Hidden away from society in a part of the country that never stops raining lies a school. A school that hasn’t seen the light of day in nearly a century. One where the lightning is just a near miss away from striking fire to the decayed wood, and the thunder claps continuously through the night. If the miles of nothing but forest leading up to the school building wasn’t enough to deter you from stumbling here, the decrepit gothic architecture would be the final straw for any average person to take as a sign to turn back.
However, for those supernaturally in tune with the world around them, this is more than likely their only destination; an asylum built in the eighteen-hundreds for members of society deemed too clinically insane for the modern world. They were locked away, much like monsters. The issue with treating man as a monster is–eventually, the lines are destined to blur.
Man with the scars of monsters; monsters with the rage of man. Destined to consume all who indulge in the glutton of grudges is the sole purpose for the now-erected academy, for the beast man once tried to cast aside in a prison of his own madness is now taught in the same scorn radiated upon them. The institution is known as Sleepy Hollow’s School for the Supernatural, a place no human could discover. They could never survive the trek here, nor the academic building itself.
Unless there stood a man condemned to the hate of monsters who burned with man's vengeance.
A young man named Roy McCoy, with brown cool hair, a white face and bold, sharp eyebrows, stands at the gates of hell without so much as blinking. The embers of vindication stoke an ever-burning fire of determination for justice. He can’t sleep without the devil’s soul.
“Knock knock… I hope you didn’t mark me as tardy. ‘Cuz it’s showtime!”
Upon kicking the iron-clad gate open, Roy is met with the foul stench of sulfur. His nose scrunches in disgust as it’s hit with the all-too-familiar scent. At this point in the young man’s life, the smell of a Nightborn is permanently etched into his nose. Becoming a samurai meant Roy had become spiritually in tune with the world around him. There is no need to see… When he can hear, smell, and feel his opponent from a mile away.
Even the gargoyles, who were now ripping through the air at impossible speeds for an ambush, fall victim to his supernatural perception, as with a swing of his wrist, they’re struck down by his twicefold impressive reflexes.
“That all you got?” Still refusing to face his fallen enemies’ quickly approaching reinforcements, the young samurai parries a tail swing from one of the stone creatures, shoots into the air and delivers a swift kick with enough force to shatter the gargoyle into a million pieces as it makes contact with the nearest wall.
His cocky grin is displayed to a horde of enraged gargoyles, their fallen comrades fueling the hasty assault. “You know what I never got about your type? Why is it that you’re always in charge of protecting places?”
A barrage of lightning-fast sword slashes makes a quick end to a half dozen of the attackers. “Banks, prisons, creepy ass schools in the middle of nowhere, your type is never too far away. Yet bank robberies, prison breaks, and school infiltrations are at an all-time high! Wanna see a party trick?”
Interrupting his own banter with a rhetorical question, Roy makes sure his katana stands straight before unleashing it into the air, soaring through the atmosphere of the cramped school hall with little wind resistance. Whatever remains of the stone armada is cut through the middle with surgical precision. Meeting monster flesh is far too dangerous, especially if he doesn’t weld his blade.
“Piece of cake.”
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Snap!
“...”
Snap!
“Dammit! Why do you never work when I need you to?!” Desperately snapping his fingers, Roy is experiencing a samurai’s worst nightmare: Being denied a cool exit because his sword won’t return to him.
“I saw sensei do this thousands of times! Damn sword, too picky for your own good… Okay, you win. I’ll just pick you back up the old-fashioned way.” With a defeated sigh, the samurai walks through the hallway of mayhem to reclaim the tool used for this dirty work. A blade forged for one goal: slaying Nightborns.
“Not one more step, boy.”
“What, someone else wants a piece of me? You saw what I did to your gargoyles, right?” Judging by the voice Roy had heard (a dry, deep, almost guttural inflection) he’s sure this is an elder, someone he could disarm without much issue. After all, he keeps up with young Nightborns for a living; old ones aren’t anything to fear.
“Since the public wants an encore, check this one out!” Stomping his foot onto the molded wood, Roy is able to cause a slight bump underneath the man behind him. With his enemy staggering, he races the foot or two needed to grab his blade, going for a strike right for the–!
He’s gone.
Not just from sight – Roy can’t hear him. There is nothing to feel. No aura, no murderous intent, nothing he is used to detecting on his radar blips up. It feels as though his assailant has disappeared entirely from this plain of reality, leaving no trace of existing other than the dread of his vanishing.
“You’re fast.” The voice echoes.
“Thanks… What, going to follow it up by saying you’re quicker? Try a more original approach, jackass!” The samurai cocks his head up. The above approach was the most accessible ambush for his opponent, which means…
“It's a low!” With confidence, Roy swings his sword below him, striking a cape that speeds towards him. “Gotch–SHIIIT!” Extending from the cloak is a massive fist. Not having time to dodge, Roy’s torso completely soaks up the hit, his back taking the brunt of the damage as he flies into a locker.
“It matters not how tactical you think, how quick you move; you’re simply outclassed. A child playing at the adult table.” As Roy clutches his chest to recover, another barrage of giant fists pummels through his defenses! He parries the first hit, just barely the second, but the result was the same either way: blow after blow delivered to his ribs, face, and legs. It’s as if he was hit by a train.
Blacking out is Roy’s only escape from the current punishment he’s unfortunate enough to have dished out to him.
The punching barrage subsides on the other side of the battle now that the samurai had finally fallen unconscious. Finally emerging from the shadows to reveal his complete form is a sunkissed man. He stands about six feet tall, has bleached white hair, and commands authority with just a glance. He flips his cell open, putting it up to his ear. “The intruder has been dealt with, Headmaster Croak. Shall I finish the job?”
Smack,
Smack,
Smack.
The disgusting sound of his superior stuffing his face with flies fills the ruthless avenger’s eyes with a wince. “H-Headmaster…?”
The only thing this cloaked man hates more than ‘brats not knowing their places’ is repeating himself. As you can imagine, an educator is the worst possible position for a man like him. “Kill him? Huhuhuhu! God no, you see how fast that boy moved? He’d be a hell of a sports player!” A snively, bulbous throated voice emits from the toad-man.
“What?! Ahem, w-why do you believe he’d even be interested in sports? Actually, why would you even consider him for the school? He’s a human. No supernatural abilities.” Despite what he says, he has his eyes on the glowing blade attached to the hip of Roy. It’s strange. He’s positive the blade was in his hand moments ago.
“Are you kidding me? A young man able to move like that, and you try to tell me he’s human? Hellsing, you’ve lost your touch. Kokikikiki~” Headmaster cackles.
“I can assure you that I haven’t lost a step.” Growls the man cloaked in mystery. He rolls his neck back, swallowing. “Y-You are the boss, though. If you find it better, he stays alive, so be it. Send a nurse. My job here is done.”
“Of course! Try not to spoil yourself too much tonight, kokikikiki! You’re still an old time–”
The call ends immediately. He flips his phone shut, slides it into his pocket and turns to look at the unconscious body below him, frowning.
“Roy McCoy, you got lucky today. There’ll come a time when you aren’t as fortunate. When that day comes, I’ll send you straight to your father. Maybe that’ll wipe the pompous attitude from your worthless tongue.” The bell ringing is his sign to get out of here. The dean disappears into the crowd. He watches from the shadows as janitors come to clean up the broken gargoyles and only leaves his post once the nurse called in brings out the stretcher and picks up the knocked-out samurai to take care of him.
Only now has his job finally ended.