence of King Supply, the air grew unnaturally heavy. No natural light, no breeze. Only the torch in his hand struggled against the thick darkness. Each of his footsteps echoed through the narrow hallway, sounding far louder than they should have.
This residence had only one room.
At the end of the hallway, two massive doors came into view—crafted from the finest wood, yet their presence only added to the oppressive atmosphere of this place. The minister swallowed hard, raised his hand, and knocked twice.
Thud. Thud.
The doors trembled. Without further touch, they slowly creaked open on their own.
Inside, the atmosphere was starkly different. A bonfire burned in the corner, casting flickering light over the neatly arranged, luxurious furniture. At the center of the room stood a grand sofa, and on it sat a man—his gaze sharp, exuding an intimidating calm.
"What do you want?" His voice was cold, piercing—no need to raise his tone to assert dominance.
The minister bowed slightly before speaking, his voice careful, deliberate.
"Forgive me for disturbing you, but there is a message I must deliver." His words were heavy, carrying an unease he could not conceal.
"Enter."
A single command.
Yet, the very air in the room seemed to constrict, suffocating him further.
The minister stepped inside. The doors behind him shut slowly, sealing his fate within these walls.
"Someone calling themselves the 'Dark Sorcerer' wishes to meet with you. One of his subordinates delivered this message."
Silence hung in the air.
Then, the king smirked. Not a smile of joy—rather, the expression of a man who had long expected this moment to come.
"I see..." he muttered. "It seems the time has come. I, Von Bishop Alucard... must bring an end to all of this."
His tone carried something hidden beneath it.
The minister felt an overwhelming sense of dread rising within him. "Forgive me, my lord... but is there anything I can do to assist? I have a bad feeling about this, especially for my people."
But then, Alucard laughed.
A deep, slow, meaningful laugh.
"That's amusing." He looked at the minister with an expression impossible to decipher. "You? Offering assistance?"
Alucard rose from his sofa, his towering figure reaching 190 cm—nearly twice the height of the trembling old minister before him.
"Could it be... that you simply want to save yourself?"
He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate, pressing down on the very air around him.
The crimson suit he wore shimmered under the firelight, radiating both elegance and an unmistakable sense of menace.
The minister could not speak. His body trembled beyond his control.
Then, Alucard drew a pistol—antique yet refined, adorned with intricate engravings.
He raised it.
Pointed it directly at the minister's forehead.
And fired.
"It's Showtime!"