As the commander stumbled back, Remy raised his eyes, bewildered. Black smoke shifted from his neck, coalescing in his hand to form twin daggers, black as steel.
He lunged at the commander, aiming to slice off his head. The commander blocked just in time—sparks flew everywhere as blade met blade.
"Hey… hey… hey… answer me!" the commander stammered, trembling under the weight of the daggers. "How the hell did you learn the Mystic with that curse placed on you?"
Remy said nothing. The daggers darkened further in the smoke, cutting through the commander's blade. The blade shattered in two, and Remy drew first blood—slicing the commander's arm.
"Ahhh! You f*cking rat!" the commander yelled, dropping his weapon as he clutched his wounded arm, blood pouring freely.
Remy spun again, his movements a blur—too fast for the commander to flinch. In a heartbeat, he was behind him, weapon raised high. The smoke writhed and twisted, reshaping itself into a cruel reaper's scythe. His eyes burned black, twin coals of merciless wrath beneath the swirling smoke that cloaked him like a shroud.
With a savage arc, the scythe crashed down—bone and sinew parting cleanly as the commander's legs were severed. A guttural scream tore from his throat.
"Forgive me... please…" the commander whimpered, crawling desperately on blood-slick hands. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It wasn't me—those Saints! They're the real monsters. Blame them… I'm just a broken man."
But Remy's gaze was empty, void of mercy.
The smoke reformed swiftly into twin daggers, dripping with darkness and cold intent. He plunged them deep, over and over, each stab sending fresh torrents of blood spilling from ragged wounds. The commander's screams shattered the air, raw and ragged.
With a savage twist, Remy ripped out one eye, the socket gushing crimson. Then the ear—snapped off like brittle bone. Then the nose, a ragged hole where flesh and cartilage once were.
The commander's pleas became pathetic gasps. "Please… just end this…"
But mercy was a forgotten word.
The scythe reappeared in a final, fluid motion. With a bone-crushing sweep, the commander's head was severed, tumbling to the bloodied ground with a sickening thud.
Silence fell, broken only by the faint hiss of smoke curling back into Remy's hand.
Cough! Cough!
Remy hacked violently, blood spewing from his mouth and eyes. His body trembled, as if life itself was draining away.
A shrill, mocking laugh echoed from his hand.
"Oh, you pathetic wretch. You've already lost your grip on reason. You've plunged headfirst into the abyss—and you're unraveling faster than I expected. Let me give you a little… assistance."
The dark smoke swirling around Remy thickened, solidifying into something slick and sinister.
Sharp lines took shape: a frock coat, fitted trousers, a structured waistcoat—sculpting a grim silhouette. A staff appeared in the figure's grasp, its tip silver and shaped like a raven. Midnight-black hair lengthened, falling like a shadow. A plague mask settled over the face, and finally, a dark top hat perched atop the head with eerie grace.
"Oh my, how exquisite it feels to taste air again," the cold voice whispered—no longer Remy's own.
"Well, since you can't even finish your revenge, we'll help you—just enough to keep you alive," the entity said, stepping forward. The sharp echo of his shoes clipped against cracked stone, slicing through the thick tension and drawing every eye.
"What are you?" a soldier shouted, his voice cracking with fear.
The shadows writhed and twisted, swallowing the fading light—and suddenly—
A gun rested heavy and sure in his grasp. Its polished walnut stock felt warm and smooth beneath his fingers. The long, slender barrel of blued steel gleamed faintly, catching the last embers of daylight, edged with delicate engravings worn soft by time. Every curve and joint whispered of careful craftsmanship—an object both beautiful and deadly. Born from an era where precision met power, the weapon's cold metal promise lingered, sharp and unyielding.
This, too, was a double wield.
"Kill him!" one soldier barked.
The crowd surged forward like a tidal wave, but the crack and thunder of gunfire sliced through the air, sharp and sudden as lightning splitting the sky. The scent of burning powder mingled with sweat and blood. Bullets tore through flesh and bone—cries of pain and the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground echoed all around.
He moved like smoke—vanishing and reappearing in the shadows, a ghost among the chaos. The staccato roar of his shots was punctuated by sickening snaps and screams as heads were severed, limbs torn apart by blades that flickered like shadows in his hands.
The coppery tang of blood filled the air, thick and choking.
He was truly reaper incarnate.
Though Remy hadn't harmed any civilians, they instinctively recoiled, fear rippling through the crowd like a wave.
"You… you are the devil," spat one of the old women he had just saved from the soldiers.
"Haaaa… So I am," Remy replied, his voice low and cold. "But where is your god now, when you're all being slaughtered like chickens? You fear what you don't understand—poisoned by the teachings of those who enslave you, then kill you at their whim. If wanting to live makes me a devil… then a devil I am."
He drifted toward the city's edge, where a barrier pulsed crimson, thick with the metallic stench of iron and blood.
"Hmmm, this might be a real problem—a blood dorm…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. Just how many lives had they sacrificed to build this?
"To kill infants just to trap these people… ha! And they call me a devil. How utterly ridiculous."
Remy peeled off a glove made of swirling smoke. The gun in his hand twisted and warped into a blade. With deliberate strokes, he sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the ground.
He traced sigils in the crimson drops.
Moments later, the blood pulsed bright crimson, and the barrier tore open with a sound like tearing flesh.
He sank to one knee, weak and wavering. Then, a soft, whispering sound echoed through the air—a quiet hiss like a fading breath. In an instant, he vanished.
Moments later, he reappeared just outside his home. Before him stretched a trail of blood, stark against the ground, leading straight to the front door.