Gun of Ashes

He followed Lorenzo across this vast ice plain.

The pain throughout his body was intense, as if his bones had broken, but concepts like "bones" and "pain" didn’t exist in his mind; all he could do was emit a whimpering lament, following his instincts.

He couldn’t remember many things; to be precise, only two things remained in his mind.

"Froki Willgardson."

Froki muttered softly, unsure of the meaning of this series of notes, yet they lingered in his mind like a spell etched into his soul.

Another sharp pain struck.

Looking down, as he moved forward, each step brought forth a torrent of blood, but the person ahead seemed unaware of it, and the rope connecting them felt like a lifeline.

It was a strange feeling, like Froki was a newborn, everything seemed new to him. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get the chance to comprehend it all; the moment he stepped into the Silent Sea, Froki was already on his deathbed.

No... in fact, when Froki was captured by the Anti-Meme, this stubborn Viking was already dead. What survived was just a Soul-Reviving Corpse with his lingering soul.

"He" was not Froki, but he had Froki Willgardson’s stubbornness. Of course, "he" wasn’t aware of it; the blank mind had only remnants left.

Snowflakes fell onto his palm, melting into the crimson.

It felt a little cool.

What is this?

Froki pondered, but the blank memories offered no answers.

No matter what questions arose, the answers remained only Froki Willgardson and the Nautical Chart.

"He" couldn’t figure out what it was but would instinctively react, like the lingering obsession in this corpse would stubbornly carry out, even after forgetting everything.

Sometimes Froki wondered who he was, where he came from, and where he was going.

But unfortunately, eerie whispers always echoed in his mind, as if thousands of Ghosts were murmuring to him, tormenting his consciousness.

Several times he almost fell, but, for reasons unknown, his body couldn’t stop moving, standing again, just like that equally stubborn guy ahead.

Lorenzo steadfastly moved forward, accompanied by the Black Angel, almost out of fuel.

They had left the shelter half a day ago; to reach the surface from the underground depths, the Black Angel had almost exhausted all its Lacquered Antimony, igniting a blazing flame to send them to the surface.

Now, the Black Angel’s engine was nearly at a standstill, still able to move thanks to the Demon flesh covering its metal skeleton, which, under Watson’s control, took mechanical steps.

Lorenzo climbed the snow slope, remembering the way they came, marked by the Iron Feather the Black Angel had placed as a Beacon for their escape.

Calculating carefully, they needed about one more day to escape the influence range of the Anti-Meme, although they would then be subjected to erosion’s pressure. Compared to the bizarre Anti-Meme, the current erosion seemed more approachable.

Turning back, Lorenzo could faintly see the towering spire. He was getting farther from the shelter.

When reaching the surface, Lorenzo was quite anxious, fearing that Roger and Ed hadn’t left. If he were caught by either, Lorenzo’s mission of salvation would be snuffed out in its infancy.

Fortunately, when Lorenzo left, the surface battle had ended.

The once-solid ice had melted completely, turning into cold ice water. Lorenzo struggled to swim up, while the Black Angel, due to its weight, couldn’t surface, moving slowly underwater until it reached the crater’s edge, where it finally emerged.

Lorenzo wasn’t sure who had won the battle between Roger and Ed; from the battlefield’s state, they seemed to be true monsters.

The shelter was now covered in cold water, resembling a blue lake in the crater. Under sunlight, the iron-gray spires stood silently among them.

On closer observation, the scenery here seemed to have improved quite a bit. If not for the Anti-Meme, Lorenzo would have loved to stay here for a while.

It’s unclear whether it was the two’s intentional restraint or the spires’ sheer robustness, but none were damaged. Just like centuries ago, they stood at the World’s End, bearing those long-dead names.

Lorenzo gazed at them, at the World’s End, recalling past events, and felt an indescribable melancholy.

Fortunately, the Black Angel was still standing by his side, battered and bruised. Lorenzo felt that he wasn’t too lonely at that moment.

Watson had initially suggested leaving the Black Angel at the lake bottom, attaching herself to Lorenzo for increased movement speed. But, due to Lorenzo’s insistence, the Black Angel wasn’t abandoned; Watson brought it out.

Lorenzo understood Watson’s suggestion, but perhaps out of nostalgia or some other emotion, he couldn’t bear to part with the Black Angel, just as he couldn’t part with his beloved Winchester.

The Black Angel had saved Lorenzo several times; being forgotten here was undeserving — being destroyed in some battle was its rightful end, just like the Plague Doctor.

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