"A Flintlock pistol, Einar?"
The Brown Haired Man inspected the secondary weapon strapped to Hiro's belt. He opened his mouth to speak, likely to point out the logistical nightmare of black powder in a mud-choked trench—
"Let him do whatever he wants, John."
The Blond Man interjected. The glare was gone, replaced by stern eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead. He didn't spare a single glance at the "odd" version of Einar marching beside him.
"The 'Immortal' Einar will really become immortal tonight."
For a brief second, Hiro saw a hint of sadness crack the man's composure; his lips faltered, losing his usual scowl.
Immortal, huh? Hiro noted casually.
He had officially reached his limit for curiosity. The world was unfolding too many details, too fast, and he refused to waste any more mental energy on every gothic mystery thrown his way. There was simply too much he didn't know. His priority was survival first; he was confident the "Standard Operating Procedures" of this world would make sense later.
He embedded the Kaizen philosophy into his new "Job"—focusing on continuous improvement through small, manageable changes. That was how he had survived the merciless corporate world for twenty years, and that was how he would manage this "crusade."
"Alright then, stand firm, Einar. Like you always did." John paused, his gaze flickering as if he were momentarily lost in a memory. "Once we reach The Keep, I can no longer help you."
The brown-haired man—John—offered a small, weary smile before turning his eyes toward the towering structure ahead. It was an ash-bound monument of gothic architecture, a brutalist fusion of iron and stone that oozed an eerie, sacred pressure. To Hiro, it felt less like a headquarters and more like a cathedral built for a god of war.
"I understand. Thank you… John," Hiro said, his voice steady.
Coworker competition was a normal thing for Hiro. He was used to the "Every man for himself" atmosphere. But the finality in John's voice—the "no help at all"—was a bit more unsettling than a missed promotion. This sounded like a permanent severance package.
"....Anytime, Einar."
Hiro caught the slight, heavy pause in John's response. He didn't overthink it; he just shrugged. Kaizen, he reminded himself. Focus on the small improvements. Check the swords. Check the flintlock. Check the sanity. One step at a time.
Kreeaak.
The heavy iron door of the Keep groaned open, settling with a final, resonant thump. Hiro had been expecting a draft of warm air—the kind of hearth-fire heat you'd find in a standard medieval castle. Instead, a wave of even colder air rushed out to welcome him.
Inhale.
Hiro wasn't gasping for breath as he stepped inside; the heavy black plate felt like a second skin on Einar's perfected body. He was simply trying to keep his racing mind from short-circuiting at the sight.
There weren't dozens of them anymore. There were hundreds.
An ocean of black armor parted ceremoniously as Hiro and his coworkers marched toward the front. The soldiers watched him in a disciplined, heavy silence. The only sound in the cavernous hall was the rhythmic clink-clank of his boots against the cold stone floor.
The interior of the Keep was adorned like a bloody iron church. Walking down the long red carpet, Hiro felt less like a guest and more like a sacrificial lamb being led to the prep station. Hiro steady his nerves by inspecting the expensive-looking chandelier and the intricate stained glass.
Inhale.
Even the scent of the place was wrong. It was a cloying mix of heavy incense, sharp chemicals, and a metallic tang that made Hiro's knees threaten to buckle.
The march stopped.
And so did Hiro's heart.
Standing before him was a throne of cold iron, but it was the one sitting upon it that caught his breath.
A woman of otherworldly beauty.
Her midnight-blue hair cascaded lazily over an armored bosom. Her plate wasn't as heavy as the rest of the unit's, but the way the cuirass clung to her frame strikingly accentuated her fit body.
A Queen? Hiro wondered.
His earlier nervousness was momentarily eclipsed by curiosity. He found himself staring at the silver half-mask that covered only her eyes and forehead, wondering what lay beneath it.
Thud. Thud.
A large man descended the small steps of the dais, approaching the line.
"We will commence The Stiffening now!"
It was Reinhardt. Minus the helmet and halberd.
His rugged, scarred face and severe jarhead haircut gave him exactly the veteran look Hiro had expected.
Suddenly, several men dressed in clergy attire—wearing strange helmets with hoses connected to even weirder bags—pushed a row of heavy trolleys into the center of the hall.
The trolleys were positioned directly in front of them.
And on each one rested a stone coffin.
A sarcophagus.
What is it this time? Hiro chanted his internal litany against the sheer absurdity of the situation. Kaizen… Kaizen… small steps toward surviving the shift.
Suddenly, a gauntleted hand gripped his pauldron and yanked him backward. One by one, his coworkers relayed him down the line, passing him from hand to hand until he was relegated to the very end of the row.
"W-What!?"
Hiro stumbled, startled by the impromptu "restructuring." He shot a glance at the men beside him, but no one offered a response. The rest of the room remained in disciplined silence, completely indifferent to his confusion.
Except for Reinhardt.
A slight smirk flickered across the giant's face, but it didn't last long. His expression turned solemn as he faced the woman on the throne and bowed his head stiffly.
"We are ready, Commander."
Her head rested on a hand propped against the iron armrest, as if the entire world were a boring thing beneath her.
The woman didn't say a word.
She stood.
The sharp clink of her steel boots graced the stone floor. Reinhardt stepped aside, giving the "commoners" beneath her a full view of her visage.
Is it possible for silence to grow even more silent? Hiro wondered.
That was the only way to describe the atmosphere. To Hiro, she was like an exquisite painting at a high-end auction—except now, the painting had come alive. Her dainty red lips parted slightly.
"Tonight."
The voice echoed across the cavernous room. She raised her arms as if she wanted to embrace the very air in front of her.
"We welcome our new brothers."
She clenched her right hand into a fist.
"Tonight. We find salvation in the marrow of the heretics."
She scanned the room. Through the ash-bound mask, Hiro felt her gaze penetrate his eyes.
"And tomorrow, we shall remain unvanquished."
She slammed her right fist onto her left shoulder and shouted:
"Without hope! Without fear!"
A thundering roar of voices and the rhythmic beat of steel echoed through the room as hundreds of black-armored men followed her lead.
"WITHOUT HOPE! WITHOUT FEAR!"
She waited until the fiery echoes died down, then gave a sharp signal to Reinhardt.
"Start."
"At once, Commander!" Reinhardt complied as if he'd been personally blessed by the Emperor himself.
He signaled the clergy.
With a heavy, grinding sound, they heaved the stone lids off the sarcophagi. Immediately, a thick, suffocating cloud of incense and chemical vapor washed over the room.
Hiro, watching from the back of the line, was on the verge of a total meltdown. His Kaizen litany was no longer working; the absurdity had officially breached his mental defenses. He watched as his coworkers were injected with an ominous, glowing golden liquid by the masked clergy.
He stood frozen as, one by one, they willingly stepped into the stone coffins.
Clang.
The lids were sealed shut. The clergy began a low, melodious chant in a strange, guttural language Hiro had never heard. It didn't sound like a prayer; it sounded like a machine starting up.
Are we going to be buried alive? Hiro's mind raced. Could I just run now?
Groan.
The clergy reopened the lids of the sarcophagi.
His coworkers stepped out of the stone boxes, their boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Hiro squinted, leaning forward to inspect the "finished product."
Nothing had changed. They looked exactly the same as they did before they went in. No extra limbs, no sharingan eyes, no visible upgrades.
They just looked a bit paler—a sickly, washed-out shade—and there was a strange, unfocused glint in their eyes. But that was all. Whatever the "Stiffening" was, the side effects were subtle to the naked eye.
Reinhardt told them to don their helmets and join the ocean of black armor waiting behind. The procession moved steadily until only three remained: Hiro, John, and the Blond Man.
The clergy approached them, syringes raised like holy relics. The golden liquid inside shimmered with a glow that made Hiro wince. In all his forty years of life—across two different worlds—he had never seen a "medication" that looked like liquid sunlight and tasted like ozone in the back of his throat.
Grit.
The Blond Man—gritted his teeth. An oppressive, heavy aura suddenly encased them, thick enough to make the air vibrate. It felt like the atmospheric pressure had tripled in a heartbeat.
The clergy stepped back, their hands trembling so violently the needles rattled.