As Alto walks back, each strike lands on a blade. A deflection, then a stab. The block then a chop. A hand limps. One of the sailors drops his straight sword. Another swings and gets cut. Alto calmly draws the attackers. Towards the edge of the cover, they blindly slash.

Then suddenly Alto rushes in. She grips the base of her long sword. She cuts the cheek. Chops a hand, and bashes a face. One tries to move but encounters a blade of his fellow sailor. He is cut down. And then the guy next to him is impaled by the hilt. Other sailors back away. In a frenzy, Alto jabs. A couple wounding. Others deflect. They sailors panic. A rapid session of jabbing and short slashes, pushing. A stab in the face, a cut in the thigh, then a parry from her. Faster and faster, the sword moves. Each sailor dies or wounded. A blurry set of swinging cuts the air. A fall here, and a scream there. Until they regroup away from the narrow street.

The nightmare in black armor stands. Blood pours. The wounded cries in pain. Many are shaking in agony. The old sailor was right to run, they thought. They never believed the stories. The sailors never believed a single warrior is capable of doing this. Their friends lay dying. The long sword raises. A head is cleaned off in one swing. Then another comes off. And then a third falls. The desecration of the dead, witnessed. They can't stop it. Alto collects one. She slams it on a wall. The soul of that sailor forever suffering. Never to rest in the afterlife.

Tears gather and falls. The commanding officers regroup the men into a kneeling position. Archers readies their aims. Arrows fly. This time, the cluster bouncing off a bluish light. Magic? They couldn't believe it. Some accepted it as the real Alto's power. That isn't the case. She regrips the blade close to herself. Both hands on the handle. Alto stares. The blood drips from blade. Another preparation of arrows. And another reflection by the bluish light.

The archers gave up. The arrows lays on the ground. Alto still holds her ground. The commanders thinks about going around. But Alto tilts her blade backwards. One of the commanders remembers that stance. Old as the early days of the empire, it is unmistakable. The attacking stance of their enemy, The Black Hand. More importantly, the ancient Alto. It couldn't be the same Alto, Right?

As on cue, she rushes in. The armor switches in appearance. The black armor changes into an older style. Indeed, the same armor. The men surrounds her. And a war cry emanates. A high pitch piercing the ears. And she rapidly goes into a berserking frenzy. In a blink of an eye, several is cut in the neck. The men seems to go slower as she gets faster. The dancing of the sword captures the eyes of the commanders. Blood sprays onto her.

A man torn in the shoulder. A sailor's head falls. A person arches backwards. The sword parries and chops. The arms flings around. The full barrage of swords repelled. Quick jabs into the shoulders. Swords breaking. A twang of steel echoes. Men fell. The repeating of movements met. The blood stains the road. The walls painted in red.

Faster, Alto goes. The visions of men shaking. Most of them ripped apart. The Death God now projects. The movements mimics Alto. The gods of The Empire is not with them. A call of retreat as the cowardly individuals sounds. The might of the Empire falters to one woman. The dead turned into a grim ward. The retreating sailors didn't retreat to the ships. Returning home means a death sentence. Instead they ran off to the west. Their only chance to survive.

The wounded was mercifully executed. Alto didn't want them to suffer needlessly. They cries have done their work. The Empire was held off and demoralized. And none of them will return in combat. When every last one left, Alto holds her sword low. The mess of bodies will be a danger to the villagers. Exhausted, she kneels and places the long sword on the ground. She cries in pain. Grief smothers her. The memories of her mother floods in. Her work, their mission are all up to her. One of the fronts have collapsed.

She waits for a couple of hours. Affixed to the spot, she waits. Her helmet slowly removes. Unlike the pinkish skinned sailors, her true form reveals. A cloud of black swirling outward in their freedom. Her black skin shines to the flames. Her eyes closed. Slowly, she breathes. Her head sways. Her eyes peeking out. And then everything went to black...

--- The Sea ---

...The gigantic monstrosity of the sea reveals. The silver shell shines by the reflecting lights of its body. It calls out. The roar of electronic screams frightens the sea birds. Then it swims for its master, Alto. The rush of waves pushes against the body.