CHAPTER 122: DEEPER INTO THE FRAY

We ran like men who had stolen fire from the gods and were now attempting to explain ourselves to a very angry celestial landlord.

Salem was at my side, all sharp grace and blood-soaked steel, while behind us thundered my absurdly loyal gaggle of sun-robed converts, bless their manipulated little hearts.

They trailed after me in a lopsided V-formation that would have looked almost military if you ignored the wide eyes and the occasional squeak of terror when arrows shaved too close. To an outside observer, perhaps it seemed heroic.

To me, it felt less like a charge and more like the last sprint of a drunkard toward an outhouse that may or may not have a door.

The plaza was a sea of violence.

The zealots of the Sun Cult pressed inward with their pristine white robes and their endless supply of bodies, while the Man in White and the Lady of Fang’s strung together forces tried carving breathing room through sheer precision.

Arrows continued to fall from rooftops, clattering off cobblestones or burying themselves in the unlucky backs of friend and foe alike. Somewhere to the left, the naked knight was making a convincing argument that shirts were overrated by turning zealots into pulp with his bare fists, each blow loud enough to be mistaken for the cracking of timbers.

And Dunny—saints preserve him—was casting barrier after barrier from the rear, paper-thin walls of translucent energy that blinked into existence just in time to keep us from becoming skewered kebabs.

"Cecil, left!" Salem barked, voice cutting through the battle din like the crack of a whip.

I ducked without hesitation, a spear tip swiping the space where my face had been. My borrowed wooden weapon swung low in retaliation, catching the zealot’s shin with a crunch. He went down screaming, and one of my freshly turned femboys promptly leapt on him with the eager savagery of a terrier discovering rats in the cellar.

I grimaced but let it happen—saints knew I didn’t have time to moralize about battlefield etiquette when a dozen more were surging in to take his place.

We pushed forward in staggered bursts, Salem carving the path like some violent gardener trimming weeds, and me scrambling in his wake, shouting orders to my half-broken choir of cultist rejects.

They listened—oh, they listened beautifully—forming a shifting shield wall when arrows threatened, darting to flank when I waved my pen like a conductor’s baton.

Saints help me, it was working. For one brief, giddy moment, I almost believed we might make it through sheer audacity and a sprinkle of divine sarcasm.

Then, naturally, everything nearly went to shit.

A roar split the din, low and guttural, and before I could so much as roll my eyes, a hammer the size of a horse came swinging across our front.

It wasn’t the stitched man—thank the gods, he was still on our side for now—but some other zealot, a hulking brute stuffed into cultist robes that barely fit over his mountainous frame. The seams strained at his shoulders, fabric ripping as he bellowed, swinging his oversized weapon with the conviction of a man who thought the sun itself had appointed him "Destroyer of Ribcages."

He smashed into our front rank, three of my freshly acquired pets erupting into pulp and gore as though they’d been made of jam rather than flesh. The rest faltered instantly, shrieking in confusion, and for one awful heartbeat the entire formation buckled like wet parchment.

"Hold the line!" I screamed, my voice cracking so badly it could’ve been mistaken for puberty’s unwanted encore. "He’s just big! Big doesn’t mean clever! Look at Salem—he’s huge and still manages to—"

"I heard that," Salem snarled, but he was already moving, twin blades flashing in a furious spiral as he engaged the brute head-on.

Sparks flew with each clash, Salem’s lean frame twisting and darting beneath swings that could have flattened a house. He was poetry in violence, but the cultist was raw thunder, each strike promising to end the stanza with a crushed skull.

I wanted to cheer him on, truly, but another zealot dove for me, shrieking praises to the sun, and I had to remind him with three quick marks across the chest that his devotion had recently been redirected.

Still, we were losing ground by the second.

Just then, Rodrick’s voice boomed from across the plaza—"Fall back! Regroup!"—but if I pulled back now, the pile would vanish beneath the cult’s flood.

So I did what any sane, level-headed strategist would do in my position. I panicked. Then improvised.

"Break right!" I bellowed, shoving one of my men to start the motion. "Angle into the alley! Salem, keep him busy! We’ll loop wide and cut though once his back’s turned!"

"Finally, a plan I like," Salem snarled, dodging another hammer swing and carving a bloody slash into the man’s thigh. He bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin or a promise of murder. "Go!"

And so we went.

My little squad funneled into the narrow street like water through a gutter, arrows clattering uselessly against the walls above us as Dunny’s barriers winked into place just long enough to keep us breathing.

I kept us moving in jagged spurts—pause, strike, press forward—bleeding speed for survival until we burst from the far side of the alley into a thinner knot of cultists.

Now it was our turn.

We slammed into them with the desperation of men trying to buy groceries in the middle of a riot, my spear jabbing, my pen flashing, my femboys swarming in a frenzy of stolen loyalty.

Rodrick’s line, following suit, cut across from the left, steel ringing, and suddenly the chaos shifted. For the first time since the gates had opened, the tide pushed the other way and we were able to burst back into the main plaza.

Just then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him.

The Man in White.

Still as stone at the battlefield’s edge, robes unblemished, gaze like ice water poured across the carnage. His hand lifted, the barest motion, and his forces pivoted like a single organism. They pressed toward us, bolstering our ragged line, blades flashing, feet stamping in perfect rhythm.

He had seen us. He had chosen to reinforce us.

For reasons I could not begin to fathom, that knowledge steadied my legs more than any barrier Dunny could conjure.

We fought. Saints, we fought with everything we had left, teeth gritted, hands raw, lungs burning. Soon we had Nara join us, darting in and out with his dagger, ears flat, his conjured rabbits throwing themselves suicidally at zealots’ ankles.

The naked knight barrelled through a cluster of enemies to our right, laughing as though pain were a punchline, sending skulls cracking against the cobblestones.

Salem rejoined us in a spray of blood as the Man in White’s forces converged on the brute who was already beginning to slow as a result of Salem’s onslaught.

And me? I screamed myself hoarse, slashing ink and blood in equal measure, until finally—at last—the pile loomed before us.

Weapons and relics, strewn in a mound of steel and history, glimmered beneath the torchlight. It was ugly, chaotic, obscene—and yet it was ours.

"Hold it!" I roared. "Form on the pile! Guard it with your lives!"

Rodrick was already there, planting his sword in the ground like a banner. The naked knight cracked his knuckles, grinning, and Nara scrambled up the side of the mound like a squirrel, eyes wide with determination. Dunny crouched behind us, hands shaking as he layered barrier after barrier to form a crude shell around our position.

I dropped my borrowed weapon with a clatter, not caring where it landed. My eyes had already found the gleam I’d been searching for.

My spear.

Molten silver, perfect weight, etched with runes I could recite in my sleep. My chest constricted as I seized it, fingers wrapping around the familiar shaft. Even for the short time I’d had it, holding it felt like coming home after years of wandering in someone else’s boots.

The weight pulled at me, grounding me, reminding me who I was. I spun it once, the balance singing through my arms, and nearly wept at the relief.

But I wasn’t done. Not yet.

I plunged deeper into the mound, shoving aside rusted axes and dented helms, searching with frantic eyes. Then, a flash. Duel silver. Salem’s swords.

"Salem!" I shouted, arm buried in the pile as I yanked one free. "Catch!"

He turned, eyes alight, and snatched them from the air as though they had never left his hands. His grin split wide, savage and beautiful, and with both blades reunited he looked less like a man and more like a storm given flesh.

I dove again, hands bleeding from jagged edges, until my fingers brushed something smooth. A relic. Aria’s. Saints above, I didn’t even pause to consider—just shoved it into my belt for later.

And then, at the very bottom, glinting faintly beneath the wreckage: silver and steel. A revolver. Vincent’s revolver. With its single bullet.

My breath caught. I pocketed it quickly, too quickly, heart pounding, as though the very act of possession would damn me if anyone saw. It was mine now. Mine to bear, mine to choose.

Behind me, Salem was still grinning like a madman, his slim red book clutched tight in his hands, pages fluttering as his eyes raced across the lines. The thrill of rediscovery lit his face, sharp and wicked, the expression of a predator reunited with its claws.

But then he turned—turned to face me—and in that instant his grin shattered, his eyes blown wide, horror tearing through every inch of his body.

I barely had time to register the change before the High Priest of the Southern Sun Cult came hurtling forward, golden armor blazing, lunging at me with a speed that broke the world apart.