Beneath the light of two moons—one a vast, familiar blue, the other a distant, malevolent red—lay a land consumed by rot. It was a place where the dead did not rest, but rose as nightmares, and the living were twisted into crazed monsters, trapped in a hellish state between life and death. Yet, amidst this landscape of decay, two men stood out like sore thumbs. Both were clad head-to-toe in tactical black. The first wore a black and gold tricorn hat, a heavy cloth mask shielding him from the corrosive air. The second wore a sleek, modern tactical mask and helmet, from which shone two eyes of blazing red with pitch black sclera .

  "It's over, V," said the masked man, his voice a coarse rasp, like a sick man's final breath. It carried a hatred so profound it seemed to poison the very air between them. "There is no escape for you. Not here. Not in my world."

  "Then I have no reason to hold back, Ghost." V’s reply was a blade, sharp and cold. His eyes, visible above his own mask, held a terrifying resolve. "If this is my last day, I will make sure it's yours, too. One way or another."

  The brief conversation ended, leaving only the weight of their mutual hatred in the air. V’s golden eyes began to shine with an unearthly light, the air around him crackling as he summoned a strange and potent magic.

  A cruel, mocking laugh escaped Ghost. “Abandon that hope, V. Every trick you know, I know better.” In response, Ghost’s own red eyes flared like hellfire, burning even brighter.

  The sound that followed was not a series of shots, but a single, deafening BOOM that echoed twelve times over.

  Two revolvers, drawn and fired in perfect, mirrored unison. Twelve bullets, six from each barrel, met perfectly in the center of the space between them. With a violent shriek of lead on lead, all twelve projectiles collided mid-air, dropping to the rotten earth as useless, mangled metal.

  "Yeah," V muttered, the smoke still curling from the barrel of the revolver he'd drawn and emptied in less than a second. "Never thought it would be that easy."

  But he didn't wait for a reply. In one fluid motion, he holstered the gun, used the momentum to launch himself forward, and in the same breath, drew the massive zweihander from his back. The blade, a brutal length of steel, came down in a vertical arc meant to cleave Ghost in two.

  *Swish.*

  It was a predictable, telegraphed swing. And it met only air. Ghost flowed to the right, the movement so effortless it was an insult.

  "Pathetic."

  With that single, contemptuous word, a longsword materialized in Ghost's hand. He brought it down in a vertical slash—a simple move, honed by malice to be nearly unavoidable.

  But not for V.

  V twisted to the left, the blade whistling past his chest. He started a counter-swing, but shhh-shhh-shhh—three icicles materialized, forcing him to abort his attack and pivot his zweihander into a desperate block. The ice shattered against the steel.

  Without a moment's pause, V retaliated. His right hand flashed beneath his half-cape, and two throwing knives sang through the air, aimed for the gaps in Ghost's armor.

  Ghost caught the two knives in a single, effortless motion, the steel ringing softly as he crushed them in his grip. "Slow," he spat. "Weak. And most importantly, foolish." He took a step closer, his voice a venomous mockery. "Why do you even struggle?"

  "You—" V's retort was cut short as his eyes widened. Five ice spears were already arcing toward him. He twisted to evade, but he was too slow. One spear punched through his right shoulder with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage, spinning him around. His right arm fell limp, useless.

  Seeing his prey crippled, Ghost dropped his guard and strode forward. "You never stood a chance. You were never a threat."

  "Maybe I didn't," V grunted, his left hand clamping over the wound. A sizzle of fire magic cauterized the flesh, followed by a numbing layer of frost to seal it. "Not like it matters anymore."

  "It doesn't," Ghost agreed, now only two meters away. "I've enjoyed tormenting you, V. But it's time to end this."

  As Ghost took his final step, V's left hand vanished beneath his half-cape and emerged clutching a blunderbuss. He swung it up, but before his finger could find the trigger, Ghost simply swatted his hand to the side. A concussive blast of wind magic tore the weapon from V's grasp, sending it clattering into the darkness.

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  "Foolishness, V. Foolishness." The words were a prelude to the piston-like punch that followed, cracking into V's jaw and lifting him off his feet. He hit the ground hard. "Did you truly believe such a cheap trick would work on me? You'd have to be a special kind of idiot."

  Ghost didn't need a cape to hide his tools. He simply willed them into existence. As he had with the longsword and the revolver, a blunderbuss—a brutal, identical twin to V's—materialized in his hands. He leveled it at V's head.

  "Goodbye," Ghost said. "Even if just for now."

  BANG.

  "Vincent! Vincent, wake up!"

  The voice was a desperate drill against his skull, accompanied by a frantic pounding on his door.

  "Alright, alright! I'm up!" he shouted back, the words thick with sleep and immediate annoyance. He didn't move from the bed.

  Ughhhhhh...

  A low groan escaped him as the fragments of the dream clung to his mind—a masked man, a blunderbuss's roar, a final, chilling "goodbye." He didn't have the energy to decipher it. Not now. Not with his mother trying to beat his door down as if the house were on fire.

  Bang. Bang. BANG.

  "I said I'm coming!" Vincent snarled, swinging his legs out of bed. "You're not making me move any faster!"

  He dragged himself through a mechanical routine: a faded blue shirt, worn brown pants, and a sturdy coat of the same dull hue. In the small bathroom attached to his room, he cupped his hands under the faucet, summoned a splash of icy water, and threw it onto his face. The shock did little to clear the lingering dread.

  He looked into the small mirror. "Pathetic."

  The reflection staring back was a ghost of the man in his dream. Unkempt dirty blonde hair fell over his pitch-black irises. A scruffy beard, weeks overdue for a trim, completed the look of profound neglect.

  "I look like shit."

  With a resigned sigh, he wrenched the door open and faced his mother, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated irritation. "So?" he asked, his voice flat. "What's she done this time?"

  "It's your sis—"

  "It's always my sister," Vincent cut her off, his face a mask of pure contempt. 'My sister this, my sister that.' Frankly, I hope this time I find her hanging from a rafter."

  "VINCENT!" his mother gasped, recoiling as if struck.

  "No matter what you say, she is your sister!" she pleaded, her voice trembling. "And she's been missing since last night!"

  Vincent turned and started down the stairs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you're worried? Why? She's wandered off before. You're panicking after a few hours?"

  His mother hurried after him. "It's not just a few hours! She was only supposed to be gone for one. We're terrified something has happened to her!"

  "If you're so terrified, hire mercenaries," Vincent retorted, not even looking back. "You've got the money, don't you?" He added under his breath, a venomous whisper only for himself, "Seems that's the one thing you have in endless supply for her."

  "Please, Vincent," his mother implored, grabbing the banister. "You know we can't let commoners know about her... habits."

  Vincent reached the kitchen and pushed the doors open without breaking stride. "Breakfast. Now," he ordered the chef, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

  "At once, Young Master," the chef replied with a deferential nod.

  "You're really going to sit here and eat while your sister is out there, doing who knows what?" His mother's voice was sharp with disbelief.

  Vincent didn't even look at her, settling into a chair. "You worry too much. She's probably just found some new drug and is having the time of her life. Besides," he added, finally meeting her gaze, "I can't be expected to work on an empty stomach, can I?"

  The woman's composure finally cracked. "After you've eaten, you will go look for her. Right?"

  "Yes," Vincent conceded, his voice flat. "Now, let me eat in peace."

  The chef soon presented his meal: a plate of freshly baked bread, two fried eggs, crisp bacon, and a pot of tea. It was a simple yet telling luxury, the kind of meal a commoner might see only in their dreams.

  Vincent didn't hurry his breakfast. In fact, he savored every deliberate bite, chewing slowly. There was no rush to meet his sister, and he was determined to draw out this moment of peace for as long as possible.

  Once he could delay the matter no further—at least, not from within the house—he finally headed out. But his destination was not his sister. Quite the opposite. He deliberately walked in the opposite direction of the seedy bars she frequented, instead making his way toward a nearby blacksmith.

  After a ten-minute walk, he arrived at the workshop. It was a building that looked extremely worn out, with weeds, grass, and mold claiming the spaces between its ancient bricks. But Vincent knew the genius that resided within. He tried the door. Locked.

  A locked door had never kept Vincent out, and it sure as hell wasn't going to start today. A subtle whisper of wind magic nudged the tumblers inside the lock until it clicked. He pushed the door open to reveal a chaotic workshop—a mess of weapons, armor, and raw ores piled in places they had no business being.

  And at the heart of the chaos, a man no taller than 170 cm stood before an anvil, hammering a piece of warm steel.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  The sound was jarring, yet to a trained ear, it held a distinct, almost magical rhythm—the mark of a true master shaping his craft.

  "Oi, old man!" Vincent yelled.

  Silence, broken only by the rhythmic clang of the hammer.

  "Old man!" he called again, his voice cutting through the noise. He was met with the same, infuriating indifference.

  Tch. Vincent clicked his tongue. This time, he'd make himself impossible to ignore.

  "OLD MAN!"

  He infused the words with a burst of wind magic, amplifying his voice into a thunderclap that echoed for miles. The sound wave shattered the blacksmith's concentration, making him miss his strike.

  "GOD-DAMN IT, WHO THE HELL—" the smith roared, whipping around with his hammer raised. But the fury died on his lips the moment he saw his visitor. "God damn it, Vincent," he grumbled, shoulders slumping. "I told you I'd send a letter when your damn sword was finished."

  "Fortunately for you, that's not why I'm here," Vincent said, striding further into the workshop. "Just lend me a shortsword for the day."

  "Then you should've just grabbed one off the ground!" the blacksmith snapped, gesturing to the clutter. "No need to make me ruin a fine piece of steel, you dumbass. And stop calling me 'old man'!"

  Vincent looked him dead in the eye, a slow, insolent smirk spreading across his face. "Well, old man, if a guy who's old enough for his great-great-grandchildren to be having kids isn't an old man, then who is?" He bent down and snatched a serviceable shortsword from a pile of scrap. "And who else but me would put in the time and effort to annoy you? You should appreciate the dedication."

  Before the smith could form a retort, Vincent was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Ahhh...

  Vincent exhaled heavily outside, the brief amusement fading. He looked toward the part of town he least wanted to visit and muttered to himself, "Seems like I'm actually doing this, huh? Well, whatever."

  And with a resigned sigh, he started walking.