York didn't need to hear the rest of the phone call to know this job was going to be tough.
"Twenty points… that's nasty."
He stared at the quest window that had popped up, the voice still crackling from the handset, and hesitated to accept.
Since the day the cheat system had attached itself to him, he'd cleared plenty of missions.
Rewards dictated difficulty, pure and simple.
The bigger the payout, the nastier the demon.
"Father Yorkes, Officer Baker told me this murder feels wrong—everything matches that little story he once shared with you…"
A woman's voice came through the speaker: Baker's wife, devout to the core, the same woman whose donations had filled several layers of that cash-filled suitcase.
"Understood. I'll take a look myself," York said, eyes still on the quest prompt.
"Give Baker my number; have him call me direct."
"Really? Thank you, Father!"
Hefting a duffel, York started down the basement stairs—time to gear up.
"Certainly."
"I'll tell him right away!"
"Mm." He ended the call, gaze sweeping across rack after rack of hardware, a spark of eagerness in his eyes. A twenty-point demon was rare; perfect for testing how far he'd come.
More importantly, the arsenal he'd painstakingly amassed was finally going to see real use.
"…"
Previous missions had paid four, five, seven, maybe eight points. Twenty meant roughly triple the danger.
"Triple, give or take…"
Leaving the quest unaccepted, he tossed the empty bag aside, grabbed a fresh one, and headed first for the pistol shelves.
Past the under-powered compacts, he stopped at the revolver section.
Revolvers meant simple mechanics and fatter calibers—more punch per shot.
And the hardest-hitting wheelgun on the rack was… His gaze locked on a single piece.
linebaugh.
Chambered in a .50-caliber round that laughed at an inch of steel plate, five shots in the cylinder.
Made for hunting big game—grizzlies, bison, monster boars. "You're it."
He snapped a holster to his belt, looped a fully-loaded bandolier around his waist—twenty-five custom rounds, no more, no less.
With the linebaugh seated in leather, he moved on.
Sidearm sorted, he needed a primary. Shotgun again—versatility with shell selection.
Without hesitation he lifted the old faithful winchester m1897.
For shells he took two hundred high-penetration Slugs and nothing else.
According to Baker's tale, the demon walking the world in human shape was almost certainly its true form.
No clue why it could remain on earth, but York was preparing for the real deal.
Primary, secondary—done. Now for support.
He'd assembled plenty of anti-demon gear.
For shock value he swung by the grenade shelf and dropped ten frags into the pack.
No idea if shrapnel would bother a demon, but worth a test.
He'd probably splash holy water first, soften it up, then frag—play it by ear.
Next stop: holy water. It lost potency after twenty days, so… he cleared the shelf—thirty bottles, half the pack's volume.
A load that would strain an ordinary man; to York, now triple human average, it felt like a single bottle of mineral water.
Water packed, he continued to the next rack: crucifixes and Bibles.
The Church's trinity—holy water, Scripture, cross—worked well; boosted by his universal mana they doubled in effect, scaling with output.
Remembering Sarah's exorcism: a cross as conduit, no true name known, ten mana spent.
He'd never dumped a hundred in at once—no telling what might happen.
"Think that's everything?"
He lashed three crosses to his right hand with cord, then remembered something and headed for the farthest corner.
There, dust-covered, stood two church-issue Knights Swords.
Memories surfaced; he sighed, lifted one blade, and turned back toward the garage.
Now he wore a pack taller than a mountaineer's, stuffed with crosses, holy water, ammo boxes, grenades.
A long cross-guard Knights Sword across one shoulder.
A winchester m1897 in each cross-wrapped hand.
At his hip the linebaugh rig and a Bible pouch.
The most complete load-out he'd ever carried.
Reach out: Winchester and grenades; get close: linebaugh and sword.
Still outgunned? Combine cross, Bible, and mana for the big finish.
If that failed—run.
Same Ford Raptor. He stacked everything into the passenger seat before the phone rang again.
He rolled out of the garage first, then answered.
"Father Yorkes, I can't reach Baker—his phone's dead!" His wife sounded frantic.
"Do… do you think something happened to him?"
The news didn't surprise him; from the moment he saw the quest, he'd suspected the demon had finally turned from sinners to innocents for reasons unknown.