As both sides locked eyes with one another, the world seemed to hold its breath. The forest around them stood eerily still—leaves frozen midair, the whisper of the wind faint as if even the air feared to move. The scent of damp soil and gunmetal lingered heavy, thick enough to taste. Tension hung over them like a fog that pressed against the skin, tightening every muscle. The man with white hair stood silently, his golden eyes fixed upon the group that once sought to provoke him. The fading sunlight reflected in his gaze, like molten metal beneath a cloud-darkened sky. The clouds above grew heavier, swallowing the brightness piece by piece, until only a dim silver glow remained—like the calm before a storm.
Opposite him, the group crouched in uneven formation. Their hands gripped their guns so tightly that veins swelled across the backs of their hands. Their faces were taut with anxiety; beads of sweat slipped down temples and jaws, glistening in the half-light. Though they had been the aggressors once, it was now clear that they faced something beyond their comprehension—something far more than human.
Then, without warning, the silence broke.
"Bang!"
A shot cracked through the air. Then another. Then many. Bullets screamed through the open space, slicing the wind with metallic shrieks. They tore through leaves and bark, kicking up dirt in bursts of dust. Every muzzle flash became a brief flicker of light against the gray sky. Every bullet had a single purpose—to pierce the still figure of the man who stood before them.
But as the bullets neared him, a faint light erupted from his body—a soft yet blinding radiance of gold. It spread outward, forming a thin barrier of shimmering energy. Each bullet struck the barrier and ricocheted away with a sharp ringing sound like steel hitting glass. Not a single one passed through. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't even blink. His golden eyes remained fixed forward.
Then, as if the world itself exhaled, he moved.
In an instant, his figure vanished from sight, leaving behind only a blur of white and gold light cutting through the air. The wind tore around him, scattering dry leaves in a storm of motion. His target was clear—the one furthest from the group, the woman with black hair and a handgun clutched tight in her trembling hands.
She fired reflexively. "Bang! Bang! Bang!" The shots came rapid, desperate. The bullets streaked through the space between them, but none reached him. They collided with the golden barrier and fell harmlessly to the ground. The woman backed away, her boots scraping the dirt. Fear widened her eyes; her breathing grew shallow, quick, uneven.
But he was faster than fear itself.
In less than a heartbeat, he was there—right before her. The rush of air from his approach whipped her hair into the air. She barely raised her arm before his fist struck.
The blow landed against her stomach with a dull, crushing sound—thud!
Her body froze. The shock in her eyes turned to pain. A strangled gasp left her lips, followed by a wet cough. Blood burst from her mouth in a red arc that shimmered against the faint light. His fist had pierced through her completely. The sound of dripping filled the silence—drip... drip... drip—as crimson drops met the cold soil beneath them.
The other attackers kept firing, the gunfire echoing madly across the clearing. But the bullets were meaningless. His golden shield absorbed them all, though faint cracks began to form—thin, glimmering lines that crawled across its surface like fractured glass.
Still, he did not stop. His eyes lowered toward the motionless body of the woman at his feet. Slowly, he crouched, his fingers brushing against the handgun that lay beside her. The weapon was slick with her blood, the metal cold to the touch. He lifted it gently, his expression unreadable.
He was motionless. Serene. Terrifyingly so.
Around him, the world had gone silent. The only sounds were the wind and the quick, terrified breaths of those who still held their weapons. The blood of the fallen woman spread slowly across the ground, its red shine seeping into the soil, forming strange shapes like veins of sorrow.
His breathing was soft but steady. The gold in his eyes still burned faintly even as the light dimmed. The faint rumble of thunder echoed overhead, distant but growing closer. Lightning flared briefly, illuminating his silhouette. In that brief flash, his figure looked divine—half shadow, half radiance.
Gunmetal
The white-haired man stood still for only a heartbeat. The blood of the fallen woman dripped softly onto the ground beside him, the rhythmic sound lost beneath the heavy silence that followed. He bent down slowly, his pale fingers brushing the cold metal of the gun lying beside her. The weapon was slick with her blood, the smell of iron thick in the air. The mix of blood, damp earth, and lingering gunpowder filled his lungs like smoke. He gripped the weapon firmly, the faint sound of metal against leather echoing in the quiet.
His golden eyes lifted once more, and the faint glimmer within them caught the shapes moving toward him. They were coming again. Footsteps thudded heavily against the soil—"thud, thud, thud"—accompanied by the clatter of reloaded chambers and the metallic click of guns ready to fire.
Without hesitation, he raised the pistol.
The sound of gunfire shattered the silence.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Each shot cracked through the air like lightning tearing across a stormy sky. The recoil vibrated through his arm, but his stance never wavered. Three, then four bodies dropped in rapid succession. The clang of steel blades falling from their hands rang through the battlefield as the lifeless fell face-first into the dirt.
The fallen ones lay close together, their iron swords glinting faintly in the gray half-light. A cold wind stirred the air, rustling the dry grass and whispering through the trees like the murmurs of ghosts. The white-haired man moved swiftly toward them, his steps light, almost soundless.
He crouched down and reached for one of the swords. The steel was heavy, smeared with fresh blood. The weapon's cold weight settled into his hand like an extension of his will. Behind him, bullets continued to tear through the air, slicing past in streaks of silver. The faint shimmer of his golden barrier flickered, struggling to hold. Cracks spread through it like fractures in glass.
The sound was faint but sharp, a crystalline ringing as the shield trembled. It was breaking—he could feel it. The barrier that had protected him so far was nearing its end.
He drew a slow breath, steady but cold. His grip on the sword tightened. The last threads of golden light flickered weakly around him. He raised the blade.
The first bullet came. He swung.
The sound of steel slicing through air filled the space, a clean, swift whoosh.
The bullet split into two, each half spinning harmlessly away in glittering arcs. Tiny sparks scattered in the air like dying stars.
He moved again—faster this time. His figure blurred into motion, cutting through the battlefield like lightning breaking through darkness. Dust spiraled behind him as he charged. His footsteps struck the ground in quick, even rhythm, merging with the faint tremor of his fading shield.
There were about ten of them still shooting. Some crouched behind stones, others half-hidden behind trees. It didn't matter. He fixed on the nearest one and dashed forward.
Within seconds, he closed the distance. The man barely had time to aim before the sword came down.
A single strike.
The sharp sound of metal cutting flesh split the air—slash! The head separated cleanly from the shoulders, blood bursting upward in a red spray that shimmered for an instant in the dying light. The body collapsed silently, the thud of impact muffled by the soil.
The white-haired man turned slightly, raising the pistol once more. His movements were calm, measured, deadly.
He fired three shots. "Bang. Bang. Bang."
Each shot found its mark. Three others stumbled back, struck in the arms and legs. Not fatal, but enough to cripple their aim. Their guns wavered, their fingers trembled. The precision of his shots broke their formation, their confidence, their breath.
The air was thick with smoke now, the acrid scent stinging the back of the throat. The faint light from the sky above dimmed further as storm clouds rolled in, bruised purple and gray. The first low rumble of thunder echoed like a growl across the distant hills.
He could feel the shield weakening to nothing. The golden glow flickered faintly one last time before fading into the air. He knew it wouldn't last another second. He had to end this.
His golden eyes focused on the six remaining figures. Energy gathered faintly around him—soft, golden, vibrating like light trapped beneath water. He lifted his hand, and the blade hummed in response.
Then, with a single motion, he unleashed it.
A burst of radiant force erupted outward, the explosion shaking the ground beneath his feet. "Boom!" The sound roared through the forest, scattering leaves, tearing bark, and sending waves of dust into the air.
The blast surged toward the remaining gunmen. Light consumed everything in its path, expanding in a ring of brilliance. The shockwave struck with immense force, rattling the earth and silencing every echo of gunfire.
When the dust began to settle, there was only stillness.
He stood amidst smoke and drifting debris, his white hair rippling in the wind. The faint shimmer of gold lingered in his eyes. His shield was gone—only fragments of light drifted away, dissolving into the air.
The sword in his hand dripped crimson. The rhythmic tap... tap... tap of blood striking the ground echoed in the quiet.
Then came the rain.
The first drop struck his shoulder, followed by another, and another—soft, cold, and clean. The scent of wet earth spread through the air as the rain began to fall harder. It washed the blood from his blade, from his hands, from the world around him.
He looked around the battlefield — a place that might once have been an empty clearing, but now it was nothing more than a scarred land of ruin. The ground was scattered with fragments of what used to be living beings. Dirt and shattered stone mixed with the lingering smell of gunpowder that still clung to the heavy air. The soft crackling of dying flames could be heard faintly, like whispers from the remnants of death refusing to fade. The heat from the recent explosion distorted the air, warping the ground into uneven waves. From the center of a deep crater, the faint shimmer of molten soil glowed like the earth itself was breathing in pain.
In his golden eyes, he saw them — only three figures holding guns remained alive after his explosion. Their silhouettes shimmered in the orange light of the burning wreckage behind them, their shadows stretched long across the fractured soil like threads of fear reaching into the distance. Their breathing came fast and uneven, each inhale trembling with panic. Their fingers twitched on the triggers of their guns, but the shaking of their hands betrayed how terror had already claimed their hearts.
He did not hesitate. In that suspended moment of silence, the world seemed to narrow until only the rhythm of his heartbeat and the faint vibration of the scorched earth remained. His golden eyes locked forward — unwavering, sharp, calm. There was only one goal in his mind.
He lunged forward. His speed was blinding, nearly imperceptible, his body cutting through the smoke and ash like a streak of pure light. The wind that followed in his wake scattered the remnants of dust and embers, sending them swirling violently around him.
But before he could reach the gunners, two figures rushed in to intercept. They wielded large steel weapons, their bodies already covered in wounds from earlier combat. The look in their eyes could have been courage — or perhaps merely desperation, the last flame of will flickering before it was extinguished. Yet their movements were far too slow for him. He moved before they even finished their step.
The sharp ring of metal echoed across the field as blades clashed — a spark of silver light flashed between them, brief but blinding. He did not care about those two figures; his purpose was clear. His sword swung in one fluid motion — fast, unrelenting, final.
A sound split the air — the shrill metallic screech of steel being cut apart. The two bodies were thrown violently in opposite directions, crimson arcs painting the air like strokes of a cruel brush. Blood fell in droplets that glimmered for a heartbeat before staining the dust below. The color of it bloomed on the cracked ground like cursed flowers opening under the twilight of ruin.
He continued forward, his motion relentless, like a gust of wind sweeping everything aside. The path before him was lined with chaos, yet he cut through it effortlessly. The three gunners still stood ahead, their weapons raised shakily. The sound of his footsteps, though steady, was nearly silent — masked by the roar of fire and the echoing heartbeat in his own chest.
As he drew closer, their faces came into view — pale, drenched with sweat, wide-eyed with dread. Still, they kept firing. Gunfire erupted again and again, the staccato bursts echoing in the air, swallowing every other sound. The bullets cut through the smoke, their metal surfaces catching glints of reflected flame. They fell toward him like deadly rain.
But none reached him. His movements were fluid, his body shifting with perfect precision. He twisted, sidestepped, spun — each motion narrow, exact, and almost silent. And then, in one breath, he struck.
The first slash came so swiftly that the gunman didn't even flinch. The blade sliced through his body cleanly, the sound of tearing flesh sharp and short. Blood erupted midair — hot and vivid, splattering across the dusty ground. The second man barely raised his weapon before the same fate met him. His scream died before it could even form. The last one remained frozen — his gun trembling, his face drained of all color. His eyes widened in disbelief, in the horror of witnessing the impossible. Then the blade cut through him as well. His body fell in silence, the echo of death swallowed by the fire's low roar.
Silence.
The world fell still once again. The only sound that lingered was the faint hiss of flame and the whispering wind that carried with it the thick, metallic scent of blood. It filled the air — a suffocating mixture of iron, smoke, and scorched dust. The taste of death clung to every breath like ash on the tongue.
The reason he had rushed to eliminate the gunners was simple — his power was fading. He could feel the tremor beneath his skin, the diminishing pulse of energy that once surrounded him like a radiant shield. The barrier that had once glowed bright gold now shimmered weakly, thinning with every passing second. The once-brilliant aura that cloaked him flickered like a dying candle. He knew that if he delayed any longer, his body would no longer withstand the assault that awaited.
He turned again, surveying what was left. Around eighteen figures still stood — weary, bloodstained, and trembling. The ash clung to their torn clothes; their faces were a mix of fear and fury. Their eyes no longer carried confidence — only the shadow of determination born from hopelessness.
He took a step forward. The sword in his hand still faintly glowed, a remnant of the divine light that once burned bright around him. His shadow stretched long across the cracked and smoking ground, a wavering silhouette against the fiery glow. The soil beneath his feet radiated faint heat, like embers slumbering beneath the crust. Each step he took echoed sharply in the quiet, the rhythm of his footsteps merging with the pulse of the battlefield's dying heart.
His breathing grew heavier. The fog of dust and smoke thickened, curling around him until every inhale felt like swallowing fire. The weight of the air pressed against his skin, dense with the smell of death. Yet within that suffocating stillness, his resolve did not falter.
He could feel the strain in every muscle, the fatigue slowly tightening its grip, but the light in his golden eyes still shone with unwavering brilliance. Even when the divine power that shielded him waned, that light — the symbol of his will — refused to dim.
He lifted his sword once more. The faint gold of his weakening barrier reflected against the blade, forming a single sharp gleam that cut across the darkened field. In that moment, his figure was like the last remaining light standing firm in an ocean of death — fragile, yet defiant.
And in that silence, with the dying fire flickering behind him and the battlefield trembling under the weight of his presence —
He was ready to strike again.