The Masked Commander tilted her head. Reinhardt began to move, his hand drifting toward where his weapon would be—
"Stop it, Theo. You are embarrassing yourself."
John, somehow remaining calm despite the crushing tension, spoke sternly to their Vice-Commander.
Exhale.
Theo released the pressure. The hostility dissipated instantly as he barked at the clergy to get on with it. They scrambled back, frantic to finish the job before the blonde lost his temper again.
Shot.
The needle bit in.
I should have run earlier, Hiro thought with a deadpan stare at the chandelier again. He felt a wave of regret for not taking the opening Theo's outburst had provided. Consequences be damned; this was a massive health and safety violation.
He stared at the open sarcophagi. The chemical scent was stronger now, thick enough to coat his tongue, but his courage was nowhere to be found.
Theo and John looked at him. For a fleeting second, their eyes seemed to convey a hint of worry—even pity. John was one thing, but Theo? The "Toxic Boss" didn't seem the type for empathy.
"Please get inside the coffin, Sir."
The clergyman's voice was polite. The command, however, was absolute.
Sigh. Like I have a choice.
Hiro stepped onto the trolley and lowered himself into the cold, stone embrace of the coffin.
Puff.
"Cough. Dust…?" Hiro grabbed a handful of ashen grit from beneath him.
He tried to sit up, he wanted to complain about the lack of basic sanitation, but the heavy stone lid was already being slid into place.
Darkness. Absolute. suffocating.
"They seriously should have cleaned this thing befor—"
"UGH!"
The headache had returned.
But this wasn't like the previous "onboarding" data-dumps. There were no flashing images, no cinematic memories of battlefields, and no barrage of information storming his brain. There was only a sickening, agony that felt like it was splitting his skull apart.
"UAAGHH!"
Hiro's scream echoed against the narrow stone walls of the sarcophagus.
Flash.
Hello~
....
Hiro heard a voice. It was a strangely familiar one, cutting through the static of the agony.
Helloooo~
...….
Hiro was gaping.
The migraine was on such a violent level that it had left his mouth hanging open, a trail of drool smearing his chin.
This one must be a retard.
What a pity. To think I've spent so much divinity for such a human.
Hazy.
Hiro opened his eyes slowly.
He was in a blinding white room. No shadows, no depth, just an endless expanse of clinical light.
"Am I…..dead?"
Not yet.
Do you want to be?
Hiro touched the floor. There was no ash, no grit, and none of the biting trench cold. It felt smooth, neutral, and terrifyingly clean.
He forced his torso up, his muscles protesting the sudden shift in reality.
"Weird. I was sure I heard a voice before."
Over here.
Hiro glanced upward—
"Ack!"
Standing behind him was a silhouette in the shape of a human. It had no face, no discernible body—just a void of pure white. The edges of its form vibrated and tore, flickering like a glitching NPC in a corrupted video game.
"WUUUAH! W-What are you!"
Hiro scrambled backward, his hand instinctively clawing at his belt for his sword—or better yet, the four-barrel flintlock.
Nothing.
His fingers met only bare, Einar's rough skin.
"Huh?" Hiro looked down, his eyes widening in a mix of horror and retail-grade panic. "Why am I naked!? I must've died! I knew it! I should've run. That fishy ritual was definitely the cause of my death!"
You done?
The "Thing" was suddenly there, its vibrating face inches from his own.
Hiro gulped, his entire nervous system freezing under the pressure.
Well, at least you're not a retard.
The "Thing" began to circle him slowly, its shimmering hand making a stroking motion over a nonexistent chin.
Do you like your new body, Hiroshi Sawayanagi?
"H-How do you know my name?" Hiro's breath hitched.
Then, something clicked—a professional reboot in his mind. He wiped the drool on his chin, straightened his posture. "Are you the one who sent me here, Sir?"
HAHAHA!
The "Thing's" laughter filled the empty white room like the screech of a massive, glitching audio error. Hiro instinctively covered his ears, wincing at the electronic ache.
You are one funny guy, Hiroshi. You adapted quickly. I like it.
"With all due respect, Sir." Hiro said, his voice dropping into its most persuasive 'Customer Service' tone. "Could you please return me home?"
The "Thing" tilted its head, the glitching edges of its silhouette blurring into a chaotic static.
Why should I?
"Please, Sir! I have to support—"
Buzz.
Hiro's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Panic flared. He clawed at his throat and mouth frantically.
Why would you even want to return home?
The "Thing" folded its arms, the white static of its silhouette blurring.
Overworked. Underpaid. Supporting your sick parents. Paying your sister's tuition—she still needs two more years to graduate, right?
It approached him slowly. Every step it took unfolded the harsh reality of Hiro's "home."
You weren't even living, Hiroshi. You were just surviving for twenty years.
I fucking knew it already, you damn bastard! Hiro cursed internally. Every word from the entity stabbed deep into his chest, cutting through the professional armor he'd spent a lifetime building.
The "Thing" grabbed Hiro's face, pulling him into the void of its features. A sickeningly white "smile" tore across its face.
[You are basically nothing, Hiroshi.]
Hiro snapped. He lunged at the "Thing" with the desperate rage of a man who had finally been pushed past his breaking point.
BAM.
Hiro was slammed into the floor before he could even land a punch. An unknown gravitational pressure pinned him down, crushing the air from his lungs. Hard.
Hiro tried to force his head up, to look his true "employer" in the eye, but he couldn't move. A strained, side-eye glare was all he could afford.
The "Thing" chuckled, the sound like a corrupted file playing on loop.
It seems one cannot convince a monkey that honey is sweeter than a banana.
Snap.
The "Thing" snapped its flickering fingers.
The crushing pressure vanished instantly. Sound rushed back into the room
"Please… Sir… I…" Hiro was huffing, his chest heaving against the smooth, neutral floor.
Fine.
"Thank you, Sir!" Hiro's face lit up, a desperate spark of hope reigniting. "Then, let's—"
I have one request for you.
"Go…"
The "Thing" chuckled again.
Closed the Gate of Hell. You do that, and I will send you back home—
Buzz.
"W-Wait, what is the Gate of Hell!? I know nothing about this world! How could someone like me possibly—"
Buzz.
Hm? It seems someone intervened. Whatever. We will talk later, okay?
"Sir! Wait!" Hiro scrambled forward.
The "Thing's" body turned blurry, the white static bleeding into the void.
Create a plan, okay. If you don't have a good plan, you plan to fail.
Hiro lunged to grab the fading light, his fingers grasping at nothing but empty air. The blinding white world warped, folding in on itself until everything plunged back into darkness.
And then, he woke up.
"Guah!"
Dark. Cramped. Dusty.
Hiro was back in the box.
"DAMN!" Hiro cursed, the word echoing hollowly against the stone.
For one beautiful, fleeting second, he'd actually thought he was back in Japan.
Groan.
The lid slid open. Hiro climbed out without a second thought, his movements sharper, more agitated.
Japan or this world—it's all the same, Hiro growled. Every person he met, every "Boss" he encountered, was just pulling his strings like he was a puppet. A vein pulsed at his temple as he gritted his teeth, the frustration of twenty years of being "managed" finally boiling over.
Inhale.
The scent of incense filled his nose. Strangely, the chemical tang didn't make his knees shake anymore. It felt… stabilizing.
Focus.
He needed to find out what that "Gate of Hell" was, and he needed a plan to close it. But first: Priority One. Survival.
A member of the clergy handed him his black helmet. Hiro took it, his eyes narrowing as Reinhardt approached.
"Welcome to the Black Templar, brother."
Now, I'm a 'brother,' huh? Hiro looked at him indifferently. The promotion felt as hollow as a "Senior Staff" title with no pay raise.
"Wear your helmet and join your brothers," Reinhardt said, pointing toward where Theo and John were already marching.
Hiro nodded. There was no point in acting tsundere now. He slid the heavy black helmet over his head.
The view was cramped, reduced to a narrow cruciform slit.
How does anyone get used to working in a bucket? Hiro thought, adjusting to the tunnel vision.
Hiro walked to where his "brothers" were, his mind already categorizing the subtle differences in their gear. He realized he'd need to pay extra attention to the specific clatter of their armor and the silhouette of their weapons just to distinguish who was who in this vast ocean of black steel.
Hiro slotted into the line, following Theo and John, who had arrived just seconds earlier.
Reinhardt was already back at his station, looming beside the throne like a minotaur of iron.
The masked beauty—his new Commander—stood once more, her right fist pressed firmly against her left pauldron in a salute that felt as heavy as a decree.
"Black Templars!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the hall. "Without hope! Without fear!"
Clap-tap.
The Black Templars—the protectors of the trench, the bane of heretics and abominations—moved their gauntlets in perfect, thunderous unison. Hiro didn't hesitate. He imitated them perfectly, He knew exactly what was expected of him now.
Hiro shouted with the rest, raw and desperate: "WITHOUT HOPE! WITHOUT FEAR!"