Gun of Ashes

Bola shivered, his body trembled uncontrollably. He slowly turned around, recalling the road behind him, and only then did he realize that despite his long efforts and the seemingly ”endless” distance, he had actually covered only a little ground.

Lancelot slipped off Bola’s body and fell into the snow, the supply pack falling alongside. Without the burden, Bola felt an unprecedented lightness.

He slowly knelt down as if his spine had been broken, lowering his head, then roared powerlessly.

Bola repeatedly raised his fists and pounded the ground, wasting his strength to vent his anger and helplessness.

[A cruel decision.]

”Ah—”

Like a madman, Bola continued to howl wildly until he no longer had the strength. He then ended this ridiculous tantrum, leaning blankly against a stone.

”How ridiculous...”

Bola muttered to himself.

This isn’t some knight’s novel where Bola shouts the name of his enemy, driven by hatred and rage, to walk out of this icy hell.

This is cruel reality; anger and hatred can’t help Bola. No matter how furious he is or how much he hates Froki, it doesn’t change reality; all that awaits Bola is a cold ending.

Despair.

After brief hope, Bola plunged into deeper despair. He sat there hugging his legs, giving up struggling.

He looked at Lancelot lying in the snow. Lancelot wasn’t dead yet; his chest rose and fell slightly, his breathing extremely weak. If left alone like this, Lancelot wouldn’t last long.

”At least... at least I’ll do my best.”

Bola said, crawling towards Lancelot. He picked up the supply pack that had fallen into the snow and was about to open it, but then Froki’s words echoed in his mind again.

If he used it on Lancelot, it would only delay Lancelot’s death. The two of them could not escape this dead end, but... if he used it on himself, if he abandoned Lancelot and walked away...

In the shadows of his heart, something was growing, whispering to Bola, tempting the mortal will.

”No... what if, right, Lancelot?”

Bola showed a wretched smile, opened the supply pack, preparing to use it on Lancelot.

After consecutive battles and immersion in seawater, Lancelot’s sewn wounds had reopened, bleeding continuously, and Bola himself also had wounds, with metal fragments piercing his thigh, and he too was losing blood. It was only because of the cold and numbness that Bola couldn’t feel the pain temporarily.

”What if, what if we encounter a hunter coming out to hunt? Yes, what if...”

Bola kept mumbling, as if by doing so he could believe this lie.

”I will save you, Lancelot, I will, I will.”

He kept saying, but his hands stopped their movement. Bola lowered his head, looking at his trembling hands. He should have opened it, used the medicine on Lancelot, but no matter how hard he tried, his hands seemed frozen, unable to move.

Bola knew very well why this was.

He would die; using it on Lancelot would mean he would die here, but Bola couldn’t watch Lancelot die here either.

His expression was completely frozen, staring straight at his hands, feeling abject, facing the test of death.

His breathing became a bit rapid, suddenly a flash appeared in his eyes, something was glinting on the large stone.

Bola crawled over, picked it up, and illuminated it under the sun.

A bullet.

A bullet left by Froki.

Without thinking, Bola took out the silvery revolver left by Froki, loading the bullet into the chamber.

He understood the purpose Froki had for leaving the weapon and bullet.

Lancelot was still alive, his face showing pain as he lay in a coma, the wounds on his body tormenting him, dragging him bit by bit to death. Bola didn’t know how long this suffering would continue, but now he could end it all for Lancelot.

This would also make the decision for himself.

He raised Funeral Bell, showing no expression as he pointed the muzzle at Lancelot. His pupils were bloodshot, and blue veins were protruding around the edges of his eyes.

Just pull the trigger.

Just pull the trigger.

Just pull the trigger.

His pupils were bloodshot, and blue veins protruded around the edges of his eyes.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bola broke down and cried, shouting and yelling.

He staggered to Lancelot’s side, holding the body that was gradually losing warmth, constantly apologizing.

Dignity, morality, bottom line, ideals, mission... no matter what, all endured a test in the face of death, forcing people to make decisions.

After the decision, true value is revealed, subject to scrutiny.

After a long while, Bola let go of Lancelot. His eyes were empty as he desperately opened his mouth, inserting the muzzle into his mouth.

His finger rested on the trigger, and Bola tilted his head back, a view of warm sunlight in his sight.

The bell tolled.

...

The roars of the beasts continued, echoing inside the narrow cabin, tormenting Blue Jade’s ears. She repeatedly thrust out the folding blade, piercing through the cabin door into the Demon’s body. Flesh and blood spattered through the crevices, splattering Blue Jade with dirty muck.

Blue Jade felt like she was nothing less than half-digested carrion, utterly repugnant. Of course, more important than the smell was this damned situation.