Boundless degrees above ground, a coiling torrent of black sundered the recurrent night sky. The swirling bowel spewed forth a spiraling, human shape jetsam whose body sought concrete. The spewed body impacted the earth with a solemn thud, and lay still in its crater as moments passed.
A quiet and sparsely occupied town district served as the setting of the descent. The muddled plaza sustained one note-worthy site—two puppies, a scruffy male, and his presentable mate nesting dotingly , as displayed on the face of a neon fountain. The jetsam figure stirred slightly, and steadily eased upward.
The allotted loiterers and contrary passersby of the district cautiously shot blank glares toward the fallen man; he attained a stern and upright posture, fondling the hilt of a weapon sheathed on his right side. The man’s velvet, pyre hair swayed coolly with each to-and-fro head turn. He examined his surroundings and acquired audience with a rigid and condescending air. The eminent proofs of fatigue were present; his clothing was adorned with the blood of scrapes, and his skin, flushing bruises. His expression, however, relinquished no sign of weakness.
He stood at a fine height, above average, and bore the appearance of a young man, thoroughly aged into maturity. His olive-tone physique proved lanky, but was complemented by his impeccable stance. The man’s plain long face lacked all definition; his eyes, absent of pupils, seemed hollowed with white. The man’s long indigo coat possessed short and excessively wide sleeves, and the worn iron scabbard he flaunted on his side contained, by length, what seemed to be an o-katana. The rest of him bore common black slacks and black, hard-soled, shoes.
Several new tears, similar in nature to the one that birthed in the sky, circled and ensnared the tattered stiff of the man in indigo. From the vile maw of these dark corridors emerged peculiar entities—harbors of an ink, sheen complexion, bearers of the splintered red heart, brandishing tin helmets and gauntlets adorned with blood red nails; they all comprised intense, hollow-yellow eyes. These black-borne beings of the corridors housed malignant means, looming about the beaten swordsman as a predator skulked about an easy meal. Their snare upon jostled swordsman resembled a slowly shrinking circle.
“Heartless!!” screamed a punk straggler. Whether respected or miscreant, all in the district knew the danger of this herald, and took heed. The outward alarm of the young hoodlum triggered a chain of premeditated reactions among the collective.
Geezus! You’d think the officials and police would do their job…!
Someone! Notify District Six!
Heh heh, nah Sweetcakes. You think those donut-munchers’ll waste their lives coming here. Call the hotel; they’ll bring some real officials…
Shamelessly leaving or reluctant to leave the sky-borne man, the entire few fled the area nonetheless, as they were addressed to do, leaving the plain-faced jack to his own with the starving Heartless. One of the assailants grew weary of the stalk and bounded the trounced sword carrier, brandishing its fuming ebon claws.
Nuh uh, the warrior denied in thought; the swift motion of his sword unsheathing—the mouth of the scabbard kissing an o-katana with no edge; the blunted surface of a wooden sword except steel—his edgeless brand beat pitilessly through the assailing fiend, who disintegrated to its impressive vigor.
He sheathed, and once again took a nonchalant stance, showing no wear, harboring no expression as his malefactors twitched and jerked in an obscure fashion; no expression, nor clemency. They all pounced this time, with no plot, just with the intent of striking.
The swordsman’s unsheathed once again; his left leg lunged forth, and with a strong grunt he tore through their frontal droves like human hands through cobwebs. His scabbard complemented his calm retort with a subtle swipe to his right side. The left flank rushed in with a flurry of cyclone kicks while the backstabber dove in with his heartless claw for a telegraphed kill. The swordsman’s pivoting step was more than enough to counter ably, as sword and scabbard pounded and swiped his aggressor from their pounce and into oblivion. His attackers clearly vanquished, he cased his brand once again with a stale face.
He’s not done yet, the crimson-haired man stood in wait collectedly, his thumb caressing the guard of his hilt.
Undoubtedly, yet another dark maw emerged to excrete another Heartless. This beast towered over the edgeless wielder by at least threefold. Rotund and gyrating, in the form of a grotesque mauve leech—it harbored the barbed heart emblem among several vibrating corpuscles. It retained the same hollow eyes as the other Heartless, which adorned themselves, all eleven of them, around its mouth. The leech’s maw milled vigorously into the district concrete.
‘Flip!’ went the swordsman’s cross guard which triggered a violent reaction. The Heartless Leech combusted with an overwhelming, red aura, and the black lumps inked from its slimy carcass and birthed larvae—twelve leech larvae, to the swordsman’s waist in height, retaining the same violent aura as their parent. They ensued as their parent’s maw ground further into the earth. The sky-borne swordsman waited with his rigid and condescending face.
The leading assailer leapt and the man snapped forth with an unsheathing brand. The snap contacted mightily, but to no avail. The leech pushed on and sawed with his teeth upon the swordsman’s arm.
“Ugh!” He countered tersely with both his sheath in sword, hammering down upon his striker while swiping at the on-comers with his heavy sheath, but neither strike daunted the burning minions. They sawed and stripped with every leap, sucking away at their prey’s vitality and fueling their own vigor—their auras escalated as a result. The disadvantaged warrior acknowledge the bleak, and noted the vigor of the parent leech, grinding and searching underneath the floor rock, but there was still no daunt in his face, and his eyes retained the white hollow.
“Hold on sonny!!!” A bellowing voice called out from behind him. The ground was struck by a massive tremor and the entire twelve assailants of the swordsman were eliminated. The man noted the aura of the parent leech dissipate before his vision blurred. He turned to acknowledge with blurred vision, a figure rushing to his side wielding a silver sledgehammer.
Drawing near, the figure consoled, “Everything’s gonna be fine, boy.”
“Hmph,” the man erected upright and sheathed. He collapsed, to his knees, then face flat.
 Allusion to Disney's Lady and the Tramp.
His subconscious mind revisited the black corridors.
The viscera walls were enveloped by the spiraling darkness; the unrelenting roaring of these vaporous torrents echoed within its cloak, and the intimidator approached boastfully down its shadowed hall. Still, I looked upon him because he was nothing and it was him all the same. The sin of the world, and I would obscure his step and annihilate him. Both of us cloaked in the black of the realm—until he halted in front of me and made a pompous site of himself.
His prestigious girth was draped loosely in an open cleric robe; his pungent face shrouded by the shadows of his hood, thank Our Mother . Underneath his robe was a scientist’s laboratory coat—which reeked of vanity and ignorance, as they all do.
His hands fondled in the innards of his pockets, so I expected a weapon. His pig head addressed me with a massive tone and a matching hubris, “Ah. Observant;” he progressed in a quick and demeaning tone, chuckling even, “what do you intend to do, really? Gallantly fend off the man in the darkness? Are you not in that same darkness with me?”
I humored, “I intend to collect the sins of your worlds, and condemn yours to eternal damnation.”
He goaded in contest; he loved to hear himself blather, “Bluff! Don’t act saint. I smell your ranks as you smell mine.”
I reiterated because he was obviously hard of hearing, “I going to kill you, but not quickly. You’re body will feel a beat of my brand eight hundred times, and then your obliteration will cleanse your existence. May Our Mother have mercy, and grant you death as beat down and not after.”
He laughed, though I did not wield the title of jester, “Come now! What do you intend to do…with that;” he referred to the darkness which I wielded, not my blade; “And what’s worse is you brazenly furnish such a weapon which you don’t intend to brandish. Don’t play with me boy.”
This darkness was not for me to brandish; how foolish. It was for me to carry—my purification. I educated this fool, “I carry these sins to belittle the efforts of cowardly men. I cumber the worst of your vile sins and stand undaunted where you quiver from paranoia. If you are composed of cowardice and sin, then I’ll attain your filthy pathetic sin, and erase your cowardice remains from the world; I am your imperfect judgment, your fallen Angelo, your Heaven’s Mercenary—Hyuda Kyaedu. Are you ready?”
And like a scientist, he talked once more; he thought he was ‘enlightened’, and his mouth writhed that of blasphemy, “This is actually an awkward find; you know, I was once an avid analyst of the Good Book and its contradictions; if I weren’t seeking something higher, then I’d be flattered that ‘God’ sent a disgrace seeking redemption—”
I had no choice but to retort; he spoke blasphemies, “How dare you compare Our Mother with the limitations of your obscure mind. Though I no longer reside in Paraside with Our Mother, I never resided in Heaven with your God. Even now, in my whore of a state, your likes are still of filth and self-abolishment which is unfit for my presence—”
He interjected me, commonly vexed, but he had already spoken blasphemies, this would see him eight hundred more beats of my brand. He wined, “What of it? Despite your ‘whore of a state’ you still speak without logic. You see the difference in my power and yours! I’ve tried it congenial!” I wanted to snicker, but I was too disgusted; he continued, “ Look, Hyuda Kyaedu, a bit of knowledge to you—you have fallen, and therefore you are no longer obligated to justice and redemption. So, if I have no right to pass, then you have no right to judge. But if you insist on playing Arbitrator, then meeting adjourned; you’ve wasted my time enough.”
He made an utter fool of himself, it was time I ended him, “I have fallen--my jurisdiction upon malefactors! My sense of redemption discarded! I seek self-redemption! My only agenda is to brandish the sins of your Hell, and bestow a force upon you ten times its cumber! All you will know is at the mercy of this blunt edge! And there is none! May your god bless you.”
I flipped the guard of my edgeless brand and it was time. He refused to stop prattling however, “Your id precedes you; very well,” as he sighed his last sigh, and the sinful remnants of hearts garnered about him like fiends to a drug, their yellow eyes devoid of pride, “I’ll let you know though Angelo, there’s no justice here with me. Traverse Town’s fate is to serve my hand—in the name of science!”
Even in death, some can be so loud.
I shook my head, and ended his mouth, “Enough.”
I assailed, and was struck down swiftly…just as I knew I would be. But I am a harvester of sin, and it was him, just the same. It was a deep dive to the ground…
Hyuda awoke to conversation.
… Ye did well lass—no need in saying your ‘what-ifs’.
… But the bastard made is way here! If I woulda lay hands on that worm—
… Heh heh heh…best be counting your blessings that you only had to deal with the leech.
… Eh, all the same, I would have rather killed the thing for spite; then I’d at least have the comfort of knowing that bastard was writhing in pain from the effect of the Red Heart.
Hyuda Kyaedu opened his eyes, reclined within a meager bed, residing within a cozy room. His coat left him, as he noticed his long burgundy shirt which was usually veiled. He soon noted his coat folded neatly beside the bed with his scabbard. The shadowed room was a plain clutter; dim light made intercourse with its reluctant umbra, books and tools littered one corner while candles and stained dining wares adorned another. A tall profile occupied the clutter-less corner. The ceiling fan produced a healing wind.
“Hm—you’re awake;” a tall burly woman sat Indian-style beside the bed. She greeted zealously, “Howdy! You were worse for wears.”
The profile in the corner surfaced from the corner’s shade, revealing a mature face shrouded by carrot-top bangs, a scruffy beard, pork pie hat, and shades. His daunting trench coat stole his entire body. He spoke with a prominent accent, “Word to the wise boy: Don’t get up just yet.”
Out of spite, Hyuda sat up and stared blankly at the mature figure. The enigmatic man briefed, “We are in the smallest house in District Three of Traverse Town. I’d imagine that you’d know that however, as you scoped out your surroundings after impact.”
Hyuda proceeded to humor the black-clad man as he prattled, “Speaking of impact lad, The police have come and gone. Every trace of you an’ the Heartless were cleaned up, mind that mealy mouthed leech, but also that huge dent you made when you were smacked down. Now that was unfixable. You ought to be more considerate, or next time, my long-ago pupil may not feel like rescuing you.”
Chagrinned slightly, the stocky woman chuckled, “Ehe…No matter how hard I try to make a name for m’self, you’ll never let me forget that I was a student of yours.”
Hyuda sighed. She took note and rose from the floor to give a more formal introduction, “Call me Blacksmith, trainer of many smiths and forgers ‘round these parts of space;” Hyuda ascended from the confines of the bed; examining his condition by stretching his limbs. He found himself well off, but still lacking.
Blacksmith added, “I’m retired for the most, but I’m a rock for when my students seek resolve. I don’t stay here regularly, but I do own this place. I’ve placed a spare key with your clothing. I think I’ll be heading out in a day or two, but you may use this place as you please for your recovery.”
Hyuda replaced his coat and gathered his sword along with the key to the small house.
“Aye—” the enigma man addressed, “and I will be using this house for a day after at least. I am known as the Munny Collector, or the Debt Collector, alias the Gil Master. . I would declare this a pleasure of acquaintance, but I feel that this meeting is something other than pleasurable. Hyuda Kyaedu.”
Hyuda gave a blatant glare to each of his hosts, and shamelessly proceeded towards the door.
In response, the Munny Collector smirked and elucidated, “Heaven’s Mercenary, you cannot defeat the brawly, brown-robed man which threatened Traverse Town from the Black Depths —”
Hyuda halted, and the Munny Collector achieved the Angelo’s direct and intentive leer.
“—but…I doubt anyone,” the collector’s sermon pressed smugly as he dauntlessly approached Heaven’s Mercenary, “within ten stars’ radii could smite said assailant. He is indeed intent on feeding;” the collector laughed aloud, “yep, it’s around that time.”
He was in Hyuda’s face by now; he bowed his head to remove his hat, revealing strings of tattered red curls. He boasted that Hyuda would never truly have the ability to purge the darkness, and that neither his previous prestige as an Angelo, nor his current “whore of a state” as he recalled bore the means to wholly defeat sin, let alone deal a critical blow upon the Dark Assailants.
Hyuda mocked, “Pfft.”
To which the solemn collector replied, “Listen to me boy! I know you’re older than most, but you’re still a lad to me, whether you’re one thousand or one million in age--or 1,237, let's be honest...You look good for your age, by the by,” digressing a bit, but refraining, “the Heartless, the Darkness, it will seek to spread until the universe reverts to Kingdom Come. The salvation of the realm is the Keyblade.”
The grim gil master extravagantly extended his arm forward, across Hyuda’s shoulder. Hyuda quickly flipped the guard of his hilt, his face expressing a small wince.
Blacksmith exclaimed, “No open weapons in this house!”
To which, the Munny Collector laughed, and assured, “It’s okay lass. No worrying.”
‘Shhhi!’ Hyuda’s head twitched in reverence; he noted the manifestation behind his neck, held by the red bearded man.
“The Keyblade—” the brazen enigma peered through his abysmal lens into Hyuda’s hollow whites, which in contrast to his face, burned with anticipation in response, “purges the hearts of those overwhelmed by malevolence and temptation; the Keyblade which chooses its bearer;” the Munny Collector chuckled jeeringly and watched the manifestation behind Hyuda’s head shatter into bits of light and disperse.
He pressed, “I can assure you that you will not be the one who purges the world’s pestilence; you waste your efforts.”
Hyuda plainly queried, “Can any fiend be slain and redeemed by the Keyblade?”
“Aye. Many things are possible through the Blade.”
“Then I shall wield the Keyblader.”
The Munny Collector paused, and then chuckled in a demeaning tone, “Heh heh, you do that lad,” though his wording seemed suggestive; he addressed, “By fiend, you must mean the shrouded man you crossed in the Corridor of Night. He is known as Avonej Hart, a brilliant man, albeit quiet mad at times—he exploits darkness to reveal entry to the hearts of worlds. In accessing the cores of worlds, and absorbing their life energies, Hart attains longevity. Note me when I remark, Avonej Hart is a parasite to existence. His methods have permitted his survival for multiple epochs. He wields both force and knowledge from time elapsed. All of your acquired ‘sin’ is a baby to the ranks of Hart. And even as I speak these truths, you still intend to go after the great fiends of the world.”
“Well then…I’d say that Hart may be one of the world’s greatest fiends. So, I’d challenge you, Hyuda Kyaedu, 203th Family. Find your Keyblader and eradicate fiends.”
The brash collector smirked in the face of the stoical swordsman, and in return, Hyuda gave no expression.
“Tell me this lad,” the Munny Collector swanked, “how is it I know every detail of your short, one-thousand year-old life?”
To which Hyuda contested, “Does it even matter?”
“Aye—I guess not,” the collector sighed, and chided, “the only thing that really matters is ‘self-redemption’, and ‘abolishing sin’ before the world is full with it.”
“The world is already full with sin.”
“Then you better get a move on, my indifferent acquaintance; find your Keyblade and endure its wielders privations because your time has long since been up.”
“Are you not a Keyblader?”
The Munny Collector bluntly replied, “Do you see a key?”
“Fair enough,” accepted Heaven’s Mercenary, “Then I’ll take my leave and seek my Keyblader.”
The wily collector allowed a final chuckle, “Oh, you won’t have to travel far. I assure it. I sense a change in the winds.”
[fade Destati-Dive into the Heart]
 The phrase ‘thank Our Mother’ is Hyuda’s equivalent to ‘thank God’ implying that Hyuda’s God figure is in fact female.
 Munny and Gil are currencies used in the Kingdom Hearts and Final Fantasy universes respectively, and are both used primarily in this universe.
 The Black Depths, the black tears in the sky, the dark swirling torrents which Hyuda and the clerical robed man resided, as well as other similar terms all refer to the Corridors of Darkness. These Corridors are passages made from dark, used as a means to traverse to different worlds, and are accessed only by beings that can manipulate the darkness; otherwise, use of these Corridors can gradually corrode the hearts. Upon entry and exit from the corridor, a black opening rips through the atmosphere.