****************

Johnny Caldwell

 

I spit blood from my mouth as a tooth joins the congealed liquid on the hard stone below, my arms pushing me back to an upright position. Before me, within the duststorm that now swirls around us, is a Councilman of the Nahullo. Sir Cirn, to be precise, a master of the sword and one of the few Sentinels amongst the ranks of the Darklight-seekers.

 

The sneak attack we got on him as a group to begin this fight was crucial. Without the severe wounds placed upon Cirn, I'd be long dead. The Nahullo twisted his body to try and take as minor damage as possible. Still, Virgil got Cirn's left lung, Bonfire his left arm, and Skychaser his left leg. I tagged him in the forehead with a bullet as Wyatt damaged much of his armor with Intervention.

 

But Angels are not easy to fell. If they were, they wouldn't be Angels. They simply exist far, far above us mortals.

 

A short pause is made as we size each other up. Since the fight began just between us, I've only wounded him twice, while he's gotten me many times. Blood drips from each of my wounds as my vision is blurred. I'd be dead without Glitch; twice has Cirn's edge pierced my skull just for me to shunt us both back in time.

 

The tall Nahullo, Cirn almost nine feet tall, waves his blade outward, spilling my blood upon the stone. He moves to speak, a slight bow in his back. As he does so, I take a moment to pull an eye from my pocket and palm it, the eye of a Skychaser's father, Skywanter. I took it just in case, in case an opportunity like this emerged, a chance to prove myself.

 

"You are strong, human. Strong for a mortal. Clever, too. That sneak attack was something of an art. Tell me, what is your name?"

 

Wanting a few seconds to recuperate, I take advantage of this opportunity to speak. Cirn seems to be respectable for a Nahullo. Some are far too prideful, but this man appears full of honor that balances out that pride.

 

"I am Johnny Caldwell. Some call me the Gunfighter."

 

I see a smile emerge on Cirn's face, one that goes from pale ear to even paler ear. He knows me.

 

"Ah! The slayer of Kai Vinson! What an honor! Show me the strength you used to end such a magnificent specimen of your kind!"

 

I open my mouth to refute the claim but quickly shut it as Cirn brings his sword up into a stance, the hilt by his head and the end of the saber pointing toward the ground. I, too, raise my blade made of Blake's ghosts with my cut-up right arm and level my Colt toward him.

 

There will only be one shot at this; if I fail, I die.

 

My eyes lock onto Cirn's Claymore, not him, as I need to survive. But to survive, I need to become more. A 6th Sigil is not enough. Not for the world I wish to mold. Not for the people I want to protect. My gun is not strong enough. My hands are not fast enough. My eyes are not timeless enough.

 

But am I worthy?

 

Becoming an Angel... requires one to prove themselves to the world and themselves. A man without the ambition to conquer the world can never become an Angel, let alone a God. But at the same time, with that ambition must come proof, Proof of heart, grit, and power.

 

I have done the last two, my Absolution fulfilling the second, and my time as a 6th Sigil, accommodating my Ether, the years of hardship, fulfilled the third. But the Proof of the Heart, the actual Proof of a Metaphor, is always the hardest for humanity. It requires us to see ourselves as more than man and, instead, as something far more significant.

 

Other races all have some innate arrogance, a pride that allows them to push past this bottleneck so much easier, a reason why the other powerful races all have far more Angels than we do. But those of us that break past that bottleneck are, on average, stronger than other Angels.

 

So, as Cirn tips his blade toward me, his steel-toed feet kicking off the ground with such magnificence that even I wonder how he reached such a level, I take a deep breath.

 

One of my previous Metaphors was how a man should face a beast and what he should do if bullets were insufficient.

 

Back then, I was naive and answered that one should be careful and that the gun merely wasn't large enough. But now, my answer is different, very different.

 

The honest answer is that the man is what is insufficient. Any gun, no matter the caliber, can kill anything. It just needs to be shot by a suitable man. A man with the grit to unblinkingly cease their fire as it bares down unto him, to wait until the final moment, where he sees the whites of the beast's eyes, to act. To place that bullet in the perfect place. That is why I'm a Deadeye, no?

 

Careful should not be in the gunslinger's dictionary. One should be just as brave as their bullets.

 

And what is braver than to stare down an Angel, unmoving as its blade is less than a foot from my heart? Very little.

 

But there is one other thing.

 

An older man once told me those who cling to life die, and those who cling to death live. After spending months with Wyatt, I've never heard anything more accurate. My fear has held me back for too long, but watching a kid no older than my daughter would be brave any danger that appears, fuels me with nerve.

 

So, I choose to cling to death and jump into the abyss to prove myself. I walk a tightrope, each side with a fate worse than death, with not just the dozens around me to dangle with me but instead the thousands that would suffer should I fail. But I chose this path myself. I'd rather die fighting for what's right than live for what's wrong. The weight of the world would crush any man. But I've already been destroyed and spit out time and time again.

 

Arme, my beloved, wasn't even the first death to crush me. She just put me back together after the many others. When Arme died, Amelia's youth made me force myself together for her. When she died… I was lost for a long time. It's been a decade, and I'm still not over it, nor am I put back together yet. The formation began when I swore to create a better world for Amelia.

 

But even now, I am shattered, a man walking only by the oaths to the death he left behind. A group of individuals have forced me to become more than I am willing to be. But perhaps, I just need to be shattered once more.

 

After all, what's one more shattering to someone who has only known to be broken?

 

Just as Cirn's blade pierces my chest, my right hand tightens onto the eyeball of Skywanter as it smashes, allowing me to take the Sigil within. I do, a Rogue joining my Sigils inside my wrist. At the same time, I draw, my hands moving faster than ever in my whole life. In a fraction of a shattered second, the barrel of my Colt rears its cool barrel against Cirn's jaw. Time pauses as his blade enters my chest, and I pull the trigger.

 

My whole life has led to this moment where I face my fear of death, not being good enough, disappointing Arme and Amelia, and choosing to toss away my future instead of clinging to life.

 

What is braver, more Deadeye-like, more Angelic than to face death and smile right back? Even Pa once said that a real man meets their end with approving eyes, for if you don't approve of something's actions, you shouldn't let it happen.

 

I feel steel enter my heart with a painful sting just as the familiar ring of gunpowder explodes in the Colt's chamber. But, as my vision distorts, sending me into the depths of The Cabin, I feel a snap, as if something changed within me. Something so inherent that it feels like a film has been removed from my mind, allowing me to truly see, think, and breathe for the first time. A moment before entering The Cabin, I Prove myself.

 

I'm no longer human, am I?

 

As I open my eyes to the darkness of The Cabin with shimmers of silver behind the walls, I realize just what I've done.

 

I took a leap of faith, guided by my family, who have been gone for decades, a man, who died long ago, and a child who refuses to do so. And I landed. Now, just maybe, I can do what I set out to do long ago.

 

Make a perfect world. One without turmoil. One that Amelia wouldn't have had to die in just trying to survive. Where just my eyes can fix any problem, the issue reverting entirely. Perhaps… one day, I could even bring her back if I go back far enough?

 

 

**************

Wyatt Graves

 

 

Every aspect of me hurts, burns, and trembles with every step. Long ago, I dropped the Claymore, the weight far too much to handle. Now, I walk with shambling steps, each bringing me closer to death.

 

It feels like I've been in the blighted fog for hours, but I know it's not even been a full minute. It's just that the pain extends my perception of time, stretching it out farther than it should.

 

But even as my innards appear to boil, I stride forward, the pangs of agony unceasing. Step by step, I move through the cave with a hand on the wall to steady myself. The pain within is imaginable, more similar to when I go over my limit of Ether and make it devour me.

 

But it's precisely because of the nature of the agony that I can keep going. Who else has breached their limit more times than I have? No one I know, that's for damn sure. Some call it madness or stupidity, and while I'd agree, I'd also have to say it's innate.

 

I can't help it. Since Edmund showed me Ether, I've wanted to grow and go further. And now? A goal rests beyond my sight, one so far above that for me to reach it, I can never stop moving.

 

What God would stop their ascension from the puny fog? None.

 

And so, neither will I.

 

Ironheart, my only skill that requires zero input of Ether, fueled only by my will, pushes me onward. Strength fills my legs, and resilience pours into my innards to combat the blighted fog.

 

More and more steps come out from my legs until, eventually, the fog vanishes before my eyes, leaving a figure sitting in a tight corridor of stone to my gaze.

 

The figure is obviously a Bado, but it is different. Blood covers every inch of the man, from head to toe, and wounds litter the Bado similarly. But beneath that blood lie two magnificent wings draped in pale white steel. Unlike the regular dark steel of the Bado, Blightraven's wings are a mesmerizing white, one so bright it reflects even the absent light within the tunnel.

 

As I gasp in shock at his form, Blightraven, known as Howard Strafe to the rest of humanity, lifts his head to look at me. His mouth opens to speak, and a voice so human I almost forget he's a Bado emerges.

 

"Come to gloat, Eli? I thought you better than that. We both knew you'd win. My people are too weak to resist. Though, you should know better than to play the Warmaster. He'll figure out your ploy sooner or later."

 

I take a moment to comprehend that he thinks I'm someone else before I speak for myself.

 

"I'm not Eli. I'm here with Skychaser to save you and help you escape, Blightraven."

 

I see the Angelic Bado's eyes squint at me, the birdlike pupils tightening on my form. A rough croak of a laugh comes from him as he uses his arm and knees to stand.

 

"I see. My apologies. I thought you were a Root of Eli Weiss. Well, human, my supposed savior, who are you?"

 

Remembering how Skychaser revealed my identity, I bare no qualms about doing so again. I take a step forward and help the bloodied figure up.

 

"I am Wyatt, Wyatt Graves."

 

An instant query comes back, one of curiosity and shock.

 

"Son of Killian?"

 

I nod.

 

"Indeed."

 

A relieved laugh comes from Blightraven, who shifts to laugh with tears in his eyes. Then, finally, he mumbles to the world at large as he waves his arm.

 

"Wonderful... perhaps... perhaps we are not dead yet, Blightfather. Let me remove my Blight from you, the effects are temporary and dissipate once you leave the fog, but I can speed it up."

 

His clawed hand brushes against my shoulder, and immediately, my whole body feels lighter, all the pain evaporating as if it was never there in the first place.

 

A sigh comes from my mouth with the exiting of the pain as Blightraven speaks again.

 

"Who else did you come with? All of Sky-tribe? Blight-tribe? Thunder-tribe? Who still remains?"

 

I gulp as I try to break the news to him. He doesn't know, does he?

 

"Uhm... The only Bado I'm with is Skychaser; the remnants of Sky-tribe are fleeing toward a meet-up point. But many humans are here to help you! Johnny Caldwell made a deal with Skychaser to save you for the Bado's help."

 

A curse comes from the Bado as he waves the Blight away, a long, winding, twisting tunnel meeting my eyes.

 

"Of course. Always a deal... well... let us get a move on, child."

 

I nod as Blightraven takes a single step, his wings flapping to meet the gesture. Then, the next thing I know, I'm outside the cave, almost a dozen feet in the air.

 

Looking down, I see Blake, Bonfire, Skychaser, Abraham, and Sacate all fighting Sir Malew as the legion of Nahullo Sentinels approaches. Each of my friends is wounded, some severely enough that I worry if they'll live. Meanwhile, Sir Malew is completely fine, with only a few dents and scratches on his armor.

 

I also see that the dust cloud around Johnny has fallen, leaving a single man standing, his back bent backward and his face toward the sun. Blood falls in clumps as a ferocious scream breaks the warring battle below.

 

A surprised mumble comes from Blightraven as we descend toward Sir Malew, the Bado handing me my Claymore he somehow grabbed.

 

"Interesting. Maybe I will indeed survive today—another Angel. You humans truly are quite resilient. The harder you are pushed, the harder you rebound."

 

I open my eyes wide at the implications of his words and look closely at Johnny. The magenta chains so boldly wrapped around his eyes and hands shake me to my core.

 

Johnny did it! He's an Angel!

 

But right as I start to celebrate, I see him fall backward, the vestiges of power fading as he falls unconscious from his battle. But I am thrown to the ground before I can yell for Blightraven to help him. Then, using a mismatch of my knees and the crude steel of the Claymore, I catch myself without injury.

 

Then, I glance up and see Blightraven, his blinding white wings flapping, charging straight for Sir Malew. The Councilman reacts with a shout, a shield of liquid metal appearing before him. I also notice Sir Malew recognizes the fallen Councilman away from him.

 

"How are you out already?! You should be dead! Just a corpse for us to collect! Dammit, Cirn! I thought you were partying for our victory, not dying! Fucking hell! Xeri, where are you!?"

 

Blightraven pushes Sir Malew back with his charging impact as fog erupts from the Bado. The fog spirals and funnels toward the Nahullo as the two Angels duke it out, both taking it seriously now that an even threat has appeared.

 

Everyone other than the two regroups, the fog now partially obstructing Bightraven and Sir Malew. I now kind of understand how he can escape so much. Between flight, haze, and his speed, Blightraven is probably hard as hell to catch.

 

Sacate reaches over to Bonfire, putting his hand on the man's stomach with a stab wound so bad you can see his split open intestines. I suck in a harsh breath of air as the flesh partially mends, a green covering of light appearing over Bonfire's stomach.

 

Blake, Skychaser, and Abraham are wounded but nowhere near as bad. And with how everyone looks at Abraham or Ahbram, I don't think some of us want him to be healed. I know that if Bonfire wasn't so hurt, he'd be yelling at the man right now.

 

Virgil also appears from the ground, Flickering up from the stone. I see several gashes and cuts over him, but he did what he said he would. Virgil kept Abraham safe. Though, he does look entirely worn out; his eyes unfocused and his body trembling.

 

Sacate speaks to us all as he tries to heal Bonfire.

 

"The camp is coming, and any second now---"

 

Almost as if to accentuate his words, another rumble shakes our feet as I see in the distance that the cave I collapsed is broken open. Dozens that soon turn to hundreds and even more Plagued rush out from the entrance, filling the morning air with yowls, howls, and yawps.

 

More curses come from Sir Malew as I see him fire a pillar of liquid metal from his arm upward beyond the fog, the rising sun's light shining off it.

 

Oh, that's not good. He's calling for help! But, unfortunately, we can't let any more Councilmen show up!

 

I scream at Blightraven, hoping the man will hear me through the haze.

 

"We need to go, Blightraven! Now!"

 

A "Sure." is my only response as we all make our way to Johnny, his body fallen beside a dead Nahullo. For a second, the world is quiet, the corpse of an Angel beside the bleeding-out form of our own Angel.

 

I lift him to my shoulders as Sacate does what he can to help his wounds. And of which they are extensive. They are not as bad as those I saw from Blightraven, which only makes me wonder how he's acting so relaxed, but they are still awful.

 

Sacate manages to stabilize the man just as a figure slams into the rock beside us, the form of a white-winged Bado rolling over the hard stone for several feet before recovering. And when Blightraven does manage to rebalance himself, he looks toward the now-approaching Sir Malew, who now has another Councilman beside him.

 

This one is similarly clad in armor, only this one is obviously a female. So, Councilwoman? Or does it just stay the same? I don't know. Honestly, don't really care right now, with two of them wanting to kill me.

 

So, as I lift Johnny up and start to drag him away, I see Blightraven speed past me, shooting straight for the two Councilmen. I also notice Virgil pick up Abraham, letting the insomniac rest on his shoulder as the man goes all-out for one last terror from his dreams.

 

Each one he summons from his mind greatly strains him, and I suppose it's only lessened from his advancement. That, or allowed him to conjure even greater nightmares, probably both knowing Sigils.

 

I nod toward Blightraven with complete confidence as he charges toward the Nahullo. We managed to slay an Angel and distract the others for him, so surely he'll be fine if he could hold his own beforehand. But as we all run away, letting Blightraven fight a bit before rejoining us, Sacate turns back.

 

Immediately, I yell at the native, wondering what's making him turn back.

 

"What are you doing, Sacate!? Come on!"

 

The man with a blade for one arm doesn't look back, an austere reply meeting me in response to my panicked shout.

 

"Blightraven is hurt; I can feel it. But, without my help, we will all die."

 

Before I can even question the man's inane words, he runs back toward the very Councilmen we are sprinting away from. While he does so, I see Sacate uncork a vial with a sinister blue liquid before drinking it.

 

And as he does, I see his fetters shift in color, not toward magenta like the next step should be, but instead toward a blinding white, bits of light blue joining his ocean blue.

 

What did he just drink?