Round 24: Guns

The spark floated quietly in the darkness, as if it were the center of the universe. Forty-Seven vaguely remembered that the spark should be a mysterious metal core, firmly fixed within his chest—what was happening now?
Forty-Seven felt himself drifting toward the spark, or rather, the spark was drawing him in. He couldn’t tell whether he was shrinking or the spark was expanding—what had seemed like an endless journey finally reached its end, and the spark now appeared enormous, almost like a planet. Straight valleys and mountains rose and fell continuously; large, square metal plates kept shifting, drifting, and merging together to form gears that meshed and rotated. At the center of these gears stood giant volcanoes, spewing molten metal that cooled instantly. In the next moment, everything rapidly disintegrated into bottomless chasms, emitting a dark red glow. It was as if Forty-Seven had returned to his days of cruising through the vast metal world, drifting deeper and deeper before spiraling into the abyss…
He didn’t know how long passed before Forty-Seven woke up. Wait—had he fallen asleep? This had never happened before, but he had indeed lost consciousness for a while after falling into the black vortex. Perhaps, in true darkness, time and space lost meaning, and with no external stimuli to affect his senses, losing consciousness might just be that—nothing more.
A glimmer of light appeared ahead. Forty-Seven floated toward it, not sure whether he was swimming there or if the light was attracting him. Soon, his body dissolved into that light.
The metal parts inside the magic circle kept flying and breaking apart, like the asteroid belt around Mars. Even Blood Axe’s magical axe was drawn in. The once-sharp and indestructible axe shattered like ordinary iron, recombining into numerous small pieces that merged with the core and scrolls surrounding it, turning into flames that burned and transformed, as if being forged in an invisible furnace. One after another, steel fragments were drawn in and rapidly assembled. Through the bright light, Moriel saw that Forty-Seven had returned.
Surrounded by red light, he looked around, seemingly both long-separated and full of curiosity. His condition still didn’t seem stable. His eyes emitted red light similar to that of the magic circle, sweeping over everyone present, including Blood Axe, who was lying on the ground, lifeless and devoid of ambition. O’Sullivan, Moriel, Aley, Blood Axe, and Mishima—all of them—his appearance kept changing, as if he were choosing a form that would make him more stable.
The light even penetrated and enveloped the entire temple. Then, the magic circle gradually dimmed, and Forty-Seven became more tangible.

He was shorter than before; his now nearly nine-foot tall frame appeared more proportionate and streamlined. The smooth metal surface no longer had those messy assemblies, with silver-white and bronze-colored sheets interwoven to form his skin. Pale golden patterns covered his entire head and half of his body, converging at what seemed to be the corners of his mouth into a strange emblem. His eyes, finally resembling human eyes to some extent, emitted a faint red glow. In every way, 47 now resembled a human even more than before.

“I’m back, Morriel,” 47 said in a gentle voice, filled with emotion.

“It’s truly unexpected. Bad things keep happening one after another,” O’Sullivan said, scratching his head in frustration.

“Mr. Count, what should we do next?” Mishima asked a bewildering question.

“I need to finish my work—it’s right in front of us.” With that, O’Sullivan pulled out a knife engraved with patterns from the ground; the hollowed-out grooves were free of any dirt.

“Rest well. You’ll be home soon,” 47 said softly, placing Morriel in a comfortable spot beside a pillar.

“It seems you have ulterior motives. Then let’s see what this new body can do.” 47 turned to face O’Sullivan, who lunged at him.

After several sharp clashes as they dodged each other, 47 realized he hadn’t improved much in speed, far falling short of O’Sullivan.

“It’s much stronger than before.” There were only a few slight scratches where 47 had been struck. He touched his metal surface, and O’Sullivan’s knife came close again.

He could simply use his arms or body to block it. 47 still needed to get used to his new body, and this was a good opportunity.

47 and O’Sullivan continued to exchange blows. He felt his consciousness transmitting faster, not just his eyes—his body’s reactions were also improving. He wasn’t just taking hits anymore; he could occasionally dodge a few strikes.

Flames of red magic disrupted 47’s plans. Ale suddenly attacked the pillar where Morriel was, surprising and angering 47. He ignored O’Sullivan and rushed toward the target of the attack.

O’Sullivan felt humiliated. He couldn’t even stop 47’s advance. The other man wasn’t afraid of his sharp blade—he could hit him but not hurt him. In such a situation, any attack was futile. He was truly angry now. Under no circumstances would he forgive those master and servant.

Flames erupted behind 47, with sparks flying everywhere. Thankfully, Morriel was unharmed.

47’s red eyes fixed on Ale, the tall red-robed mage. He had never felt hatred toward any human before, but now he really wanted to beat this blind man senseless. He bent down, picked up a huge rock from the ground, and threw it at Ale as if it were launched from a siege engine.

Ale immediately channeled magic to release a powerful heat wave, but the rock’s size exceeded its range of flight. Even if Ale managed to melt it eventually, the molten rock would still kill him.

O’Sullivan descended from the sky, crushing the massive boulder beneath his feet until it was half-buried, as if stepping on an insignificant insect. Given his weight, this was quite astonishing—especially since even the flames on the rock had gone out and its melted outer layer began to solidify.

O’Sullivan raised his head and stared at Forty-Seven. An unusual fluctuation surged from his robe, greatly surprising Mishima behind him. This seemingly delicate young lord actually possessed such magical power. His ghostly speed had already impressed Mishima greatly.

He raised the knife in his hand—the weapon he called a “dinner knife.” Mishima always found it amusing that he named his weapon in such a silly way. “I shall call you by your true name, ‘Atlas.’ Let your black flames burn and help me eliminate all enemies.”

The dinner knife turned black and fragmented into small pieces until it completely disintegrated.

“Reassemble,” O’Sullivan ordered.

Countless fragments began to recombine, grouping into two sets that gathered in O’Sullivan’s hands. Black gas swelled and even swallowed his hands.

When O’Sullivan clenched his fists and crossed them in front of his face, his hands almost covered his eyes. Then he swung them down forcefully, and the black aura vanished. A pair of black guns appeared in his hands.

“Divine Guns·Atlas.”