A tale was spoken of years long before, in the lands of Scantid, within the southern corner of the Scarwing Continent, the Last Continent.
"…"
"Scantid was a strange place."
"…Before it got destroyed, I mean."
"A swamp-ridden country, where torrential rain and hail storms were widespread, and where mud-borne, fishhead creatures often lurked and stalked aboveground."
"For those who had lived in its larger towns and cities, the existence of such monsters was known, but not frequent, however, the same could not be said for those who lived in huts."
"After the advanced [Ancient World] collapsed into a pile of steamy shit around two hundred years ago, the first thing we humans did after fending off the monsters and reclaiming [The Last Continent] was to rebuild. But, even after all that time has passed, we haven't built anything worth a damn."
"And yet, despite their homes falling apart from
a slight breeze, despite the fear and nightmares of monsters and brutes slaughtering and massacring them all, some village locals, especially in one of Scantid's resident villages on this particular night, were filled with joy."
"They had just begun their annual Firewheel Harp Festival, after all, to celebrate a Local Legend."
"You know, the man with the cowboy hat, who wields the magical harp. An individual named Hasker Pipe. He's quite popular nowadays as well since he joined the [Special Investigations Division] under the OAA, [The Order of International Affairs]."
"And, as you know, ever since the [Distortion] encroached on these lands slowly but surely, the Local Legends did their best to defend against these forces of evil with their [Specialties], allowing many human citadels, including towns and villages, to thrive in peace."
"These Local Legends, more often known as "vigilantes", were, and continue to be, the first line of defence against the monsters, even though they were overshadowed by the Lightbearers."
"…But, that man, Hasker Pipe, wasn't there on that day. He chose not to fend against the monsters that had come to eat the villagers and their children."
As if a powerful memory was suddenly resurfacing, the voice slowly faded into silence, allowing his recollection to talk from then on.
"…"
"1…"
"…2…"
"…3…"
"…HAPPY FIREWHEEL HARP FESTIVAL!"
The celebrations began in earnest, as the villagers of a dainty village cheered rambunctiously while skipping and prancing around, and also enjoying themselves at the festival's venues. And there, amongst the crowd of joyous fellows, lads and lassies, a young child looked up and enjoyed the warmth of the atmosphere around him.
Hasker Pipe was his hero, and it was the same for many other young boys and girls in the village. After all, that same man had once joined the [Royal Commission], one of the most important missions of the decade, to destroy that vile creature of old, one of the 11 Great Terrors that led the Titans' [Vanguard of Annihilation], the beast named "The Dragon of Hatred".
But then, suddenly, it began to rain. Although the villagers weren't impeded, this was a sign of disaster. On this day, calamity would strike like red lightning, signalling the beginning of a grand renewal.
Boom!
Just like that, the lightning strike hit one of the venue stalls, indirectly causing a man to collapse. A few of the villagers went to go help him back up, while the small boy watched with interest.
They mumbled a few things that were unable to be heard, and thunder bellowed in the distance. Funnily enough, red lightning was an abnormal geographical characteristic of "The Last Continent", and was a sign of omens to come. However, that wasn't going to stop the villagers.
This opportunity to celebrate was hard to come by, after all. All villages and towns within certain areas were anchored to specific cities, and the city that this village was anchored to, [Haintas City], held a tight grip on them.
But, they would soon be begging for that grip to not loosen, for another chance at keeping their safety and security.
Because, the Distortion, which carried waves upon waves of monsters, suddenly attacked. The young boy first caught sight of the endless wafting of flames as it consumed the venue stalls, and then, his eyes switched to the great, slobbering beasts that charged at every living thing in sight.
He was too young to make sense of it all, even when he saw his fellow younglings get mercilessly ripped to shreds. And then, when one of the monsters came for him, in a great stroke of luck, lightning came down to save him.
It was as if one of the Ancient World's Old Gods had come to save this poor child of destiny.
"And I, Harlock, the young man who had barely survived, with a gnarly wound on my head, and a claw mark on my chest, watched as he ran into the darkness of the night, away from the monsters and fire, and away from it all."
"…It makes me sad to think that the poor boy probably didn't even survive the night."
"Not because of hunger, or thirst, or sleep deprivation, or anything else, but because of the Distortion that the monsters carry. The reason why only those with [Specialties] or Ancient Equipment can tackle them properly."
"Because they can infect others, even if they are slain."
"…"
"…But, I could only think of the words he would utter, in the minuscule chance that he would be able to survive."
Harlock put down his glass of alcohol and stared upwards.
He imagined the young boy running and running until his legs ached and until the tears of blood stopped running down his face.
"Hm… what would he say…? Maybe…"
He imagined the boy's furious, irate, irrational expression in that moment, and shivered.
"…Yes… he would say…"
"I will slay them all."