The petals roamed through the sky as the snowy field once again returned to its peaceful self. The white snow, stained with crimson blood, was slowly getting covered again with new snow-crystals, blending in together to once again restore the serene field to its natural glory. Bullet hilts dotted the landscape, the only thing that couldn't be erased in order to hide the fierce battle that had just ended.

A young girl panted heavily as she leaned against the large mechanical scythe. A small drop of blood lingered before falling unto the white snow. Where it touched the ground the red spread, turning white into crimson. This field was scattered with Beowolves, countless ones shred into pieces. They'd been the victim of Crimson Rose, who'd sung its song. They'd heed the call of the roses petals, heed the call of the Crimson Rose. And thus Death's scythe had fulfilled its fate, the Red-Cloaked had born the Rose into battle. One by one evil had lost their lives as Crimson Rose sang its song.

They kept coming, tens of them, hundreds... but all soon fell, when the petals cloaked around the young bearer. The wind had blown and when it stopped, so did the last of evil's minions drew its last breath. The battle had been fought and Crimson Rose had shone Crimson once again.

This is the story that has been passed down into my family. The short version at least. The stories tell there were once four of them; The Red-Cloaked, The White Dancer, The Yellow Fighter and of course the Black Sword.

But their stories are being passed down by their descendants, their deeds already forgotten by humanity. But they say that one day, new people amongst their descendants will rise to take their place, when Earth once again has need of the Four.

In times where Terror will reign supreme, they will be needed. If that time dawns, I will be send by my family.

However, there is only one problem.

It has been foretold that Terror now lives among the protectors of Earth.

And that I am its incarnation.