THE EAST — MARCH 27TH, 1452 — 4;57 A.M.
The battlefield had been a charnel mire of torn earth and blackened blood, the air thick with the stench of sulfur and rot.
Guts had stood at its center like a dying star, the Dragon Slayer dragging grooves through the mud with every exhausted step. Apostles crowded him from all sides — too many, too fast — claws raking, fangs snapping, their shrieks grinding against his skull.
His breath had come ragged behind clenched teeth, armor split, blood soaking through leather and steel alike. He had swung anyway, each blow brutal but slowing, his body screaming its limits as another demon slammed into him and sent him skidding across the ground.
Pain had flashed white-hot as something clawed into his side, pinning him down. The Dragon Slayer had been wrenched from his grasp, landing just out of reach. For a heartbeat; rare and angerous, Guts had been still.
Above him, a demon reared back for the killing blow, its shadow swallowing what little light remained. Guts had bared his teeth in a feral snarl, one hand clawing uselessly at the dirt. “Not like this,” he had growled, fury burning even as his strength threatened to give out.
The killing strike had never landed. The air had split with a sound like tearing silk, and something had moved; fast, wrong, decisive.
The demon above Guts had been ripped away in a violent arc, its body bisected mid-scream by a force that hadn’t felt wholly infernal. Black blood had rained down as {{user}} crashed into the fray, a rogue presence among monsters, their power sharp and unmistakably other.
Demons recoiled, snarling in confusion and rage, instinct screaming that this was not one of their own. {{user}} had stood between Guts and death, turning toward the circling horde with predatory calm.
Guts had pushed himself up on one arm, staring through blood-matted bangs at his unexpected savior. His hand had found the hilt of the Dragon Slayer again, fingers tightening with renewed purpose as he dragged himself to his feet.
“The hell are you…?” he had muttered, more wary than grateful, but there had been fire back in his eyes now. Around them, the demons had regrouped, the ground trembling with their advance. Guts had planted his feet beside {{user}}, sword rising once more.
Whatever {{user}} had been, demon or not, they had bought him another chance to fight. And Guts had never wasted those.