Gun of Ashes

But who can really say for sure about these things?

”Want a drink?”

Buscalo suddenly shouted, looking at Lorenzo leaning by the windowsill, holding up a bottle.

”Drinking so much in the daytime?”

”One is for the craving, the other to muster courage.”

Buscalo said, glancing at Lorenzo, then at the weapons leaning against the wall, shimmering with dangerous reflections. Setting aside Lorenzo’s neurotic nature, in Buscalo’s eyes, Lorenzo was positioned as an urban killer.

Now, a defenseless doctor and a killer share the room, and Lorenzo somewhat understood his courage through alcohol.

Lorenzo just wanted to find a place to rest after such intense combat and explosive knowledge.

Even now, that eerie feeling of unease was so real, as if in places Lorenzo couldn’t see, a hundred-eyed monster was staring at him, countless eyeballs turning with Lorenzo’s movements, grinding teeth and sucking blood, waiting for the chance for a lethal strike.

This is just too tiring, too tiring.

Lorenzo thought killing Lawrence would complete the Night of the Holy Arrival’s revenge, but as he dug into the past, he realized it was far from as simple as he imagined.

No matter how much firewood he added to the flame, it was difficult to illuminate the unfathomable darkness.

”Will they not come back?”

Lorenzo tried to relax and then spoke to Buscalo.

”Who?”

Buscalo, somewhat drunken, obviously didn’t understand Lorenzo’s meaning.

”Your wife and daughter,” Lorenzo said.

”Last time I came, you were at least tidying up the room. After all, if they came back to see this mess, they’d be angry, right? But now you...”

Lorenzo didn’t continue; they wouldn’t come back, so Buscalo didn’t care about these things anymore. The house was a mess, said to be freedom, but actually indulgence.

”Mr. Holmes, this is marriage.”

Buscalo didn’t show a hint of sadness, just stared wide-eyed at Lorenzo.

”Well, to be honest, I was quite sad at first, even if I got tired of my wife, but I still loved my daughter... but eventually I got used to it, found the feeling of youth again, couldn’t be happier.”

Lorenzo seemed to have overthought, as Buscalo went on, holding the bottle, dancing and singing.

No matter before or now, Buscalo was quite afraid of Lorenzo. After all, since their first meeting, things were bad, but just as Lorenzo got used to demons, Buscalo got used to Lorenzo; powerless to resist, better to enjoy early.

”Wait, are you unemployed?”

Lorenzo saw the bills on the ground, a heap upon heap.

”Oh... this! It’s inevitable. Excessive indulgence does have some downsides, like forgetting to go to work.”

Buscalo trailed off, voice lost. Whether it was not wanting to face Lorenzo or for another reason, he drank himself to sleep, snoring on the floor.

This feeling, like ”I slept, do as you please, as long as you’re gone when I wake up,” he meant.

Lorenzo’s expression was complex, everyone seemed to have a bit of neurosis, though rarely shown.

He carried Buscalo back to his bedroom, then sat alone on the living room sofa, faced with the mess; Lorenzo naturally had no intention of helping tidy up Buscalo’s place but placed Shermans’s notes on the table, eyes solemn.

No evidence could directly prove the ”curse of knowledge,” but Lorenzo could clearly feel that anxiety. If not for these concerns, Lorenzo might head to the Perpetual Motion Pump now and tell Merlin these things.

But he couldn’t. Maybe he had some special trait to avoid the ”curse of knowledge,” but he dared not risk Merlin truly being cursed.

Shermans died for this knowledge, and perhaps many others in history did too.

Lorenzo vaguely understood why Evangelical Church’s knowledge felt so discontinuous, for in some past times, others knew as well, but due to the curse, they died. Perhaps some, like Lorenzo, could avoid or delay the curse’s arrival, but this would become their exclusive knowledge.

This knowledge couldn’t be told to others, or the strange curse would spread.

It’s like an invisible high wall, humans trapped inside, forever ignorant.

...

The feeling of drunkenness is terrible, head dizzy, body aching, like being beaten up, struggling up from bed. Buscalo sat by the bed, gazing out the window.

Night had fallen, street lights lit up, the roaring Iron Serpent tirelessly traversed the city, people bustling.

This feeling is truly bad, not just drunk, but waking up alone.

The dim room was filled with the stench of alcohol and sourness, like living in a beast’s den, bottles rolled on the floor, reflecting Buscalo’s somewhat messy face.

Freedom truly is happiness, but excessive joy leads to lonely emptiness. Although Buscalo didn’t want to see his wife, he truly missed his daughter, whose mother took her back to hometown, a small town not covered by technological glory, all communication through letters.

He couldn’t hear her voice, nor see her face, thinking this stirred Buscalo to reach for the bottle for drinking, but then realized there was no more alcohol.

Maybe this is the life of a middle-aged divorced man, Buscalo sat blankly until the living room stirred with slight noise.

A thief?

Buscalo didn’t care now, as there wasn’t anything valuable left, but soon his gaze turned horrified, as his memory from before drunkenness gradually returned.

Slowly opened the door, saw that damned face, looking kindly at him.

”You’re awake? Thanks for taking me in.”

Lorenzo had dressed, neat and clean, ordinary-looking, unrecognizable as a killer on the streets.

Buscalo recognized the clothes were his, as the ill-fitting size made Lorenzo look bulky.

”Are you leaving?”

Buscalo calmed down, asked.

Lorenzo nodded, didn’t hide as he concealed lethal weapons under his coat before Buscalo.

”You... are really dedicated, working in the middle of the night.”

”Middle of the night?”

Lorenzo paused, then pointed at the clock.

”It’s already the next day, dawn is about to break.”

”How...” Buscalo held his head, surprised at how long he’d slept, getting anxious, but remembered he’d quit and calmed down.

Slumped back on the sofa, prepared for more sleep.

”Mr. Lorenzo Holmes.”

He suddenly called to Lorenzo about to leave, Lorenzo turned, saw Buscalo rising from the sofa, seriously said.

”Don’t get married.”

”What?”

Lorenzo couldn’t tell if Buscalo was delirious or drunkenly acting up, didn’t elaborate, took the family photo, and lay down, soon snoring again.

It was just a short rest here, Lorenzo if stayed longer might attract trouble, seeing Buscalo was fine, he left directly.

The life of a demon hunter is always like this, constantly on the move, facing one trouble after another.

Lorenzo wasn’t always unrested; after the Night of the Holy Arrival, he came to Old Dunling, became a detective with a unique style, living a relatively peaceful life. Yet, prolonged peace sometimes made him forget his origin, and when sinful things found him again, everything felt unfamiliar.

The sky still gloomy, cold raindrops occasionally fell, briefly landing on the street. Lorenzo prepared his next destination.