Round 25: The Balance

The gun was completely different from those seen before Round 47—its barrel was longer, the body thicker, and it was held in a reverse grip with the muzzle below the fist. However, the trigger ring remained traditional, requiring use of the index finger, so it had to be placed at the end of the grip, making the entire gun appear quite strange.
Black patterns emitted a cold glow, taking on a pale blue hue.
“Round two,” Sullivan said as he fired at the stone beneath his feet. A flash of light, like a tiny meteor, pierced the stone, triggering an explosion that shattered it completely.
47 was no stranger to guns, a weapon that was extremely rare in the magical world. Knowledge about various weapons had been implanted in his central storage system since birth, and he was highly skilled in using them. With guns, as long as the trajectory was slightly off, there was no real danger—this was the experience gained from countless battles.
It was only during the fight that he realized his belief stemmed from never encountering someone like Sullivan who could use firearms so well.
Sullivan’s speed was at least twice as fast as before, and his firing speed and accuracy were beyond anything his enemies had ever shown in any previous battle. Even the most precise instruments couldn’t match him—47 began to feel overwhelmed.
The bullet-like projectiles whizzed by. Though not yet capable of damaging 47’s metal shell, their trajectories could be seen, and their use was no different from swordsmanship. Dozens of bullets struck the same spot on 47’s chest. No matter how he tried to dodge or get closer, the bullets always hit that spot precisely. It was now severely dented, and 47 hoped there was something else inside that iron shell.
47 focused all his attention on increasing his speed. He calmed the slight panic caused by Sullivan’s revelation about his past, gradually rediscovering the functions of his new body.
He covered his chest with his arms. No matter where Sullivan chose to attack next, he could simply focus on defense. A few bullets here and there posed no serious threat to his armor.
In this way, a barrage of bullets—completely different from Jason’s—tested 47 in the same manner. This time, he tried not to repeat the same mistakes.
One more thing worried him: Ale. If he stayed too far away from Moriel, Ale might attack again. In fact, Ale was already looking for such an opportunity.
Worse still, Sullivan had noticed this as well.
He began attacking Moriel. Whenever 47 tried to protect Moriel, new dents appeared on his body. All he could do was prevent Sullivan from attacking the same spots again.
Now, 47 was covered in wounds. His new body was covered in dents of all sizes, resembling the surface of the moon. This filled him with pain and anger. He missed his old light gun.

Yet he hadn’t done nothing either. O’Sullivan’s range of attack was gradually shrinking; he was the kind of person who would persist in targeting his opponent’s weaknesses, so the scars on his own body weren’t entirely useless. The opponent could decide which parts to attack, but he could also use those attacked areas to restrict the enemy’s angles of attack. 47 silently locked in several fixed lines of attack, and O’Sullivan indeed failed to notice his intentions. “Next time you attack, you’re done,” 47 deliberately showed a weakness. O’Sullivan fell for it and moved toward the position 47 had anticipated. Got him! 47 rushed over quickly, taking the initiative to fully compensate for his speed disadvantage compared to O’Sullivan—almost as if he had been waiting there. A gun, at close range, was almost like an iron block; O’Sullivan was completely within 47’s attack range. “Alei!” O’Sullivan shouted. A flaming magic missile whistled past them, and 47 reached out with all his strength to grab it. Fortunately, since the missile was fired past them, 47 managed to catch it barely. The joints of his right hand were slightly damaged by the explosive force, but not seriously. Yet a sense of unease crept over him. 47 looked down at O’Sullivan, who had once been his prey—his gun barrel was pressed against the weakest point of the armor, that initial depression. “Despicable.” One, two, three, four—the fourth bullet, fired at ultra-close range, finally broke through the defense, landing right at the heart. The bullet passed through the interior of the body, through the core of fire. 47 felt as though his soul was being squeezed. His consciousness kept expanding and contracting, his senses became wildly disordered. The core of fire flickered incessantly, like a candle in the wind. He fell to the ground in pain, letting out screams like metal grinding against each other. O’Sullivan stood on top of 47, shooting without expression. 47’s body swayed uncontrollably; all his joints were severely damaged. The sounds of collisions and screams blended together, creating an extremely agonizing scene. “Alei, help me! I need to remove the core.” The armor was too sturdy; using explosive magic forcefully might harm the core, Alei wrote after carefully checking 47’s condition. “Then fine, take him with you.” O’Sullivan’s breathing still hadn’t settled. Moriel witnessed 47’s transformation and the battle just now—from surprise to anticipation to ultimate despair—all in just a few minutes. She was now filled with grief and anger, not entirely for 47’s sake. Being a burden, a burden even to a construct, was something she simply couldn’t bear. Alei approached her again, but this time she no longer hoped for any miracle. “Why didn’t you run away by yourself just now? If it weren’t for me, you would have already escaped. They wouldn’t have caught you so easily.” Moriel wasn’t sure if 47 could still respond. The light in 47’s eyes gradually dimmed. 47’s body at O’Sullivan’s feet began to tremble violently, just like when the Blood Axe’s magic array activated. His body arched upward, with the parts inside rattling noisily.

Unexpected events kept happening one after another. Even Ale stopped choking Moriel, wondering what else might happen. Forty-Seven certainly didn’t disappoint them.
His body began to disintegrate, like a castle collapsing into ruins. O’Sullivan simply watched coldly, not considering it normal.
The vibrations finally stopped, but Forty-Seven’s body arched even more. The broken pieces reassembled themselves in his body, though in slightly different positions. His form changed again—almost as if he were growing.
His chest plate bulged slightly, his arms grew longer, his fingers developed blade-like tips, and his back became hunched. The armor plates that had fit perfectly in his human form expanded greatly, revealing intricate skeletal-like frameworks beneath. His thighs became exaggerated, resembling the hind legs of dogs or wolves. It was said these leg bones were meant to enhance jumping ability and explosive power. Many gears and metal frames emerged from behind Forty-Seven, encircling his head and giving way to a terrifying appearance with a gaping maw.
Forty-Seven crouched on the ground, still not fully awake. It wasn’t until he noticed that everyone present was staring at him with strange expressions again that he realized Moriel was even so shocked she had dropped her jaw—how improper.
He looked at his own hands—nothing unusual: thick steel limbs, sharp armor plates and gears covering his body, claw-like fingers. He examined them carefully; everything seemed normal. He resembled a beast more than a human, but so what?
Forty-Seven waved his arms aimlessly, the motion like that of a small animal flapping at butterflies.
“Is it time for the third round now?” Forty-Seven asked, moving his triangle-shaped metal ears.