The battlefield was a nightmarish tableau, and Clergyman Winfreth found himself in its bloodied heart. Everywhere his eyes turned, he saw chaos incarnate. The once-holy grounds of his faith—spaces meant for prayer, solace, and renewal—were desecrated by the clash of steel and the snarls of men who had long since abandoned their humanity.

Morning light broke weakly through the haze, casting long, grotesque shadows over the stakes where men, women, and even children were displayed like cruel trophies. The dew-soaked ground was a patchwork of dark red, the blood pooling around the base of the stakes before seeping into the dirt. The stakes stretched out endlessly before him, each one carrying a story of agony too harrowing to imagine. Some figures hung limply, their heads bowed forward in silent surrender. Others twitched faintly, their broken bodies held upright only by the ropes binding their arms and legs.

Screams raw, tore through the air, blending with the cruel laughter of those who relished in the violence. These men—they were no longer men in his eyes. Their faces were twisted with malevolent glee, their eyes alight with a devilish hunger. They fought like demons, bodies slick with the blood of their enemies and allies alike.

Winfreth’s gaze darted between the chaos and the stakes, his stomach turning as he witnessed the mockery of life and dignity displayed so brazenly. His voice trembled as he whispered, “Lord above... What is this hell on earth? What wickedness have You allowed to fester here?”

He took a shaky step forward, his boots squelching in the mud mixed with blood. “Do You not see their suffering? Their torment? These innocents strung up like animals for slaughter? Is this truly the world You watch over? Am I not Your servant? Am I not meant to bring light into this darkness?” He hesitated, staring at the bloodied earth, his knuckles tightening around his staff. “Am I enough? Or have You abandoned me, too?”

His voice rose, carrying over the battlefield like a crack of thunder. “Answer me!” he shouted, his tone raw with desperation. “Where is Your justice? Where is Your mercy?”

No answer came. Only the sound of steel clashing against steel and the bloodcurdling screams of the fallen.

"Do you see now, clergyman?" a deep voice rasped from behind him. Winfreth spun to see a towering man, his chest bare and streaked with blood, his axe dripping with gore. "Your gods have abandoned you. They care nothing for this slaughter. Nothing for you."

Winfreth’s jaw clenched, his heart pounding in his chest. "You speak of gods, yet you embody the devil himself!" he bellowed, his voice carrying a strength that belied his fear. He raised his staff high. "I am but a servant, Lord please give strength to this humble follower."

The brute laughed, a booming, hollow sound. "Then come, servant. Let me show you how your light fades before our shadows!"

The clergyman’s heart raced, but his resolve burned hotter than his fear. This was not a battle of strength—it was a stand against darkness itself.

With a cry of defiance, Winfreth lunged forward, aiming the sharp tip of his staff at the towering man’s eyes. The brute’s instincts were sharp; he tilted his head at the last moment, the staff narrowly grazing past his temple.

“You’ll have to do better than that, clergyman!” the man roared, swinging his axe in a wide arc.

Winfreth dropped low, the heavy blade whooshing over his head with terrifying force. He scrambled back, sweat beading on his brow as he planned for his next move. The man stepped closer, towering over him like a mountain, his bloodstained axe poised for another swing.

Gathering his courage, Winfreth surged forward, jabbing the staff into the man’s muscled arm. The sharp point pierced through flesh, and the beast howled in pain. Blood oozed from the wound as he staggered back, clutching his injured arm.

“Damn it, you filthy wretch!” the man roared, his face contorted in rage. He swung wildly with his axe, the blade cutting through the air in reckless, furious arcs.

Winfreth sidestepped one blow and ducked under another, the brute’s strength now his weakness. With each missed swing, the man left himself open, his movements growing sloppier as pain and anger clouded his focus.

Seizing the opportunity, Winfreth gripped his staff tightly and spun behind the man. With all his strength, he drove the sharp end of the staff into the side of the man’s neck.

The man’s eyes widened in shock. He dropped his axe, his hands clutching at the staff as blood spurted from the wound. He gurgled, his knees buckling beneath him, before collapsing to the ground; lifeless.

Breathing heavily, Winfreth pulled his staff free, blood dripping from its point. He stood over the fallen man, his chest heaving as the reality of what he’d done settled in.

“Even servants,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands, “have the power to defy evil.”

Winfreth’s victory over the brute brought him no solace. The screams and clash of weapons continued, pulling his gaze toward the heart of the battlefield. Amid the chaos, Nobu stood like an unyielding wall of muscle and fur, his broad shoulders hunched as he shielded Cherrie, the trembling child clutching his leg. His white fur was matted with blood—some his own, most not—as his twin long swords glinted in the morning sunlight.

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The gang members surrounding him were relentless, their sneers dripping with venom. One stepped forward, a lanky man with a crooked nose and a jagged blade. “Look at this lowlife bastard,” he spat. “A beast playing at being a hero. You think you’re equal to us, animal?”

Laughter erupted around him. Another thug, a burly man with a club, pointed his weapon at Nobu. “Should’ve stayed in your hole, freak. You’ll die here like the filthy mutt you are.”

Nobu’s crimson eyes burned with fury. His claws tightened around the hilts of his swords, the leather groaning under the pressure. “You call me an animal,” he growled, his voice low and guttural, “but it’s your kind who reeks of filth.”

The gang lunged at him as one, a wave of steel and hatred crashing down. Nobu moved with precision, his swords a blur of silver arcs. He parried one blade, ducked another, and delivered a crushing kick to the ribs of a third assailant, sending the man sprawling.

“Kill this lowly worm!” one of them roared, leaping into the air with a raised axe.

Nobu sidestepped, his sword slicing upward in a clean, sharp arc. The axe clattered to the ground, its wielder clutching his arm in agony. Another came at him from the side, thrusting a spear aimed at Cherrie. Nobu twisted, deflecting the spear with one blade while using the other to cut the attacker’s leg, sending him crashing down.

The gang began to coordinate, surrounding him. They attacked in tandem, their weapons aimed to overwhelm. Nobu gritted his teeth, barely managing to block a flurry of strikes. One blade deflected a downward swing, while his other sword caught a dagger mid-thrust. But even he couldn’t keep up with their sheer numbers.

A blade nicked his shoulder, drawing blood. Another thug seized the opportunity and swung a mace toward Cherrie.

Nobu growled. “You all are going to regret this!”

Suddenly, his form shimmered, flickering like a distorted image. The gang hesitated, their strikes faltering, and in that moment, Nobu disappeared—glitching through the attacker aiming for Cherrie. His body seemed to break apart into fragments, reassembling behind the thug.

“What the hell, Shinten?!” the man cried out, spinning around.

Nobu didn’t answer. He slashed with both swords, his movements faster than before, a streak of white and silver. His blades phased through weapons and armor as if they weren’t there, cutting his enemies before they could react.

Another fighter lunged at him with a sword, but Nobu’s glitching form blurred again, the weapon passing harmlessly through his chest. He reappeared behind the attacker, driving his elbow into the man’s back and sending him sprawling.

“Kill him already!” a gang member yelled, but his fear was evident.

“You can try,” Nobu snarled, glitching forward in a burst of speed. His swords flickered with him, carving through the air like ghosts. He phased through two men simultaneously, their cries of confusion turning into screams as his swords reappeared, cutting them down.

The drawback of his power loomed in his mind. He knew its perilous edge all too well. If even a single enemy weapon grazed his body while he was glitching—just a hair’s breadth, just a fraction of contact—that weapon would glitch with him. And when he re-solidified, their weapon could end up embedded in his body, piercing flesh and bone without resistance. It wasn’t just his body he had to protect; anything he glitched with became a potential death sentence. He couldn’t let them get close enough. That was why he wielded long swords—uncommon, unwieldy for some, but perfect for him. They let him maintain the critical distance he needed, keeping his enemies far enough away while still striking with precision.

The gang kept coming, and Nobu moved like a phantom among them. When they pressed too close, he wrapped an arm around Cherrie and pulled her to him. The little girl gasped as the world around her seemed to blur and ripple, her form becoming weightless and intangible. Together, they phased through the incoming wall of enemies, slipping past weapons and bodies as if they were ghosts.

They reappeared on the other side, Nobu setting Cherrie down gently behind a toppled cart. His breathing was steady but his expression was grim.

“You stay here,” he said firmly, his voice low but commanding.

Cherrie’s eyes, wide with fear and worry, locked onto his. “But Nobu,” Cherrie whispered, her voice trembling, “what if something happens to you? I can’t lose you too.”

“I said stay,” he interrupted sharply, his tone like a whip crack. Then, softening just slightly, he added, “I promised to protect you, didn’t I? Let me keep that promise.”

Her lip quivered, but she nodded.

“I will handle this.” He stood, turning his back to her and stepping into the chaos once more.

The gang paused for a moment, eyes narrowing at the glitching figure before them. His twin long swords shimmered faintly, their unusual length making him seem even more imposing. Nobu raised them both, his white fur glistening in the morning light, and his voice carried across the battlefield like a roar.

“You want to kill me? Come then! Try it! I’ll make sure not a single one of you leaves here alive.”

For a brief second, the gang hesitated, their confidence shaken by the sheer presence of the Zoanthrope. But fear quickly turned to bravado as they tried to mask their hesitation with mockery.

“Look at this mangy beast,” one sneered, laughing nervously. “You think you’re better than us, mutt? You’re nothing but a sideshow freak!”

“Bloody lowlife!” another spat. “We’ll show you your place, you filthy animal.”

“You’re just a glitching shadow.” A fourth voice, trembling but louder to compensate, called out, “You’re just a walking corpse, Koala! Your little Shinten tricks won’t save you!”

At the word Koala, something inside Nobu snapped. His jaw clenched, and a dark fury burned in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, his anger palpable, and murmured, “Now you’ve done it.”

The jeers came in a tide, growing louder as the gang moved forward, their weapons raised. Yet beneath their taunts, Nobu could sense their unease—the way their grips tightened on their weapons, the way some glanced at each other for reassurance.

Nobu adjusted his stance, his swords gleaming as he prepared for their next charge. His crimson eyes locked onto the gang, unblinking and resolute.

“I’ll show you,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and seething, “just how wrong you are.”