Chapter Text
A woman covered head-to-toe in white bandages, with only her mouth and left eye left unobscured, stood in the dim light of the tower. Even though some breaches in her bandages allowed part of her full head of long silver hair to seep out, her appearance remained utterly unsettling. The visible eye was amethyst purple with a blue pupil, and her ears seemed to be pointed, marking her as something other than human. Around her neck, she bore a steel choker with the Witch Cult's coat of arms attached, and something similar to a red teardrop was constantly affixed below her left eye.
"Ohhhhhh, the time is near to show everyone what true love feels like, don't you agree, Lusbel?" The bandaged woman—Sirius Romanee-Conti—stood above a child who was bound with heavy iron chains.
The frightened boy was a well-dressed child with orange hair and cyan eyes, his fine clothes now rumpled and torn from struggling against his restraints. Both of them were in a tower in the middle of Priestella, the Water Gate City blissfully unaware of the horror contained within these stone walls.
The child's desperate gaze darted around the room, searching for any means of escape, any hope of salvation. Then his eyes caught something—a figure standing silently behind the terrifying woman. A man in white, his presence as sudden as it was unexpected. Hope flickered in Lusbel's young heart.
"Yeah, let's start now—"
Sirius's words died in her throat. Her eyes widened in confusion for a single, fleeting moment. Why am I losing consciousness? she wondered. Then everything went dark.
Reinhard Van Astrea had struck with the speed of divine judgment itself. One precise blow to the back of her head, and the Archbishop crumpled like a discarded doll. As Subaru had explained—if she lost consciousness, the connection between her and those she had ensnared with her Witch Factor would be severed instantly.
But Reinhard did not stop there.
Before her body could even hit the ground, his hand shot forward. His fingers, hardened by decades of swordsmanship, pierced through her chest like it was wet paper. The sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone echoed in the small tower room. Blood erupted from the wound, gushing hot and thick over his white uniform, painting him in an instant from pristine to crimson.
Sirius's single visible eye flew open, shock and agony mingling in her amethyst gaze. Her mouth opened, but only a wet gurgle emerged. For one breathless moment, she stared at the face of the man who had killed her—handsome, young, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Then her eye went dark, and she sagged forward against his arm.
Reinhard withdrew his hand slowly, almost thoughtfully, watching as her body collapsed in a heap of bandages and blood. He stood over her, his chest heaving, his hand dripping red onto the stone floor. Seeing the boy was unharmed, he breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face him.
"Don't worry. I have gotten rid of the bad woman, and I already saved Tina too," Reinhard said gently, moving to remove the chains binding the child.
But Lusbel's cyan eyes were fixed not on his liberator's face, but on his body. The pristine white uniform of the Sword Saint was drenched in crimson—Sirius's blood soaked through the fabric, dripped from his sleeves, splattered across his cheeks like grotesque war paint. His hand, the one that had just torn through a woman's chest, was still wet and red. The boy's face contorted in pure, primal terror.
"Please, let me live!" Lusbel shrieked. A dark stain spread across the front of his fine trousers. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness, held upright only by the chains still binding him.
Reinhard froze. His hands, still reaching for the chains, trembled.
What happened? Why did I let myself get this carried away?
He finally looked at himself—truly looked. The blood. So much blood. It was on his hands, his clothes, dripping from his hair. He had driven his hand through her chest. Not subdued her, not captured her for questioning. Ripped through her like she was nothing. Like she deserved nothing more.
A familiar presence materialized beside him. Ghost Subaru stood there, his expression twisted with disgust as he surveyed the scene—the body with its chest cavity torn open, the unconscious child, the blood-soaked knight.
"I guess you were bothered by what Sirius made you do in the past," Ghost Subaru said quietly, his voice heavy with something between understanding and disappointment.
Reinhard's jaw tightened. His eyes, usually calm as a still lake, now burned with something dark and unfamiliar.
"She made me hurt you. KILL YOU." The words came out as a snarl, raw and barely controlled. "When she was in front of me, I couldn't control myself. I just snapped."
Reading the Book of the Dead had done something to him. Seeing Subaru's memories—the loops, the deaths, the endless suffering at the hands of these monsters—had planted something poisonous in his soul. For the first time in his life, Reinhard Astrea understood hate. And it terrified him.
"So you won't follow Natsuki Subaru's plans anymore?" Ghost Subaru asked, his tone pointed. "Because I'm sure my plan wasn't this."
Ghost Subaru was reminding him, anchoring him back to the promise, to the trust placed in him. Perhaps it would bring him back to his senses.
Reinhard's expression hardened. The hate in his eyes didn't fade—it crystallized into cold, terrible resolve.
"No. I need to finish this faster. Subaru's plans take too much time."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Ghost Subaru studied him for a long, silent moment. Then, without another word, he faded into nothing, leaving Reinhard alone with the blood, the chains, and the unconscious child.
Reinhard looked down at Lusbel, then at the ruined corpse behind him. He should feel something—regret, perhaps, or shame at his loss of control. But all he felt was a cold, empty satisfaction. One Archbishop down. Two to go.
He knelt and began removing the chains with careful, precise movements, his bloodstained hands surprisingly gentle against the boy's trembling form. When the last chain fell away, he gathered Lusbel into his arms, holding the child against his crimson-soaked chest.
The boy would wake later, confused and terrified, but alive. That would have to be enough.
I'll end this my way.
---
A girl with short golden hair—a single strand trailing down her right side with a rose attached at its end—stood in the center of City Hall. Her clothing was scandalously revealing: little more than a bikini top, hot pants, and leggings. Behind her stood two cultists draped in black hooded clerical robes adorned with the crimson eye of the Witch Cult. One was a woman, her hand resting on a sword at her hip. The other was a massive man, carrying two blades—though more were surely hidden beneath his robes.
They flanked her like obedient hounds awaiting command.
"What's wrong? Shouldn't that crazy bitch have given the signal by now? I wanna transform all these worthless meat scraps already!" The blonde girl's voice echoed through the hall, dripping with manic glee. "Ohhhhhh, I can't wait to see their faces—the people they came to save—when they become freaks of nature! Hahahahaha!"
Before her, a group of hostages huddled together, bound and terrified. The only reason they still drew breath was the girl's own twisted personality—she wanted an audience for her coming spectacle.
"That won't happen as long as I live and breathe."
The voice cut through her laughter like a blade through silk. Reinhard van Astrea stepped from the shadows of the grand entrance, and the dim light of City Hall fell upon a figure that made even the cultists pause.
Blood stained his once-pristine white uniform—splattered across his chest, streaked along one sleeve, dried in dark patches on his collar. This was not the immaculate Sword Saint of ceremony and parades. This was a man who had already fought today. And won.
He advanced slowly, deliberately, each footfall echoing off marble floors.
The blonde girl still didn't bother turning around. "Hey. You take care of him. Useless corpses can't even sense an enemy."
The massive cultist stepped forward, shrugging off his robe in a single fluid motion. What emerged was no ordinary man.
A seven-foot-tall demi-human giant stood revealed—his skin the deep blue of twilight, his eyes solid black voids without iris or pupil. Striking black-and-white hair crowned his head like a predatory zebra's mane. But most terrifying were his arms: eight muscular limbs unfolding from his torso like a spider's legs, each hand wrapping around the hilt of a massive cleaver.
He raised all eight blades simultaneously—not in aggression, but in a formal, almost ritualistic salute. A warrior's respect offered to a worthy opponent
"I don't have time for this, Kurgan."
Reinhard respected the warrior before him. In another life, under different circumstances, the eight-armed giant might have been a legend spoken of in the same breath as the Sword Devil himself. But respect meant nothing now. These cultists were not warriors—they were corpses wearing the skins of warriors, an insult to everything they once were. Reinhard could not afford them mercy. He would not.
Kurgan lunged.
Eight cleavers descended in a coordinated storm of steel, each blade aimed at a different vital point—throat, heart, lungs, spine. It was less an attack and more a symphony of death, centuries of combat experience compressed into a single devastating moment.
Reinhard moved.
Not away from the blades, but into them.
Breaking. Smashing. Destroying.
Every cleaver shattered simultaneously—eight blades reduced to shrapnel in the space between heartbeats. Kurgan froze, staring at the ruined hilts in his hands, his black eyes widening with something he had not felt in centuries: disbelief.
Then Reinhard's hand was coming toward his skull.
And that was the last thing he saw.
Finally, the blonde girl turned around.
The sight that greeted her was her centuries-old guardian crumpled on the marble floor, his head crushed beyond recognition by a single blow. Yet instead of fear, her lips curled into a delighted smirk.
"Useless meat shield," she cooed, stepping over Kurgan's body without a second glance. "Sorry—I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm the Sin Archbishop of the Witch Cult, representing Lust: Capella Emerada Lugunica."
She gave a slight, mocking bow as she spoke her name.
Reinhard watched her with eyes devoid of warmth. "Reinhard van Astrea. Sword Saint of this era."
"Ohhh, so formal!" Capella giggled. Then her expression sharpened. "Hey. You—remove your robe and kill him."
She gestured to the woman beside her—the cultist who had remained silent throughout. The woman obeyed instantly, shrugging off her black robe.
Underneath was a face Reinhard knew.
Pale skin. Silver hair pulled back in a severe style. Eyes that had once looked at him with love, now empty as a doll's.
Theresia van Astrea. The previous Sword Saint. His grandmother.
Capella watched closely, waiting for the crack in that perfect composure—the hesitation, the horror, the moment of weakness every child felt when facing a loved's one corpse made to dance.
But Reinhard's expression did not change.
His hand moved to the Dragon Sword at his hip.
"The dead do not move," he said quietly. "The dead have no future. I will not allow such absurdity."
The sword slid from its sheath.
---
The moment the Dragon Sword Reid leaves its sheath, the world stops breathing.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The air itself seems to solidify, pressing down on everything within miles with the weight of absolute authority. This is not a weapon—this is a declaration. A statement so fundamental that reality has no choice but to accept it.
When the Sword Saint draws Reid, those nearby describe it as:
"The world holding its breath."
"A pressure that defied comprehension—not of force, but of existence itself."
"The feeling that something sacred was occurring, something that demanded reverence or death."
---
Capella's mocking grin faltered.
For the first time since becoming an Archbishop, she felt something cold slither down her spine. The sword was transparent—impossibly clear, as if forged from frozen light. And it had deemed her worthy.
Reinhard walked towards the corpse of his grandmother. The sword in his hand urged him to cut something—anything—now that it had been drawn. When he stepped into her attack range, she immediately descended her blade upon him. Or rather, she tried to.
He stopped the sword with his bare hand and broke it.
The corpse froze for a single second—stunned, perhaps, by the impossibility of what had just happened. Then Reinhard's foot connected with her chest, sending her hurtling through the air directly into Capella's arms.
"You useless meat shield! Can't even do anything—" But before Capella could finish her sentence, she felt her body pitch forward. No—not forward. Down. Her face slammed into the marble floor. Why? Why couldn't she move? That was her body standing right there, wasn't it?
"You know," Reinhard said, walking slowly toward the severed head of his grandmother, "it's really hard having a sword you can't draw most of the time. And when you can draw it, you can only attack the person the sword deems worthy. My grandmother's corpse? Worthy. But you?" He picked up the head gently, cradling it with unexpected care. "You weren't. So I had to find a workaround."
He placed the head next to the body, arranging them as properly as one could on a blood-soaked floor. She deserved burial. She deserved peace.
"But even with that workaround, my grandmother's body was immediately defeated. For you, though..." Reinhard lifted the body, carrying it away from the filth of battle toward a cleaner spot near the hostages. They had all lost consciousness the moment the Dragon Sword was drawn—their minds simply couldn't process what they were witnessing.
Capella coughed blood onto the marble.
"No... no no no no no no no!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "I can't die like this! Regenerate! Regenerate, god damn it! My wish wasn't achieved yet! I CAN'T—"
A familiar figure stepped into her view.
A beautiful woman with pale skin, drooping purple eyes, and long black hair braided into a tail on the left side of her head. She wore a provocative, low-cut black dress, and a purple flower adorned her hair. She walked slowly toward Capella, smiling a dangerous smile. She even walked past Reinhard without a glance, her focus entirely on the bleeding Archbishop.
"You—you useless doll! You should have come out earlier! Did you forget what I did to you, you little bitch?! Anyway, just take me to my body NOW!"
But the woman's only response was to raise her heel.
It came down on Capella's face. Pressure built—unbearable, inescapable—until—
CRACK.
"So." Reinhard had already sheathed his sword. The Dragon Sword's presence faded, confirming what everyone already knew: there were no worthy opponents left. "Did you finish your little revenge?"
Elsa Granhiert lifted her heel from what remained of Capella's head and smiled her signature smile. "For now."
"Meili, you can come out. She's really dead this time." Elsa called toward a pillar near the entrance. "And we've found ourselves a new master."
A young girl with olive-green eyes and dark blue hair stepped hesitantly into view. She looked at Capella's body, then at Reinhard, then back at the body, as if confirming for herself that the nightmare was truly over.
Then both of them—the legendary Bowel Hunter and the young girl—knelt before Reinhard.
"What's the meaning of this?" Reinhard's voice was cold, suspicious.
"We made a vow," Elsa said, her tone uncharacteristically serious. "My sister and I. We vowed to follow the person who got rid of Mother. Even if it meant dying by his hand."
"And why should I trust either of you?" Reinhard looked down at them, his expression unreadable.
They stood as one, raising their right hands.
"This is an oath taught to us by Mother," Elsa explained. "If we make it, we can't back down."
"I, Elsa Granhiert, pledge my loyalty to the Sword Saint, Reinhard van Astrea. I will kill whoever he deems worthy of killing—myself included."
A red cross formed on the back of her hand—a brand, a binding, an unbreakable promise.
"And I, Meili Portroute..." The girl's voice trembled slightly, but she forced the words out. "Pledge the same."
The same red cross appeared on her small hand.
Reinhard studied them both for a long moment. The weight of what they'd just done was not lost on him. This was no simple vow of loyalty—this was the ultimate leash. They had bound themselves to him completely, irrevocably.
"Fine." He exhaled. "Tell me the whereabouts of Gluttony."
Elsa shook her head. "I don't know the specific location. But I know he was planning on kidnapping one of the Royal Candidates."
Reinhard's eyes sharpened. "Which one?"
"Sorry. I don't know."
Another pause. Then: "Then my first order is this: go. Clean this city of cultists. Every last one."
Elsa bowed deeply, Meili copying the motion beside her. "As you wish, my lord."
Reinhard turned without another word, lifting his grandmother's body carefully into his arms. The hostages would wake soon. The city would need to be told what happened here. But for now, there was only the weight of Theresia van Astrea in his arms and the distant sounds of battle beginning to fade.
I hope I'm not late, he thought, carrying her toward the light.