Alengard rose into this world from a coffin within the Tomb of the Virgin Queen.
Surrounded by countless corpses, he took on the form he now possessed—Regas, whose body had been buried far away so that it would never be discovered.
Alengard came to understand that he was rejected in this world for being one of the intruders, a truth revealed not only through what he witnessed during the execution, but also through the memories of Regas.
One of the defining traits of Alengard's power, "Free Reality," is its ability to replicate physical reality through the DNA unique to a given form, enabling him to assume that person's appearance along with all the memories of their life.
But it is limited to only two forms, excluding the original.
And this is what gave him insight into the world he currently exists in, and it was the reason he arrived at Heart City in the human form he had assumed.
He took on the body of a young man named Regas Van, twenty-five years old, who had recently joined the National Guild, which holds the third rank in the hierarchy of power within the United Kingdom, divided into four major states.
Every city has its own branch, and Heart City was no exception.
The branch in this city launched a trial for a thousand hunters holding the D class, to prove their competence in this experimental test, which lasted six months.
After all, Alengard realized that in this world, for someone like him to join the National Guild, he must first join the Adventurers' Guild and rise to its highest ranks, as tangible proof of the competence and strength of anyone entering the National Guild, which is tasked with hunting intruders from the other worlds.
That's what makes the Adventurers' Guild the second-best experimental system, according to the standards of the National Guild—after the Academy of Rarities, of course.
But Regas had died along with the thousand hunters who set out on their first experimental mission to hunt intruders of the same class—Class D, the lowest tier. Their deaths were caused by a distortion of spacetime in the area during Alengard's awakening.
Alengard himself does not understand why there was a distortion of spacetime around the tomb, but through Regas's memories, he realizes that spacetime itself was torn apart, distorting reality and leading to the deaths of both the hunters and the intruders who were present on the land of Skars at the same time.
But what matters to him now is his current state. Aside from awakening safely and secretly leaving that land, he remembers nothing from before he emerged from the Virgin Queen's coffin.
He remembers only his name, his goal, and the power he possesses by instinct.
And that, in itself, is strange.
How can he recall nothing before awakening in this world, yet still understand that he is in another world, know his purpose, and know how to wield his power?
It is a question with no answer—one that keeps him cautious, unwilling to walk this world in his true form, always prepared for the unexpected.
Alengard wandered alone among the bustling crowd, his eyes tracing the horse-drawn carriages and the neatly paved streets.
To him, everything felt alien—he was, after all, a stranger in this world.
What made things worse was the form he had taken—Regas. A man severed from his roots, without a home, with nothing but a drifting existence.
Expelled from the orphanage upon reaching adulthood, he had survived by moving from one abandoned house to another, scraping by on the meager earnings of his sporadic work.
Even that was barely enough to buy him a meal.
He had joined the free trial of the National Guild in his city with the hope of building a future.
But that future… ended before it had even begun.
Based on all the memories of life that Alengard had absorbed, he realized that Regas had never fulfilled a single wish in his entire life.
Now, with Regas's memories at his disposal, his initial astonishment at the world had faded.
He moved with the awareness of someone who already carried a lifetime of experiences in this strange city.
He walked quietly, contemplative, with no real destination in mind.
After all, the one whose form he bore had no home to return to, no place to settle.
He planned to simply move, observing the streets, noting every detail of his surroundings.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a heated confrontation in a narrow alley, one untouched by the sunlight spilling over the main streets.
An old man, clad in simple civilian clothes, was trapped in the middle of the alley by three thugs in their mid-twenties, their faces twisted with the unmistakable malice of intent.
"Old man, why did you defy the leader's orders?"
"Do you really think you can protect her at your frail age?"
"You can't even block a strike, yet you dare to stand against our leader?"
The old man fell after the last speaker struck him with his palm, collapsing with no strength, and said in a voice tinged with despair and age, "If only I were in my youth..."
"Youth? What youth, you fool?" He raised his foot to step on the old man's head but felt the shadow of someone blocking the sunlight at the end of the alley.
He turned to see a young man in a long black robe, tall and strong, with medium-length white hair and pale, slanted eyes, and was taken aback by his presence.
He lowered his foot calmly. "Do you have any business with us, boy?"
Alengard hadn't wanted to intervene at first, but he changed his mind when he realized he could take advantage of the old man's weakness.
The same person who had asked him the question approached after seeing him standing there confidently without responding.
He raised his thumb, moved it, and said, with a tone mixed with a haughty laugh, "Don't tell me you're the type who thinks saving people like that is heroic?"
"Looks like his smooth, cold face has never taken a hit before," remarked the scarred man behind him.
He calmly drew his right hand out from beneath his black cloak, his expression returning to its usual calm. "Helping the weak is not heroism, but common sense… or so I believe." That was the thought that formed in his mind as his answer.
In an instant, the powerfully built young man launched a sudden punch—fast, sharp, and deceptively swift.
With a quick pull to the left, Alengard thrust his hand forward in a straight, forceful motion without even touching him.
The next moment, the young man was slammed into the wall to Alengard's right, his body embedded against it like a mural.
The eyes of the two remaining young men flew open. The one with a scar on his nose looked at his bald companion to his left, who said in a tone of astonishment,
"Did you see what I saw?"
"He turned… into a mural!"
When the bald young man turned around, he found that his companion had fled.
The survival instinct had taken over—he had realized that what had happened was beyond the limits of his nature or strength.
He remained where he was, his legs unable to move, trapped in the absurdity of being unable to make a logical decision: should he run, or attack?
Alengard's eyes flared, shifting from Regas's distinctive white to his own golden hue.
"Let us not waste each other's time, for unlike you, I am not from here."
In less than the blink of an eye, he appeared before the bald man and struck him with a finger, sending him toward the wall opposite the one where the first had been embedded.
The bald man became a mural, just like the first.
He then caught up with the third, giving him the same fate as his two companions.
They became three murals—yet with living, conscious awareness.
"I know it is a fate worse than death, but killing is not a rational option, at least for now. So I hope you will accept this reality."
Their fate was not a curse—they would remain murals until the very last breath of their lives, cut off from time and freed from natural needs.
In other words, they were frozen in a neutral dimension, suspended between time and space.
They were like living paintings—but this time, truly alive.
Anyone who saw them would never suspect it; to them, these were nothing more than hyper-realistic artworks, flawless in every detail.
Alengard moved through the narrow alley, stepping over piles of garbage, flanked by two massive buildings.
He came to a stop before the old man, who lay face down on the ground.
The old man had seen none of what had transpired, but age had worn him down, leaving him too weak even to rise.
Alengard bent down, lifting the old man gently with both hands so as not to disturb his fragile body.
Once the old man leaned on his knees, he reached out and grasped Alengard's left hand—a simple gesture that caught him off guard.
The old man's eyes met his, wrinkles folding his expressions into a lifetime of stories.
"Are you one of the intruders in this world?…"