Gun of Ashes

It seems like falling into the deepest ocean, no matter how you struggle and rasp, your voice can only echo in this deep blue, unheard by anyone, just like that, falling until the long-lasting depth, when even memory ceases to exist.

Lorenzo slowly opened his eyes, before him lay a quiet street, people dressed in proper attire holding hands, smiles spreading, enjoying the tranquility under the moonlight.

Poets sing on the streets, playing melodies, telling tales of the dust-covered stories.

Feeling exhausted, Lorenzo turned his head, he was draped in a white robe, a silver cross hanging on his chest, the people around him cast respectful gazes his way.

"Sleeping here will give you a cold."

A voice sounded, a white-haired man sat beside him, with the weariness common to middle-aged men on his face, like Lorenzo, he was clad in church robes, albeit his were bright red, a person favored by the divine.

Passersby on the roadside paid him reverent glances, slightly bowing their heads, whispering prayers under their breath.

"Dean Lawrence?"

Looking at this familiar old friend, Lorenzo felt a strange emotion, not expecting to see him again after so many years.

"Wait… is this Florence?"

He suddenly realized the difference in the situation, holding his head and standing up, Lorenzo looked around, though his memories of being here were blurred, yet he found a faint familiarity amidst those layers of buildings.

It was there, the place of his birth, despite having left, somehow, after an unknown time, Lorenzo returned to where it all began.

"You seem to have had a very long dream, almost causing you to forget yourself."

Dean Lawrence seemed to have noticed Lorenzo's confusion, he was God's servant, the leader of the Demon Hunting Order, he pointed out Lorenzo's predicament with a glance.

"You mean… a dream?"

Lorenzo savored the word, still somewhat incredulous.

"Yes, you have received the Divine Favor Baptism, you should have gained something from that sacred baptism, as I once said, those memories not belonging to you will always follow you, some are beneficial, while others may interfere with your judgment."

Lawrence smiled faintly, he always gave a comforting feeling like a spring breeze, even without that red robe symbolizing his status, upon first glance, you would assume him to be a wise man.

"I too once had dreams almost making me unable to differentiate between reality and illusion, like you, I was confused, but time will give the answers, regardless of the difficulty."

"For instance, that damned 42?"

Listening to Dean Lawrence's comforting words, Lorenzo was reminded of those deep-rooted memories, the stories written in that cinematic carrier called film.

The ultimate allusion of the world is 42, a number that seemingly holds meaning yet seems meaningless, overall, Lorenzo couldn't comprehend it completely, thus he perceives this memory as an absurd story.

He wasn't sure if other favored ones had such ridiculous things, but at least Lorenzo knew about the existence called the universe through these fragmented memories.

"42? You're referring to something exclusive in your memories, aren't you?"

Lawrence smiled kindly, each demon hunter had undergone baptism, only the divine favor baptism could further specialize their wills to resist the demon's corrosion; nonetheless, it also brought certain side effects, such as memories that didn't belong to oneself, no one knew where these came from, and the Order had no definite answer within.

"Perhaps… So, Dean, what have you dreamed about?"

Lorenzo asked casually, unclear about the details of this baptism ritual, memories were just a blurry mass, only remembering he once stepped into the pool shimmering with faint light, thereafter acquiring these memories and resistance abilities.

"Many, but I've aged, and remember little of it."

Whether truly forgotten or avoiding the answer, Dean Lawrence sidestepped the question,

"In my youth, I longed for the world within those memories, there it was distinctly different from ours, devoid of demons, without wars, peaceful, everyone could attain what they desired."

Narrating those already fading memories, he spoke with nostalgia and sentiment.

"Yet later I traveled far, visited many places in this world, but never found it, then I realized it was merely an illusory phantom, sorrowful yet good for solace."

Lorenzo nodded, seeming both understood and not, staring at that familiar face, trying to imprint his appearance.

"Well, don't think too much, today is that grand day, the Pope awaits us at the Seven Hills, the execution of the old era is about to begin, every demon hunter needs to be present."

Lawrence said, patting Lorenzo's shoulder, ending the topic as a luxurious carriage gradually stopped before them.

The carriage door opened invitingly to them, without much thought, Lorenzo boarded it with Dean Lawrence.

The Seven Hills is beyond Florence, as the center of faith, only believers and churches are permitted there, hence its basic operation heavily relies on Florence, like a worm parasitic on this city.

The waters of the Tiber River flowed through, the carriage sped swiftly along the shore.

The carriage was spacious, fitting more a moving office than a carriage, stacks of documents lay at the back of the extended carriage, an assistant organized and placed them on the desk for easy perusal.

"Well, do you know about our northern country?"

Dean Lawrence, with thick spectacles, glance at the documents before posing a question.

"North? Do you mean Ingwig?"

Lorenzo first thought of only that city, the one he resided within his dreams for six years, everything there was so real, as if just moments ago, Lorenzo was there.

"Yes, after its war with Gaulunaro ended, steam technology continued to advance; to avoid being solely targeted by us, Queen Victoria generously shared the steam technology with other nations, binding them to the steam carriage.

Now steam technology is rising in other countries, even the mysterious Jiuxia has received their technological aid."

Dean Lawrence laid down the document, stared directly at Lorenzo, his tone frosty.

"They all dread the Church, attempting to use steam technology to outpace us, currently we maintain a delicate balance, yet no one knows what might occur ahead."

Lorenzo seemed to hear hidden undertones, tentatively asking.

"Are you… what is the Church planning to do?"

"This is precisely what we are discussing tonight."

Dean Lawrence wore a mysterious demeanor, with a transcendent feel.

"But tonight isn't…"

Lorenzo's gaze faltered, he suddenly remembered, he recalled what would happen tonight, that anticipated grand celebration.

"Isn't this a good day?"

Dean Lawrence smiled, beneath the cold gaze hidden was fervor.

"Ending an old era, ushering a brand new era."

Lorenzo finally recalled what transpired throughout the day, the news circulating within the Demon Hunting Order months ago, the Order had captured the final demon, intending to execute it this night, thus proclaiming the end of the old era and the arrival of a new one.

"Then… what about us?"

Lorenzo lifted his head staring at Dean Lawrence, with unprecedented perplexity in his gaze.

"If the last demon dies, will demon hunters still have a necessity to exist?"

He whispered, as if questioning Dean Lawrence, or perhaps questioning himself, the final choice on this path of confusion.

Life's preciousness is only apparent because of death, as light becomes hopeful because of darkness's dread.

All things are in opposition, intertwined and dependent. But what of the demon hunters? When demons are done, where shall demon hunters go?

"There will always be a path."

Dean Lawrence spoke with depth.

"No matter how times change, we shall persist, like sparks, as long as they haven't extinguished, enough to ignite once more."

Gradually rising whispers and prayers filled Lorenzo's ears, the majestic city expanded before his eyes, almost alive, gathering countless believers in the square singing its existence, that fervent mob breath amassing together, with warm mist continuously rising, seeming as though the city itself was breathing.

The tall Holy Hall Knights guarded each intersection, clad in fine armor, carrying sharp swords at their waists, heavy and formidable muskets defensively cradled against their chests, capable of easily piercing steel plates in direct fire.

Witnessing this exceedingly familiar scene, the carriage carried him rushing past, always forward, across the long red carpet, reaching the most sacred center.