CHAPTER 15
[AT THE HEART OF THE WRECKAGE…]
The scene cuts to where Reagan stood, his head tilted upward toward the night sky. Blood drained from his mouth as the cold night wind brushed against his face. His eyes were gradually losing their light.
The reinforcements had failed to arrive in time.
And yet, he wasn't ready to die.
It was hopeless, he thought. He might have had a second chance at life—if only it had been a different blade protruding from his chest.
But it wasn't.
This blade was different.
The sigils running along its length glowed faint gold. That meant it was active—doing exactly what it was known to do.
Behind him, the Iron Lady stood still, her sword still embedded through his chest. She hadn't even bothered to pull it out.
Reagan used what little strength he had left to break the silence.
He coughed blood before speaking.
"It's funny…"
(coughs)
"You were just…"
(coughs)
"…inches away from dying…"
(coughs)
"…but somehow…"
He paused, breath trembling.
"…I'm the one with a blade in my chest."
(coughs)
The Iron Lady did not respond.
"I heard… whatever that sword touches turns to dust and ash."
He swallowed weakly.
"Or was I mistaken?"
Still, she said nothing.
THE ANCIENT TALISMAN OF ANNHUL
A blade once said to have been wielded by a god—
a god who was once mortal.
A weapon that redefined what death truly meant.
Legends claimed it split the heavens from the earth.
It left behind nothing but dust and ash.
It resisted the curse of time itself, unyielding to decay—for decay applied only to its countless victims.
Everything would one day return to dust and ash.
And returning all things to dust and ash was its sole purpose for existing undisturbed across the ages.
A blade suited for a merchant of death.
A weapon that carried out the duties of an undertaker, tasking the winds themselves to perform funeral rites for whoever was unfortunate enough to be struck by it.
An ancient relic that predated even the cult of the Six—
known as the Black Scorpions.
Entire civilizations had crumbled overnight, reduced to dust and ash. All that remained were scars upon the earth and fragmented memories passed down through terrified generations.
Over time, those memories fractured further—
becoming myths.
Then legends.
Scattered across the edges of the world.
The Talisman of Annhul embodied a single, merciless concept:
To lose one's existence to the wind.
[DURING THE FINAL FACE-OFF]
Reagan had been baited.
The Iron Lady deliberately swung her sword just a fraction too late, creating what Reagan believed to be his window of opportunity—to strike before she could complete her swing.
After his devastating invocation of the Kraken of Tempest failed to kill her, she knew he would be desperate. He would not waste any opening he perceived to be real—especially one that could give him the edge.
It was never about whether the opening was legitimate.
If he hesitated even slightly, he would be met with the Talisman of Annhul—the very blade he feared most.
If it cut him even a little, nothing would remain but dust and ash.
So she closed the distance between them faster than the eye could blink, manufacturing urgency—forcing Reagan to act on instinct rather than judgment.
Her head aligned with the mouth of his gun.
She maintained her pace.
She allowed the gap to shrink to mere inches.
Close enough to be obliterated.
But that was the bait.
She gave him a false sense of certainty—of victory.
And she banked on one truth:
He would never hesitate.
He would seize the opportunity before her blade could reach him.
And in doing so—
He sealed his own fate.
From Reagan's perspective, she had already closed the gap between them. It felt as though she had appeared out of thin air, flying straight at him.
But his gun was already raised.
All he had to do was pull the trigger.
And he did.
He reinforced the bullet with the power of the Kraken of Tempest and fired directly at her forehead—point-blank. At that range, it was impossible to dodge.
In Reagan's eyes, the shot registered.
There was no doubt in his mind.
He saw it clearly—the bullet tearing through her skull. Her head had been only inches from the barrel. Missing was not an option.
So why—
Why did he feel a strange pain in his chest the moment he pulled the trigger?
What could have gone wrong?
He never hesitated.
He pulled the trigger first.
He saw her head blown apart.
So why did it feel like he was the one dying?
Prior to Reagan pulling the trigger, the Iron Lady had only one objective:
Get as close to the mouth of his gun as physically possible.
She was banking on one thing—that he would not hesitate the moment he saw an opening.
So she gave him one.
Deliberately.
It was a calculation with her life as collateral.
A fraction too early, and she would die.
A fraction too late, and she would die.
In that razor-thin moment, both of them gambled everything.
If Reagan had hesitated, her plan would have failed and she would have been shot.
But she wagered that he wouldn't.
That was the risk.
Because Reagan had hesitated before.
Meanwhile, Reagan was gambling on the idea that the opening was real—an error in her judgment he could exploit. And he had no luxury to deliberate. She had closed the gap faster than he could blink.
Worse still—
He feared the Talisman of Annhul more than he feared the Iron Lady herself.
Both of them were banking on the other to act exactly as expected.
There was another detail.
When she launched herself from the wreckage and shot toward Reagan at immeasurable speed, her feet never once touched the ground.
Which meant she had not initiated the Double Step.
Her trajectory had remained perfectly linear.
So how could she have possibly dodged a bullet fired point-blank without breaking momentum?
That question only answered itself in Reagan's final moments.
She had broken momentum.
He just never saw it.
That was why she approached within inches of his barrel—close enough for him to believe victory was certain.
It dawned on him too late.
She executed a clean break in momentum faster than his perception could register.
A high-risk, high-reward maneuver.
As she approached the muzzle, she timed the exact moment his finger would tighten on the trigger. Behind her mask, time slowed. All she saw was a gun pointed at her—and a man grinning as though he had already won.
Then—
The gunshot.
Reagan fired.
The bullet met its target.
Her head was blown clean off.
There was no mistake.
His eyes could not have betrayed him.
But they did.
What he shot was an afterimage.
The same technique she once used during her battle against the Six—when Norma attacked from behind, Orion from above, and Cygnus from the front simultaneously—only to strike nothing but a fading silhouette.
The most difficult part of her plan had not been closing the distance.
It had been executing a break in momentum faster than Reagan's perception could detect.
That was nearly impossible.
Reagan was a Double Step user.
His perception was elevated.
If her break in momentum had been even a fraction too slow, he would have noticed—and she would have been vulnerable in that brief window required to regain motion.
And if it had been a fraction too late—
Her head would have been obliterated.
So she timed it perfectly.
The instant his finger committed to the trigger.
She broke momentum in a way too subtle for his perception to catch, leaving behind an afterimage at the exact moment the bullet exited the barrel.
Then she reappeared behind him.
And drove the Talisman of Annhul through his chest—
At the precise moment his bullet tore through her illusion
[REAGAN'S FINAL MOMENTS…]
"He'll be coming for you. It's only a matter of time before you're put down for good. I may have lost this battle… but the war—"
He struggled for breath.
"The war's just begun."
The light in his eyes began to dim.
"Yes… the war," she replied calmly. "That's exactly what we're counting on."
"My blade is beginning to take effect. In a few seconds, you'll be nothing more than dust and ash."
Reagan let out a faint, dry chuckle.
"The blade sure took its time. It's nothing like the legends say."
"It is exactly like the legends say," she answered plainly. "But as its current wielder, I can slow its effects."
A pause.
"I'm the only reason you're still able to flap those lips of yours."
"I see…" he muttered. "Giving this old man his final moments, eh?"
His body began to grow numb.
His skin started to crack at the edges, faint lines spreading like fractures across stone. His form slowly began degrading into dust and ash, the night wind already carrying fragments of him into the darkness.
"Any last words," she asked, "before you dissipate into nothingness?"
Reagan's voice had weakened, but it still carried defiance.
"Tell the Godfather… he'll meet his end at the hands of the Iron Altar. The Order may think it's one step ahead, but we—"
He stopped abruptly.
The Iron Lady leaned closer and whispered something into his ear.
Whatever she said—
The fading light in his eyes flared back to life in pure shock.
She withdrew the sword from his chest.
"That's… not possible," he rasped. "That fool couldn't have planned—"
He paused.
"…Wait."
His expression shifted.
"It's starting to make sense now…"
His body began breaking apart faster, ash overtaking flesh as the wind claimed more of him.
"I just couldn't shake the feeling that I'd met you somewhere before. I couldn't remember where exactly…"
His voice faltered.
"But now… now it all makes sense."
His eyes widened.
"You're his—"
A voice echoed across the wreckage.
"Reagan!"
It was a woman's voice—urgent, desperate.
His reinforcements had finally arrived.
But they were too late.
They stepped into a scene that looked as though a meteor had struck the city. Ruin stretched in every direction. Buildings were reduced to fractured skeletons. The air still trembled from the storm's aftermath.
And where Reagan once stood—
There was nothing left but ash drifting in the wind.
What they saw that night would haunt them for the rest of their lives.