March 28, 1924.
Somewhere along the United States West Coast.
Beneath the shelter of a sprawling oak, Leo and the old veteran sat shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the hazy, rain-swept landscape. The acrid smoke from their cigarettes mingled with the petrichor of the storm.
"Old timer," Leo began, "have you ever come across a white male, around twenty-five years old, with a red skull tattooed on his neck?"
"A red skull on the neck..." The veteran shook his head slowly. "No, can't say I have. But anyone with a tattoo like that doesn't sound like the church-going type."
Leo's reply was flat, devoid of warmth. "He certainly isn't. He owes me a debt of blood, and I'm on my way to collect."
"America's a big place, son. Finding one man is like finding a needle in a haystack."
"I have reliable intel. He's suspected to be in San Francisco."
"San Francisco, eh? God, I'd love to see San Francisco again—if only my left leg was still attached to my body."
As he spoke, the veteran instinctively reached down to rub his left thigh. Below the knee, the pant leg hung limp and empty, swaying slightly in the damp breeze.
Leo glanced sideways at the stump. "How did you lose it?"
The veteran's expression remained calm, almost detached. "August 1918. The Second Battle of the Marne. A Jerry shell sent me flying. By the time I woke up, my leg was already gone, left somewhere in the mud."
Leo shrugged. "To be blown away by artillery and still make it home breathing? You're luckier than most."
The veteran cracked a wide, optimistic grin. "You're damn right! Coming home alive is the only luck that matters! Out of all the boys from my town who shipped out, only Tom and I made it back."
He turned his head to look at the figure lying beside him.
Curled up on the ground was a young man, skin stretched tight over bone, his back turned to them. He had his face buried in the crook of his arm, apparently fast asleep.
"That's Tom?" Leo asked.
The veteran nodded. "Yeah. My neighbor, and my best friend. He was luckier than me, in a way—came back from the war without a scratch on him."
The veteran's smile faltered. "But... his mind didn't make it back whole. He took to the bottle to drown out the noise. Just last week, he drank himself into a coma in some alleyway."
He let out a heavy sigh. "Doctors said his liver is shot from all the bootleg moonshine. Said he was a lost cause... I just wanted to get him back to our hometown while he was still breathing."
Though his voice remained steady, the veteran began puffing on his cigarette with frantic intensity.
Outside the canopy of the tree, the rain began to taper off.
"Looks like the storm's breaking. Well, Chinaman, I should get moving. It was good talking to you. Maybe our paths will cross again."
Leo smiled and nodded. "Safe travels, soldier."
The veteran turned and gently shook the sleeping figure. "Tom. Wake up. Time to move out. Tom? Hey, Tom! Wake up!"
The rising panic in the veteran's voice alerted Leo. He leaned in closer.
Tom lay still, curled in the fetal position, his lips a pale, waxy purple. To the untrained eye, he looked peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping... truly, just sleeping.
The veteran placed a trembling hand on Tom's neck, checked for a pulse, and then let his head drop.
"He's gone... God dammit, Tom. Couldn't you hold on a little longer? You survived the trenches, you survived the gas, but you couldn't survive the trip home? We were almost there..."
His best friend lay dead at his feet, yet the veteran remained strangely composed. His face was blank, his tone flat. It wasn't the calm of acceptance; it was the eerie numbness of a man who had seen too much death to feel it anymore.
Leo flicked his cigarette butt into a puddle and patted the veteran's shoulder. "My condolences. You did everything you could."
The veteran shook his head. "I knew this was coming. It's just... the war is over, yet I'm still burying brothers. Dying out here in the middle of nowhere, without even a priest to send him off... it's pathetic."
Leo straightened his posture, his expression shifting to one of solemnity. "Old timer, let's send Tom off properly. It must be fate, because as it happens, there is a priest right here."
From his pocket, Leo produced a silver crucifix necklace and a small vial of holy oil—in reality, just common olive oil.
The veteran looked up, stunned. "You? A priest?"
"That's right. Genuine article."
Leo smiled and unbuttoned his khaki trench coat, letting it slide off his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a pristine white clerical collar and a black cassock, double-breasted with a tailored waist—the unmistakable vestments of the clergy.
"Come on, help me position him. Let's make him presentable."
Seeing the crucifix, the oil, and the cassock, the veteran's doubt evaporated, replaced by a sudden reverence. He obeyed immediately, and together they laid Tom out flat on the damp earth.
Leo knelt beside the body, holding the crucifix to his chest. He fixed his gaze on Tom's pale face and began to speak, his voice resonating with practiced authority.
"Father, the Savior made a covenant with us. 'I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.'"
"Merciful Father, this man has been called by You to return from this world to Your side. We ask that You keep Your promise and welcome him into Your Kingdom."
"May he be released from sin, and join those welcomed into the eternal light, to rise again in the glory of resurrection!"
Leo dipped his right thumb into the oil and traced the sign of the cross on Tom's forehead.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."
[Ding! Performed Anointing of the Sick. Roleplay Success: "Priest"]
["Priest" Proficiency: 98% -> 101%]
["Priest" Level Up! Lv.2 -> Lv.3]
["Priest" Current Proficiency: 1%]
[New Role Unlocked: Berserker]
[New Skill Acquired: Lever-Action Rifle Mastery (Lv. A)]
[Skill Description: You are a master of the lever gun. Any target within 200 meters is guaranteed to be hit.]
The ritual complete, Leo slowly stood up.
Witnessing the professional grace of the rite, the veteran's last shred of skepticism vanished. He faced Tom's body and reverently crossed himself.
"So, old timer, what will you do with the body... hm?"
Leo stopped mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed as he snapped his head around to stare into the receding rain.
"...Soldier, are you carrying a weapon?"
"A weapon? I'm destitute, son. If I had a gun, I would have sold it for food weeks ago... Why?"
The veteran was slow to catch on. He frowned and followed Leo's gaze.
Emerging from the mist, four young white men were striding toward them, their boots splashing heavily in the mud. They were a ragged bunch—disheveled hair, torn clothes, and wild eyes.
It was a motley crew: one tall, one short, one fat, one thin. Their pupils were dilated and cloudy—the tell-tale sign of men who spent their days chasing the dragon or smoking hashish.
One look confirmed they weren't here to hide from the rain. They wore twisted grins and carried baseball bats stained with old, dark flaking rust... or blood.
The veteran gripped his cane, his face hardening.
Leo, however, remained calm. He leisurely packed away his holy oil and crucifix, then stepped back toward his luggage.
The four men entered the shade of the tree. The leader, the thin one, scanned the area. When his eyes landed on Leo, his expression split into a look of delighted malice.
"Hey! Boys, look what we have here! A Ching-chong! And would you look at that? He's playing dress-up as a priest! A cripple and a bug... what a perfect pair!"
His companions erupted into raucous laughter, their eyes sliding over Leo with a bizarre mix of amusement and hunger—like a cat toying with a trapped mouse.
The veteran's face darkened. He struggled to his feet, leaning on his cane. "Hey, watch your mouth, kid! I was killing Jerries in France while you were still wetting the bed!"
The fat one shrugged, sneering. "So? What do you want, a medal? Do you want me to say, 'Oh, thank you for your service, let me kiss your lily-white ass'?"
The short one cut in impatiently. "Enough talk! Hey, cripple! And you, Ching-chong! Empty your pockets! Now!"
The tall one pushed to the front, unable to contain himself. "Move! I can't wait anymore! Let's beat the bug to death first, then strip the cash off his corpse!"
He glared at Leo with undisguised hatred. "It's all because of you damn Ching-chongs! You come here, steal our jobs, and leave us on the streets! Mama was right, you're a plague! The only good Ching-chong is a dead one!"
He swung his bat in a practice arc, taking a batter's stance.
The thin leader patted the tall one on the back, snickering. "Easy, brother. We've got all day. It's rare we catch a bug this far out. Let's play a few innings of 'Bug Baseball.' It's been a while!"
The others cheered in agreement.
The accent was thick and unmistakable. Irish.
In 1920s America, the tension between the Irish working class and Chinese immigrants was a powder keg. The Chinese, known for working harder for less pay, were viewed with venomous hostility by those who felt their livelihoods were being stolen.
The four men stared at Leo, waiting for the fear. They wanted to see him tremble, to see him beg.
They were disappointed.
Neither the slurs nor the threats seemed to register. Leo stood there with the indifference of a man watching paint dry.
He looked at the four men, his gaze heavy, and slowly recited a verse from the Book of Job:
"Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward."
The thin man raised an eyebrow. "The bug knows the Bible? You got that right, pal. Running into us is the worst trouble you'll ever find."
Leo smiled gently and shook his head.
"No. I wasn't talking about me. I was talking about you. I am the trouble."
He reached down and picked up a long, cloth-wrapped bundle from his luggage.
Seeing the shape, the four thugs flinched, assuming it was a rifle.
"Relax. It's not a gun."
Leo pulled the cloth away, revealing a weapon housed in a matte black scabbard. It had a straight handle but a long, curved blade. The hilt was simple, utilitarian.
The thin man blinked. "A katana? A Samurai sword?"
"No," Leo said coolly, his hand resting on the hilt. "This isn't a katana. It's a General Qi's Saber. Think of it as a hybrid—the curved blade of the Japanese sword combined with the handling and hilt of a Chinese straight sword. It possesses the cutting power of the former, and the versatile technique of the latter."