Gun of Ashes

No, that’s not an eye pupil; compared to an eye pupil, Left Garrison feels it’s more like a... door.

A door leading to the unknown, straight to the bottom of the Abyss.

Roger is merely a medium; something is hiding in that deep darkness, peering through Roger’s eyes at him.

Left Garrison grins ferociously, staring into the depth of those eyes, then responds.

”An Anonymous pawn.”

Taking a step forward, crossing a vast distance in an instant, the aging body seems to regain youth, and the twin blades transform into a deceitful light ribbon at extreme speed.

In an instant, both blades arrive.

Cleave through flesh, split the collarbone, sink into the flesh, then the twin blades suddenly unfurl, brutally tearing Roger’s arms apart.

Blood splatters everywhere, burning holes in the clothes upon contact, and causing a scorching pain upon hitting the skin.

As if the blood flowing from Roger is liquid flame.

Left Garrison cleaves through the flame.

The blade is fast.

Left Garrison thinks so too; perhaps this is the fastest blade he has ever swung in his life, as fast as thunder, as swift as the wind.

If he were fighting against humans, battling Demons, such a blade could easily kill the enemy, even a Demon Hunter could be slain in one slash.

But unfortunately, Left Garrison faces Roger, one of the most hated monsters in this world.

He can kill life, but he cannot kill monsters.

Roger’s counterattack also erupts at this moment; the creature named Roger Cruz finally abandons its human disguise and ventures into a more maddened transformation.

Bone rapidly proliferates, intertwining with flesh.

Keen bone spears expand from his torso, fiercely stabbing towards Left Garrison, but Left Garrison is even faster, the veins on his arms bulging as if they will burst through the skin the next second.

Left Garrison can see everything clearly; under the excess of Florun Potion, he can even observe the dust diffusing in the air.

He sees the incoming bone spears, needing no thought, entrusting everything to the instincts of combat, hence the sharp sound of metal slicing through air rings, and the incoming bone spears break one by one.

”Hah!”

Left Garrison breathes heavily and swings his blade, like a master of swordsmanship, amidst the shattering and flying bone fragments, he closes in on Roger’s torso.

Gathering momentum for a strike, the Folding Blade is thrown, accurately hitting Roger’s face, piercing through the lower jaw and out along the back of the head.

With an upward motion, Left Garrison tears off his clothes and armor, bare-chested, and throws them forward, blocking the spraying blood and blinding Roger’s sight.

The bone spears shred the falling clothes, expecting to pierce through Left Garrison; instead, they only strike empty air, searching around, as if Left Garrison has vanished into thin air.

The sharp Folding Blade stabs out from Roger’s back, piercing through the heart once again.

Roger slightly turns his head, witnessing the madness that brings him joy.

”Anti-Meme, huh?”

Roger’s voice is hoarse and sharp, the blood-stained Folding Blade still lodged in his head, the sight an utter spectacle.

”Uncovered this easily?” Left Garrison murmurs with a bitter smile, a Folding Blade above his head, ”This is my proud skill after all.”

”Very impressive.”

Roger praises him, intending to say more, yet another Folding Blade pierces through his throat, sealing his words.

A grating sound echoes, and two more lethal Folding Blades unfold; it’s only then Roger sees the current state of Left Garrison.

His upper body and waist wrapped in cloth bands, hung with folded Folding Blades, old and shriveled flesh covered in scars from his youth, densely intertwined.

Left Garrison is like a worn-out sword, his gaunt body showing clear outlines of ribs, the skin littered with brown spots, like a yellow cloth wrapping bones.

The chest heaves violently, the heart pounding with a thumping sound, each rise and fall testing this aging body.

His presence is faint; if Roger does not intentionally focus on him, Left Garrison seems to disappear from his perception in the next moment, just like before.

Suddenly vanish.

This is Left Garrison’s unique skill, also the news of his impending death.

Few Anonymous manage to stay lucid and live to Left Garrison’s age. The Anti-Meme constantly erodes him, diminishing his existence. This is a dangerous signal, suggesting Anonymous might soon be completely erased, yet Left Garrison doesn’t fear it. Sometimes, he even uses this power.

Decreasing his presence, disappearing before the enemy, and then launching an attack.

”First blade!”

The Folding Blade pierces the chest, along with the sternum and vertebral column behind it.

Release, draw the second Folding Blade, while also thrusting down the Folding Blade in the other hand.

”Second one!”

Left Garrison roars, splitting the chest, shattering the ribcage, his bones like blades fractured inside, further tearing apart flesh.

And then comes the monotonous repetition, drawing the blade, striking down, drawing again.

”Third one!”

”Fourth one!”

”...”

The Folding Blade slashes the spine, exposing organs and foul blood, then stabs again into the pelvis, wedged in the bones.

In the sound of tearing wind, the twin blades pierce the kneecaps, penetrating Roger’s legs. Roger tries to move, but the Folding Blade is coated with Holy Silver and given Anti-Meme Protection. They embed in Roger’s body like long nails, unable to kill him but slightly restricting his movement.

Not much time is needed; Left Garrison’s blade moves swiftly, even a few seconds are enough for him to strike with more blades.

Following the structure of bones, the direction of blood vessels, the location of meridians.

Left Garrison unleashes a red hurricane, like a skilled butcher, calmly slaughtering the prey before him, hacking Roger’s body into pieces.

Blade after blade pierces through Roger’s body, like a dense forest of iron standing upon his body, blood flowing unstoppably, dripping along the hilts.

Roger tries to move, but these Folding Blades precisely restrict his skeleton, standing still like a statue.

This is a brutal slaughter, yet Roger feels no pain. He just keeps mocking, laughing hoarsely like the mourning cry of a raven.

Roger displays a smile akin to a Ghostly Evil Ghost. Then his already severed body continues to crumble, a thousand sharp white bone knives and spears erupting from beneath flesh, pushing up, bursting his skin.

The bones wrapped in metallic hardness, shiny blades, swords, and halberds stab into the ground, swing into the air, venting slaughter in all directions.

The metal ground is easily carved with deep grooves, sparks flying wildly, like pillars holding up Roger’s shattered skin. He stands tall, his ravaged face watching the fleeing Left Garrison, continuing his mockery.

”A futile effort, outsider. Your fury, your swinging blade... everything about you is meaningless.”

Roger mocks, the Folding Blades embedded deep in his body snap one by one with his expansion, the shattering sound echoing as metal fragments fall to the ground with crisp noises.

Left Garrison gasps for air, his body covered in blood, both Roger’s and his own.

Like coal buried in snow, he’s burning, his body exuding mist, then comes the pain, nearly robbing him of rational thought.

Roger’s blood corrodes his body, the skin it infects feels like burnt by fire, pain coming from every exposed part, then layered together, sinking deep into the bone.

Left Garrison draws the last two Folding Blades, propping himself up laboriously, a torrent of blood gushing from his right leg where large chunks of flesh are sliced off, more incisions scattered across his body, varying in depth.

Left Garrison thinks even if he were ten years younger, he wouldn’t be so embarrassed, wouldn’t have failed to dodge such attacks perfectly.

”Not the same.”

Left Garrison says, struggling to stand up, his left field of vision falling into darkness.

He guesses Roger’s blood has seeped in, likely blinding his eye. He noticed it initially, but in such a brutal fight, Left Garrison had no time to stop and rub his eyes.

”Not the same.”

In an instant, Left Garrison seems to age significantly, his eye sockets deeply sunken, only a cluster of unfathomable darkness.

He keeps repeating.

”Not the same, Roger Cruz.”

Arms as rugged as iron, once again raise twin blades.

Compared to the brutal monster, such steel seems too thin, yet Left Garrison doesn’t care about these, a glimmer of light sparks in the darkness of his eye sockets. He seems to hold not only two blades but a thousand buzzing sharp edges.

These blades are enough, nothing to fear. Thinking this, Left Garrison even shows his signature fake smile.