Statistically, around seventeen people lose their lives every minute in Kazdel. That’s just barely above a quarter of a person each second.
Gathering it into a less tight, broader sack, we find ourselves with about a thousand souls snuffed out every hour. In comparison, let’s take a look at Laterano’s firearm production output - the market’s one and only leader, keeping all other nations in a chokehold of metal and originium powder. With factories scattered even over the most unwelcoming terrains, the high mountains and stormy shores, the White City and the lands that surround it spit out a whopping four million and seven hundred thousand lead spewers per year, around eight and a half hundred per hour.
Yet, not even the might of the Law can keep up with the reaper’s harvest in this little hellhole abroad.
With the two leading causes of death being steel and arts poisoning, firearms have long lost their shine in the quagmire of war, mercenaries and military forces alike instead opting for the cheaper, more common options available.
It was not the case, however, for a certain soul living by the Law's holy words. A reaper’s accomplice, traversing the land and laying behind a carpet of spent lead and flesh.
In the great plains,
Amidst the tall mountains,
All throughout the torn, forgotten cities,
Or small cantinas in the middle of nowhere. Standing among rock formations towering high above even the tallest of men, made of creaky wood and mossy stone - a little oasis of peace for any devilish outlaws to stop by and rest.
With bullet holes lining the walls, inviting the sun’s radiance inside to illuminate the bloody aftermath, the shack stood silent. Each patron inside the stuffy establishment remained slumped over their table, the bar or the floor, even. With drops of liquid running rampant across the floor, it was going to be a nightmare for the designated janitor of the night.
A figure clad in a trench coat that swept the floor with each gentle nudge stood from their seat, eager to leave the grim company in search for a better class of drinking buddy. As soon as the devil stepped away from the bar, they fell to the floor and face planted right into a pool of blood gathering by their feet. Must’ve forgotten about the knife stuck in their throat.
An amused snort arose from another patron, watching the giant’s fall. With a lazy gesture, they uncorked yet another bottle of golden-brown liquid and latched their lips onto it. Down their throat went the happiness providing concoction, eager to desecrate the poor soul’s liver.
They turned to the empty gun laying on the bar counter in front. It rested peacefully, completely silent, having already screamed out its cacophony of gunshots - hungrily awaiting a new magazine to feast upon.
By its side stood seventeen bullets marked with the cryptic passages of “9x19 FMJ” - currently serving as candles on a missing cake. The gunman slammed the bottle on the bar and licked his lips in glee. It was his annual big day, after all.
“... H-HaAaappy birthday to youUu~...”
His drunken voice echoed through the cantina, breaking the fellow patrons’ deathly silence.
“... O-OooOoh haaAaappy birthdaaay… Toooo… HIC!... Tooo youuUuu!~”
A burly man to the right of the jolly fellow twitched. With his head buried in his arms, laying down on the bar, the singing must’ve broken him from some sorta deep slumber. His broad, armor covered body collapsed to the side, sending rivers of blood sprouting from the bullet hole in his forehead. The singer giggled at his post mortem spasms and fell into a fit of hiccups mixed with some retching. It wasn’t nearly enough to stop his birthday song, though!
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"Goodbye Curly Head"
FanfictionThrough thick and thin the Law shall prevail. A new sense of purpose awaits us, children of light, in the land where it all began. The darkness in which we once cowered in fear, now curbed by the might of our endless light. Come, brothers, come, sis...
