Reckoning

Loud shots cracked across the expanse of the training room.

With a handgun crafted from his aura, Tristan riddled the training dummies with bullet holes—faster than even a seasoned demon’s magic arrows could fly.

The Godfather and Morrigan watched in awe as he fired with intense focus, each shot slicing through the air.

“Unbelievable. What magic is this?” Morrigan muttered.

For someone trained like her—able to see magic projectiles coming from hundreds of meters away—these were something else. The weapons Tristan summoned unleashed projectiles too fast to react to, nearly impossible to dodge.

Tristan turned to her with an amused look. “You haven’t seen a gun?”

Morrigan crossed her arms. “No.”

The Godfather chuckled. “Pardon our lack of novelty. We’re not well-versed in such technology.”

With a quick nod, Tristan summoned a bow and an arrow, pulled the string taut, and fired it at another dummy.

“With these, you rely on tension to launch the projectile. Speed, accuracy, and impact vary depending on the bow’s design.” He fired again—this time with a recurve bow to make his point.

“With guns…” Tristan materialized a pistol. “You store concentrated energy into bullets. When that energy is released, it explodes and propels the projectile through a barrel. Faster. Deadlier. That’s how humans designed it.”

He aimed at a dummy’s head.

“When I summon one, I mold my energy into all its mechanisms. And theoretically, as long as I have aura—I can fire endlessly.”

He squeezed the trigger. A volley of bullets tore into the dummy, making it sway violently. Scorched holes spread across its surface, smoke curling from the damage.

Morrigan couldn’t take her eyes off the scene.

“And they call humans weak.”

“They think that because humans fear the unknown. The unthinkable." The Godfather mused. "But it’s through fear that humans found an edge… one that surpasses angels, demons, and gods alike.”

Morrigan glanced toward the Godfather.

Tristan’s gaze gleamed with focus.

“Evolution.”

---

That was just two days ago.

Now, Tristan stormed through Velgrand’s compound, cutting down every minion that crossed his path—one pump-action blast at a time.

A footsoldier lunged at him with a dagger from a dark corner. Tristan blasted his leg without hesitation. The man dropped, crawling helplessly.

His comrades, hiding just around the corner, watched in horror as the wounded man dragged himself forward—only to be finished with a bullet to the back. His lifeless eyes served as a warning to anyone else thinking of ambushing him.

But before they could even retreat, a hail of shells ripped through them—like thunderbolts falling all at once. Tristan advanced with slow, deliberate steps, his automatic rifle raised, ready to fire again.

The eerie silence pressed in. He could hear his own breath, heavy and ragged. At the end of the hall, he spotted a door. Without slowing, he blew the handle off and kicked it open.

Inside, something shimmered in the corner. It smelled like trouble.

A moment later, the entire second story exploded.

Tristan was hurled out, crashing hard onto a parked car. He groaned in pain, the breath knocked from him. He hit the ground, rolling in agony.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to crawl behind the car for cover, ears ringing from the blast.

---

“If we could make weapons like that,” Morrigan said, sipping from her cup, “we’d have a serious advantage.”

“I don’t think so,” the Godfather replied calmly. “First, we lack the technical knowledge. To summon them, we’d have to memorize all the intricate mechanisms to mold our magic accordingly.”

Morrigan and Tristan exchanged glances.

“And second, the Dons signed a long-standing warfare treaty,” the Godfather continued. “To preserve balance, we use staves, swords, bows—conventional weapons. Nothing that would drastically tip the scales.”

He turned to Tristan.

“Tristan is a wildcard. He can do it. But us? No.”

Tristan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“My summoning has flaws. Crafting and maintaining accurate gun mechanisms drains stamina fast. Even if someone learned how to do it, they’d need to end fights quickly. If dragged out, they’d burn out.”

Morrigan sighed. She understood the logic—but the temptation still lingered.

“What if Tristan joined our side?” she asked.

Tristan and the Godfather exchanged a knowing look.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said softly. “I can’t risk another Lazarus incident. They’ll come after me. Without a doubt.”

“Why?” Morrigan asked.

“Because I’m going to take Velgrand’s head.”

---

Tristan barely had time to recover before a series of explosions erupted around him. He ducked low, peeking beneath the car. Boots shuffled in the distance—soldiers assembling.

He tried to see more, but the next blast forced him back behind cover.

A horde waited for him in the open. They were armed with shields and swords, all infused with magical enhancements.

Tristan took a few breaths, steadying himself. Then, raising his weapon, he aimed blindly through the smoke.

He didn’t need to see.

Velgrand’s men heard it—a rotor-like whir, accelerating rapidly, the sound climbing to a near-painful screech.

Then it happened.

They fell. Dozens. Hundreds. Invisible bolts tore through the field with surgical fury—like thousands of arrows aimed at every single target.

Tristan carved through Velgrand’s forces like a hot blade through wax. The demons scrambled, taking cover, trying to make sense of what just hit them.

He laughed under his breath—quiet, unstable. Then, in return for the grand reception, he fired a rocket grenade into the haze.

Screams followed.

Then silence.

A sudden gust swept the smoke away, revealing the field of carnage he left behind. And standing at the center—

Velgrand.

---

Back at the office, Morrigan had left for official business. Only the Godfather and Tristan remained.

“What will you do now?” the Godfather asked, the question loaded with concern.

“I’ll visit Saul. Check on the boys. Everyone.”

Tristan’s reply was evasive—and the Godfather knew it.

“About Velgrand…”

Tristan paused.

“This is a declaration of war. And you’re right. They’ll come for you too.”

“There’s no war, sir. I don’t represent anyone. I’m nobody,” Tristan said, fists curled, voice steady. “This is personal. Nothing more.”

The Godfather sighed. “Your wife…”

“In our first encounter, Velgrand said her name. Maybe he knows what happened. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, he’ll pay for what he did to the commune.”

The Godfather hesitated. His lips trembled as he asked something he’d kept buried.

“Can I ask you something, Tristan?” His voice was almost a whisper. “What was Lira to you?”

Tristan looked down. No hesitation.

“My everything.”

The Godfather leaned forward, resting his face in his hands—hiding the bittersweet smile that broke through.

“Was she happy?”

Tristan smiled. “I did my best. And I think… she was.”

The Godfather’s tears fell silently onto the desk.

Tristan saw them—then froze.

“She was Lilith. My daughter.”

---

Velgrand stood in the middle of the field, surrounded by corpses. His aura flared out wildly, taunting the beast that had wounded his pride.

“GRANDARK!!!” he roared, laughter echoing.

Tristan trembled as the voice hit him. His heart raced like thunder in his chest. His wounds throbbed, demanding release.

Velgrand watched him emerge from the smoke, trench coat flaring, eyes burning. The demon grinned, jagged teeth bared, hands twitching to tear his prey apart.

Without waiting, Velgrand summoned two blades and lunged—his swing wide, murderous, enough to cleave a man in half.

But not this time.

Tristan braced, his boots cracking the earth beneath him. He roared and shoved Velgrand back, countering with a brutal flurry of strikes.

They clashed amid the dead, trading blow for blow—slash for slash.

Velgrand, encountering real resistance, was ecstatic. High on the thrill of a worthy hunt.

And Tristan, finally meeting an adversary to push his limits, felt the same.

Then Velgrand leapt back.

Hovering high, he summoned the same demon halo that had nearly killed Tristan once before.

Tristan didn’t flinch. He glared up—challenging

Velgrand snarled, unleashing a sky-shaking barrage. Hundreds of magic blades shrieked down toward Tristan.

But suddenly, another force struck—just as powerful. It smashed through Velgrand’s barrage, scattering the blades like paper.

Velgrand froze.

Tristan hadn’t moved an inch.

The smoke cleared.

Sweat beaded on Velgrand’s brow.

“I see…” he growled. “You’ve got your wings back, Inquisitor.”

Slowly, they appeared behind Tristan.

Black and red. Massive. Terrifying.

An arsenal of retribution—armed, loaded, and poised to strike.

“These aren’t angel’s wings, Velgrand.”

Tristan lit a cigarette.

“Now. I need you to answer some questions.”