Gun of Ashes

Everything would race toward the final endgame, sprinting headlong to the story’s conclusion.

Even Watson could not calm her mind at this moment; her gaze fixed upon that unfathomable darkness, awaiting the end of this death match.

Would it be Edlon who survived, or Roger—or would the two of them perish together.

She could not guess; all their plans had only been laid up to this last step, and beyond it, no one knew what awaited.

This was an unknowable future, a fate steeped in darkness.

It might turn out well, or it might be far worse; all she could do was wait for the result in silence, and prepare herself to atone for her mistakes.

Thinking thus, a strange power surged through her thoughts. It was like thunder hidden in the clouds, flashing again and again in step with Watson’s contemplation.

The forbidden power was completely repressed, waiting only for the moment of release.

[Echo of the End].

Watson was an absolute outsider, and also the adjudicator who bore the sword.

This was a grand gamble, and because of that, they had long since devised the most thorough of plans. If the one who walked out of there was Roger, Watson knew very clearly what she must do.

She had to move forward, to let all sacrifices reveal the value they deserved.

Standing water began to pour back into the Mechanical Institute, surging along the fissures leading underground, seeping through layer upon layer of steel, infiltrating every gap—yet at the final barrier, it was completely stopped.

That was the makeshift arena. Crude as it was, it was more than enough for a fight to the death.

Flames roared, enormous structures collapsed one after another, leaving only rubble scattered across the ground. An invisible force swept through, plowing forward, continuing its destruction in that gloomy underworld—until, at a certain instant, a razor-sharp white light flashed, and only then was this devastation checked, allowing them to barely discern those two figures, moving at terrifying speed.

”I did imagine our final battle, but I never thought you’d actually trust others, join hands with them!”

Roger shouted, his shattered form crashing back and forth.

Successive Anti-Meme shocks had stripped his sanity to the barest remnant; one could say that at this moment he was no longer Roger Cruz, but merely a monster manipulated by the darkness—only by coincidence did this monster wear a familiar face.

Flesh began to proliferate, no longer bound by human shape, swelling and rupturing under each collision into a grotesque and terrifying form.

It was as though a mass of serpents had coiled together, merging into a frenzy of flesh; from the rents torn open, no blood flowed—only deep darkness, and within that darkness, a hundred eyes opening.

Twisted, hateful laughter continued without end, the voices of women and children layered atop one another, like some blasphemous symphony.

”I am only reclaiming my duty, Roger.”

Edlon faced the mad creature with utter calm; the Nail Sword in his hand cleaved chunk after chunk of flesh, as though cutting through a ball of yarn, scarlet threads whipping and spilling everywhere.

Unlike the previous cycles of healing and rebirth, this time Roger’s flesh, once severed, continued to proliferate as independent entities, linked only by scarlet tendrils. It was like some deceitful giant spider, weaving a crimson nest in this shadowed place out of its own flesh.

By the time Edlon realized this, he was already standing in the midst of layer upon layer of scarlet. Innumerable red threads densely veiled every corner of his vision; proliferating flesh sprawled everywhere, extending like vines, with pallid bones threading among them.

In the span of a heartbeat, under the intensified corrosion, Roger was completely demonized, transfigured into a monster beyond recognition.

Points of starlight glimmered in the dark, and then, in the next breath, the sparks swelled into raging flames, burning along the scarlet threads, driving forward, until the entire blood-nest was transformed into a blazing Hell.

The oxygen was nearly consumed, a suffocating oppression surged to meet them; boiling firestorms crossed and crisscrossed. Yet this hampered Edlon very little—he raised the Nail Sword high and strode straight ahead.

”You have never once defeated me, Roger.”

Edlon said in a low voice.

From the very beginning of their acquaintance, Edlon had borne absolute martial might. He was the Pope of the Evangelical Church, the Dean of the Demon Hunting Order; if Demons possessed any sanity, then merely hearing his name would make them tremble.

He was a warrior born, carrying with him tyranny and divine judgment.

”Such pride, Edlon. I can’t help wanting to see you fall...”

Roger let out a rasping laugh. Each time he spoke, his voice carried overlapping echoes, as though Roger had become ten thousand men, every reply the call of countless throats.

”No!”

A sudden voice rang by his ear. Red threads had twined together, forming a blurred human face that shrieked with piercing laughter.

”You are already walking the same path! You simply refuse to admit it.”

Amid the rampant laughter, Edlon’s expression twisted; fine cracks appeared across his face as though it were carved stone, and several fragments had already fallen away, revealing beneath them the same darkness.

Many years ago, after they both descended deep into the Well of Ascension and gazed directly upon The Inexpressible... everything had changed.

Edlon did not answer. He swung his sword with all his might; the Nail Sword drew out a band of immaculate light that spanned the battlefield.

It was like the power that cleaves heaven.

In that enclosed space, he somehow raised a howling gale. The sword edge whipped up a pressure wave, easily cleaving apart the interwoven flames, tossing and scattering them, until the blade’s edge crashed into Roger’s body and smashed his face to pulp.