Two years.
Two long years had passed since the Archon incident since the day the Plague Mask made the deal he could never undo.
The world still spun. Cities still rose. People still laughed and danced, blind to the monsters crawling under their feet.
But he and Katzuki were never the same.
Now, they walked foreign lands, ghostlike Vietnam was their current refuge. Its misty jungles and rain-washed villages seemed untouched by the wars that bled the earth elsewhere. Old shrines crumbled under banyan trees. Smoke from street vendors twisted into the pale sky. It was beautiful... and fragile, like a painting ready to be torn apart.
The two were quiet most days. Words were weapons once now they were luxuries.
Katzuki tossed a stone into the lazy river, watching the ripples distort the mirrored sky.
"Two years, huh," he said, almost to himself. His voice was rougher now, as if it had to claw its way out of him. "Feels longer."
The Plague Mask, whose real name no one dared speak aloud anymore, leaned against a worn stone statue of a forgotten god. His mask was off, for once only the long, claw-like scars across his mouth and jaw betrayed what he had become.
"Time's broken for men like us," he answered flatly.
For a while, they just stood there. The scent of wet earth filled the air. Somewhere nearby, children laughed, chasing a stray dog down a dusty alley.
Normal life.
Something they could never touch again.
But peace was a lie.
And it always ended.
It started when they noticed the old man.
He was sitting under a tattered blue umbrella at a street-side noodle stall, hunched over a chipped bowl of broth. His clothes were cheap and torn, but there was something about him something that didn't belong.
When their eyes met, the old man smiled, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth.
"Long time, wanderers," he rasped in near-perfect English. "Sit. We have business. The old business."
Katzuki stiffened immediately. His instincts screamed trap, but the Plague Mask raised a hand not to fight, but to listen.
The two sat.
The old man's hands trembled slightly as he slurped his broth, but his eyes milky and scarred from ancient battles gleamed like steel.
"I'm afraid you two are demon hunters. You don't seem to belong here, and both of you look half Asian but in a strange way. I sense that you work for secret organizations that no government or anyone else knows about."The old man spoke softly, his voice barely above a murmur..."
"However, you are both welcome here. Will you be staying at my house tonight?."
He chuckled, a raspy sound, like the creaking of old wood.
The sun dipped low, casting a warm golden hue over the quiet street as the three of them arrived at the old man's house. The air was thick with the scent of the coming evening, and the gentle hum of cicadas filled the space around them. The house was modest, yet charming, with the unmistakable smell of incense drifting from within. The old man greeted them with a smile, his weathered face lighting up as he invited them inside.
"Come in, come in," he beckoned, his voice raspy but kind. "I hope you are hungry. Tonight, I will prepare something traditional."
The trio settled into the small but welcoming home. The interior was adorned with simple wooden furniture, a few old photographs, and shelves lined with jars of spices. The old man, with movements that showed both grace and weariness, began preparing the meal.
He moved with purpose, pulling ingredients from various places around the room. A small wooden cutting board was placed before him, and he carefully began to chop fresh vegetables cilantro, basil, and lime all while humming a quiet tune. In a pot on the stove, a fragrant broth began to bubble. The aroma of lemongrass, ginger, and star anise filled the air. It was pho a traditional Vietnamese noodle soup, rich with history and flavor.
After a while, he set the table, placing bowls of steaming pho in front of each guest. The broth was clear and fragrant, and the herbs and garnishes added a touch of freshness to the dish. The old man joined them at the table, his face lighting up as they tasted the food.
"This," he said with a smile, "is a dish passed down through generations. It brings comfort and warmth. You'll find it in many homes across Vietnam, made slightly differently depending on the region, but the essence is the same."
The three of them began to eat in silence, savoring the rich, flavorful broth and tender meat. It was a meal that seemed to carry the weight of history within each bite.
Once the food was finished, the two leaned back in their seats, their bodies relaxed and at ease for the first time in a long while. The old man refilled their glasses with water, his movements slow, deliberate. As the cool liquid sloshed in their cups, he cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
"So, tell me," he began, his voice low and contemplative, "what brings you two to my humble home? I can sense... you are not ordinary travelers. There is something different about you."
Katzuki shot a glance at the Plague Mask. His mask was off for once, revealing the twisted scars and disfigured face beneath. His lips were tight, as always, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes a hint of something ancient and knowing.
The Plague Mask spoke first, his voice rough with years of regret. "We're hunters. On a mission, like any other. But this one... it's different. There's something ancient stirring, and we've been tracking it for some time."
The old man's eyes seemed to light up at the mention of "hunters," and he leaned in, his gaze sharper now. "Ah, I see. I've crossed paths with many like you in my time. Demon hunters, I mean. But tell me... you've been tracking something old, haven't you?"
Katzuki's gaze hardened at the question. He wasn't one for sharing much, but this was different. Something about this man his presence, his eyes made Katzuki feel like he was being seen through, like every layer of his soul had been peeled back.
The Plague Mask nodded, acknowledging the old man's insight. "The Hive," he said quietly. "It's not dead. It's waiting. And we're here to finish what we started."
The old man chuckled softly, but the sound was dry, like dust being stirred in the wind. "Ah, the Hive. It never truly dies, does it?" His smile was haunted, like someone who had lived through too many battles to ever find peace. "I've fought them, too. Long ago. Bled with my brothers until there was nothing left to give."
He looked at Katzuki and the Plague Mask with a knowing look, something ancient in his eyes. "You think you can kill it? The Hive? I doubt it. But you may be the last chance the world has."
Katzuki's fist clenched around his glass, the weight of the old man's words hitting him harder than he expected. "Where?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with urgency.
The old man's finger tapped the map that lay in front of him, tracing a winding path through the dense jungles of Indonesia. "It's here," he said, his voice thick with gravity. "A forgotten temple beneath the black pines. Hidden from sight. Buried in the earth."
The Plague Mask stared at the map, his eyes narrowed. "The Broken Heralds?" he asked, remembering the legends. "They're still guarding it?"
The old man nodded, his face tightening. "The Broken Heralds were once men like me. Warriors. But they fell to the Hive. Now they are something worse. They are the Hive's loyal servants. Guardians of the heart."
A heavy silence followed, as Katzuki and the Plague Mask processed the weight of the task ahead. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thicker, as if the old man's words had summoned something from the shadows.
Then, the old man straightened up in his chair, his face taking on a more serious expression. "There is one thing you should know," he said, his voice suddenly quieter, almost reverent. "The Hive's heart is not something you can simply destroy. It is a source of unimaginable power beyond anything you've encountered. You'll need more than brute strength or sheer will to defeat it."
Katzuki grunted, leaning forward. "We'll do whatever it takes."
The old man looked at them both for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps... but you'll need more than just firepower. You'll need the right force to break it. Something that can match the Hive's power."
A quiet hum filled the room, as if the air itself was vibrating with the weight of his words.
"You're not just hunters," the old man said, his tone suddenly changing, "You're also marked. And in a way... you've been chosen."
He smiled faintly, almost as if amused by his own words. "I think you two will do just fine. But you'll need a guide." He paused for a moment before standing up, moving to the corner of the room and retrieving a bundle of weathered cloth from a shelf.
He unwrapped it slowly, and as the cloth fell away, the two hunters watched in stunned silence.
The old man, bent with age just moments before, now stood taller, more regal. His hair had darkened, his wrinkles smoothing out as if time itself had reversed. In a blink, the hunched, weary man had become someone far younger—a man in his prime, somewhere around 35 years old, with long, flowing hair and a strong, athletic build.
Katzuki's eyes went wide. "What the hell...?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with shock. "You scared the shit out of us!"
"I am not what I seemed," the man no, the warrior said, his voice now full of authority. "My name is Captain Spirit."
Katzuki and the Plague Mask exchanged a stunned glance, still processing the transformation.
Captain Spirit stood before them now, a figure exuding a quiet, yet overwhelming power. "I was once like you," he continued, his voice growing more intense. "A fighter. A warrior. And now I carry the power of both fire and lightning. I can match the Hive's strength. Together, we can destroy it. But you'll need to trust me."
He raised his hand and conjured a ball of swirling fire and lightning that crackled in the air between them. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight an elemental fusion of two of the most destructive forces in the world, contained in the palm of his hand.
"You won't be alone in this fight," Captain Spirit said, his eyes glowing with a fierce light. "But I need you to trust me. The Hive is just the beginning. There is more at stake here than any of us can imagine. Are you ready to face it?"
The room was silent for a moment, the air thick with the weight of Captain Spirit's words. The Plague Mask and Katzuki exchanged one last look before nodding in unison.
"Let's burn it down," Katzuki said with a grim smile, his fist tightening around the table.
Captain Spirit's smile was a flicker of fire in the dim room. "Then let's begin."
In Midnight the outskirts of a forgotten village deep in Vietnam, the night was unnaturally heavy, like a wet cloth over the land.
Inside the captain's spirit realm a house hidden in swirling mist and broken memories Katzuki and the Plague Mask finally slept, exhaustion drowning them after days of brutal slaughter.
But peace was short-lived.
A hideous demon clown, face painted in rotting reds and sickly whites, crept across the spirit house's walls, his twisted leg sharpened into a gleaming black blade.
It drooled something oily, twitching, eyes rolling back as it slashed the air silently, trying to carve a hole into the captain's dream sanctuary.
Suddenly, a shriek louder than thunder split the air
A Minor Archon descended from the sky, face distorted, always on the edge of explosion, wings shredding the clouds.
Its hollow, soulless gaze pierced the ground, hunting for children sweet, frightened souls it could devour.
It sensed them.
Not here in the spirit house, but somewhere real.
Somewhere mortal.
It turned its head sharply southeast
Toward Vietnam.
More specifically:
A remote village hidden between the jungles of Tây Nguyên a place untouched by time, where the houses were made of ancient wood and prayer flags hung limp against the moonlight.
A village where children whispered about nightmares with wings...
A village ripe for harvesting.
The demon clown snarled, frustrated, and with a screech like metal tearing, he leapt into the sky, following the Minor Archon's trail.
Meanwhile, back in the spirit house, a cold wind stirred.
Katzuki's eyes snapped open.
The Plague Mask's hand gripped his weapon tightly under his cloak.
Something wicked was pulling them out of hiding.
Something that demanded blood and bone the village sleeps under a cursed moon, unaware that death rides on wings and laughter sharpened by blades.
---To Be Continued….