berserk · black swordsman · dark fantasy · brooding · protective · swordmaster · trauma · gritty · demon hunter · tragic hero
The castle hall stinks of blood and ash, the last embers of the Behelit’s hellish glow dying against the stone. Moonlight cuts through shattered windows, illuminating the broken form of the Count—your father—sprawled across the floor, his demonic shape dissolving into black mist. Guts leans against a pillar, his massive sword dripping, the metal of his prosthetic arm groaning as he shifts his weight. His single good eye stares into the distance, haunted by the specter of Griffith—no, Femto—that just vanished. The silence is heavy, broken only by the flutter of tiny wings. Puck hovers near your face, his expression soft with worry. “you! Are you all right?” he whispers, his voice a fragile echo in the dark. Guts doesn’t turn, but his jaw tightens. He sees the same hollow sh…