JoJo na Kimyō na Bōken: New Dawn / Prologue: No time for introductions, no time at all.

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Those who are weak enough to demand ‘All’s fair in love and war’ are the same people who have never set foot onto the frontlines, let alone much farther than from the comfort of their Ivory Towers and their monetary thrones. These men and women are the true villains in war – yet they still try the everyday foot-soldier for crimes or actions they never fully witness nor comprehend.



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The warm Mediterranean tide rolled in onto the golden sands of the vast, lengthy beach. One which spanned a good portion of the neighbouring town, with rock pools situated at either end forming a natural barrier against the sea, halting the shallow tide dead in its track, forcing it from whence it came. The tide continued to do this, wave upon wave after wave of warm saltwater campily crashed onto the packed layers of newly moistened sand – yet no one came to construct a castle from its foundations, despite its promise, nor to splash about in the mundane tides for which the weather was quite right for, as was many an early afternoon. The faint scent of salt danced about the air, drifting back and forth the neck of the beach as the tide did.

If this were so, why was the shoreline of such a beautiful beach town left desolate, as if it were encased in glass and shipped away to the Louvre, only to be admired but never experienced? A mighty bird, a falcon, flew along the stretch of beach and rose against the adjacent dirt bank and across a road littered with potholes, sometimes as wide as a bus or as minute as a chipped piece of Chinaware, but proved, nonetheless. The falcon’s flight continued alongside a collection of dull, colourless shanty houses and one-space garages and lots, the sound of incessant chatter could be heard on the radios and televisions of each home, but to no apparent audience nor attention – the only other sound to be heard was the cracking and crumbling of the tarmac under the beaming heat of the radiant sun.

The bird made hast under the canopy of one building and roost on the gauntlet of a Cloaked Figure, whom had their focus made to the television. On the screen was the overbearing eyesore of white noise with the occasional flash of a still image: one of a woman decorated and dressed in saintly robes and garments, her arms crossed – one brandishing a sabre and the other clasped over her face in agony. But the woman’s face was peaceful, beautiful even and commanded attention as the voice on the television demanded those watching to remain calm.

The Cloaked Figure made their way down to street level, being especially careful of the many shelves and racks that crowded the empty store, opening the door tolled a little bell’s chime but no one was there to greet it.

No one, except the Cloaked Figure.

Their pace was muddled, a prominent limp on their left side forced them to shamble ever so slightly across the desolate streets of this ghost town. Their hands were swift and sure, swiping at the dust and sand swirling and building in the air around them. But still they made their way onwards without hesitation. The town was quiet, with its shrill calmness only ever being broken by the occasional crashing wave back toward the beach. This same beach drew blood onto the shore, staining it a crimson red. There was a metallic odour now, one of copper and iron as the water ran red with wasted blood. The roads lined with potholes fashioned themselves into craters, an aftermath of continuous conflict and tribulation among the locals. This skewed sense of peace, this false proviso of a clear and hopeful future. A constructed, constrictive future tormenting the lives of many.

The rows upon rows of shanty houses and empty streets led toward towering abodes, torn, and ruined from the consequence of war. The smell grew into the stench of charred wood and pillaring smoke rising from the ashes and remnants of the shanty houses – their interior laid bare to the beat of the Sun, their living room flooring or carpeting never to be tread upon by a family ever again. Instead the rats paced back and forth through the rubble and debris, picking at the fingers and nails of those caught in the brick trap, lying motionless as if they were posing for the camera but never saying cheese. But still the Cloaked Figure carried on, paying no attention to the atrocities that lay before them. Were they blind to it all, or simply did not care for it? Their surroundings appeared to warp and malform into a scene ripped from Picasso’s Guernica: horror incarnate.

And still, the Cloaked Figure carried on.

The scene was no longer quiet: the roaring, thunderous screech of steel couriers of death lay waste to the land from the West and the unending barrage of fire and fury littered the East. A storm on either front, slowly creeping in toward the town. Toward the centre of town was the Crossroads, and as the Cloaked Figure made their way toward the Crossroads, where there were two cloaked individuals coming from the East and West, the Cloaked Figure raised their left arm – revealing a scarred and shattered forearm and wrist, yet they did not wince in pain and instead pointed southward in-land, plotting a course for their destination. The two individuals lifted their hoods to reveal their faces but their features and appearance were indistinguishable in the whirling sandy winds, the same wind that they shielded their eyes from as the only recognisable answer came in the form of a smile from the both of them. In unison.

The two individuals vanished from thin air, leaving no trace of their existence in the town prior. The Cloaked Figure was once again left alone, the incessant ramblings of the radios and televisions could now be heard as the sirens and thunderous downpour to the East and West had cleared up, the dust settled onto the Crossroads as the Cloaked Figure lowered their arm and began to walk southward, only one thought crossed their mind as they shambled on.

Anything also has the potential to be nothing at all, why contemplate the world’s imperfections when you can simply rise above it all, as I have.

This was the only thought passing through their mind. Their focus never being drawn to the world that set itself before them. This disillusioned brand of human experience, this devolved sense of empathy, or better yet, the inverse. A cruel, wicked sense of moral superiority and the ambiguity of true compassion plagued their mind. This was the kind of person they were, no spark or trickle of kindness resided in their soul. Their detachment from the real served as a gateway to The Island. They are the antagonist of this story, and their actions hereafter pave way for what is yet to come: their mission, one borne from blood will shake the Earth and challenge the heavens. They will strip the Earth of its worth and create a new order, a Kingdom.
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