Gun of Ashes

If Hell truly exists, it probably looks like this: the air is suffused with heat and the scent of blood, with flesh and blood sprawling like wild vines, densely consuming everything around. They spread along the damp walls, tendril-like veins weaving through crevices, dense and tangled like a fungal mat.

”Maintenance is simple, really, as long as the Demon doesn’t get out of control. These rampant flesh masses need to be dealt with periodically, or else containment failure may occur... By the way, I’m planning to call this Demon ’Mother,’ what do you think?”

One has to admit, the Plague Doctor’s naming sense is truly atrocious.

Lawrence ignored him, focusing instead on the twisted flesh and steel. From below came a low sobbing growl, mingling with the Demon’s breathing, causing this mountain-like body to sway gently, stirring the sparks within the furnace.

”However, this thing carries its own corrosiveness, so the attrition rate among maintenance personnel is high. I suggest that after about three treatments, they can be discarded, and it’s simple to deal with them—just toss them into the furnace. Human flesh and blood will be its nourishment.”

The Plague Doctor spoke as he was about to leave; he had to settle everything for Lawrence before departing.

”Is that all?” Lawrence asked.

”What else? This should be enough for you.”

The Plague Doctor said, pausing to add another thought.

”Before the apocalypse arrives, with everything we currently have, it’s difficult for us to achieve any technical breakthrough. This Secret Blood legion is already the pinnacle of what we can accomplish, and according to your prophecies, our time is running out.”

As his words hung in the air, silence enveloped everything, save for the crackling of the flames within the furnace and the Demon’s low growls and heavy breathing.

”So, have you decided to leave, Plague Doctor?”

Lawrence stood on one side of the railing, the Plague Doctor on the other, with the furnace’s flames burning like a curtain, separating them.

”Yes, I can’t help you any further. My own research into knowledge has reached a bottleneck, and now I must go in pursuit of higher Truth.”

The Plague Doctor said, somewhat sorrowfully.

”Working with you has been a pleasure, Lawrence, but alas, we must part ways.”

”The North?”

Lawrence asked. The Plague Doctor had mentioned these plans: forming a fleet, building legions. Lawrence engaged in these endeavors to combat the doomsday war, while the Plague Doctor sought his expedition for Truth.

”The North.”

The Plague Doctor confirmed.

”I don’t seem to have the chance to go there; if you can reach it, perhaps it would be good.”

Lawrence mused, for the North, to him, was merely a void of meaning—a place he never reached, and given the current situation, he had no opportunity to get there.

Once, in his eyes, the North was just a barren ice field, the only mysterious aspect being the sea known as the Silent Sea. It was said to be an ominous place from which no ship returned.

These mysterious legends held little interest for Lawrence, after all, he had never truly ventured to the Silent Sea, nor experienced it firsthand; those who delved into the Silent Sea rarely returned to relay information to others. Hence, no one could genuinely understand this bizarre maritime realm, leaving only void legends to describe it.

Yet now, it was different. In the relentless pursuit of the Root Source, this once-blurry world became strikingly clear to Lawrence. He had no knowledge of what lay in the North, but he could guess, guess at the secrets hidden therein.

”The Truth, I believe it is there.”

The Plague Doctor said, piecing together shattered clues from his past.

”Why do you think that?”

Lawrence asked with growing interest. In his hypotheses drawn from the Revelation and the Evangelical Church’s legends, he speculated about the secrets that might reside in the North, yet he only confided these thoughts to Miguel, unaware of how the Plague Doctor figured it out.

”This starts before we met, Lawrence. But before that, are you familiar with Alchemists?”

The Plague Doctor’s voice emerged sharply from beneath his bird-beaked mask, as if he were smiling.

”You must know that Alchemists are inherently selfish; their insatiable thirst for knowledge drives each of them with an enormous hunger.”

The Plague Doctor confessed with a hint of self-mockery.

”Even I am not exempt; the thought of those things stirs a restless agitation within me, as if something lures me irresistibly, prompting me to follow.”

Lawrence noticed again, the Plague Doctor’s garb rippling with sporadic bulges.

”In the eyes of Alchemists, the door to Truth opens to only one. If any Alchemist finds the gate to Truth first, other Alchemists would be barred outside.

It is likely due to this philosophy that Alchemists refrain from exchanging insights with one another, encrypting their Alchemy notes, which subsequently causes much of their knowledge to fail to circulate.”

”Are you an Alchemist? I recall you claiming to be a doctor.”

Lawrence queried the Plague Doctor.

Though the Plague Doctor possessed extensive and peculiar knowledge, he always appeared before Lawrence as a doctor, never bringing up Alchemy despite his familiarities with it.

The Plague Doctor neither confirmed nor denied, merely expressing his viewpoint.

”Whether an Alchemist, a doctor, or a Scholar, they are all ultimately seekers of knowledge—the essence is the same.