BLARE!
A loud, intimidating war-horn echoed across the vast, gore-slicked ground.
"Form the line!" Reinhardt commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "The traitorous bastards have arrived."
Hiro found himself instinctively bolting to Reinhardt's side. He wasn't sure why, but he couldn't shake the ominous dread vibrating in his marrow since that horn sounded.
Tap. Tap.
From the edge of the dark woods where the lucky goblins had vanished, a figure in black armor emerged.
"Hm?" Hiro squinted.
The armor looked familiar—disturbingly so—but it was darker, soot-stained and charred as if it had been forged in a furnace. A tattered white tabard hung from the chest, so saturated with dried, tacky blood that it had turned a deep, bruised crimson.
They looked exactly like the Black Templars.
Minus the "Holiness."
And plus a few terrifying upgrades.
The one in the lead, wielding a long blade, stepped forward.
"It's been a while, brothers," he said, his voice smooth as silk.
Pale, ashen skin. Sharp, protruding fangs. And the unmistakable, horns curling from his skull. That wasn't the face of a human.
"Shut your trap, heretic!" Reinhardt spat, the word dripping with pure venom.
"Ah, ah, ah. So sad. Truly tragic," the heretic replied with mocking grief.
More of them filed out of the tree line, mirrored images of the first, forming a rank behind their leader.
"What should I do? I don't want to fight my brothers. It's just so... sad. Oh, God." The man moved his hands theatrically, reaching toward the overcast sky as if in prayer. "Where is God…?"
He collapsed to his knees, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
"Sob… Huhu… hehe… haha… KUAHAHAHA!"
The weeping curdled into a full, manic explosion of laughter. He snapped upright, his red eyes wide and crazed.
"GOD IS DEAD!" he screamed at the heavens.
This guy is gunning for an Oscar, Hiro thought, his corporate cynicism the only thing keeping his knees from knocking.
Despite the theatrical performance, Hiro couldn't shake the primal instinct that this man was the most dangerous enemy he'd ever faced.
"Let us return to nothingness, brothers! Let us embrace our God's corpse together!"
The Heretics charged, a blurred wave of soot and steel.
"Holy Water!" Reinhardt barked.
He unclasped a vial from his belt and doused his halberd and armor in a shimmering, silver fluid. The others followed suit.
Eh? I don't have that! Hiro panicked.
He saw none of that in the armory. What to do? What to do?
Clank!
Reinhardt's halberd slammed into the Heretic's long blade, sending a bone-shaking shockwave through the mud.
Around them, the Black Templars locked into a brutal melee with the heretics. Hiro, lacking the "blessed supplies," decided to improvise. He joined a group of three brothers who were ganging up on a single heretic. When in doubt, back the majority.
Clank–clank.
The quartet played a vigorous symphony of steel. Hiro, unsure of how to break into the rhythm, circled the perimeter and looked for an opening. He began to methodically jab his blade into the gaps of the heretic's scorched armor.
The man didn't even flinch.
Hiro was a firm believer that consistent discipline delivered the best results. If one stab didn't work, a dozen might. He kept at it, relentless and annoying.
Stab.
Stab.
"GRrrRRr!"
The heretic finally snapped under the stubborn, repetitive assault. He ignored a deep slash from the templars and lunged directly at Hiro, his red eyes burning with a very personal hatred.
"That wasn't the reaction I was hoping for!" Hiro yelped, scrambling back with his sword raised.
The heretic had been aiming straight for Hiro's neck, a clean killing move. But Hiro managed to dodge it skillfully—which is to say, he fled in the opposite direction.
Squelch.
Thanks to Hiro's "tactical taunting," his brothers found the opening they needed. One of the Templar's heavy blades sheared through the heretic's left arm, sending it spinning into the mud.
"GRRrrRAA!!"
The brothers kept hacking at him, blood spraying across his black plate, but the heretic didn't stop. He kept charging Hiro, a wingless chicken with a sword and a grudge.
What is this monster? Hiro looked at the man grimly. Fine.
Hiro brandished his sword and barked:
"Come, you monster!"
Clank!
Steel met steel. Sparks flew, stinging the air. Hiro winced as the vibration traveled up his arms. Even with Einar's physique, the heretic's blow hit like a sledgehammer, making his bones rattle inside the armor.
Grit.
Hiro leaned into the blade, putting every ounce of his weight into the push until the swords were locked tight against the man's charred chest-plate. Suddenly, his muscles twitched—that familiar, unbidden urge from Einar's memory. It wasn't a sword move. It was simpler.
Bam.
Hiro traded the sword-lock for a single, brutal kick. It was clumsy by a knight's standards, but heavy as a falling safe. His armored boot dented the heretic's breastplate.
The crazed man tried to right himself, his boots skidding in the gore.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He moved forward, one agonizing step at a time, leaving a thick trail of crimson in his wake. Then—
Thud.
He dropped dead.
One severed arm, dozens of gaping lacerations, and one desperate kick—that was the cost of defeating a single heretic. No wonder Reinhardt and the others were so high-strung.
Hiro's brothers looked over at him and gave a curt, respectful nod.
The rest of the unit rushed to finish the purge, but Hiro stayed back for a tactical pause.
Inhale.
Hiro reached for his sword—
Crack.
The blade shattered the moment he lifted it, the steel finally succumbing to the stress of overworking.
"What!? That monster…." Hiro shook his head.
He slid the jagged remains back into his scabbard. He couldn't just toss it; even a broken tool had scrap value, and in this world, he was in the same boat. He reached for his secondary weapon instead. The four barrel flintlock felt just right the moment he grip it.
Hiro squinted, leveling the sights at the crazed heretic leader currently trading blows with Reinhardt.
He gave the trigger a dry test.
Click.
Nothing.
Chill. Just checking the safety, Hiro told himself, a small chuckle escaping his helmet. I feel like a cowboy.
He pulled out the leather pouch containing the black powder tubes.
A tiny, unfamiliar box fell out of the kit. Hiro flipped it open, brow furrowing.
"Paper? And it's sticky, too." Hiro turned it over, wondering what kind of medieval office supplies these were.
Whatever. He shrugged, sliding the mystery box into his belt pouch and turning his attention back to the ammunition.
"Now, what's the dosage on this?" he wondered, eyeing the black tube.
Whatever. Another shrug.
Hiro poured the gunpowder into the first barrel. It was a meager amount—barely enough for one shot. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed the remaining white and grey tubes and dumped their contents into the other barrels, not entirely sure if he was loading a gun or a pipe bomb. He dropped the lead balls in and packed them tight with the ramrod.
Three barrels loaded. The flintlock was ready for its first live demonstration.
Hiro ran to help Reinhardt. He'd helped the seniors—now it was time for some high-level corporate boot-licking.
Reinhardt and the heretic were locked in a frantic, high-stakes clash. The maniac swung his blade with a glee, laughing through every strike. Reinhardt parried, but the sheer volume of the flurry kept him on the defensive, unable to land a counter.
Hiro skidded to a halt behind the giant.
"Sir! Requesting permission to assist!" Hiro shouted, his voice cracking through the din.
The giant didn't even spare a glance.
"Fall back, help your brothers!" Reinhardt barked between the metallic clangs of the exchange.
"I did. Please let me help you!"
"You'll just get in my way!"
Tch. What a stubborn boss. Hiro rasped. In a situation like this, there was only one move left: executive intervention.
Hiro leveled the silver flintlock at the maniac.
Maybe it was Einar's combat instincts flaring up, or maybe Hiro had just grown a fresh pair of balls after that lucky strike earlier. Either way, his focus narrowed. The world blurred until there was only the sight, the heretic, and the very real possibility of accidentally shooting his boss in the back.
The maniac wound up for a massive, horizontal cleave. Reinhardt, sensing the power behind it, leaped back to reset his stance.
The gap!
"Now!"
Hiro squeezed the trigger.
The flint snapped against the steel plate, throwing a shower of sparks into the experimental powder mix.
BOOM!
"GUAAHHH!"
The explosive force propelled Hiro backward through the air violently, He hit the mud feet away, his ears ringing with the sound of a thousand shattered windows.
"W-What the hell…" Hiro groaned.
He'd known that blatantly ignoring the gunpowder-to-lead ratio was a bad idea, but he hadn't expected a localized industrial accident.
His entire right side felt like it had been hit by a freight train. Panicked, he glanced down at his arm. It was still attached to his shoulder—a small miracle—but it was completely numb and unresponsive, a piece of dead weight in his armor.
Hiro forced himself upright, his vision swimming.
A thick, gray dust cloud choked the air, smelling of burnt sulfur and "experimental" chemistry. His silver flintlock lay in the mud a few feet away, looking surprisingly intact despite the explosion it just endured.
He stumbled forward, peering through the haze for any sign of his second boss or the maniac.
"With that kind of recoil, there's no way the shot landed," Hiro muttered weakly. "I probably just decorated the scenery."
As the dust began to thin, a silhouette emerged. The heretic leader was still standing.
Yeah, I missed. Hiro grimaced, his heart sinking. Figures. I'm out of ammo and out of luck.
Without a second thought, he lunged for the flintlock with his left hand. The metal was boiling—if it weren't for the wooden grip and his steel gauntlets, his skin would have fused to the barrel. He shoved the overheated weapon back into its holster and drew the jagged remains of his shattered sword, bracing for a final, desperate stand.
Hiro gulped, his eyes fixed on the shadow in the mist.
The last of the dust cleared.
The heretic was indeed standing, but his torso told a different story. There was a gaping, cauterized hole right through his center.
"Ohhh God… I can finally… feel it…" the man whispered, his voice airy and hollow.
Thud.
He tipped backward like a felled tree, hitting the mud with a heavy, final splash.
"S-Seriously?" Hiro's eyes went wide behind his visor. He'd actually landed the shot.
He approached the fallen leader cautiously. The man was dead, but a terrifyingly serene smile was plastered across his face, his red eyes staring blankly at the sky.
"Well," Hiro exhaled, his adrenaline finally beginning to dip. "At least he looks happy."
Hiro turned to locate his second boss.
The giant was sprawled on the ground directly opposite the dead heretic, looking less like a holy warrior and more like a car crash victim. Hiro approached cautiously. Reinhardt's armor was a total wreck—chipped, scorched, and soot-stained from the blast radius.
"Did you, uh, happen to get caught in the crossfire, Sir?" Hiro asked, keeping his tone professional despite the carnage.
Reinhardt was staring hollowly at the sky. His helmet had been thrown clear, leaving his haggard, battle-worn face bare to the world. He blinked, slowly turning his gaze toward Hiro.
"It's you again, Vane," Reinhardt rasped. "What was that?"
"Sorry, Sir. Technical problem," Hiro offered an apologetic smile, holding up the smoking flintlock in his left hand.
"The heretic?" Reinhardt asked, his voice returning to a low growl.
"He died happily, Sir." Hiro stated it literally.
Reinhardt smirked. He seemed too shell-shocked by the explosion to harbor his usual venom. The giant forced himself up, armor groaning with every movement.
"A flintlock pistol, huh?" He glanced at Hiro's left hand. "Still, for a knight to use a flintlock…"
"It saved you. Don't you know that?" Hiro gave him a professional corporate smile.
"I'm not denying that. Whatever. You have my thanks for the intervention," Reinhardt said firmly, though it clearly pained him to say it. "Now, return to your unit." He gestured toward the rest of the brothers gathered across the field.
"At once, Sir." Hiro performed a crisp, standard-issue salute and left.
If the rest of the Templars were standing around looking relaxed, it meant the "lunch rush" of abominations was officially over. As he approached, he saw his brothers had removed their helmets. John and Theo were staring at him with a proud, satisfactory smile.
What is it this time? Hiro pondered.
"As expected of the 'Immortal' Einar,' John beamed, slapping Hiro's pauldron with enough force to rattle his teeth. "I knew that 'clueless new guy' act was just a bit. It was because of her, right?"
Ha? Her who? Hiro gave him a confused look. The confusion didn't stop as his third boss, Theo also chimed in.
"If that was the reason for your earlier actions. Then, I could tolerate it. You have my apology." Theo bowed slightly to him.
"I'm sorry, but what exactly are we talking about?" Hiro asked, feeling like he'd walked into the middle of a board meeting without the agenda.
"No need to be modest, Einar! We all saw you charge that horde like a man possessed," John laughed, locking Hiro in a friendly headbutt-adjacent arm-lock. "And finishing that heretic with that puny little pea-shooter? Brilliant!"
"Indeed," Theo added, his icy demeanor thawing by exactly one degree. "Slaying a Chaosborn with a single shot was unprecedented." Theo chimed in again. Further deepening the misunderstanding.
"I was just... lucky. Haha... ha," Hiro played along, his voice thinning.
He looked around at the newfound respect in his brothers' eyes and felt like the world's most successful conman. How was he supposed to explain that he'd only charged the horde because he thought standing next to the biggest guy on the field was the safest "Health and Safety" play? Or that the "Chaosborn" kill was a fluke involving a mystery powder he didn't even have a refill for?
The Black Templars looked at him as a hero. Hiro felt like an intern who'd accidentally deleted the company's debt sheet and got promoted for it.
Maybe I should just stay here? Hiro thought.