As far as the eye could see, bodies lay scattered across a desolate wasteland, which was once a town. Western Village, it was called. And so it came to be destroyed- no, turned into a town-sized graveyard, as the hand of war struck cruelly upon it. Among this wreckage, a young man rises to his feet among the rubble of a destroyed house, dressed in brown clothing, featuring some cloth armor with no sleeves, slightly puffed pants suited for combat, and shoes bound by bandages. His most notable two features, however, are his large circular hat and incredibly large claws attached to his hands as weapons.
"W-Wait..." he mutters weakly, but to whom is unknown, as he's the only visible one around alive so far. Barely having any life in him at all, he moves forward like an empty shell, as if there's an invisible force pulling him. After coughing up some blood, he gives in to his injuries and drops face first into the sand, which quickly becomes stained in the red liquid seeping from underneath his clothes.
Using his last bit of strength, he turns himself over and gazes blankly into the pure blue sky. How unfitting for such destruction as what this place was subjected to.
In the background, he hears people call to him, but those voices also become drowned out in time. He finally closes his eyes as the owners of the voices calling to him finally gather around his weak self.
"How... could it have gone this way...? Everyone. I'm sorry. So, so sorry..." he thinks to himself, and his life starts to flash before his eyes...
And thus, the story will be told from the very beginning...