I squeeze the trigger.
The sound is not the deafening boom of a conventional firearm, but a sharp, clean crack—like a whip snapping in a vacuum. It's immediately followed by the thud of the karambit-wielder's body hitting the soft, damp seafloor. He doesn't move.
The silence that rushes back in is thicker and heavier than the sound of the shot, broken only by the slosh of water around Ramsey's ankles a couple yards away. The water splashed against my own ankles, but the ground feels wrong, like trying to run on wet sand.
I look up at Rist, who is still dangling upside down. His face is a mask of disbelief and rage, but his words cut through the remaining adrenaline.
"Who the hell are you, and why do you have my gun?"
"You're Rist, right? Don't you worry; I'm here to save you," I reply, lowering the smoking muzzle of the crimson pistol.
"Save him? You have no business here! My subordinate here must be thoroughly punished." Ramsey's voice booms from across the seafloor, echoing off the weathered steel towers.
I feel a cold, clammy sensation spreading from my chest.
"I'm not leaving without him," I insist, trying to sound certain, but this sense of unease sits in my mind like a jagged stone. "I've never faced a situation like this before today; can I really do this?"
"What makes you think I'm leaving here with you, fool?" Rist spits out, straining against his chains. "That weapon is sensitive to emotion. It's responding to you solely because you've already taken command of it. Now stop embarrassing yourself, unchain me then give me back my property, maybe I save yer ass while I beat the hell out of his!" His wide smile with blood dripping from the sides, shrouded in the shadow of the underside of the deck, was only made visible by the slight rays of light coming through the cracks of the wood.
I glance at the fallen assassin. Maro's words about the Law of Action flood my mind, pushing the confusion aside. Listen to your heartbeat, slow your breath, feel the blood pumping…
My heart is a frantic drum, but I force my breath to slow. I feel this weird rush not as a boost, but as a clarity. The gun in my hand feels heavy, this consuming pressure surrounding it, but it also feels like a lie. It's a great tool, yes, but something feels off. I can't rely on it. My strength lies not in this object, but in whatever this feeling is that I'm channeling.
-The Law of Action is the lowest law, the law all monks must master.
I look up. On the rim of the hole, a couple of suits have begun moving. They are dropping silently onto the underside of the platform, forming a staggered semicircle on the bottom portions of the towers between me and the hole where Rist hangs. They move too fast, too deliberately.
"Ramsey…" Maro's voice, rough and low but slightly sing-songy, cuts through the tension from the sea floor. "Your show is over. Just call off your assassins, and let's discuss the Colonel."
Ramsey laughs—a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through the water.
"The Colonel is right here, can't you see! He's just a punk kid now, dressed in different clothes. See, he even has his favorite crimson pistol."
He gestures toward me with a flourish.
"That is why you came right, for that weapon, what type of fool would go this far and even risk their lives to save a man like this!" Rist stayed silent.
"You seem to have your hands full, man-bun,"
I yell, turning to face the converging assassins.
I holster the gun into the inner pockets of this damned jacket. It was a crutch, and I need both hands free. The assassins pause, surprised by the sudden rejection of the weapon.
The closest one, tall and wiry, takes the opportunity and lunges, a hidden blade flashing from his wrist sheath. I don't use the raw speed I felt earlier. I channel the law into my legs and core, focusing only on movement.
The world slows just enough. I twist, feeling the blade whistle past my ear—the heightened pain tolerance Maro mentioned is a lie, a numbing confidence, not a shield. I realize that even with the Law of Action, I can still be cut. The law of action is not invincibility; it is the perfect execution of intent.
I follow my intent: break his balance. As his arm extends, I pivot and use the momentum of his missed lunge, simultaneously breaking the chain—my hex—and whipping it across the back of his exposed knees. The chain feels like an extension of myself, and it connects with a sharp, sickening thwack.
The assassin crumples.
"Fool! Fight!" yells a second suit, charging with a short, heavy truncheon.
I don't wait. I see the circular platform, the towers, the hole, and the soft ground. I realize this place is like an arena. Nothing new.
I channel the feeling in my chest and my focused breath into my fist. I meet the truncheon-wielder head-on, dodging the main swing and delivering a short, brutal punch straight to his solar plexus. The moment my fist connects, I feel a strange discharge—a tiny fraction of my channeled energy —ejecting from the hex-ring on my finger, driving the force into his ribs like a hammer blow. He stumbles back, clutching his chest and heaving heavily.
I pivot back and dash toward the hole where Rist is chained, forcing the remaining assassins to split their attention.
"Stay back, boy! They'll kill you!"
Rist screams, the sudden concern in his voice overriding his previous hostility.
"Too late for that!" I shout, and I climb the underside quickly to grab the chains binding his ankles. The metal is cold and hard. I can't find a lock.
"Don't waste your strength!" Rist snaps. "The chain is reinforced with fragments! Only the General's key—or enough energy from a Hex—can break it!"
"General's key?" I look at the chain wrapped around my palm and the ring on my finger. Hex fragments.
I close my eyes for a split second, slowing my breath again. I visualize the flow of the Law of Action—a somewhat red pulse of life—and drive it from my core down my arm and into the small, faint hex ring. I press the ring against the chain.
The feeling is like running water through a narrow pipe—immense pressure, but the pipe is too small. The ring glows faintly, the air around the chain crackling, but the metal holds firm. It's not enough. Maro was right: the chain I have is weak, and the ring is only marginally better.
"You're wasting time, Colonel; just drop dead already." Ramsey's voice is closer now.
Colonel? I think to myself,
"I'm not a colonel,"
"Obviously he was talking about me, fool," Rist exhales.
I look down to see that Maro and Ramsey are now locked in a ferocious, brutal exchange of blows on the seafloor, kicking up plumes of thick, black/brown silt. Maro is fighting with a terrifying, contained fury, but Ramsey is towering over Maro; he's faster and appears unnaturally strong.
A sharp pain rips through my side. The wiry assassin, who had only been momentarily incapacitated by the chain, is back up and scored a glancing blow with his hidden blade.
I recoil, falling away from Rist. The wound is shallow, but the shock is enough to break my focus. The heightened pain tolerance is gone, replaced by fiery, searing agony.
The Law of Action fails when the mind fails.
I look down at the three remaining assassins advancing on me, their blades and truncheons ready. I'm in mid-air and bleeding, my hex-ring is too weak, and the man I'm supposed to be saving hates me. I have to create an advantage.
I channel the Law of Action again—not into the hex, but into my surroundings. I realize that, according to the Law of Action, to truly achieve, I must use the world as my instrument.
I land down hard, right on the soft, quicksand-like ground, focusing all the energy I can muster downward.
The platform shudders, the sound echoing unnervingly. The soft ground below the ankle-deep water erupts. The violent action causes the entire pool of water around the platform to slosh outward, spraying salt water and silt directly into the faces of the three charging assassins.
It's a fraction of a second of advantage, but it's enough.
I leap for the nearest radio tower, scrambling onto the sticky, damp metal. Two of the assassins follow, starting to climb.
"I'll come back for you, Rist! Just hold on!" I shout, my voice cracking.
"Fool! You're just delaying the inevitable!" Ramsey yells, momentarily halting his fight with Maro to look up at the towers.
I climb higher, the metal of the hex-chain wrapped around my hand scraping against the tower bars. I reach the top, about fifty feet up, where the cables connect. One of the assassins is right behind me, his truncheon raised.
I use whatever is left of the Law of Action and smash the hex-chain, not at the assassin, but at the thick, corroded junction box connecting the cables on the tower. The little fragments of ore within the chain finally overload, releasing a surge of contained energy like a concentrated acidic spray.
The junction box explodes in a shower of sparks and black smoke. The tower lights flicker and go dead, the cables snapping and whipping in the air. The assassin screams, falling away as the tower loses its stability, and he plunges toward the sea floor in a cloud of smoke.