The power of the Vanguard armor was a humbling constant. It thrummed through Seiji's veins not as a wild, untamed magic, but as a structured, systemic potential. He could feel the locked icons in his mind's eye—twenty pillars of power waiting for a key. But raw power without knowledge was a fool's weapon. King Arthen's castle was a fortress, both in stone and in influence. A direct assault would be suicide. So, Seiji did what any strategist would do; he retreated to gather intelligence.
For days, he traveled away from the capital, the opulent spires giving way to rolling hills, then to the dense, verdant chokehold of the Aethelgard Jungle. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming strangler figs. He moved not as Ryohei Seiji, the rejected high schooler, but as Vanguard, a specter in the undergrowth. The armor, surprisingly, required no sustenance, but he did. He foraged for edible roots and clean water, his mind a whirlwind of plans and the echoing words of his Riders. "A king's power is to make the people smile," a memory of Ohma Zi-O whispered. King Arthen's rule did the opposite.
It was on the third day in the jungle's deep embrace that he heard it—a scream. Not of a beast, but a human, or humanoid, voice, sharp with agony and terror, cutting through the jungle's chorus.
His body moved before his mind fully processed it, the armor allowing him to glide through the dense foliage with preternatural silence. He emerged at the edge of a small, muddy clearing, and the scene that unfolded froze the blood in his veins.
Five royal knights, their gleaming lion-crested plate armor a grotesque mockery of chivalry, stood laughing. Three elf girls, their skin the color of sun-kissed birch and their ears elegantly tapered, were shackled in cold iron chains. Their clothes were torn, their bodies bruised and bleeding from vicious lash marks. Two of the knights held one of the elves pinned against a thick tree trunk, her struggles feeble against their strength. The leader, a man with a boar-like face and a captain's plume on his helmet, was unbuckling his belt, a cruel, anticipatory smile on his lips.
"Fight all you want, leaf-eater," the captain grunted, backhanding her across the face. "The tax on your village wasn't paid. Your bodies are the currency now."
The metallic tang of blood filled the air, thick and coppery. It was a smell Seiji had never known so intimately. It wasn't the clean scent of a scraped knee; it was the stench of violation, of absolute power crushing absolute innocence.
A wave of nausea and white-hot rage threatened to overwhelm him. But beneath the human disgust, something else stirred within the Vanguard system. A primal, predatory response.
The mechanical voice, cold and precise, echoed in his cranial implant.
[Exposure to high-intensity catalyst: Scent of Fresh Blood. Emotional state: Righteous Fury. Conditions met.]
A section of his internal HUD, previously dim, flickered and blazed to life.
[Unlocking: Kamen Rider Kiva.]
An image of the fanged, vampiric hero flashed in his mind. Kiva, the warrior who wielded the power of darkness to protect, whose very theme was the clash between monstrous power and a human heart.
A slow, grim smile spread across Seiji's face, unseen beneath his helmet. The despair of his banishment, the bitterness of his rejection, and the cold fury at this injustice coalesced into a single, focused point.
"If so," he whispered, his voice a low, mechanical rasp. "Then the game begins."
He raised a hand, not in a martial arts pose, but in a commanding gesture, as if gripping the very fabric of the sky. The system responded to his will.
[Activating Kiva Emulator: Environmental Override - Night of Fang.]
The bright, dappled sunlight of the jungle clearing was snuffed out in an instant. An unnatural, profound darkness fell, as if a celestial lamp had been shattered. The air grew cold. The jungle sounds ceased, the very world holding its breath.
The knights froze. The captain stumbled back from the elf, fumbling with his breeches. "What sorcery is this?" he bellowed, his voice tinged with fear. He drew his sword, the steel scraping loudly in the sudden silence. "Who's there? Show yourself!"
From the impenetrable shadows between the trees, a figure emerged. Vanguard stood, his black and crimson armor seeming to drink the scant light. The crimson dragon on his chest pulsed like an angry heart.
"Come out here, demon!" a younger knight shouted, his voice cracking.
The answer was not a word, but an action. Seiji's mind selected the command from Kiva's arsenal. He crouched, then launched himself vertically into the air, vanishing into the oppressive gloom above.
"Where did he go? Look up!" the captain yelled.
They stared into the abyss above. For a heart-stopping moment, there was nothing.
Then, a single crimson light appeared, like a falling star of pure malice. It was the sole red eye of Vanguard's helmet, and it was hurtling directly toward them. Vanguard flew down, legs together, around his ankles emitted two sharp, crimson bat-shaped halos.
[Executing Kiva Finisher: Emperor Fang.]
The captain had just enough time to raise his head, his eyes wide with terror, before Vanguard's boot connected with his helmeted skull. There was a sickening, wet crunch, the sound of metal and bone giving way simultaneously. The man's body convulsed violently, and then, in a burst of visceral, shocking red, it exploded. Where he had stood, a massive, intricate bat-shaped emblem was scorched into the earth, smoldering with dark energy.
Silence. Then, panic.
The remaining four knights stared, paralyzed, at the gory symbol and the scattered remains of their captain. Their bravado had evaporated, replaced by primal fear.
Vanguard landed silently in their midst. He didn't give them time to regroup. He raised his hand again.
[Kiva Power: Darkness Chain Array.]
From the shadows at his feet, dark, sinuous chains materialized, not of iron, but of solidified darkness, tipped with cruel, fang-like barbs. With a thought, he sent them lashing out. They were not mere whips; they were extensions of his wrath.
A chain wrapped around a knight's sword arm. Before he could scream, black energy crackled up the links. Blood-red marks, like vicious tattoos, spread from the point of contact across his body. He gasped, his eyes bulging, and then he detonated into a fine, crimson mist.
Another chain shot through a knight's chest plate as if it were parchment. The same result—a bloom of bloody marks and a final, silent scream before he was reduced to dust.
It was not a battle; it was an extermination. A systematic, brutal delivery of judgment. Seiji, inside the armor, felt a cold detachment. This was not the heroic showdown he had dreamed of. This was something darker, more necessary. He was the nightmare that preys on other nightmares.
Within seconds, the clearing was silent once more. The artificial night dissipated, the jungle sun returning to illuminate the scene. The smoldering bat emblem and four dissipating clouds of red dust were the only evidence of the knights. The iron chains that had bound the elves lay on the ground, severed and inert.
Seiji, his armor unmarred, took a deep, shuddering breath. The intoxicating rush of power was already fading, leaving behind the grim reality of what he had just done. He had taken lives. It was easier than he had imagined. He turned to leave, his purpose here served. The elves were free. His debt to justice, as he defined it, was paid.
He took a single step.
A small, trembling hand, slick with sweat and blood, reached out and grabbed the hem of his crimson-lined cloak.
He froze and looked down.
It was the elf girl the captain had been assaulting. Her emerald eyes, wide with a mixture of abject terror and desperate hope, were locked on him. Her body was shivering violently, but her grip on his cloak was surprisingly strong.
"P-please," she whispered, her voice raw from screaming. "Don't… don't leave us here."
She looked past him, at the empty clearing that had been a prison, then back up at his terrifying, armored visage. In her eyes, he was not a monster. He was the darkness that had saved them from a far greater evil.
Vanguard, the nightmare of the fallen, stood motionless, the weight of that small, desperate hand anchoring him to the consequences of his power.