"Now don'tcha wish you pocketed that hand cannon before we left?"

An Anubian soldier soaked in age was with another less grizzled warrior, bullet hole carved into his shoulder as he snuffed out the blood.

Him and his party fortified against a grisly firefight above their heads; they were outgunned, scurried into corners at ground level. It was here where the Anubian quartet contemplated their next move. Supreme in age or not, the comment appeared to anger the wounded soldier.

"Hng—this isn't the time for hindsight, Gonzo!" they retched. "Just—gah fuck!" His volume control failed when his wound pierced his nervous system like a pin needle. He collapsed onto the sand pit with a sifting thud. Gaze to the ceiling, the Spiritmother invaded his vision like a premonition, hovered over his body as if telling the end.

Eve followed closely just in the compass of his peripheral window. Flabbergasted, the soldier sprang up, immediately looking to the elder Gonzo as if for some confirmation.

"I haven't lost enough blood to hallucinate, right?"

"That's the Spiritmother alright, Darkon," chimed Captain Ornmen, straying from deep contemplation. He hugged a pillar and surveyed the happenings as best he could. "And that white-robed warrior is none other than the 'Silent Death' himself." The words escaped him like a victory speech spilled from his gut – now vibrant.

However strong the feeling was, it was quickly shadowed by an unbelievable amount of defeat.

"His name's Gyone!" rebuked Eve, fists clenched. She stepped forward as though she still retained authority. "Why do you keep calling him that, dammit?!" The captain menacingly glanced through his spiked shoulder armor, her questions unearthing venomous disdain.

"Don't you think I know that, little one?!" Ornmen berated, face obscured to her. "I don't know how the bastard got it, but it sounds better than-"

"Gyone Irensho is a man well-revered in the city of Crygor," interrupted the Youngblood soldier, knowledge prepared like straight from a book. "He earned it in blood from what I've heard. But the blood of those such as the human's old king Koro. General bad seeds littering the area."

Ornmen went on the attack.

"You dare talk over me, Nowa?!"

This soldier-in-training, Nowa, somehow clambered up to a place far beyond where the captain's rank could take hold. He met their glare, closed the distance to pollute his air.

"After today, you are no leader of mine!" his greenhorn voice bloating.

"What?!"

"You heard me ... What brother of mine uses our Spritmother as fuckin' bait for a manhunt?!

"Nobody! No sooner would humans, either!

"You have lost all control and should be hung from the highest goddamn tower."

"She was unfortunate collateral!" Ornmen wrestled for control.

"Our recon mission around the city? Our peace party-turned-headhunt outside of Gore's jurisdiction?! The gall to smuggle swords from the armory?!" He swiped his hand away in a deflecting motion. "Our mission ... your mission is a fuckin' failure."

A firm shove of Ornmen's stone-like arm lashed against Nowa's attempted ascent to the throne; he smoldered this furious flame into the ground like cigarette butts.

"I do not have to justify anything to you!" as he slowly reclaimed dominance. "Now ..." He turned his attention to the Spiritmother and Eve, "what to do with you two ..."

Only moments later, Harian careened head-first, down to the lower sand pit, only a brief yelp able to convey his failed attempt to subdue the kingpin before impact.

This victory appeared to have emboldened the nameless, red-vested anomaly.

His reign had begun.

The red lunatic beckoned Gyone to come out of hiding from afar. Then the battle cries from each side of the temple echoed abound to signal a forthcoming riot.

"What in the hell ..." feared Gonzo.

The captain drew his sword at the instant, began to fathom the numbers behind these gates.

One hundred hands, at the very least, with the volume of thousands.

"Men ... Get ready for a fight."

* * *

The hired gun, Gyone Irensho, took a deep breath in this pit of hounds as to deny them a cry. Nothing new there, yet something wholly new, all the same.

A pissed off crime boss was one thing.

A pissed off crime boss with an army is another.

He took his chances glancing astray from the pillar's protection, lucky enough to catch onto the infantry in a moment of reprieve. However, his sleuthing proved detrimental.

The growing numbers signaled to the wounded hunter's position. Reloaded, aimed, and growing more vicious by the second; they wasted no time in mounting attacks from either side. Like a weird, cologne-intoxicated cloud, they shrouded the area with their heaps of testosterone.

A lone gunman made his presence known, converging to the hunter's right. Unbeknownst to the gunman, Gyone had caught on to his trail by feet patterns alone.

The rosy thug was ready to get this party rolling, itching even – raising his weapon spontaneously to aim and to rest. Finally, tension overtook his itch, eerily on que in The Silent Death's head as he charged steadily ahead, assault rifle clamped onto nervously.

Gyone exhaled as to coincide with the thug's emergence.

A calm step aside and an aim to the brain, he dropped the thug with a thunderous crack without a second thought. Even before the man could even raise his weapon, his fate painted the wood in a thick red mesh.

"At least it matched the building," Gyone digressed. No time to censor himself politically.

Gyone was on borrowed time and borrowed blood.

If a premise elicited a chuckle, the wounded hunter was all for preying on this joke like a hound.

Gyone rushed the limp body as it crashed, catching it by the waist and propping it as a makeshift bullet shield; he switched directions, darted to the left.

It proved effective.

The oncoming sprays pelted the body to an even bloodier mess; as well as shredding the drooping, silk banners to an unrecognizable, tattered tarp.

Prying for satisfaction, the act of tarnishing banners caused Gyone to howl with laughter. However, the gods themselves lashed at his amusement, sending jolts of agony to his fresh bullet wound which had since been numbed by the hunter's sheer will to live.

Suddenly, two more thugs emerged from the nearby stairwell. These growing numbers reminded Gyone of chants growing closer by the moment. Even chaotic bangs echoed from the bottom upon the barricaded entry gates below on each side; the opposition rebelled relentlessly against its fortress-like hold. Gyone made quick work of the first in line, blasting him dead with a slightly sloppy pop of the trigger.

In true cowardice, the other ducked away before emerging. Gyone attempted to shoot off a warning shot. Only empty clicks escaped the pistol.

The burly thug caught wind of Gyone's panicked expression, confidently charged out with his combat knife brandished with a roar.

At this moment—stripped of all options—Gyone spotted the assault weapon still miraculously slung around the corpse. He tossed the body in a feinting motion, but not before securing a grip on the weapon.

The thug garbled on the bait like a famished salmon, soon blindsided with a barrage of bullets emerging from the tenderized meat shield. Freshly eviscerated, the burly infantry cradled the meat shield in his last moments, fell limp with fleeting gesture, reaching out to the light.

One might say he were the victim of overkill.

Maybe the heavens will make a note of that.

* * *

The bangs grew louder. Explosive cracks echoed from the doors; they and their barricade beams were withering away with each passing slug and pull.

"Stand your ground! Wait for my signal!" demanded Captain Ornmen, his men formed in the middle alongside him. They faced each possible entry point. A day they were not envious of.

They appeared as though they were each one end of a bow being nocked. They were its arrows.

At the instant this formation was achieved to its fullest potential, the doors were breached. Red infantry began flooding into the main area. Armed or not, the four were then signaled by their captain.

"Now!"

Each of the four battle brothers shot off into the fray; even moments in, they began to accumulate a body count.

* * *

Gyone's breath was heavy, potential stabbing into his lungs to keep going. Even then, his entire being began to fatigue.

He guided the assault weapon strap off the corpse, tossed the empty pistol aside in favor of its automatic sibling. The fading hunter began searching the various pouches and pockets thoroughly. Slight satisfaction enveloped his expression when his hand clamped against a spare cartridge of ammo.

Now fully backed up, Gyone began intensely contemplating his next move. A prime target entered his mental crosshair in this tumultuous, flooding crusade of crimson red chumps.

Gonzo was being chased from the fray, fled to the nearby stairwell leading near the hunter's position. To even cause this formidable soldier to back up, the thugs had allocated multiple units just to rush his position like psychotics.

Sloppy swings and even sloppier punches.

Guns only proved to thin the numbers faster. Gonzo was keen on tossing these dimwits like javelins and propping them up to soak bullets.

Checking the available clip and moving to the other side where the stairwell entrance resided, Gyone loaded up, set his sights forward with a satisfied, yet strained smirk.

The Anubian showed his face just shy a few feet from Gyone's approach. Much like a new neighbor, the hunter was keen on showing him some hot-shelled hospitality.

The barrel triggered an animalistic response from the Anubian – eyes wide and motionless. He barreled forward with a roar, ducking aside the railings and pillars as he maneuvered sporadically onward to meet. Gyone instinctively sprayed wildly in his general direction.

His panic guaranteed that the wall of muscles dodged each shot; and sure enough, would set up the Silent Death for a whole new level of hurt.

Gyone reacted by bracing, but collapsed under their charging weight when they clashed. However, as the brute attempted to come from the air in a crushing tackle, Gyone forced a complete shift of motion. He caught the brute and flung him that little bit further by allowing him to launch from his feet, rolled over. The giant Anubian soared face first against the floorboards.

Victorious for the moment, the hunter momentarily laid prone, the strain threatening to spill blood from his wound as he winced in agony. The Anubian picked himself up, turned to Gyone with a dumbfounded glare with a swift brandish of his blade.

Gyone's opponent donned their familiar armor, yet his resembled an older, more rusted set of gear. They still appeared to be able to take shots, but how many shots did this have left?

Gyone carefully propped himself to stand.

Suddenly, as he aimed down the iron sights, he spotted new chasers emerging behind this hulking figure from the stairwell.

They charged forward, aiming down their pistol barrels, grasping onto their knives, famished.

It appeared to Gonzo that the same could be said vice versa.

Combatants met wits for a moment.

Gyone's vivid hazel gaze recognized the gleaming white irises as the enemy of his enemy.

They nodded in an unspoken agreement.

Keeping up the show, both charged forward, each bellowing out their battle cry readying their weapons for the kill. When the distance closed face-to-face, they shifted in jerking gestures. Gyone laid waste to the two gunmen behind the Anubian while the Anubian ran through Gyone's pursuer with his razor-sharp blade. An equal exchange.

"Make it an interesting fight, 'Silent Death,'" Gonzo challenged in passing.

Gyone accepted with a nod.

The two warriors soon backed away from one another, each respectfully parading their weapon of choice.

As easy as it would be to shoot the Anubian dead, Gyone saw this as a challenge: a proper duel of honor for his Irensho blood. Much like his ancestors before him, Gale, a priceless family heirloom, came to his beckon touch as he presented her to his challenger.

However, this was cocky. They were to be surrounded by the thugs soon.

No bother.

The battle couldn't wait any longer.

With a clash of steel against silver, they began trading blows relentlessly. This spectacle was only meant to test each other's grit; and they both took the time to jot down notes in their heads. Gyone first acted as he normally would: as though his wound were nonexistent, driving his body solely on a seemingly never-ending supply of adrenaline.

Much to his benefit, his body worked in ways it had never done before. His systems noticeably tended to the wound rapidly, near doted on the idea of a full heal.

How is it possible? he expressed fiendishly. I should be down and out by now ... but it's closing up so damn fast!

Alright, Gyone. No holding back now! He's just another one of them. And he's going down like one, too!

Optimistic barrage soon took its toll on him quickly.

He slowed his assault, stumbled into a more defensive style, allowing most of the shaft to flak the damage. That was when his condition worsened.

The Anubian quickly caught on, audible chuckle escaping him as he finished his barrage.

"You're pretty good kid, but you're slowing down." They retracted from a clash like breathing room to vent.

"That's—hng—a lie!" hunched over slightly. The Anubian sighed.

"Who taught you how to fight?" His enthusiasm wound up, unable to be withheld forever.

"You've got some nerve interrogating me while I'm still standing."

"Lighten up, Irensho!" inflated with a laugh, shifting the attack and acquiring a leg-up on the proceeding clash. "I'm not a big fan of repeating myself." Gyone groaned, just narrowly catching the blows.

"My f-father."

"Sullus sure knew how to swing that thing."

"You knew Sullus?" Gyone froze for a moment, daring to relax his grip slightly.

"Yep.

"Funny, how you Irenshos always find your way into Anubian affairs. If you're half as good as Sullus was, I'm sure you could beat me!

"But not with a blow like that." His admittance was genuine, a warm smile escaping his tired heart.

The Anubian acknowledged the bullet wound with curious eyes, now seeping blood through the fabric at an alarming rate.

"We can fix you right up kid, just come with us!"

"Like hell!" He lunged.

However cunning, it proved fruitless, the soldier clenching Gyone by the robe and stringing him up for an easy kill. In response, the helpless guardian started flailing wildly, wincing and groaning in pain with fleeting, squirming motion. In his rage, blood arose from his mouth.

The resistance brought forth proved only to be slightly annoying – nearly pitiful in its display. But by the sounds of boots stomping and guns being cocked, the circumstances slowly shifted. The Anubian found himself surrounded.

Both sides locked down. A far-away gunman caught wind of their exchange.

With only seconds to decide, Gonzo swung Gyone's body, chucked his slim figure through a nearby window leading into the temple's kitchen area. The glass cascaded into shards with pieces colliding violently near a stainless steel prep table. Although cut slightly and robbed of a steady breath, he was surely no closer to death.

When he began to stabilize, Gonzo jumped in with him at the instant Gyone regained his perception.

The hulking giant landed without any trouble, ducked for cover under the window and faced his glorified brick as if expecting a 'thank you.'

He wasn't going to get it.

"Look," he began, hand held out, "my name's Gonzo. My brothers, Darkon, Nowa, and Captain Ornmen were meant to only scout out Halsberth in a peace party. But Ornmen got cocky.

"And now—well. You know the rest!"

The hectic atmosphere was complimented by a symphony of relentless gunfire – chips of wood breaking away from the very foundation the kitchen was built on.

Gyone only sat in silence, turned his head away. Either stubborn or not, an understandable apprehension.

"I know you're gonna hate this, but you'll have to help me help you by storming through this shitstorm together." The hunter continued his protest, shook his head faintly in disbelief. Seconds passed without so much as a glance.

No other hole to scurry through.

Gyone made a single look count.

"... And how are 'we' gonna get through this, Gonzo?!" as he reached for the old Anubian's grip.

Gonzo happily embraced the hunter's gesture tightly in a thread-woven agreement.

Or more so, wicker.

He only smirked, mind racing as he modestly recalled the temple's layout like a mental blueprint.

For any guess that Gyone had about today, straddling onto a beefy Anubian's shoulder like a glorified turret swizzle was not on that surprisingly varied list.

They made their way through a transitional hall reinforced in marble stone. The insides were illuminated by the outside sun through a reinforced glass frame which acted as a water pool's outlook. Though narrowed in their focus, both Gonzo and Gyone were taken aback to shadows breaking the wavy glow.

The Halsberth Guard and the thugs waged a large-scale brawl, but it appeared that the thugs were hopelessly overpowered, funneled into the temple grounds in smaller numbers. An unplanned charge, feet first into calamity. Executions without channels or paperwork.

"Well, that explains the lack of cavalry." Gyone quipped with a chuckle, voice soft and strained. Gonzo jerked his shoulders back as to rejuvenate his arm cannon.

"Looks like the boys in red are cornered ... with us."

A dead thug dunked into the water, littered full of holes.

They began trekking towards a door leading to the outside balcony, trotting slowly up a curving flight of stairs.

Then the war machine halted briefly.

Infantry meathead groups threw themselves into a stack formation near the outside door; they lacked the quiet touch, tipped off easily. Gonzo cracked his knuckles, wound up a steady kick.

Gyone, acting as a shoulder devil, concluded, "Sucks for them ..."

* * *

Trapped in a firefight converging into the lower stairwell column, both Nowa and Darkon sheltered Eve and the Spiritmother in a crevice under its ascending steps. Although without a weapon, Nowa's bloodied knuckles were proof enough that he was capable of holding his own. In fact, he was more determined than ever.

Protecting the Spiritmother was an honor all on its own.

He tended to her aid, rested his aching hands for a short while in the shrinking calm. Suddenly, Darkon hastily retreated from his position into their cubby, barely able to accommodate the Anubian's bulky bodies.

The panicked soldier took cover near the doorway. He was out of breath and barely able to withstand his wounds.

"Uragh.

"Hey kid, break time's over!" Darkon slammed against the stonework as to test its sturdiness, to catch his weight.

Nowa nodded, stood himself from his knees.

"Don't worry yourself, young one. You're strong enough." The Spiritmother's words mirrored her delicate self. A fragrant sort that rarely bloomed.

Nowa looked back with a subtle smile, but his walk was halted as Eve reached out with fumbled response.

"Please ..." A worrisome delay clogged her throat, had to be swallowed down. "Tell me why you want Gyone! Is it something that he's taken? I can-"

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing even you can do. We need him." Her hand retracted and she silently regressed, head hung low.

Nowa turned away to debrief with Darkon, face unmistakably molded without any expression.

"How are you holding up brother?" he said coldly with not quite the chill needed. Darkon shook his head in denial—scoffing briefly— dropping a heated pistol.

"Me? Well, a war wasn't what I had in mind today. How's your first taste in the fray Youngblood?"

"It's ... conflicting."

"Ah, it'll grow on ya!" the soldier celebrated. "Not quite your last—not by a long shot!"

The viscera upon his face, both old and new. Darkon wasn't fooling anybody.

He reveled in this mayhem.

He bent down, grabbed ahold of his pistol once more. Eyes fleeted back to check on the captain, neck-deep in battle among the outside atrium, effortlessly carving his way through. Then to Gonzo's clash with the Silent Death up above. Darkon smirked, let out a relieving sigh.

"Well, well, well. Gonzo's got 'em right where he wants—what?!" Praise abruptly dissipated.

He sprang up, witnessing their resident heavy trooper chuck their prize through a window. The sight appeared to anger Darkon to the core. He slammed his clenched hand into a wall, effectively flaring up intense pain in his shoulder once again as his cheap factory-standard firearm broke apart.

"What's the matter?!" Nowa said quickly, beginning to look out the doorway in a panic.

"Argh – he's gonna kill him!"

"What do you mean, Darkon?!"

"Gonzo just chucked 'em like a goddamn ragdoll!"

"Where?!"

"I can't tell!" His body pushed off the wall, attention fully on Nowa. Failing to stabilize himself fully, he recollected his breath, turned away for a moment. He grasped onto the Youngblood's shoulders and braced against him as if relaying his own desperation.

"Listen to me, Nowa. No matter what you do, what you're comfortable doing, or what boundaries you have to cross do not let Gyone die!" Nowa could only allow himself to nod, despite his lack of urgency.

Suddenly, looking over the soldier's wounded shoulder exposed a charging thug from his preemptive sneak attack. Compromised, they barreled through with a knife. And closing fast.

Nothing could stop him.

"You get out there and make us proud brothe-" a blade punctured his confiding speech through the abdomen.

"Darkon!"

The Youngblood tried to intervene.

A move too late, his flight reaction perpetuating growing chaos. He was pushed aside, parried inert by a firm kick as the thug dislodged the knife and stabbed straight into Darkon's neck – drawing a massive amount of blood. A punctured artery, as fate would have it. A victory the thug had no right to savor.

No right! Nowa's heart fumed.

Nowa's entire being filled with unrelenting, potent rage. His very instinct overshadowed even that of the Spiritmother. He arose with a belly of fire, charged the unsuspecting and cocky killer, pinning them against the wall with absolution. An overburdening, draining amount of force reserved for scores of men.

All at once.

He berated them with brute strength, weaponized by repeated, ferocious slamming of their head against the wall. The thug's head caved into a gory farce of what it once was, spattered the brick like art; Nowa looked to his hands as its respective creator. He hated them vehemently. But he knew they were useful, so he embraced their potential.

Little could be done for a dying Darkon, who could only look up and muster a single gasp before slowly fading away in a pool of his own blood. Nowa bent down, laid both a caring hand and his forehead against his fallen brother in silent mourning.

To remind himself he wasn't a monster.

He took a moment to collect. Then Darkon's blade caught the Youngblood's attention.

It seemed to invite him with recompense. More blood.

He showed no resistance and reached over to take hold of it. Of what little silver lining there was, now he was armed. He looked to the silent Eve and Spiritmother with a glint in his eye – a menacing glare.

Something had awoken within the Youngblood.

And it was hungry.