Middle East, eastern Afghanistan.
Rustle, rustle, rustle.
The scorching sun burned the earth. This was a city almost reduced to ruins.
The city was a scene of devastation, yellow sand everywhere.
Pedestrians on the road wrapped their heads and bodies in thick white cloth. They kept their distance from one another, their gazes wary, hurrying along in silence.
This was the aftermath of war, and even more so the sorrow of this city.
Now, inside an abandoned church in one corner of the city, the members of the Phantom Troupe were assembling.
Some sat, some stood, saying nothing as they quietly waited for their leader's orders.
The church was somewhat dim. A few candles burned on the floor, and draped in a black overcoat, the leader Chrollo calmly leafed through a book.
Step, step, step.
Creak—
The church's wooden door was pushed open from outside, and the final member strode in.
"You're too slow, Uvogin!"
Leaning against a stone pillar, a woman with a purplish-red single ponytail scolded him in a low voice.
"Hahaha, sorry, sorry. I ran into an interesting guy on the way here. My hands got itchy for a moment, so I couldn't help trading a few moves with him."
The man named Uvogin scratched his long hair and, laughing loudly, tossed out a head.
He was powerfully muscled, burly and tall, with long, bristling hair. A black fur vest was draped over his upper body, with a white tank top underneath and a pair of black shorts, making him look utterly mismatched.
The members present seemed to have long understood his personality. They merely glanced at him faintly, then silently set their eyes on the shattered head.
Medium-short black hair, in his twenties or thirties, with features from the East.
"Oh, right. I think he told