London, 1895. A January winter that chilled one to the bone.

The city thrummed with the driving roar of the Mega-Engine, exhaling vast plumes of steam. The air was thick with vapor, the sky choked with smog, and a dense, vision-obscuring fog, or "steam," filled this suburban corner.

Suddenly, two streaks of silver, sharp against the ever-present steam, raced through the city.

Abruptly. Vividly.

With an impact that seemed to sear itself into his very soul, a crimson silhouette appeared before the man.

The man—uncharacteristically, the instant he laid eyes on the scene, was lost in the moment. Utterly captivated.

“—Ha… Magnificent! Truly magnificent!”

So magnificent, in fact, that he couldn't help but applaud.

With all the feeling he could muster, he raised his hands and cried out his praise toward the silhouette.

That day, he was unusually intoxicated. He, a being of perpetual existence, unchanging and eternal, had not indulged in such a quantity of alcohol in a long time. He was celebrating the success of a certain research project, a certain experiment.

It had been his first venture outside in decades – his first meal out, his first excursion.

Therefore, possessing immense wealth, he spared no expense on the finest liquors, indulging to his heart's content.

That proved to be his undoing.

Or perhaps, it should be considered a stroke of good fortune.

In any case, he was drunk.

And because of his inebriation, he acted in a manner he normally would never have considered.

He simply called out to a woman selling her wares on the street.

The prostitute was a beauty. She seemed out of place in the shadows of the alley, soliciting. Why would someone like you be in a place like this? That's what he thought.

Yes—there was a sense of incongruity.

But, drunk as he was, he disregarded it.

And that was his mistake. His misfortune. The beginning of a nightmare.

He followed the woman deeper into the alley.

As a red-brick building emerged from the gloom, he felt a prickle of unease.

The smell.

Even in his drunken state, he could detect the pungent odor of rusting iron.

He thought: Ah, this is bad.

By the time the thought formed, it was too late.

Kyahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

The woman erupted in a bizarre shriek, a cackle.

The charming smile she had worn moments before vanished.

As the woman laughed maniacally, he took a step back. But he knew, he understood, that the action was meaningless.

The moment his foot moved, the woman transformed.

Transformed—or perhaps, transmuted.

There are many criteria that define a human being.

But there are far fewer that definitively declare one inhuman.

From the woman’s—

Back—

Steel legs—

Sprang forth—

And she stood tall. Towering.

Aloof, majestic, awe-inspiring, the woman who was, now reigned supreme!

It was a manifestation that defied physics, conservation of mass, and all conventional understanding.

From within the woman's body emerged chrome-plated steel multi-legs, tipped with spider-like, thin, sharp claws.

Was it a dream? A hallucination? Magic? Or perhaps—a demonic contract?

No.

This was something far more sinister. Far more disturbing.

An abomination born of madness, disregarding all humanity and ethics.

An act that saw no humanity in humans.

A man-made monstrosity, crafted only by those who had shed their human shackles.

—An Enemy of Chrome, a monster of steel.

Or perhaps—a soulless revenant.

A whispered urban legend, a Folklore Monster of this fog-bound city, now stood before him in the flesh.

The once-beautiful woman’s face remained, but her body had become a steel spider’s abdomen. Her limbs had mutated, or perhaps eight steel legs had burst from her back. Clicking and clacking, the grotesque monster, towering over him, stared down with gleaming eyes.

“What… is this…?”

He murmured, gazing up at the monstrosity. Before him stood a creature beyond human comprehension. A being that belonged only in fictional tales. A monster that, when confronted by humans, could only be defeated by a hero.

He was not the dragonslaying hero Siegfried.

He was not Saint George.

He was not the monster-slaying Beowulf.

Moreover—the monster before him transcended even fiction. A genuine monstrosity, forged in reality by human hands.

Thus, he was merely prey. A powerless human, unable to resist the monster, left only to tremble in fear and await the inevitable.

That should have been the case—yet.

He did not cower.

He did not tremble.

There was no panic in his demeanor.

No confusion.

Only—a wry smile played on his lips.

Mocking his own carelessness, his own foolishness.

—Now, what to do?

He asked himself.

No means of escape.

No means of resistance.

Trapped in this hopeless situation.

He devised strategies, contemplated, deliberated.

But no solution presented itself.

Gyahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

The Chrome-clad Revenant—the Arachne—laughed.

It shrieked, raising its steel legs. Its claws were firmly fixed on him.

He gave a bitter smile.

“…It seems this is the end.”

Accepting his fate, he whispered softly.

It was then.

“—Is this another dead end?”

A voice drifted down from above.

Then, like a falling shadow, something crimson appeared—

—Slash!

Descending from above, the shadow swung its blade.

Two short swords, gripped in the shadow’s hands, traced vivid arcs through the air, striking down the steel monster that had been about to attack him.

Blinding speed. A fierce strike. The unleashed silver flash was like a thunderbolt piercing the earth!

What tremendous strength. To knock down a body far larger than its own, supported by steel legs, with a single sword strike.

Logically, it was impossible.

But logic no longer applied in his world.

All that remained was an “impossible reality.” An unbelievable truth.

Just as George Gordon Byron had written, truly, Truth is stranger than fiction, and often, lies are true.

No, from the beginning, for him—yes, for Vincent Saint-Germain—the spectacle before him was commonplace.

Yet, despite that fact, the shadow that now stood before him, the crimson silhouette, bordered on miraculous.

No trace of drugs.

No trace of magic.

No trace of supernatural gifts.

Of course, no trace of miracles either—

Then, the answer was clear. The shadow before him had accomplished this feat through sheer physical prowess. The impossible act of knocking a steel monster to the ground with a single sword strike.

However, this was no trifling opponent that would be incapacitated by such a blow.

The Arachne, felled by the shadow’s strike, sprang back up with a bound—and the woman’s head let out a piercing scream.

—GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

A roar reverberated through the surroundings.

A Horror Voice. A voice of terror.

A mind-controlling shriek that directly affected those without resistance.

Of course, the voice had no effect on Vincent. Therefore, cane in hand, he calmly observed the unfolding events.

Now, what would the shadow do?

He turned his gaze, and—

“—Shut… up…”

A young voice cut clearly through the roar.

Simultaneously, the shadow moved.

—Thud! With the sound of a powerful step, it leaped towards a nearby wall. Using the wall for leverage, it kicked off, soaring even higher.

With a leap that defied gravity, the shadow soared over the Arachne’s head and landed lightly on its back.

Raising both hands as if to display the short swords they held, the figure—

“If you’re not the original… then I have no use for you… Die quietly, you bastard.”

With words like a death sentence, the figure swung both blades downwards.

—Twin Blade Flash.

Two trajectories danced through the air, piercing the body of the steel Revenant!

Vincent couldn't discern the speed of the swing. However, the shockwave generated by the aftershock of the slash, which grazed him, testified to the power of the blow—and as he raised his arm to shield himself from the swirling dust, the steel monster crumbled before his eyes, its body split into three!

Like the legendary techniques of the “Samurai” said to exist only in the far eastern island nation of Orient, the impossible feat of “cutting” steel was performed.

Speechless, Vincent watched the Arachne collapse. The crimson shadow landed before him.

As if nothing had happened, the figure swung its twin swords, sheathing one behind its hip—and at that moment, their eyes met, his gaze meeting the shadow’s, hidden within the depths of a hooded cloak.

“You… still here?”

“Indeed. I missed my chance to escape. How troublesome.”

“That’s too bad.”

Saying this, the figure casually swung the remaining short sword—towards the fallen, motionless Arachne.

The blade flashed, severing the steel monster's head—the woman’s head. The severed head rolled and came to rest at the shadow’s feet. The shadow peered down at the face… and after a beat, let out a long sigh.

“Such a beautiful woman… What twist of fate led her to become a prostitute, have her body tampered with by some fool, and finally, meet her end like this… Truly a tragedy.”

The way the figure deftly twirled the dagger between its fingers made Vincent realize something.

“So, you’re the rumored Ripper.”

“…What?”

The shadow turned its gaze towards him. Vincent fiddled with his monocle and continued.

“The Ripper. Or, Jack the Ripper. One of the strange incidents currently plaguing London. Seven years ago, a legendary serial killer terrorized this city. Whether you’re imitating him or not… recently, there have been numerous incidents of bodies found with massive lacerations all over London. Near them, mangled corpses lie, and the public is in an uproar, claiming Jack the Ripper has returned… My, my, I never imagined the second coming would be a Far Easterner.”

“How’d you know I’m from the Far East?”

“Your King’s English is impeccable. However, the intonation and nuances of your speech are subtly different. Then there’s your facial features, and the structure of your skeletal frame… But the final piece was intuition.”

“So, it’s a bluff. Impressive for a drunkard.”

The shadow shrugged, laughing.

“Not at all. Thanks to you, I’ve sobered up.”

“You should’ve sobered up when you saw that Chrome freak, Mister… uh, Mister Nobody.”

The young man under the hood faltered slightly. Finding this amusing, Vincent chuckled.

“Nobody, huh? That’s quite amusing, Mister… Jack.”

“…That composure in their domain… Are you one of them?”

Observing Vincent, the young man spoke knowingly. Secretly—secretly, Vincent nodded within his heart, “Indeed, I am,” while saying,

“Not quite as superhuman as you.”

“What do you mean?”

The young man asked. Vincent shrugged.

“You overwhelmed that monster without magic, without any supernatural abilities. Just with your physical capabilities. That’s practically superhuman, wouldn’t you say? As expected of the land of masters. Even a youngster like you becomes a first-class warrior with a blade in hand… It’s a frightening country to set foot in.”

“—More like a land of monsters, than masters.”

The young man said sarcastically, but with a hint of genuine feeling.

“Monsters, you say? Then are you a monster too?”

“I like that. Monster… should I take that name? Like… Blood-Red?”

When asked, the young man responded with amusement, flicking the hem of his crimson coat.

Hearing his words, and recalling his incredible display of skill, a certain phrase came to Vincent’s mind. Casually, he suggested,

“—How about Grendel, the Blood-Soaked Monster?”

The shadow whistled in admiration.

“…You’ve got good taste. The Blood-Soaked Monster… Yeah, not bad. It has a nice ring to it.”

A smirk twisted the young man’s lips, visible beneath the hood. A peculiar smile that only lifted one corner of his mouth. Yes, it wasn't a bad smile.

That was Vincent’s impression of his smile.

Indeed, it was more fortune than misfortune.

Later, whenever he—Vincent Saint-Germain—reflected on this day, he would keenly feel it.

This encounter, even in his eternally long life, was a rare stroke of luck.

“—Ha… Magnificent! Truly magnificent!”

“What’s up, Mister? Losing your mind?”

“Certainly not. I am simply expressing my joy. My joy at encountering someone like you tonight.”

“Joy? You're a strange one.”

The young man said suspiciously, his arm twitching slightly.

At the same time, a cold sensation touched his neck.

It happened in the blink of an eye—in an instant, the distance between them had closed.

The sharp point of a dagger pressed against his skin. But Vincent didn't flinch, his gaze fixed on the young man.

“There’s no reason to keep you alive after you’ve seen this.”

“Then why not kill me? If it’s to silence me, you could have cut me down without a word. You don’t seem like the type to hesitate to kill.”

—Why? He asked implicitly.

Several moments passed, several seconds ticked by.

Then, with a “Tch,” the young man withdrew the dagger. Vincent, who had inwardly braced himself to have his throat slit, let out a silent sigh of relief, careful not to betray his relief.

“…Giving up?”

He asked, feigning composure.

The young man sheathed his dagger, his sharp eyes glaring from under the hood.

“—You got any money?”

It was an abrupt question.

Considering the tense situation moments before, Vincent couldn't understand the reason for such a question, his eyes widening in surprise.

“…Well, yes, I do. But what of it?”

“—I’m hungry.”

Hungry.

Vincent couldn't quite grasp the meaning of those words. Was it a metaphor? Sarcasm? Or some sophisticated wordplay? He couldn't help but wonder,

“What… did you just say?”

He asked again. The young man replied unabashedly,

“I said, I’m hungry. But I’m broke. That’s why I’m having trouble eating… So, here’s the deal. I want you to do me a favor in return for saving your life—what do you say to that?”

Apparently, there was no mishearing, no deeper meaning, just the literal truth. He was simply saying:

I’m hungry, so feed me in exchange for saving your life.

I see.

Vincent carefully considered and understood the young man’s words.

And then—

“—Fu… Fuha… Fuhahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

He, Vincent Saint-Germain, burst into laughter.

It was a hearty laugh, the first in centuries. He threw his head back, clutching his stomach, and roared with laughter.

He had never expected such a request.

After all, Vincent Saint-Germain, at first glance, was just an ordinary, reasonably well-dressed, middle-aged man.

With the young man's skills, subduing Vincent would have been child’s play. He could have easily used the force he had displayed against the steel Revenant to rob him—yet, the young man before him, the young man who called himself a monster, was remarkably naive, Vincent thought.

Was it because he was from the Far East? Or was it his personal nature? Or perhaps—both. Either way, he was an interesting young man.

To the young man, who seemed taken aback by his sudden outburst of laughter, Vincent apologized, still chuckling, “My apologies.”

“Very well. I am aware of those creatures, but I possess no means to combat them. Therefore, it is a fact that you saved me—I will gladly repay you.”

“Huh… Well, I’ll be.”

The young man, apparently surprised by Vincent's answer, lowered his hood as he spoke.

Revealed were casually styled black hair and slightly slanted, reddish-brown eyes. His features were youthful, those of a teenager in his late teens.

“Do you know any places where I can get a decent meal? If so, please lead the way. Oh, and just so you know, I’m not interested in any fancy, high-class places.”

“Rest assured, I dislike such establishments as well.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The young man grinned at Vincent’s words, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

Yes, seeing his face properly now—he wasn't bad looking. Skilled, and from the way he spoke, quite intelligent as well.

This was quite a find—Vincent thought, a smile naturally gracing his lips.

“What are you smiling about?” To the young man who tilted his head in question, he shook his head, “It’s nothing.” Then, he turned on his heel.

“Now then, shall we go? There’s a place nearby that offers a decent amount of food with reasonable flavor.”

“As long as it fills my belly, I’m happy. And if it tastes good, I won’t complain.”

The young man followed as Vincent started walking.

As if the previous fight had never happened. Or perhaps, such things were as commonplace as taking a stroll.

The two walked through the night.

As they walked, Vincent asked, as if just remembering,

“May I ask your name?”

“Didn’t you call me Jack?”

“That was merely a convenient name I used because I didn’t know your true identity. It’s not your name, is it?”

“In my country, it’s considered polite to offer your name first.”

The young man retorted sarcastically, each word flowing as easily as breath.

However, Vincent wasn't bothered by his tone. Instead, he was impressed by his eloquence, chuckling, “Indeed, you are right,” before introducing himself.

“My apologies. I am Vincent. Vincent Saint-Germain.”

“The pleasure’s all mine—I’m Tobari. Tsukagami Tobari.”

For a moment, the young man's expression seemed to darken. But it was so fleeting that Vincent couldn't be sure, and he smoothly repeated his name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Tobari.”

“Likewise, Count Saint-Germain.”

The young man—Tobari—retorted with a shrug and a sarcastic smile.

“It’s an honor to meet the legendary alchemist.”

“Don't you think I might be an imposter?”

To the gentleman—Vincent—who tilted his head, Tobari sighed.

“Doesn’t matter to me. As long as you’re feeding me, you could be Jesus or Mephistopheles for all I care.”

“Hahaha! You are absolutely right.”

Vincent burst into laughter again at Tobari’s remark. Beside him, Tobari, clutching his stomach, urged him on, “Let’s get going already.”

And so, the eternally living alchemist, accompanied by the blood-soaked Ripper, disappeared into the steam.

The late 19th century.

The era of flourishing steam engine civilization.

A world where, since the Second Industrial Revolution—commonly known as the “Steam Engine Revolution”—all manner of steam engines continued their rapid development, starting with Charles Babbage’s Difference Engine.

At its heart—London, the capital of the British Empire.

Two individuals encountered each other there.

One, a blood-red youth from the Far East.

The other, the legendary alchemist, Count Saint-Germain.

Because of their meeting, the intertwined gears began to turn, and the story began to unfold.

This is—the beginning of a fantastical steam tale.