Today, it felt as if a hole had been punched in the sky. The alleys of Timbuktu, where the July rainy season had arrived, had turned into massive mud pools. The low outer walls of the manors, built from firmly kneaded earth, were raising the white flag and slowly melting away under the relentless downpour that had lasted for days. Even in this stagnant season when soldiers rested at the garrison, Guest patrolled the red alleys alone, the weight of his wet leather armor bearing down on his shoulders.

Rainwater ran down his lustrous, obsidian-like skin and dripped from his chin. Raindrops incessantly struck the bronze ornaments of the African spear in his hand, creating a metallic rhythm.

The heavy rain pressing down on his head naturally summoned a day from the past.

It was a few years ago, on a day when the rain fell just as fiercely as this. The former guard commander, whom Guest respected and followed, offered upright advice to the Emperor out of concern for the Empire's welfare. But what returned was not praise. It would have been better if something had just been thrown at him. At a single stroke of Emperor Sonni Ali's fickle rage, the soldier who had dedicated his life to the Empire had his head taken on a rain-soaked execution block. Timbuktu's alleys always turned red when it rained. And that always gave him an unpleasant illusion.

His skepticism deepened as he came to serve his direct superior, General Ture. Unlike Ture, who held a grand cause for the people, the Emperor prioritized his own moods and intuition over the future of the Empire. He shook his head and kept walking.

It was then.

Thud, rumble...

Through the sound of the rain, the damp noise of a mud wall heavily collapsing echoed from the corner of the maze-like alley.

Guest instinctively turned his body. In the courtyard of a grand manor, beneath the pouring rain clouds, the shape of a massive hiding place concealed within the gaps of the collapsed red mud wall was revealed.