The silence broke with a gunshot. The bullet cracked stone just beside Tom's ear as he rolled sideways, pulling his daggers free in one smooth motion.
Sparks rained from the altar as the cowboy's revolver smoked lazily, his other hand never leaving his belt.
"Fast feet," the cowboy drawled, "but fast don't mean clever."
Tom stayed low, scanning the hall. The pillars, the broken slabs, the angles of cover everything could be turned into a weapon or shield. He dashed toward the nearest collapsed column, sliding behind it as another shot rang, stone exploding in shards.
He's not wasting bullets, Tom realized, heart pounding. Every shot's a message. Herding me. He wants me to move where he wants, not where I choose.
Tom breathed steady. He couldn't match the man's range or raw speed, but range meant little if the shooter couldn't see his target. He angled his dagger against a slab, tilted just enough to catch the reflection of the cowboy's stance.
The old gunslinger smirked, boots scraping slow against the marble. "You think you're hidin'? Boy, I was killin' men in these ruins before your face menu was still readin' UNKNOWN."
Tom didn't answer. Instead, he picked up a small fragment of stone and flicked it far to the left. The cowboy's revolver barked and instantly one shot, precise. The stone shattered midair.
Reaction time faster than I thought. Tom's eyes narrowed. But he's showing me something that he can't waste too many shots. That gun's no ordinary weapon. Every bullet probably counts.
Tom vaulted from behind the pillar, daggers flashing. The cowboy was already moving, sidestepping with fluid grace, his revolver tilted low.
He fired again, grazing Tom's shoulder, blood misting the air. Tom pushed through the sting, twisting mid-motion to hurl one dagger at the cowboy's hand.
The cowboy shifted just enough. The blade sliced his sleeve, not his flesh. For the first time, his smile exaggerated.
"Not bad," he muttered, spinning the revolver around his finger before snapping it back in line. "But not good enough."
Tom ducked behind the altar now, breathing ragged. His aim is flawless. But every time he shoots, he plants his feet. If I can break his rhythm… even for one second…
He pressed both hands on the altar stone, sweat slick on his palms. Then I can cut inside his circle.
The cowboy stepped closer, revolver raised, voice echoing in the chamber:
"One steppin' wrong, son… and the ground eats you."
The hall rang with the rhythm of steel against stone and the sharp thunder of bullets.
Tom darted between shattered pillars, daggers flashing like fleeting sparks, while the cowboy's revolver cracked the air in patient intervals.
Every shot forced Tom's steps narrower, every dodge costing more breath.
Tom feinted right, then slid under a collapsed beam, his dagger scraping the ground. The cowboy tilted his hat back, eyes following with unshaken calm, revolver raised in one hand as if it were an extension of his heartbeat.
"Run in circles long enough, boy, you'll just carve your own grave," the cowboy drawled, boots crunching against the fractured marble.
Tom steadied himself against the altar. He had no time left.... one mistake and his blood would stain these stones.
All on a sudden,
Footsteps. Clear, slow, resounding against the ruined chamber.
Both fighters froze for a breath.
From the broken archway came a figure on foot this time, not horseback. A straw hat tilted slightly down, shoulders relaxed as if the chaos inside the hall was no more than idle chatter. In one hand, a familiar trident glimmered faint blue under the endless ceiling.
Tom's chest clenched. He knew that posture, that lazy calm. "Vera… Astrid."
The cowboy's revolver shifted instantly toward the newcomer, though not in fear, more in recognition. His mouth curved into a smirk, lips pressing over yellowed teeth.
"Well, well," the cowboy said, voice dripping with a strange respect. "Didn't think the Durkan Legion's blue-eyed wolf would sniff his way here. You hunting the Face too, boy?"
Vera lifted his head. His short blue hair caught the glow of the altar lights, eyes sharp yet unreadable. He didn't rush, didn't posture. His voice was steady, almost heavy with its calm.
"I don't hunt faces for sport," he said. "I walk where the finish line is. If either of you are in my path, that's all the deciding I need."
Tom could feel the shift in the air. The cowboy chuckled, spinning his revolver with a flourish before holstering it halfway.
Vera's gaze flicked to Tom, then back to the cowboy. He didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just stood in silence, one hand resting lightly against the trident.
The room cracked with motion.
The cowboy fired first. Tom rolled aside, the bullet splitting stone where his head had been. Vera stepped in with no hesitation, trident cutting the air, striking the revolver's barrel. Sparks hissed.
Tom lunged from below, daggers aimed for the cowboy's ribs. The man twisted, coat whipping, boot kicking Tom back into a pillar.
Vera pressed forward, his movements slow but precise. Each thrust forcing the cowboy to step, step, step toward the altar.
Tom regained balance. He darted behind Vera, circling. This wasn't a two-man duel anymore. Every second demanded instinct, not thought.
The cowboy laughed. "Two pups snapping at once? Fine." His second revolver flashed out of a hidden holster. Now both hands fired in alternating rhythm.
Vera deflected one shot with the trident's shaft. Tom ducked under another, sliding across the cracked floor. He stabbed upward. Steel kissed leather—but the cowboy twisted just enough, losing only a thread of his coat.
The three circled. None yielded ground.
Tom used the environment, flipping a broken chain from the floor, tossing it toward Vera. Vera caught it mid-spin and swung, aiming to bind the cowboy's wrist. The man pulled free with brute force, firing as he broke loose.
The bullet grazed Tom's cheek. Hot blood slid.
Vera's eyes flickered to Tom, steady, calm, calculating. "Stay behind pillars. Don't waste movement."
Tom nodded, breath short, chest burning. He obeyed.
The cowboy smirked, lowering his stance. "You two think together, hm? Doesn't matter. In the end, only one walks out with the Face."
Then he charged, revolvers blazing, coat flowing like black wings.
Tom stood motionless. Daggers lowered. He knew now if the cowboy had wanted him dead, he'd already be gone.
The older man tilted his hat back, one revolver dangling loose, like a wolf yawning before the bite.
"You're not here for scraps, boy," he said to Vera. "You're here for the prize."
Vera didn't flinch. His calm was unnerving, like still water before a storm. "And you're standing in my way."
The cowboy grinned. A line of silver teeth glinted beneath his dusty mustache. "Funny. Thought the same about you."
Then, the weapons changed.
The trident pulsed a deep sapphire glow spreading through the shaft. Water spiraled upward, forming a serpent of liquid that coiled around Vera's arm before bursting into a thousand droplets, hovering midair like frozen rain.
The cowboy cocked his revolver, and the metal twisted. Barrels split into three, rotating slowly, black iron veins glowing orange like molten fire. The chamber hissed steam. Bullets weren't bullets anymore. They shimmered, alive, each one spinning with runic markings.
Tom's breath locked in his chest. Tom thought about those. Those were not just some weapons forged by rare metal but some artifacts.... weapons that bent rules like paper. No matter what they were, they weren't something ordinary.
The cowboy spoke first.
"Tell me, Blue Eyes… ever outrun a bullet that drinks water dry?"
Vera's reply was a whisper, almost serene.
"No." He raised the trident, droplets vibrating around him. "Because they never reach me."
The floor exploded.
The cowboy fired, and the bullet didn't just shoot but it split midair into droplets of molten lead, curving like hunting falcons. Vera countered by spinning the trident, calling the scattered droplets into a vortex. Water surged up like a tidal claw, slamming the molten shards aside with a hiss of steam.
They moved too fast for Tom's eyes to track. The cowboy blurred to the right, bullets carving holes into stone as if it were clay. Vera vanished in a sweep of water, reappearing on a broken pillar, trident stabbing forward.
The serpent returned this time snapping around the cowboy's arm like chains, but he shot the water apart before it could tighten.
Tom pressed his back against a wall. Every clash was louder than the last. Water blades forming midair, bullets bending gravity, explosions of steam painting the room in white fog.
Neither spoke now. Only eyes locked. Predator to predator.
Tom swallowed hard. If this man wanted me gone… I'd never even see the flash.
Another shot rang. A spear of water answered. Crackedstones flying.
The fight had only just begun.