The rain hissed softly behind them as Mago, Michael, and Heart crouch-walked across the overgrown gravel toward the rotting chapel door. Lightning flickered behind cracked stained-glass windows, painting dancing shadows across the warped wood.
Mago reached the door first, crouched low, and peeked through a broken slat. Inside, there were crates stacked like makeshift barricades, old pews used as cover, and the flicker of lantern light playing across worn concrete. He counted heads.
"Boxes... and movement," he whispered. "Three... four... five…"
He pushed the door open with surgical care. It creaked slightly. No one seemed to hear it over the hum of quiet conversation and the storm.
The trio crept inside like ghosts.
As soon as their boots touched the chapel floor, they sprinted low across the hall—straight to the crates. They pressed their backs to the damp wood, breaths quiet, hearts pounding. Michael glanced up through a crack.
"Yo... Mago," he whispered urgently. "Now there's seven. Seven people. What's the move?"
Mago's voice was stone-cold calm. "We take action."
Without hesitation, Mago pulled an arrow from the quiver slung low on his back. He rose just enough to get a clear shot, drew, and released in one fluid motion. The arrow whistled through the air and crack—buried itself in a man's skull. The body crumpled without a sound.
Michael followed suit, popping up and firing two quick arrows in succession. Another man fell, clutching his chest as blood painted the wall behind him.
Mago's eyes locked on the others. "Five more."
Heart stood, jittery hands lifting his pistol. He aimed, fired—and missed.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Heart yelled as his bullet sparked against stone.
"WE GOT INTRUDERS!" one of the men shouted, diving for cover.
The room erupted into chaos.
Mago's eyes went wide. "GOD DAMN IT, HEART!"
Gunfire echoed in the chapel like thunder. Bullets chewed through crates and shattered old wood.
Michael moved fast, ducking under flying splinters. He drew two arrows at once and fired upward at the men on the balcony. Thwack! Thwack!—two headshots. Their bodies toppled over the railing with sickening thuds.
Then he sprinted through the gunfire toward one of the balcony's support beams—metal, rusted, but holding. A bullet grazed past his leg as he dove behind it.
Heart tried again to shoot one of the remaining men but fumbled—his shot went wide.
One of the enemies raised his rifle—but before he could fire, an arrow ripped into his eye. He let out a blood-curdling scream, fell to one knee, clutching his face.
Mago stood tall now, a storm in his eyes. "You're wasting ammo, you dumb fuckers!" he barked.
Suddenly—click click click.
The chapel went eerily silent.
Mago smirked.
The remaining two gunmen stared at their rifles, realizing they were empty.
Michael stepped out from behind the support beam, bow still drawn, gaze cold. The third man—still screaming from the eye wound—writhed on the ground behind him.
Mago and Heart emerged from cover, slow and confident, like death approaching.
"Well," Mago said, "it seems you boys have lost, my dear friends."
One of the men dropped his weapon and raised his hands. "Okay, okay! Yeah—we lost! Just—why the hell are you attacking us?!"
Mago stepped closer, rainwater dripping from his hair. "Our orders. From Randal. Said to kill anyone in the area. Take what's useful. Leave nothing behind."
The man's face twisted in disbelief. "You idiot! We're with Randal! We're part of his outpost detail—he sent us here two days ago to recover ammo and supplies!"
Mago's smirk deepened.
"Well, it looks like we've found our lead."
Michael chuckled, bow still aimed lazily. "Yes sir. Right into our hands."
Mago's tone turned sharp. "Heart… you and I need to have a chat."
Heart looked ashamed. "Sir—I'm sorry, I was just trying to hel—"
"Zip it." Mago cut him off with a glare. "You've said enough."
He turned to Michael. "If they twitch the wrong way—kill them."
Michael grinned. "You reading my mind, Mago?"
Mago chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "Always, my boy. Always."
As the thunder rolled overhead and the chapel sat in tense silence, Mago and Heart stepped out into the storm.
The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a groan.
The rain outside pounded against the chapel roof, but inside, it was deathly quiet. The two remaining prisoners sat against a crate, hands raised, eyes darting between each other in panic. Michael stood before them, bow slung over his shoulder, boots soaked in blood and mud.
He stared down at them with cold, steady eyes.
"Where's Randal?" he asked flatly.
One of the men shook his head. "I-I don't know…"
Michael didn't blink. "Try again."
The second man joined in quickly. "We don't! We're just grunts, man! We were posted here for watch duty, that's it!"
Michael sighed, slowly turning his back to them.
"Okay…" he said. "Maybe I wasn't convincing enough."
The two men locked eyes.
Now.
They both lunged at him, thinking he'd dropped his guard.
But Michael was ready.
He spun around mid-step, grabbing the first attacker by the wrist mid-swing and slammed a fist into his ribs. The man gasped as Michael followed up with a brutal left hook to the jaw, then a spinning elbow that cracked his nose. Before the man could recover, Michael planted a heavy boot in his chest and kicked him across the room, crashing into a broken pew.
The second guy screamed and punched Michael in the side of the face, but it barely fazed him.
Michael turned, seized the attacker's fist mid-air, and snapped his arm back with a bone-popping crunch. Then, with no hesitation, he headbutted him—hard. There was a sickening crunch as the man's nose shattered, blood spraying down his shirt as he staggered back, dazed.
The first attacker was trying to crawl away, dragging himself on one elbow.
Michael calmly walked over, grabbed the bloodied arrow still embedded in the dead man's eye socket, and yanked it free with a wet schlop.
He marched over and, without a word, plunged the arrow straight into the crawling man's skull.
The man spasmed once. Then fell still.
Only the broken-nosed one was left now, groaning, hands up, face dripping red.
Michael stormed over and grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him up onto his knees.
"LOOK AT ME, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER!"
The man whimpered.
Michael's voice cracked with rage.
"My child—my little girl—was three years old. You hear me? THREE. And your piece of shit leader Randal shot her like she was nothing."
He yanked the man closer, forehead to forehead.
"He killed half my friends. Half my people. We were building something, and he burned it down for loot."
Michael's voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"Right now, I feel like torturing you."
The man sobbed, trembling in Michael's grip.
"So unless you want me to cut your balls off and feed them to you, you better tell me where the hell Randal is."
"OKAY!" the man shouted, eyes wide with terror. "OKAY, OKAY—I'll tell you, just don't kill me, please!"
Michael didn't move. He just stared.
"I'm listening."
The man's voice quivered. "He's… he's about forty miles west from here. You'll see a big camp—barricades, searchlights… they got dogs, patrols, maybe thirty men… but he's there. I swear, that's where he is!"
Michael let him go.
The man dropped to his knees, gasping.
"Good job," Michael said, voice low and unreadable.
The man looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. "N-now… you'll let me live? Right? You said—"
Michael stared down at him.
"…Nah."
He rammed the bloodied arrow into the man's neck. It punctured deep, blood spraying out in a sick arc as the man gurgled, clawing at his throat.
Michael stepped back, watching coldly until the gurgling stopped.
Then he turned, walking away, the broken arrow still buried in the man's throat.
Michael stepped out into the cool afternoon air. The rain had stopped, but the skies were still an endless sheet of grey, heavy and unmoving. Puddles rippled with the soft breeze as muddy earth squelched beneath his boots.
Mago stood by a crooked fence post, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on Heart.
"You gotta learn how to act your age, Heart," he snapped, voice laced with frustration. "You're twenty-eight. Use your fucking head, will you?"
Heart looked down like a scolded mutt, lips tight. "Y-yes, sir… I'm sorry, sir."
Mago didn't even look at him.
He turned instead as Michael approached, hands slick with blood, shoulders tense.
"Ah, my boy," Mago said, half-smirking. "Did you get what we needed?"
Michael nodded once. "Forty miles west. Big camp. Barricades. Patrols. At least thirty men."
Mago raised his brows and whistled low. "Thirty, huh… That's gonna be a storm."
He looked around the surrounding terrain, taking in the abandoned church and broken fencing. "Well… screw it. Let's hold here for now. We'll call everyone in—use this place as a fallback."
A few hours later
The muddy hills echoed with hoofbeats. Riders approached in a group,About ten people in total. Weathered men, exhausted women, and a few faces that still looked too young to be holding rifles.
From the horizon, another horse rode up—this one slower, more careful.
At the front was Fiona, a young South Korean woman with striking blue eyes, short-cut black hair, and a tired look on her face. She rode beside a wagon where her son—three years old, quiet, and wide-eyed—clutched the reins of his stuffed tiger.
As Fiona dismounted, she walked straight to Michael, unsure, hesitant.
"Michael…" she began, voice soft.
Michael looked up, instantly guarded. "If this is about your boyfriend—no. I ain't going on another rescue run for that idiot, Fiona."
Fiona didn't flinch, but her voice cracked. "Michael, please. It's Marcel."
Mago, watching from a distance, stepped in, hands on his hips. "What happened to Marcel?"
Fiona bit her lip and looked down. "He… he left this morning to look for you guys. I told him not to. He said he just wanted to make sure you were alive. But he never came back."
Michael rolled his eyes and paced. "We told that bastard to stay put. Can't ever follow orders, huh?"
Fiona's voice grew desperate. "If he was fine… he would've come back by now. You know he wouldn't leave me and the kid alone like this."
Michael paused, looked down at the boy clutching her leg. Something in his eyes softened, but he exhaled sharply.
"…Damn it."
Mago watched carefully, then gave a curt nod. "Michael. I think you should go look for him."
"Ugh. You serious?" Michael grunted.
"Yeah," Mago said. "If Randal's men are patrolling in that direction, Marcel could've stumbled into something worse than bandits. If he's dead, we need to know. If he's alive—we bring him back."
He turned to the side and called out. "Yo, Josiah!"
A young man pulled his horse forward through the mud. Josiah was lean and sharp-looking, with a cold kind of intelligence in his pale eyes. His sweater was patterned with a neat grid, and his gear looked clean, efficient—like someone who paid attention.
"Yeah, Mago?" Josiah asked, reining in his horse beside them.
"I need you and Michael to head out. Retrace Marcel's trail east—see if you can find anything."
Josiah gave a lazy nod. "Yeah, alright. Sounds like fun."
Michael sighed heavily and strapped his bow across his chest. "Guess I'll play babysitter again."
Fiona grabbed his wrist gently before he could mount up. "Thank you," she said, her voice small but sincere. "I know he's stupid. But he's… he's all I've got left."
Michael glanced down at her, then the boy hiding behind her leg. He said nothing, just gave a short nod.
Josiah adjusted his gloves and kicked his steed forward.
"Let's move, big guy," he said.
Michael rode up alongside him, eyes scanning the road ahead, jaw clenched.
"I swear," he muttered. "If that bastard got himself eaten by a bear, I'm gonna kill him myself."
Josiah smirked, pulling a cigar from his vest.
"Let's hope he's not too chewed up. Fiona wouldn't like that."
The two rode off into the grey horizon, hooves echoing through the hills, heading into the unknown.