![]() The girl- Salacia jumped down the horse and hugs Moroha passionately. Didn’t I beg you many times not to go to war alone?” Like a chance meeting on a street, he nonchalantly calls out to the girl. “Salacia, didn’t you listen when I said not to carelessly come to the battlefield alone?” The dense fighting will and killing intent still coiling around his body disperse like mist. Moroha smiles when he recognizes the person. The girl calls out in a stern yet cute voice. Ignoring high society etiquette by riding a horse in that gown, one can guess her to be a spirited, competitive personality. Obviously highborn at one glance, with her elegantly cut white gown. Sparkling blue eyes, like stars scattered over the ocean. Surrounded by mountains of corpses the wind blows, whistling a haunting victory anthem.Ĭovered with wounds and with shaking legs, Moroha starts on his first steps home.Ī lone journey to the battlefield, a lone journey back - is not what happened.įrom the distance, a white horse speeds towards him on thundering hoofs. His brain argues that this is not his true self yet in his heart he feels that this is his real self.Īfter an indeterminate amount of time, the massacre stops-Moroha finds himself the only person standing. Unclad in armour but protected by a white aura as dazzling as the sun with titanic strength granted by the dense amount of prana he is generating, Moroha crashes through the battleground like a hurricane.Įven so, his attitude remains calm and unhurried, as if he is a monster that’s only fulfilling its killing nature. ![]() Facing waves of the enemies, Moroha is just mechanically killing, killing killing-ĭevoted fully to swinging his sword, he’s already long lost count of his kills. In the dream, Moroha is fighting alone on the battlefield, without companions. The beautiful holy sword with a dazzling mirror-like body is now dyed the same blood red as the land. So much so that it feels like an extension of his body. In spite of this, the sword in his hand feels shockingly familiar. Realistic enough that one can hear, smell, taste and see clearly within it.įinally, the feel of a sword gripped in the hand.īorn a normal youth in peaceful Japan, Moroha shouldn’t have any relationship with a weapon of war. Haimura Moroha is having a bizarre dream.Ī beast-like roar across the battlefield, the miasma of iron hanging in the air, dry grit spreading through the mouth, the blood red dyeing the land……Ī very vivid dream. ''' This is the Prologue of the third legend………'''
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