Gun of Ashes

In the piercingly cold downpour, Oscar swung his long sword and Hand Axe, his alcohol-numbed body suddenly swift beyond belief. His breathing stayed steady, as if he were at some grand ball, waltzing with the Demon, blood falling like discarded crimson gowns, constantly dripping down and merging into the standing water.

”This... this is what you call a writer?”

Buscalo roared. The drunk who had been clinking glasses with him just minutes ago was now fighting like a War God. He almost suspected he was seeing things, but judging from that damned familiar tone and expression, this really was Oscar.

”Those two things don’t conflict, Buscalo.”

Oscar was far from as relaxed as Buscalo thought. His attacks followed a rhythm, making use of openings to catch his breath and recover his strength. After all, he was no longer young, and his body had been poisoned by alcohol.

”Inspiration always runs dry. Writers have to go out and gather material!”

He dipped low, bringing the axe down on the Demon’s knee joint. The blow tore through muscle and bone, forcing the Demon to one knee.

”But going out for material doesn’t just take money, it takes survival skills as well.”

Oscar let out a rasping chuckle. Normally it would sound like a drunkard’s muttering in his sleep, but now it was like a vicious tiger’s long howl.

The long sword caught the descending claw. He didn’t meet it head-on, but instead let the sword slide into position along his body, using his whole frame as a brace to divert the claw, forcing it down at an angle.

The Demon struck with all its might; with that blow it was hard for it to pull back, and that was exactly Oscar’s chance to attack.

”I once lost my way in a winter forest, and sailed out alone across the sea!”

He planted a boot on the Demon’s back. The heavy rain drowned everything, but it couldn’t cause his footing to waver; his stance was iron-cast, steady as he stepped in closer.

”It’s just a pity none of the stories I wrote were popular.”

Oscar sighed as his Hand Axe came down, hacking savagely at the Demon’s nape.

Blood and meat exploded in a spray. With that full-force strike, Oscar’s arm went numb from the shock... or maybe that was the alcohol. He really had drunk too much just now.

”Getting old...” Oscar looked at the mangled flesh beneath him and sighed at time’s cruelty. ”Back when I was young, I could’ve smashed this with my fists alone.”

He should have kept hacking, but Oscar truly was old now. His breathing grew erratic; the alcohol’s poison and the cold of the rain were gnawing at him.

The Demon thrashed violently, hurling Oscar off its back. He crashed into the floodwater, utterly bedraggled.

The water level was already high; at this rate, Old Dunling would soon become an ocean. Oscar choked on a few mouthfuls, the taste wretched beyond belief.

A shrill screech rang out as the Demon roared and brought its claws crashing down. Its crimson arm was like a blood-red Great Sword, and at that critical instant Buscalo grabbed Oscar by the collar and yanked him out of the strike zone.

”Weren’t you so fierce just now? How are you down already?”

Buscalo bellowed. The whiplash in his heart was immense. He’d thought this drunk was a peerless master hiding in the city, but who would’ve guessed that after a few ferocious exchanges, he’d already fallen behind.

Truth be told, though, Buscalo had half bought into Oscar’s nonsense. Even if the man was a mess now, in that one instant just now he had indeed felt that fearless aura, as if Oscar really had once been like that.

”Old, old... I’ve gone too long without gripping a weapon.”

Oscar didn’t care in the slightest. He looked like a drunk throwing a fit as he struggled to his feet and fished his lost weapons back out of the water.

He was starting to think stepping down had been a very wise decision. He’d been through so many adventures, faced countless formidable foes, forever grappling at the edge of life and death.

Sometimes he felt nothing in this world could truly bring him down, but in the ring of time he’d been utterly routed.

”Time urges all men to grow old.”

Oscar Wilde had, in the end, grown old; there was no helping it. He was only human.

Gasping for breath, Oscar’s gaze hardened. Out of the corner of his eye he looked toward Shao Liangxi’s direction. Several Demon corpses were already floating in the water, hacked into an unrecognizable mess, intestines and bones laid bare.

No one had expected a girl like that to go so berserk once she started swinging. And she wasn’t done yet—her blurred figure could still be seen amid the rain, locked in combat with more Demons.

”Youth really is a fine thing,” Oscar said helplessly.

Shao Liangxi had blocked the remaining Demons; for the moment, none of them would interfere here. Whether it was trust in Oscar or something else, Shao Liangxi showed no intention of coming back to help them, instead leaving this Demon entirely to them.

”Come on...”

Buscalo had just been about to shout for Shao Liangxi’s help when Oscar blocked him with an outstretched arm.

”What are you doing!” Buscalo demanded, baffled.

”You can’t always hope someone else will save you, Buscalo—just like you can’t pin your courage on alcohol.”

Oscar was serious. He hefted his weapons, itching to get back in.

”There will always be times when you’re alone. Who’s supposed to save you then?” he said, flashing Buscalo a grin. ”Stop shaking. At a time like this, shouldn’t you be pulling your nastiest face and saying the harshest things you can, just so your life doesn’t feel quite so pathetic?”

Buscalo had no idea what Oscar was talking about. He figured the man was insane. Then again, none of Lorenzo’s friends had ever been particularly normal.