Prologue
It started on a white day, in a world dyed white.
Snowflakes fell from the sky, unhastening. The sky was equally white with the snow, a compact opacity undecipherable by the human eye.
Snowflakes fell slowly, their graceful swaying imitating nothing but the fall of scarlett sakura petals. They landed in unison, laying a frosted carpet atop the mud and concrete. The wind hymned cheerily, even festively, carrying the coldness to horizon and beyond.
Cold. It was cold, so cold to send constant shivers up your spine, penetrating your thoughts until
you dream of nothing but a fireplace, and fight for nothing but that.
On the streets of Haven, not many were seen. That was typical-on such a freezing day, most would put aside what they were doing and instead opt for the tight embrace of their mattresses. Those who must venture into the snow were whisked to the destination smugly in private or public vehicles.
There was but one person. A figure clad in white, brighter and purer than snow under sunlight, trod slowly along the snow-covered walkway. His face was obscured by the snow, but one could infer from his nonchalant pace his steadiness and determination.
The snow-laid ground, squishy and quite comfortable to step on, nonetheless made his boots sodden and his feet wet. He seemed not to care, and continued his unhurried walk.
If one panned in closer he would have noticed anomalies on this queer person; for one thing, his coat was of authentic fur, silvery and smooth with a weird feel of sharpness. A few long objects were strapped to his back; pointed with an edge of ferocity.
However, with such low visibility no one could make out what he was composed of. So they naturally waved him away with queer, disbelieving glances.
Alone he trod, a white loner in a white world. For long, unnerving moments it seemed that he was wandering nowhere. It wasn't until much later, when the dazzling neon lights of the Coliseum emanating fiercely could be recognized, than his intention was clear.
Coliseum. And not a mere Coliseum, but the greatest and grandest in all Haven-presumably also in the whole world. Even in the darkest conditions this majestic structure still opened loyally to the top-notch battle fanatics in the city.
Yet what was he, a random person, doing? Did he meant to barge into the fray, where the best of Cradle competed? Nonsense.
Yet he was here, stepping into the Coliseum in his usual, slow pace. The service lady at the counter growled when she saw the wet footmarks he left on the registration hall's futuristic fluorescent floor.
The white guy readily approached the service counter. And when he was face-to-face to the service lady he asked, "This is Lockdown? I would like to sign up for the next match."
The service lady frowned. Not only did he pull his hood so low that half of his face was hidden, but his costume was so rare and archaic that it was almost beyond recognition. She traced faintly from her memory-was that somehow a Skolver Coat? She had only seen such a piece of gear in movies. Old school movies.
"Who are you? You do realise that you've just entered a professional-level Coliseum, don't you?"
"I know the situation perfectly well. And I would like to sign up for the next match." He spoke, his voice cold and unyielding as the melting snow coated on him.
Seriously, that was one strange person, the lady had to admit. Even after meeting so many weirdos and fanatics in this place, her nerves were still aroused by this oddity. Fine, not to care so much, let him just have a game. A famous proverb said: "The queerest is always the coolest" anyway.
She followed the standard procedure, "Please show your personal identification to sign up."
He obliged, and detached to hand her a silvery ring from his index finger. It was without any etchings and patterns, save for a delicate "S" carved shallow into it. The lady grabbed the ring, sent it to the scanner, and waited for a while. The computer responded soon, but perplexing its answer.
"Access denied. Enter passcode for access."
Strange, she thought. Confused, she handed him the ring, and asked, "I can't sign you in by the computer. Can you give me your name and occupation so I can register manually?"
The white stranger paused briefly, then answered, "Lance. I am a...Striker."
"Striker?" the lady apparently did not understand.
"Yep. Striker. The Edge of the Blade. The Wings of Skylark." the stranger orated calmly, in a matter-of-fact kind of way.
Well, Striker it is, the lady typed the word in, grumbling. "What weapons are you using?"
"Swords." pride seeped from his well-masked, calm tone.
"Wait! You don't mean you are going to use…" she eyed quizzically at the things protruding from his back. Those pointy stuff?
Without answering or even a slight gesture, Lance went on into the ready room, disappearing from her eyes. Yet before he left, she spotted something; a faint, enigmatic smile.
If she had more sense she would have identified that one of the swords he carried was previously known as the Divine Avenger.