Gun of Ashes

The dim room was solemnly silent, with only the heavy breathing and the faint sound of a pen nib scratching on paper echoing through the space.

Shermans didn’t notice that fine beads of sweat had already covered his forehead. As he delved deeper into his thoughts, he seemed to be getting ever closer to the truth, recording everything that came to his mind in the hefty notebook.

”Where exactly did this plague, known as the Demon, originate from, and when did it begin? We’ve killed so many, yet why have we never found a ’pure’ Demon?”

Fear and exhilaration coexisted in his heart. Shermans felt as if he had become younger. As he pondered, his thoughts raced increasingly fast. He even felt that his recent musings had pushed human understanding of Demons forward by a measure.

Suddenly, he remembered something, set down his pen, and flipped to the earlier pages in the notebook.

The notebook contained many entries. Although most were Shermans’ theological research, as a member of the Cardinals, though he couldn’t casually direct the Demon Hunting Order, he was privy to some general internal information.

He glanced at his past handwriting, piecing together a nearly terrifying truth from the fragmented information.

”In this world, is it really only our Demon Hunting Order that possesses the power to combat Demons?”

The aged body couldn’t help but tremble. Shermans picked up a cup of water, managed a sip, his gaze filled with terror as he glanced around, as if something strange was lurking in the corners, intently watching him.

But in reality, there was only him, alone.

He continued writing, and with each stroke, he felt a scorching heat rise within him.

It was a fear-induced frenzy, where nothing was happening, yet his blood began to race, his pupils dilated slightly, and his heart pounded violently, straining his aged body.

”No, this isn’t right... With the terrifying corruption of the Demons, this would be a plague more horrific than the Black Death. Yet in the countless years of war, we have somehow survived this plague and even built such a magnificent kingdom.

This isn’t right. According to the theoretical spread of Demons, even in its prime, the Evangelical Church couldn’t curb the rampant Demons. They would only multiply; for every one killed, two more would appear, and for every fallen Demon Hunter, a more terrifying one would emerge!”

His body grew heavy, as if a black tide was engulfing him, the mysterious sea water incredibly sticky, like countless hands linking him.

Drops of blood trickled from his nose, staining the paper, which Shermans didn’t even notice as he continued to write. The black ink mixed with the red blood, leaving a trail of red and black that spread along the paper’s grain, resembling countless withered tree branches waving.

”Something is wrong with this world. Even if the Demon Hunting Order were to grow ten or a hundred times larger, it still couldn’t stop Demon’s pollution under this rampant plague.

Logically, aside from a few grand cities, most of the world should have been devoured by Demons, not as it stands now.”

His body grew heavier, yet Shermans wrote faster. He could feel it, as if some foul, sticky thing was clutching him, tangling around him, trying to drag him into that darkness.

Shermans even felt that if he shifted his gaze, he would see those hideous, detestable faces, but he didn’t look. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper before him, continuing to write with ink stained with his own blood.

”But we survived; the Demon’s influence on this world diminished, even vanished. The steam engine that changed the world appeared, one kingdom after another established... We stood firm amid this plague, but it wasn’t solely by our doing...”

The pen tip paused for a long moment, leaving a dark hole, which Shermans stared at, as if there was something behind it.

After a while, he laughed with a tinge of fear.

”Isn’t the answer obvious? We survived, so besides the Demon Hunting Order, there must be some other power in this vast world, an unknown force, that is the main deterrent against Demons.”

This is a truth that could destroy the Evangelical Church’s understanding, yet today it was so easily written by Shermans. In reality, he could barely believe it, for if he hadn’t already seen so much, his faith might have crumbled.

But this is the only reasonable explanation; Shermans would never believe that Demons would slaughter each other, thus allowing humanity to survive; they are the embodiment of madness.

He breathed deeply, as if wanting to inhale all the air in the room into his lungs. Shermans needed to calm himself, for only then could he continue writing.

A smile appeared on his withered, wooden-like face, more than anything a wild joy at discovering the truth. He had found a historical inconsistency, which might help in uncovering the nature of Demons.

But such wild joy didn’t last long. Shermans’ gaze turned cold. He reached into his clothes, feeling the delicate flintlock gun that brought him a sense of security.

Shermans was not an outstanding person; apart from his devotion and fanaticism towards faith, he was, in fact, an utterly mediocre fellow, even somewhat ”unambitious.”

He did not long for power, nor was he moved by wealth. If it weren’t for knowing the ominous nature of Sainy Loter, he would not have joined Miguel. Supposing Sainy Loter didn’t possess that bizarre power, Shermans wouldn’t mind him becoming the Pope.

He did not know who this newly emerged Pope truly was, but Shermans was very aware that beneath that iron face lay a forbidden power. An ominous and strange force had donned the Holy Crown of the Pope, which was something Shermans absolutely could not allow.

”What about those people? What about those wiser than me?”

Shermans questioned himself in his notes.

Everyone who could leave a name in history was an absolute genius of that era, and many such people were noted in the history of the Evangelical Church. Because of their efforts, the Church gradually ruled the entire Western world and launched a holy crusade.

”They are far smarter and stronger than I am, so if I, mere Shermans, can discover these historical loopholes, how could they not perceive them?”

Yes, that is the crux of the issue. The history of the Evangelical Church is so long, with many great people appearing throughout. Logically, they should have discovered the issues Shermans just pinpointed. Yet, no records exist in the Church’s books, as if they were deliberately concealed.

”Or perhaps, they discovered them, but for some reason chose not to tell future generations, or... didn’t have the chance to tell them.”

Shermans halted his pen, hesitating to continue writing, as if continuing would turn a terrifying assumption into reality.

He could feel it, always had felt it—an invisible boundary, a boundary in thought, a boundary in cognition, an unknown boundary. It had always existed, shackling human will across everyone’s mind.

Shermans was certain he hadn’t thought of these due to some burst of inspiration but because a certain restraint vanished at this moment. Thus, he could slightly glimpse those forbidden knowledge, those truths concealed away.

Why now, of all times, can he think of these? Could it be that unknown power is not afraid he’ll spread this knowledge?

Beads of sweat dripped onto the paper, smudging the not-yet-dried ink.

Shermans suddenly understood. He slowly lifted his head to look at the darkness of the room before him. Shermans couldn’t see it, but he could confirm it was there, watching him with an expression he couldn’t comprehend.

”Am I going to die, right?”

Shermans asked the dark void.

This was the only answer. He was going to die, and the dead cannot recount these stories. That’s also why these evident loopholes have gone unnoticed—the knowers are all dead.

Iron curtains like shadows draped over this world, and anyone who surpassed its understanding met the same fate.

Shermans didn’t know who precisely they were. He seemed to have no opportunity to learn, but it was certain—they were related to the Demons and related to the Truth of this world. He was so close to it all, yet clearly he could never delve deeper.

Slowly closing his notebook, Shermans calmly took out the flintlock gun discarded by the times. Though weathered by ages, it was still usable and forever in a firing state.

This was Shermans’ only weapon. He could die, but he must die like a Saint.

Shermans, trembling, raised the flintlock gun, aiming at the murky darkness. The chilling sensation remained; he knew that thing still watched him—that Ghost-like fellow could attack at any moment, kill him in an unknown manner.

The void Ghost delayed its attack. Amid prolonged tension, a faint laughter suddenly rang out, and then that eerie feeling vanished; that thing left.

Shermans maintained his stance of raising the gun. He could hardly believe it, but before joy could come, deeper despair engulfed him.

Bright light shone behind the darkness, pure white and scorching.

No, he was destined to die, only not by the hand of that strange thing.

The Demon Hunters emerged from the darkness, holding Nail Swords. It was then that shrill screams erupted from outside the window. Countless Demon Hunters invaded the manor, wreaking havoc.