"So, what's Berserk actually about?"
The question didn't come from Jack Harper, but from Frankie Romano—a middle-aged priest who looked even older than Jack. Clearly, he had no idea what this Japanese manga was.
"I've got this," said Evander Marlowe. "I re-read it just a few days ago. It's a manga that started in 1992. The Japanese title is Kenpuu Denki, but the English version is called Berserk. It's a dark fantasy set in a medieval world—lords warring, people suffering, chaos everywhere. On the surface, nobles and the Church run things. But behind the scenes, supernatural forces—called 'Gods' or 'Demons'—pull the strings through something called causality."
Eliot crouched down, grabbed a lump of black clay, and plucked a few strands from his ponytail. He mixed them in and shaped the clay with practiced ease. Within moments, he held a palm-sized figurine: a broad-shouldered man with short hair and a single eye, clad in armor and wielding a massive sword. The figure radiated raw power.
"This is Guts," Eliot said. "His mother died before he was born. He literally crawled out of her corpse. A passing mercenary took him in, and by the time he was a kid, he was already fighting on the battlefield. Cold, efficient, deadly. Eventually, betrayal drove him to kill his adoptive father and walk the path of a lone warrior."
"Then he met Griffith—his destined ally and enemy." Eliot grabbed a lump of white clay, added more hair, and shaped a strikingly handsome young man with flowing curls and a radiant smile. The contrast was stark—like night and day.
"Griffith was also a commoner orphan, but unlike Guts, he was charismatic and visionary. He dreamed of founding his own kingdom. Starting from nothing, he built the Band of the Hawk—a mercenary group that had already earned fame by the time he met Guts. Something about Guts intrigued him. He challenged him to a duel, won, and brought him into the Band as his most trusted lieutenant."
Eliot placed the black Guts and white Griffith figurines side by side.
"For years, they fought together, rising through the ranks. Eventually, the Band was absorbed into a noble army, and its leaders were granted titles. Griffith even won the favor of a princess. If things had gone smoothly, his dream of founding a kingdom might've come true. But then—Guts walked away."
"Why?" Frankie asked, clearly hooked.
Eliot tilted his head. "Personality clash. Both men were fiercely independent and proud. When they were equals, they worked flawlessly together. But as Griffith's star rose, Guts began to feel overshadowed. If Griffith became king, Guts would be forced into a subordinate role. Despite their bond, Guts couldn't accept that. So he left—to forge his own path."
Eliot sighed. "And that's when the tragedy began. Griffith tried to stop him—by force. But Guts had grown stronger through constant battle, while Griffith had spent years strategizing from the sidelines. Guts defeated him easily. Humiliated and broken, Griffith spiraled into despair—and that night, he raped the princess."
The room fell silent.
"The king, who harbored a twisted obsession with his daughter, flew into a rage. Griffith was arrested, and the Band of the Hawk was branded traitors. Without their leader, they were hunted down. Eventually, the survivors found Guts and begged him to help rescue Griffith."
"Guts agreed. With his unmatched combat instincts, he stormed the capital and freed Griffith. But the man they rescued was no longer the same. After a year of torture, Griffith's body was ruined—skin flayed, tendons severed, tongue cut out. He was a shell of his former self. Meanwhile, Guts had become the de facto leader. Once again, the balance between them was shattered."
"Faced with the death of his dream and the loss of Guts, Griffith made a choice. He activated the Crimson Behelit—a mystical artifact—and summoned the four archdemons. In exchange for power, he offered the Band of the Hawk as a sacrifice. He became the fifth archdemon. That moment is known as the Eclipse."
Eliot held up a third sculpture—an egg-shaped object with abstract, Picasso-like features.
"This is the Behelit. It looks like a strange stone carving, but it's actually a magical entity. In this world, magic is rare and hidden, but the Behelits are scattered across the land, waiting for chosen individuals. When someone reaches the peak of despair, the Behelit responds to their emotions, opens a gateway to the astral realm, and offers them power—if they're willing to sacrifice what they love most."
"The deeper the bond, the greater the pain—and the stronger the power. Griffith's sacrifice proved how much he truly cared for Guts and the Band. His transformation made him stronger than the other four archdemons."
Eliot continued sculpting, now forming a lithe girl with short hair and a towering skeletal knight.
Frankie nodded slowly, absorbing the tale. "So… what are we supposed to do?"
Eliot shrugged. "No idea. I'm still trying to figure out where we are in the timeline." He turned to Jack Harper. "Any orders, Captain?"
Jack nodded. "You seem to be adapting well to this world."
Eliot grinned. "I've always imagined myself in a place like this…"
Before he could finish, Elliot Gray cut in. "The newcomers have gone far enough. Should we follow? This world isn't exactly safe. Forget the apostles—even regular bandits are ruthless."
Just then, a gunshot rang out in the distance.
"Huh. That didn't take long."
Claire Whitmore was already overwhelmed.
As a city cop, she'd seen her share of crime. But that only deepened her belief in law and order. Before entering the Reincarnation Space, she and three fellow officers had been armed with handguns due to a kidnapping case. To her, Jack Harper's mental pressure might count as some kind of supernatural ability—but as long as she kept her distance, he wouldn't stand a chance against a hail of bullets.
She wasn't afraid to leave the protection of the veterans. What she didn't understand was just how chaotic a medieval world without centralized government could be.
When the four officers led the remaining seven newcomers out of the woods, they spotted a dirt road. A caravan of about thirty people was passing by.
They only wanted to ask for directions. But as soon as they approached, the travelers turned hostile. Weapons were drawn. One officer didn't even have time to pull his gun before he was clubbed to the ground. Another managed to draw his weapon and fire a warning shot—but a throwing knife struck his shoulder, sending the gun flying. A net followed, tangling him up and slamming him to the ground.
By the time Claire and the last officer got their guns out, six of the eleven newcomers had already been taken down. Two officers, a burly factory worker, a pair of high school students, and a scantily clad city woman—all were brutally attacked. Four men were killed instantly, blood spraying in arcs. The two women were pinned down and tied up.
Only then did Claire realize: this wasn't the city anymore. These weren't petty thugs who scattered at the sight of a badge. They weren't criminals who surrendered when a gun was pointed at them. These were true outlaws—people who didn't value human life at all.
So she fired.
Bang! Her shot rang out, and her police academy training paid off—she dropped a sword-wielding attacker with a single bullet. But the others didn't flinch. If anything, they grew more frenzied. One older bandit shouted, "Witchcraft! Use the crossbows!" Three men grabbed old, rusted crossbows from the wagon and aimed at the officers.
At the same time, the bandits turned on the two female newcomers they'd been restraining. Terrified of "witches," they didn't hesitate. Blades flashed. Two heads rolled.
The crossbow bolts flew with deadly precision, aimed at the officers and the factory worker. The two cops were agile—no desk jockeys or drunks—they dodged. But the worker wasn't so lucky. A bolt pierced his chest, killing him instantly. One stray bolt, meant for Claire, struck the housewife hiding behind her—straight through the skull.
Crossbows took time to reload, but the bandits had numbers. They surged forward. Claire and the other officer fired again, dropping five or six more attackers. But the rest raised shields and charged. At close range, a handgun was no match for a short sword.
That's when Claire realized: the power she'd relied on—her badge, her training, her weapon—meant nothing here.
She heard her colleague scream in agony. Her gun was empty. No time to reload. A sword was coming straight for her. She couldn't even move.
Then a voice rang out behind her—calm, cold, commanding.
"Step back."
A flash of white light sliced through the air above her. It was like a blade of snow, so cold it felt like it could freeze her soul. It didn't touch a hair on her head—but it cleaved the three attackers in front of her clean in half.
The blade didn't stop. It fell like snowflakes, covering a hundred-meter radius in an instant. Then it snapped back, converging on the bandits' wagon. A slender figure stood there, holding a nearly three-meter-long white katana. Frost filled the air.
In just two or three seconds, the thirty bandits were dead or dying. The blade killed without blood—limbs and torsos frozen solid. Two survivors remained, their arms and legs severed. Jack Harper had left them alive on purpose.
Claire and a female high schooler stared at the glowing figure in awe. He looked like something out of legend—a divine warrior carved from ice and fury. Only now did they understand what kind of beings the adventurers of the Reincarnation Space truly were.
Jack Harper frowned.
He hadn't expected the Berserk world to be this brutal. He knew the four officers had guns and figured they could hold their own. But from the moment he heard the gunshot to the time he arrived—barely a minute—nine newcomers were already dead. Only two girls remained. If he wanted to form a seven-person team, he'd have to track down the twin killers.
Just then, Flora appeared beside him. She'd arrived a step later but had more experience. She scanned the battlefield and pointed.
"That one's still alive."
She was referring to the male officer who'd held out the longest. He'd been stabbed twice, but Jack's arrival had turned the area into a frozen wasteland, slowing his bleeding and keeping him alive.
"Hang on!" Claire rushed to her colleague and shouted to Jack, "Please save him! We'll do whatever you say—just help him!"
Jack wanted to save him. If he could, he wouldn't need to chase down the twins. But he had no healing abilities.
Just then, Elliot Gray, Frankie Romano, and Evander Marlowe arrived. Elliot Gray, ever the strategist, assessed the situation and smiled.
"Captain, don't you still have a 'Healing Spell' card?"
"But that card requires… wait, you mean…"
Jack understood. He looked at Frankie Romano, the priest. "He's a man of faith, sure, but…"
Elliot Gray caught his hesitation. "Whether he's trustworthy is up to your judgment. Whether he joins the team is up to the author's generosity. My advice? Trust your instincts."
Jack blinked, then turned to Frankie Romano.
Should he trust someone he'd just met? Jack didn't hesitate long. After all, Elliot Gray had joined the team the same way. Frankie looked like a mob boss, but Jack's gut said he was reliable. Still, Elliot had shown extraordinary talent. Frankie hadn't.
"Forget it. Saving lives comes first."
Jack explained the situation to Frankie and slapped the Healing Spell card onto the priest's forehead.
The card came from World of Warcraft, a priest ability whose power depended on the user's faith. Fortunately, Frankie's belief was strong. The spell worked beautifully, and Logan Barrett—the wounded officer—was saved.
Meanwhile, Elliot Gray interrogated the two surviving bandits. Their reason for attacking the newcomers left everyone speechless.
They thought the newcomers' clothes looked expensive.
Eight lives lost—over a few outfits.
Elliot didn't offer comfort. He turned to Jack Harper. "Looks like we've lost the main storyline. According to these guys, Griffith's Eclipse and the fall of the Band of the Hawk happened two years ago. Guts is now traveling alone, hunting apostles. Finding him might take a while."