Requiem

Under the familiar red sky, clouds of smoke vanished into the breeze. Quiet voices floated in the air.

Somewhere near the Godfather’s citadel, a new commune had sprung to life.

It was an ordinary day for the campers, except this group was noticeably smaller than Lazarus.

The few people left were used to having more friends—more companions to keep the commune up on its feet. But like everyone else, they had to keep moving forward.

Tristan watched them quietly from a distance. He wore a black trench coat with a torn hem, a white undershirt, and a black tie fluttering in the wind—dressed as if for a funeral.

He scanned the campers’ faces and recognized a few of them. He even saw the lady he’d saved before, and that took a thorn from his chest.

As much as he could feel a little joy, the pain he carried still lingered.

He kept his gaze, searching for a few more familiar faces—just to know if they were okay.

Then—

“Hey, newbie.”

Tristan froze. He turned around, eyes wide. Of course, it was him.

Johann. With a scar across his eye.

Of all people, Tristan was the last Johann expected to see. After a brutal run-in with Velgrand, he hadn’t expected Tristan to be alive, let alone standing here.

But strangely enough, Tristan felt like a different person. He looked like a man carrying a cross—one already braced for the pain.

“I thought you were dead.” Johann clicked his tongue.

Tristan remained silent, just relieved to see them in good spirits, scars and all.

Johann sneered. “What are you doing, standing there like a stalker? Follow me if you want.”

He turned and walked. Tristan hesitated at first, then took a step anyway. He had a lot to get off his chest.

---

“Boss, someone wants to see you.”

“Ah, goddammit, who is it this ti—”

Saul turned around, stunned.

“By the gods. Boy, you’re alive,” he said, walking over and grabbing Tristan’s arms as if to check if he was a ghost.

Tristan chuckled, frowning a little. “I got lucky.”

With a grin, Saul patted Tristan’s shoulder firmly.

Johann headed toward a door leading to another room. He knocked three times, then opened it, calling loudly inside.

“Hey, the newbie’s here.”

Tristan felt a chill in his spine. He knew who it was, but doubted if he was ready. Yet somehow, a lot of weight in his chest seemed to disappear.

But not quite.

Before he could figure himself out, James stepped out, limping on crutches. Tristan quickly scanned him, concerned.

James had lost a leg.

Something squeezed Tristan’s chest. James was still wearing those signature sunglasses. Tristan had hoped to look into his eyes and see how he felt—anger, sadness, whatever. At least it would be something to hold on to.

Instead, James flashed him a peace sign.

Tristan choked as he closed his eyes, fighting back tears. With a quick glance at the boy, he smiled faintly, still trembling.

And just like old times, they huddled inside Saul’s new tent—smaller, but flamboyant as ever.

---

Tristan wrapped his hands around a mug of hot chocolate.

Saul was on his desk, clipping branches off a tiny tree.

The two boys lounged on the sofa.

Tristan gripped the mug tighter. He’d wanted to open his mouth and break the silence, but their relaxed, almost carefree atmosphere bothered him.

Saul, meanwhile, had been glancing at him the whole time. With a grunt, the old man took off his glasses, laid down his clippers, and stretched.

“Ah. Back hurts. Boy, want to go for a walk?”

---

Their steps were slow. There wasn’t much ground to cover anyway.

There may only be a few of them left, but Tristan couldn’t shake off the heavy feeling—the souls of the ones who’d passed.

They sat on stone-carved benches, overlooking the horizon.

“You know, these benches were made by the best hands in our camp. They were supposed to last forever—or however long we’re supposed to be here.”

Saul looked far away. “But we can’t always tell the future, right? Not even in a place we know as eternal. I don’t know what the belief systems are in this place, but I am hopeful they will find peace.”

Tristan looked down at the ground.

“I’m sorry, Saul...”

Saul sensed Tristan wanted to say more.

“Hey, boy. Look,” Saul interrupted. “We were supposed to be able to fend for ourselves. You stood up for us, and we... "

Saul sighed as he hung his head.

"... abandoned you. On behalf of everyone, I’m very sorry...”

Tristan clawed his hands over his head.

“You did the right thing. I was arrogant, overconfident. You paid the price.”

His lips trembled.

“Johann. James. They’re young. James lost a goddamn leg. They didn’t deserve this. Nobody did.”

Saul sighed loudly. “Ah. Come on, boy. That’s enough.” The old man held Tristan’s shoulders in encouragement. “Everyone gets a share of suffering. We win, we lose. It’s unfortunate, but inevitable.”

Both turned their gazes to the residents.

“But we can heal. We mourn, we move forward together. In these moments, we either become worse or become the best we can be. We’re trying to be better.”

Saul patted Tristan’s shoulder firmly.

“And before you talk about the Grand Inquisitor thing—sure, it stung. Just a little. But we were all victims. You being here meant something. Maybe there is salvation at the end of everything. If you ever find an answer, don’t forget about us.”

Saul gave him a nudge.

“You have a mission of your own, don’t you? We’ll be fine. And you’ll always be a part of Lazarus, no matter what.”

As the sun dipped to the other side, so did the weight on Tristan’s chest.

He saw the lady he’d saved, waving from a distance. A kid tried to climb up to her, waving at him as well.

Tristan waved back awkwardly, chuckling at himself, shaking his head, recalling how cool he tried to look when he saved her. Or more like, “So she’s married. That’s embarrassing.”

“Thank you, Saul,” he muttered.

“Atta boy,” Saul replied. “So, where are you going next? What are your plans?”

Tristan straightened up.

“I’ll pay Velgrand a visit.”

Saul looked up at him. “Hey, boy, what are you—”

“Don’t worry.” Tristan’s eyes glinted in the dying sunlight. “I do have some questions for him.”

Saul didn’t bother protesting. He sensed something new, something larger than life in Tristan.

“Yeah. You better destroy that piece of trash.”

Tristan and Saul turned.

“What are you doing, brat? The adults are talking.”

“Don’t mind us, old man. We were just taking a walk. Coincidence.”

James waved at Tristan, calling his attention. He pointed at his amputated leg, then gestured as if slitting a throat, followed by a casual thumbs-up.

“Johann. Can you go and tie your brother to a rock?” Saul ordered Johann. “Don’t give Tristan ideas.”

“Cannot do that, old man.”

“Brats,” Saul snarked.

Tristan smirked as he returned James’s gesture with a thumbs-up.

Lazarus's reckoning is at hand.

---

The next morning, alarms and sirens blared all over Velgrand's headquarters.

Velgrand, hungover from the night's reverie, staggered out of his bed, half-dressed. Wondering what was happening, he rushed outside, finding his minions in chaos, scrambling for whatever weapon they could find.

"Hey, what's going on?" He asked a passing minion who ignored him.

Velgrand tried to shout, but his voice was drowned out by panicked yelling and disorganized screams.

He snarled, grabbing a random footsoldier who was looking for his boots.

“Hey, coglione! What the hell is happening?”

The minion gulped, shaking in his armor.

“T-Tristan Grandark is here!”

Velgrand’s eyebrows shot up. “Grandark? What the—”

“He entered the compound minutes ago. He wiped out the first and second platoons, and he’s entered the barracks.”

Velgrand lagged, unable to form words. Then he heard cracking sounds and screams from the window of his unit. 

He drew back the curtains and watched his footsoldiers fall like leaves, but he couldn’t spot the intruder anywhere.

“Capo, the angel of death...” the minion stuttered, eyes unsteady, face contorted like a doomed prophet resigned to his end.

Velgrand's shaky grip on the soldier's collar loosened as sweat formed on his forehead.

"...he's come for us all."

---

At the barracks, Velgrand’s men were in massive disarray as Tristan blasted through his hordes, wielding a weapon they’d never seen or heard about before.

They watched him cradle a tiny dragon, spewing fire and sending bodies flying in pieces. Sickening thuds echoed among screams at every corner as the frightened demons watched a "ghost" deliver judgment like nothing they’d ever seen, blasting holes through every body he found.

And Tristan?

He was smirking. Cold and on a high.

Velgrand threw on a coat as he marched to meet his nemesis, a maniacal grin on his face.

Two fates. One marches forward. The other ends.