Chapter 28: Let the Countdown Begin
It was like striking a steel plate. After a crisp crack, the bullet bounced off the back of Wez’s neck.
That clearly wasn’t the hardness a normal human's skin should have.
Transcendent trait.
Funis saw the dark substance coiled and flowing over that area glint with a dull luster and couldn’t help but click her tongue inwardly. Although she had expected this, she had still hoped to finish her opponent off as quickly as possible.
The cylinder spun again.
But this time, Funis didn’t manage to fire the second shot immediately.
Because Wez had already taken advantage of the brief opening provided by his localized hardening to yank his hands from the stage floor. In the same motion, he swung his steel rod upward with force, aiming viciously at Funis’s jaw.
A light step.
Her white gown bloomed like a flower as it spun. The girl retreated nimbly and silently.
Once again, just like before, Wez swung at thin air without understanding why. The exaggerated movement nearly made him fall backward. She had been right in front of him—why had the seemingly guaranteed hit merely brushed past her?
But Funis gave him no time to linger in confusion. The second bullet had already been chambered.
Wez felt a wave of killing intent, surging like a tide.
He instinctively raised his right arm to block. Sparks flew as the bullet embedded itself shallowly between the joints of his metal prosthesis, twisting and deforming the drive rod.
A slender finger gloved in lace brushed lightly against the golden cylinder.
Click.
Third round.
“As expected, hardening can’t be used continuously. That downtime is your weakness.” Funis raised the revolver, its barrel aimed directly at Wez’s forehead—less than three meters away.
But once again, the black, gelatinous substance that had previously coated his nape surged swiftly beneath the skin to cover Wez’s entire forehead.
Predictably, the bullet bounced off again. The small revolver simply didn’t have the power to pierce a Warden’s localized hardening. Funis hadn’t had high expectations—she wasn’t particularly disappointed.
Though said to be non-continuous, the downtime between uses wasn’t actually that long.
As Funis calmly analyzed, Wez, repeatedly thwarted and frustrated, was nearing the edge of rage. He could accept being beaten by a stronger, more brutal man—but he couldn’t bear losing face again and again before a fragile little girl.
Caution toward this unknown opponent was instantly thrown away. Wez howled and roared, steel rod raised, charging at Funis standing just ahead.
But the more reckless the attack, the easier it was to read. He made a fatal mistake.
Swing after swing.
Strike after strike.
He pressed in relentlessly, aiming every blow at Funis’s vital points. His gray-brown eyes were bloodshot, reason and calm drowned in bloodlust and fury.
Yet it was as if she were mocking him. The girl dodged each time with only the smallest possible movement. If just one step sufficed, she took just that one—no more, no less.
She stepped, she skipped, she danced. Her high-heeled shoes tapped out a melody, clear and crisp. Calm and unhurried.
As light as a butterfly. As agile as a deer. The soft ruffles of her dress rose and fell with her graceful steps, drawing arcs that stirred boundless imagination.
She even had the leisure to adjust her hat, to gather her trailing hair. Under the lights, she spun again and again, dazzling as a galaxy in motion.
So elegant.
So composed.
To the point where Wez was struck by the illusion—this wasn’t a battle, but a dance. A dazzling performance, with himself unwittingly playing the lead beside this beautiful girl on the wide stage.
But beneath the elegance lay deadly intent.
Each time Wez missed, the golden muzzle under her sleeve would flash. The hammer would strike, injecting powerful percussion into the graceful melody.
This was Funis’s combat style.
This was the fighting technique taught to her by Chescia.
Like a true lady.
Dance.
Every step must fall on the correct beat. Every movement must remain graceful and serene. She had to observe, to anticipate, to judge. She had to be as agile and nimble as possible.
Fourth shot.
Fifth shot.
Rapid fire.
Wez was now sluggish and disoriented. He managed to block one bullet with hardening, but the other struck solidly into his left shoulder—even with his best attempt to dodge. Funis had always aimed for the throat, head, or heart.
The Ironfinger from the Blackwater River District now finally understood the terror Funis posed.
The secret to her evasions was speed.
Her small frame was an advantage—her secret to moving like a phantom. Like a cunning fox, just when you thought you had her, she slipped away.
Wez couldn’t comprehend how she performed such agile moves in those heavy high heels. Nor did he know where she had learned such hauntingly beautiful footwork.
Sixth round.
Funis took a light step and chambered the final bullet.
It didn’t penetrate his forehead.
The next hardening was ready. Funis failed to inflict damage, and Wez had been waiting for this moment—the cylinder empty, the long reload window enough for him to tear her to shreds.
But Wez was wrong again. He had made another fatal mistake—and this one had begun the moment he entered the theater.
Funis calmly revealed the leather ammo pouch strapped to her forearm. She unzipped it and pulled out bullets one by one, seemingly inviting attack.
A taunt.
Utter contempt.
Wez’s fury reignited. Gripping the steel rod, he prepared to lunge—
But couldn’t move.
Something invisible bound his joints and limbs. Under the light, Wez finally saw the nearly invisible threads—taut and densely strung throughout the space.
Like a spiderweb.
Only now did Wez realize why Funis had lured him forward, step by step. He was like a mindless insect, crashing around until it fell into the predator’s carefully woven trap.
The girl had never intended to provoke him.
Her slow reload was merely due to confidence in the threads she had laid in advance. She had predicted every single anchor point perfectly.
But why such a young girl? Why could a girl threaten his life so deeply? Why was she so obsessed with the Bloodwine Society’s warehouse?
Wez couldn’t figure out Funis’s origins or goal—he was utterly in the dark.
He couldn’t break free.
Those seemingly delicate threads were as tough as steel. Even with the Warden’s monstrous strength, he couldn’t escape. All he could do was watch as the silver-haired girl calmly loaded six bullets into her revolver.
“Let’s start the countdown,” she said suddenly.
Wez hadn’t grasped what was happening.
The cylinder locked in place with a click, precise and mechanical. Funis spun it lightly again and aimed the barrel at his head.
“Bang!”
Crisp.
The bullet bounced off.
Wez had no choice but to activate hardening again, still clueless as to what Funis intended.
“Five.” She said suddenly.
A number.
“Four.”
Minus one.
Wez’s pupils shrank. Funis had already rotated the cylinder to the next round. He was beginning to understand the meaning of these numbers.
“Three.”
Minus another.
A countdown.
The duration of localized hardening’s maximum uptime.
After one full round of shooting, Funis had already calculated the exact number of seconds.
“Two.”
At this moment, her words sounded more like a countdown to death.
“One.”
And yet, her expression remained as cold and gloomy as ever. She wasn’t emotionally invested—this was merely a planned execution.
Long before Wez stepped into this theater, Funis had written the script for this performance of death. He believed himself free—but he was merely a pitiable puppet, jerked about by invisible strings.
Fingertip tapped lightly.
“Zero.”
She said coldly.