Gun of Ashes

This would be a scene that Cornel would remember for the rest of his life. Ivar was like a monster from a nightmare, slowly crawling out of the darkness, dragging blood, shattering the limits between dimensions, and such personally descending right in front of Cornel.

He never imagined that this guy in a wheelchair could be so terrifying. Ivar had been hiding himself, accumulating for many years just for today.

A heroic death.

Die standing like a Viking warrior.

Pain and death could no longer threaten him, because that was exactly what he wanted.

At this moment, nothing could stop him. Even the guards carrying Secret Blood were not his match. To be precise, Cornel shouldn’t have placed his hopes on them in the first place.

After all, the guards of the choir were implanted with stable Secret Blood. Its power wasn’t as strong as that of the Demon Hunter, but at least it’s stable enough. Even a cowardly mortal heart could easily control it.

If you seek something, you must give something in return.

So such mediocre Secret Blood could only bring a slightly above ordinary strength at most. Its power lies in its ability to create countless warriors who are beyond ordinary.

Such guys were never a match for Ivar from the start. They had Secret Blood but didn’t have the heart to harness it, the heart of a lion, a heart fearless of death.

”You madman! Do you know what you’re doing? Do you know how many people will die because of this?”

Saying this, Cornel himself felt ridiculous. He was also one of the promoters of war, but when it truly arrived, unlike the crazed Corey, he only had fear and dread.

So-called honor and achievements are just words to decorate war, twisting the cruel and bloody truth into something people can accept.

He felt disgusted and nauseated by his naive thoughts.

However, this also precisely proved that Cornel was an ordinary person, not a monster like Corey, Ivar, or Lawrence. They were all monsters driven by an iron will, stopping at nothing for that noble goal.

”Such words are too childish, Cornel Garrell. You’re supposed to become a king, how can you say something like that?”

A calm voice sounded under the pitch-black face. Ivar wasn’t mocking Cornel, just plainly stating facts.

”Damn… how can people like you exist in this world?”

Cornel panicked and retreated. His only remaining sense grasped the gun handle tightly, not recklessly firing. The remaining bullets were his only hope. Once they were spent, he didn’t think he could defeat Ivar.

The guy in front of him was no ordinary person. In his broken body lay a crazy lion’s heart. His blood flowing was Rodbrock’s, the ghost of the ancestor berserker was leaning close to him, bringing him to the sacred Heroic Spirit Hall.

Ivar slowly advanced, breathing in the hot, turbid air, dragging his bloody knees. The movements were like crawling, but even such ridiculous movements brought an unstoppable oppressive feeling, as if a wall of iron was advancing step by step, crushing all that obstructs it.

”You lunatics are too damnable, why!”

Cornel didn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend the Vikings’ beliefs at all.

”Why! You people, countless slaughtering lunatics, shouldn’t you fall into the hell of divine punishment after death? Why is it the beautiful Heroic Spirit Hall that welcomes such people?”

He felt a fear he never had before, this helpless despair. He even found tears gushing out from his eyes, mixing with the blood.

Even though he was isolated from beliefs since childhood, as a Gaulunaro person, Cornel was somewhat knowledgeable about beliefs.

Good people ascend to Heaven, sinners descend to Hell.

He frequently heard the priests mentioning this, but in reality, it was never like that. The world is real, cruel, far from the beauty depicted in doctrines, but at least such words can still soothe people’s hearts.

Yet, these Vikings’ beliefs were completely different. They regarded slaughter as good, calling dying in battle an honor.

In the past, Cornel just laughed at these things, but now facing Ivar, he truly felt the distortion and madness of this belief.

”Why would murderers greet the beautiful!”

Cornel shouted in misunderstanding.

Like Ivar, his hands were also stained with blood. Sometimes Cornel thought he would go to hell after death; he too would be restless and sleepless at night.

But why did Ivar, who was also covered in blood, feel he could greet the beautiful?

Why?

”Do you think...the Heroic Spirit Hall is really beautiful?”

The voice sounded, Ivar was very close to Cornel, close enough to touch Cornel’s feet if he stretched out his hand forcefully, yet he stopped, seemingly resting, hands frantically scratching, smearing one line of blood after another on the ground.

”I will meet my ancestors in the Heroic Spirit Hall, talk about my achievements with them, sharing glory.”

Ivar tightened the iron again, supporting himself upright. The broken knees struggled hard, the blood-smeared ground was somewhat slippery, he fell down before standing up.

”Odin will take out the most delicious delicacies to feast me and drink strong liquor with me.”

Ivar’s voice became blurred, he fell and couldn’t stand up again.

Listening to his dream-like voice, Cornel then belatedly realized.

The monster in front of him lay like a stray dog in a pool of blood, his body full of wounds left from the fight with the guards, each deep into blood and flesh, bones protruding, limbs twisted at an inhuman angle, all actions just now were driven by sheer will.

Ivar wasn’t a monster; he was human, an ordinary person.

At this moment, he was already exhausted, the hot blood cooling down bit by bit, the vigorously beating heart gradually weary, his eyelids heavy, nearly fully closing, yearning for rest.

He was about to die.

But he couldn’t die yet. Ivar did wrong, he must bear the cost. He was willing to become a sacrifice for this war, and also willing to pay with his life for that brief beautiful moment.

One thing matters, he thought very clearly.

Cornel climbed up awkwardly, his chest rising and falling violently, raising the muzzle pointing at Ivar, seeing his body still slightly rising and falling, he wasn’t dead yet.

”Do you think it’s beautiful?”

Ivar asked once again, but this time Cornel did not answer him. Instead, he pulled the trigger.

Among the roaring gunfire, the bursting flames reignited the darkness, and for a brief moment, Cornel saw a somewhat sorrowful face.

Then he was knocked over, and steel pierced through his wrist.

Falling into the blood, his senses inexplicably became incredibly sharp, and Cornel could clearly hear the sound of blood rushing out from his body, his heart pounding in panic as death gently caressed his cheek, ready to take him to the afterlife.

He could no longer let out any screams, overwhelmed by immense fear, Cornel found it difficult to think.

Ivar’s battle was not yet over. Lying in a pool of blood was not choosing death, but gathering strength and timing, his broken body stepping onto Cornel’s, shakily standing up, towering like mountains.

”The souls of the dead will fight in the hall, only to be resurrected the next day to fight again... endlessly battling...”

Ivar’s voice was very calm.

”Do you think this is beautiful, Cornel Garrell?”

Ivar slowly pulled the steel from his wrist, raised it high, and questioned him.

The voice struck Cornel’s heart like a heavy hammer.

Is this truly beautiful?

Endless fighting, never attaining peace.

Awakening only to die, dying to awake and fight again, and die once more.

This is an inescapable cycle, like the history of humankind.

War, peace, until everyone gathers strength again to plunge into war.

Cornel couldn’t understand, he couldn’t answer the question, but in a daze, he seemed to see the Heroic Spirit Hall, countless warriors fighting each other, their bodies covered in scars, breathing the cold air deeply, spilling hot blood.

They each fell, resurrecting as the sun rose the next day, picking up the weapons beside them to fight again.

Endless, inescapable.

This is the true hell.

Cornel’s heart turned cold.

He pondered, this is a curse, humanity’s curse.

An unnamed god curses humanity, is this whole world not a vast Heroic Spirit Hall? One is born to fight and die, and newborn children enter their forebears’ hatreds.

The glow of the candle fell on the raised steel, reflecting Cornel’s blurred face, the mirror image seemed to be whispering something, declaring his death.

Up to this point, Cornel actually calmed down, emotionlessly gazing at the face in the shadow, he thought Ivar must be sad and hopeless at this moment.

Ivar couldn’t change anything, he could only place his death with hope for a beautiful future, this was the last thing he could do for the Viking nations.

Cornel closed his eyes, calmly welcoming the arrival of death.

The now cold blood dripped down, tracing across Cornel’s face, falling to the ground, strangely the expected death did not arrive.

He opened his eyes and saw a figure like a statue.

Ivar held steel high, his body morbidly standing, face hidden in the shadow, time seemed to freeze on him, cementing the raging will at that moment.

No more breath.

He was dead.

In an instant, countless thoughts collided with Cornel’s mind, no fear or joy, nothing at all.

As if he had lost all emotions, he pushed Ivar’s rigid corpse aside, expressionlessly crawling out of the pool of blood.

”Endless cycle...”

He muttered softly, tearing fabric to bandage the wound on his wrist.

It is over, this mad battle to the death ended just like that.

Cornel slowly stepped back, his gaze lingering on Ivar’s body, realizing Ivar was likely taken to the Heroic Spirit Hall by Valkyries by now.

So, is it truly the Viking’s heaven? Or hell?

Cornel couldn’t understand, but at least in the end, Ivar, as a warrior, died standing.

”Farewell, Ivar Rodbrock.”

Cornel said this in the end, escaping the profound darkness.

In the pitch-black, silent corridor, mingled remnants of beasts and steel, it seemed someone was fighting somewhere, battling fiercely, candlelight swayed outside bringing songs, casting blurred light on Cornel.

None of it concerned him anymore, Cornel looked into the void ahead.

He couldn’t quite describe this moment either, Ivar’s final stance engraved in his memory firmly, unable to scatter, unable to break free.

Cornel began contemplating other matters.

Now all the anger and hatred were irrelevant to him, he pondered profoundly important matters.

Some say growth is slow, requiring countless years, a long crucible, for a boy to transform into a man, but others say growth is instantaneous, a moment of clarity in a not so terrible instant, understanding everything.

In the moment of Ivar’s death, Cornel understood everything.