Matteo sat alone in the snow.
The rest of the convoy had long vanished over the ridge, swallowed by the storm.
For a while, there was only wind… and silence.
Then a dry chuckle escaped him.
Low at first. Then louder.
"Heh... hehehe… HEHEHEHE—!"
He laughed until it broke into a breathless cough. He clutched his chest, pain splintering through his ribs.
They left him behind.
The Titan's approach shook the world. Each step a death sentence.
Matteo slammed his fist into the snow. "Those two-faced bastards!!"
His voice echoed through the frozen clearing. He had fought for them—bled for them. Took the worst assignments without complaint. Even joked along the way.
And now?
This was the thanks he got?
Betrayal. Suspicion. Abandonment.
Just like Earth.
"Guess some things never change," he whispered bitterly.
People feared what they couldn't control. And no one feared more than those in power. To them, Matteo was a wild card. A threat. A ticking bomb.
An overpowered madman waiting to explode.
He sat up, trembling.
Tears rolled down his cheeks only to freeze the moment they hit skin. His limbs were numb. His breath short. The frost gnawed at his flesh.
"Damn it... I don't want to die yet..."
From beneath his shirt, the mask slipped free.
The last memento of a twisted childhood. Its painted grin gleamed faintly in the stormlight.
He stared at it.
Would it even help?
Even with the mask, a Titan was too much. It would be suicide.
But what other choice was there?
The snow thickened. His vision blurred.
Then—a sound.
Crunching snow. Steady. Calm.
From the veil of white, a figure emerged.
An old man.
His robes were pitch black, fluttering in the wind. Two long horns curved from his forehead, and a half-scarf covered his weathered face. His skin was red like desert clay. A sword rested at his hip, sheathed in deep blue steel.
Matteo blinked.
Why wasn't he cold?
Why did he feel... safe?
The Titan stepped forward. Its silhouette eclipsed the sky. Earth shuddered. Death loomed.
Matteo stumbled to his feet.
"Gotta... get away..." he muttered, barely holding himself up.
He took one step.
Then another.
His body gave out.
His knees buckled.
But before he hit the ground—a hand caught him.
Firm. Gentle.
"My, what tenacity…" the old man murmured. "Great body too... Hah."
He steadied Matteo with one arm and drew his sword with the other. One smooth motion.
The blade sliced upward like a calligrapher's brush—elegant, deliberate.
A single stroke.
Far behind them, the Titan froze.
Then split diagonally—toppling with a sound like thunder, a massive scar running across its torso.
Matteo's eyes widened.
Then… everything went black.
---
He dreamt.
Of a boy with a mask.
His teenage self—trapped in a holding cell after nearly killing a freshly awakened bully.
He hadn't meant to lose control. But the mask had taken over. It always did.
He remembered the screams. The officers trying to pry the mask away. No one could. Eventually, they stopped trying.
He served time. Quietly. Silently.
No visitors. No sympathy.
For a while… he'd even thought about ending it all.
But then the mask whispered again.
"Where's the fun in that?"
And strangely, he agreed.
If life wouldn't give him fairness, he'd steal it.
If the world rejected him, he'd outlive it.
So he carved out a new dream.
Survive.
Build strength in secret.
Hide his power.
Escape the system.
He learned to cook. To craft. To mix drinks. He learned how to lie, how to fight dirty, how to disappear. The streets taught him more than school ever did.
Eventually, he landed a job at The Serpent's Pint. A bartender by day. A ghost by night.
No records. No family. Just him… and the mask.
---
He awoke to the smell of roasted meat and sunlight on his skin.
Matteo sat up slowly. His body ached. Bandages wrapped across his chest and arms. His shirt had been removed, revealing the tattoo on his skin.
A faint Roman clock, burned into his collarbone and spiraling around his torso. Its numerals slowly rotated in a perfect cycle. Ticking softly against a black triangle that pointed like a hand. Circling an embedded glyph-like circle in the center.
The mark—his stigma. Branded onto him the first time he truly bonded with the mask.
A part of him always knew… it was more than just decoration.
He touched the edge of the triangle.
The clock kept ticking.
"...Still here, huh?"
Then—
"Grandpa! Grandpa! The unkul is awake!"
The high-pitched voice made Matteo flinch.
A little girl with red skin, massive golden eyes, and flowing white hair ran past the open doorway. Her long hair trailed behind her like silk—almost longer than she was tall.
She looked… like a tiny demon princess.
Matteo blinked. "...Okay?"
Moments later, he appeared.
The old man from the snow.
He ducked under the wooden doorway and entered with a quiet grace.
"Good. You're awake," he said simply.
His golden eyes flickered in the morning light. His horned silhouette still imposing despite his shrunken frame.
"You… saved me," Matteo muttered, still groggy. "Why?"
The old man waved a hand. "It was nothing."
He turned to look out the window, eyes narrowing toward the horizon.
"That Titan was one of the weaker ones anyway."