Gun of Ashes

The candlelight converged into a warm ocean, as if an unnamed breeze swept over, gently rippling, carrying an eerie sanctity.

It might have been the most twisted and grotesque scene the Plague Doctor had ever encountered. He had dissected countless demons and created numerous bizarre and sinister entities, but none of these could compare to what he saw at this moment.

Like a ritual of execution sacrifice, this circle of candlelit chairs was the altar, and Dean Lawrence was the pitiful offering.

Dean Lawrence’s body began to convulse painfully, as if something was draining his life force; his already aged figure was rapidly deteriorating, skin shriveling to reveal densely packed blue veins, blood unstoppable flowing down, pouring from his ears and nose.

The Plague Doctor knew that Dean Lawrence was in trouble, but he did not understand anything about the [Gap], nor did he know how to help him.

But then an immense pressure emerged, a peculiar sensation, not like erosion but merely a pressing force, as if someone was watching him. Then he saw the faint spectral glow emanating from Dean Lawrence’s body.

It was a light path difficult to capture with normal vision; the Plague Doctor could faintly see it, those dim light paths converging into an eerie human shape... as if it was Dean Lawrence’s soul, being slowly drawn from his body.

”Plague Doctor!”

Suddenly a voice rang out.

Dean Lawrence opened his tightly closed eyes, his eyeballs blood-red, as if about to burst, distorted like an evil ghost, twisted and hideous.

”Plague Doctor!”

He shouted again, and it was then that the Plague Doctor, amidst his terror, realized that Dean Lawrence’s eyes were lifeless... he couldn’t see himself. At this moment, his consciousness was elsewhere, driven only by a terrifying will to survive, allowing him to operate on two fronts momentarily.

The Plague Doctor slowly approached, extremely cautious. Ever since he met Dean Lawrence, this mysterious Demon Hunter had constantly challenged his worldview.

Stepping on yet-to-solidify wax oil, just as the Plague Doctor was about to touch Dean Lawrence, his lifeless eyes suddenly had a spark of light, like ashes reigniting.

”Lawrence...”

The Plague Doctor hesitantly called, but soon all the agony and ferocity vanished.

Something had happened, but the Plague Doctor had yet to notice. He was alert to the dangers of that position, firmly meeting the gaze of the other.

Dean Lawrence looked at him calmly, his gaze briefly confused but soon cleared.

The atmosphere was somewhat delicate, the preceding madness and grotesqueness all gone, as if it had all been an unpleasant illusion, everything ended, leaving only a silence that dared not be broken.

Two pairs of eyes met for a brief moment, maintaining a bizarre tacit understanding, and the next instant, sharp bone blades shot out from the Plague Doctor’s arm, shrieking as they fiercely sliced down.

It was a sudden, thunderous assault, and although the Plague Doctor had always appeared scholarly, he was confident in his combat skills; this strike could sever the enemy’s head directly, immediately fatal.

But the anticipated death never came; Dean Lawrence drew the Nail Sword, blocking the bone blade at the last moment, but due to the late draw, the bone blade’s impact pressed against the Nail Sword, half burying into his shoulder, blood flowing slowly.

”Is it here?”

A familiar voice resonated, yet at this moment, it was so alien.

”Who are you!”

The Plague Doctor roared, his suspicions confirmed; Dean Lawrence was compromised, attacked from within.

Watson seemed disinclined to answer him, using Dean Lawrence’s body, she scrutinized everything within view.

She could feel the presence of that thing, the nauseating scent she would never forget.

Seeing this, the Plague Doctor immediately launched another attack. He cared not for the damage to Dean Lawrence’s body; after all, given his skills, even if only the head remained, he could still salvage it somehow, though he couldn’t guarantee the final outcome.

Slender bone spikes pierced right through the Plague Doctor’s palm, like a sharp Thrusting Sword pinning down, nailing Dean Lawrence’s thigh to the spot, followed by snapping off, new bone spikes regenerating swiftly, like evil-repelling long nails penetrating again.

”Get out of here!”

A new voice echoed, Dean Lawrence roaring, perhaps the counterattack of his will taking effect; the falling Nail Sword paused momentarily, new bone spikes piercing his joints, locking his sword-wielding hand tightly.

A bloodstained hand held the head, that hideous half face gasping heavily.

He was so close to death.

”You took something you shouldn’t have, Lawrence, you should pay the price.”

After the pain came calm words, and now it was like a schizophrenic patient, battling himself, terrifying and evil anomaly.

Dean Lawrence murmured painfully.

”What exactly are you?”

”What are you?”

Amidst the battlefield’s center, within that mysterious [Gap].

After enduring prolonged agony, Dean Lawrence finally got a chance to breathe, yet he was still firmly grasped, the woman choking his throat, another hand clutching his heart, continuously invading Dean Lawrence’s thoughts; soon, he would become her.

Lorenzo seemed to have lost consciousness, like a parasitized insect, Watson torturing Dean Lawrence, most of her body protruding from Lorenzo’s torn open chest.

Here in the mental world, all this was no more than a manifestation of ”self,” Lorenzo’s consciousness torn apart, the abominable entity attempting to crawl outward.

”Where is it!”

Watson interrogated again, looking down at the twisted, pained face. Dean Lawrence could no longer speak.

Past memories flashed continuously in his mind, yellowed and old, carrying an ancient aroma.

That was a long time ago, so long ago that Dean Lawrence was still a child, back when steam engines didn’t exist, and knights’ swords and shields ruled the battlefield.

He saw the sunset over Florence, in the hazy light, the grand cathedral stood like iron trees, the Tiber River shimmering, reflecting the beauty of childhood.

Children ran on the green grass, nuns stepped into the church with a faint smile, the bell rang, and prayers surged like waves.

A warm, familiar embrace soothed him, just as he was about to completely succumb, an eerie coldness emerged.

Dean Lawrence said with some nostalgia.

”That’s why I feel the demon deserves to die...”

In the moment of almost succumbing, he snapped back, his angry gaze directly on the woman.

She was toying with his memories, those beautiful past days.

Watson was searching for its trace along Dean Lawrence’s memories.

Dean Lawrence had lived too long, so long that everyone he had known had died, so long that even the places he had lived lost their old traces.

Those memories were his last warmth, the last evidence of once being human, the tenderness deeply buried in his mind.

But now someone was touching it, trying to toy with him using them.

He was filled with fury.

”Isn’t dying in memories a good thing?”

Watson asked, somewhat puzzled.

His previous expression was like that of a sleeping baby; it would be the most beautiful death. All weary travelers would get what they wanted, yet he desperately broke free, unwilling to step into that serene beauty.

”It’s good... but that’s not the death I deserve.”

Dean Lawrence snarled in anger.

He slowly raised his hand, then tightly gripped the arm that was strangling his throat.

This seemed like a feeble gesture, but at this moment it held a different meaning.

He achieved it; under Watson’s nearly crushing will, he managed to make a slight resistance, just a final resistance before dying, but that was enough.

”I should die in that not-so-distant future, not here.”

His hoarse voice echoed, like the roar of the dead.

Yes, there was where Lawrence’s finale belonged; he was willing to die, as long as it was such an ending.

Suddenly, his almost shattered consciousness regained solidity, maintaining itself amidst the storm.

He forcefully tore at himself, like those mad believers, self-harming, it was a sacrifice given to God, this was Dean Lawrence’s sacrifice, a sacrifice to himself, a sacrifice to that ideal.

For a moment, Watson was stunned; she had never imagined the human will could reach such a level, even saying... it could no longer be called human.

Such madness, such anger, ever-boiling, an unquenchable fury.

Dean Lawrence tore at his own flesh, sharp nails ripping through skin and blood, strong bones forcefully breaking, covered in blood.

He was cutting his own consciousness, tearing free the part Watson was fiercely clutching from his own consciousness.

Like a patient with a knife, meticulously excising that rotten flesh from his body.

The intense pain felt like thousands of wild dogs gnawing on his body, each second dragging on, like the most cruel torture.

But none of this mattered.

”Today is not my death day; I can see it!”

He laughed wildly, kicking Watson’s body away, Watson could only feel the weight in her hands lighten, then all the parts she had occupied separated from Dean Lawrence’s consciousness.

He seemed to be taunting her, his body beginning to blur, as if disappearing into the [Gap].

”Don’t think of escaping! Lawrence!”

Watson shouted in rage, extending her hand with all her might, just a little bit more and she could have fully captured Dean Lawrence’s consciousness, but at that moment, countless chains pierced from Lorenzo’s wound, tangled around her like wild thorns, and then forcibly dragged her back to that cold world.

She could only struggle intensely, but couldn’t stop being dragged back, until completely re-integrated into Lorenzo’s wound.

Only the faint sound of waves falling into water could be heard, everything returned to silence.