Gentle popping and white noise flowed in the canals of his ears. This slowly transformed into a sense of hearing that stirred the Seraph to shiver. His body was cold, and the night time air aided in a resultant violent shiver as brine spewed from his mouth. Hoffmann violently gagged and inhaled in his panic, swallowing sand in the moment of realization that his lungs demanded oxygen.

Cold tide washes up,

Dragging with it, icy sea foam

My body never warm again.

Directly fighting the urge to give into the shock and pass out, Hoffmann silently laughed, his lungs too given out with sea water and traumatic collapse from the gunshot prior to bother spending energy on a chuckle. The sand, the topography and the flora on the beach told him all he needed to know, and he couldn’t help but dream a haiku in his mind. He has washed ashore in Japan.

Oh well. He made it. He can stare at the stars, somewhat, and…

The dullness in his senses was interrupted by a figure looming overhead, blocking out the Moon. Unable to make it out entirely, Hoffmann dared to roll over, inciting a fresh and raw spasm of pain through his chest that resulted in blood spraying from his mouth onto the black clad boots of the figure.

Hoffmann hardly had the energy to stop them, nor the capacity to care, as they picked Hoffmann up with hands that suggested this man was truly giant. Their palms resembled spades in texture and size.

...Hoffmann gave a slow nod, and one slip of consciousness later, he found himself warm and seemingly vital. A breath free of effort gave him pause, and Hoffmann’s bioluminescent red eyes glinted as they adjusted to the dark room.

‘The good news’, Hoffmann thought. ‘I’m not dead, and I’m in...a bed’. He felt the silk sheets, laid with care and pleasantly cool. The smell of fresh wood relaxed him slightly as he sat up. His chest wound was closed, and he still felt difficulty breathing, but the bleeding was gone.

Exhaustion overtakes him as he feels nothing but the capacity to sleep. The large man had brought him to this place, seemingly, and was of no threat. ‘Not as if I can do much if he decides to attack,’ Hoffmann thought, as he passed out once again.

A bong of the musical variety snapped Hoffmann free of his second bout of rest as a warm, pleasant scent wafted into the room. Hoffmann gathered himself and inhaled heavily and laboriously, managing his body upright.

Another loud bong, and Hoffmann’s eyes tracked the motion of the man from the night before. He was standing outside, and Hoffmann peered down at the man through a second story height window. His breath held in the presence. The man must have been at least 7 feet in height, and for being clad in a dull black cloak, gauntlets, and a mask, it was impossible to tell age nor race.

The bong had announced, seemingly, the beginning of a tea ceremony. Confused, but curious, and now finding enough strength to stir and dress himself, Hoffmann slipped on the black kimono that the man had seemingly left on the floor.

Stumbling through the dark rooms, Hoffmann entered a secluded and well built living room. The wood walls, slightly worn and pitted, were traced by his fingers. The room had an odd oblong circular shape, and was scantily adorned by furniture, such as felt sofas. A kitchen opposite the room burbled and clanked quietly as steam drifted.

The door clunked from its housing as it stuck slightly, and Hoffmann budged it open to find himself coming down a flight of wooden stairs. Wood here, wood there...Finding himself in shock, Hoffmann realized upon looking up that the home he found himself in was in fact a tree. A truly gigantic tree, easily some 200 meters high, the house within carved directly from the body of the wood. It was adorned with windows and balconies aplenty - a fully living structure.

Whilst giving the home his full attention, Hoffmann had inadvertently backed into a wall. Turning to face it, he found it was no wall; it was the masked man he had met the day before. He gently flinched at his presence...and the mask. It was a ruddy, deep crimson mask in the shape of a skull, if stylized with human teeth which were chipped, jagged and sharp, as if broken.

“Who are you? Can you understand my English?”

“Yes...I understand.” replied the masked giant.

“That accent indicates you are Japanese. But there is clearly more to you.”

“Your accent tells me...you are German. But similarly, there is…more to you.” says the masked man.

The Japanese warrior’s speech was deliberate and slow. Wrapped in a charcoal black robe of a distinctive lack of sheen, it appeared to be somewhat old.

“My name is Eginhardt Hoffmann…”

“I am Xinobu...Nobunaga. You may...call me Xin...in time.”

Hoffmann raised an eyebrow.

“In time? What, are we dating now?”

“...Buddha, I hope not.” quipped the warrior.

Hoffmann gave a smirk at the absurdity of the situation. Here he is, a fugitive human reborn as a Seraphic warlord, on the run in Japan, bumping into a giant, seemingly supernatural warrior clad in as much black as I am.

Said warrior took his gauntlet to Hoffmann’s forehead, flicking it to garner attention as Hoffmann became aware of how severe his dull, throbbing headache was.

“What was that for!?”

“You nearly died in my arms. Had to heal you...for hours. You must focus. You have...a mission.” replied Xin.

The wrinkle on Hoffmann’s face was readily apparent. How the Hell does this Xin guy know what I am up to? thought Hoffmann.

Xin, reading his expression, replied. “You come here washed ashore...You come here with blade...You come here with divinity in you. You are clearly not a normal man.”

Flinching slightly, Hoffmann felt for his hip. His sword! The saber he had taken with him as a makeshift melee weapon. His guns, too, were seemingly gone. Were they not drifting in the ocean by now, Hoffmann cursed himself as he realized he would have to discard all of it regardless due to contamination from the ocean’s grimy salt water.

“...Yes. I cannot disagree with any of that. What of my blade?”

“Save it, I could not. Rusted and chipped. I discarded it.” Xin said.

“I see. How did you heal my wounds?”“A sohei I am. Holy healing is in my blood. It has been so since my family...formed in the 1500’s.”

Hoffmann took care to listen to the infliction and pronunciation of the man’s words. Based on the tone, he must be somewhat old for a human, perhaps in his 50’s.

“The 1500’s. That was during the time of the great civil war. You are a samurai?”

The sohei paused for a quick chuckle. “Far from it. I am a man of the shinto faith, but not a warrior. Faith builds the body. Samurai destroy it. They think...destroying the body frees the soul.”

“That would explain their actions in the war…” Hoffmann gave a somewhat dejected reply. “I am in Japan, right?”

“Yes...Kyoto prefecture...some 2 days travel by oxen cart from it.”

“...I’m sorry? Ox cart? Where is your car? Or public transit?”

The sohei warrior laughed once again, free-spirited and excluded from worry.

“You made me laugh twice in as many minutes!”

“That’s...all good and well, but, where am I to stay? Is there a hotel or-”

Hoffmann was interrupted by a wooden handle flashing by his face, on a mission to bop him over the head for his comment. The Sohei barely appeared to move.

“OW! You son of a b- what was that for!?” exclaimed the now headache-induced Seraph.

“Hotel, no need. Apartments, dirty, and landlords think they are Heaven and Earth. You stay here.”

“...That’s quite generous of you.”

“Not free.” replied the holy warrior, who gestured under his robe to a patch of garden.

“Wash dishes. Tend to garden as I show you. No money. No need.”

“Basic chores...well. Beats the alternative. Deal.” said Hoffmann.

He could feel the shining smile behind that mask. He couldn’t help but ponder how such a man lived like this. Little if any money, no utilities, in the midst of nowhere. A two day trip to the nearest city by ox...Hoffmann performs rough calculations in his head, and finds that a two day trip by ox is somewhere between the length of “Short” and “Trivial” for someone with wings.

“Excuse me, but, do you have a map? I need to get to Kyoto.”

“Need? Bah. Need? All you need is yourself. You have time. It is your all-”

“LOOK - you ridiculous old sodding - I need to get on my feet! I have things to do! Just tell me where I can find a damn map, or you can tend to your own stupid pebbles!”

Hoffmann stood and twisted his face in indignation as the Sohei remained still. He nods to Hoffmann, lowering his head in apparent apology.

“Forgive me for that. I will see to it you are fulfilled in your task. You have that in your heart, I know it. You may take my map. Return as you see fit.”

“I...urgh. Fine. Hand it over.”

The Sohei slips a rough chiseled hand into his cloak, ruffling about before giving Hoffmann a parchment map.

“Thanks. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Xinobu nodded as Hoffmann leapt to his feet, swishing about in the air lazily until he got a hang of his winged flight for some distance. An hour passes in lazy flight, Hoffmann’s shadow darting over the treetops. He waited until he was clear of the dominant tree, sliding to a stop in a rather haphazard fashion as he slid on his belly rather than landing on his feet, tearing the kimono he was wearing at the seams.

“Son of fucking - BABYLON’S WHORE - Great! Yes, let’s just walk around the old capital city of Kyoto as a pasty white dude with red eyes and no shirt on! Not suspicious at ALL, Hoffmann. Brilliant. Fucking now what.”

Hoffmann couldn’t help but feel a shred of embarrassment at tearing the kimono that the old man had provided for him. He swore vilely under his breath at his lack of thoughtfulness as he took to the sky again, his wings moving in bated motions that he can’t recall knowing beforehand. Muscle memory, it seems, would carry the day. He’s done this before.

Carry him on the winds it did, as the grand old city of Kyoto came into view. Dirty and old, alive and new, alit with as much lantern as it was with fluorescent lamp. The streets of the outskirts terminated from cobblestone worn with the ages to the paved metallic roads that glinted on below him. The centermost portion of the city was his target.

Still, Hoffmann could not ignore the majesty of the city below. It was awash with every flavor of old and new architecture mixed so much as mashed potatoes and peas - things that do not necessarily belong together but wound up as such regardless. Shinto shrines dot city parks, a monastery hums out its droning call of holy mass as monks contemplate life while an indignant businessman shouts into his landline one office building away, in close enough proximity that these two, whom share little if any in common, could communicate by throwing rocks with paper messages wrapped on them.

The idleness of Hoffmann’s gazing at the grandiose nearly cost him. He flinches in time to swerve away from a rogue telephone pole, smashing through the clothesline of a startled riverside resident as flashing reflected images of faces walking by the canal - now rushing up to meet him - yell out in panic.

Hoffmann yells in alarm as well, not knowing what the depth of water nor the likelihood he could swim adequately with wet wings weighing him down. Thinking of survival, Hoffmann activated his blaze, smashing into the canal as he superheated the air in close proximity to his body. This created a cavity around his person in a hissing, squealing bubble spray of hot foam and boiling water, like a particularly hot chunk of metal being dipped into the water, as he cut a swathe through the liquid until he was safely free of the danger arisen from striking the surface tension approaching terminal velocity.

With water overtaking his body, Hoffmann tucked his arms and wings in as he screamed through the canal, praying that this was a long enough stretch to arrest his momentum. Though it was, it was not long enough to abide the bottom half of a rigid boat, which rudely reminds Hoffmann of its presence as he bashes his head upside the raft. The pain stuns him for long enough to falter his movement, and the final thing he sees…

...Is a powerfully large hand grasping him through the water. Not final after all, Hoffmann thought, mentally reminding himself to take swimming lessons.