Since Malgrave had shattered the coffins (our only cover) and I had taken off sprinting, maybe three or four seconds had passed. Two of those, I had spent lighting the fuse. That left me what, four, maybe five seconds of speed boost?
I had to move. Faster.
Was I close enough? No. Farther. Go. Go. Go.
I lunged sideways just in time. The next salvo blasted the ground where I had stood a heartbeat ago.
No time left. Damn it.
But I still wasn’t close enough.
Screw it. Now or never!
With all the momentum I had, I hurled the dynamite. It spun through the air, carving a wide arc, sixty, maybe seventy meters, before landing right inside the bell tower, stopping just short of Sheriff Malgrave’s feet.
Then it exploded.
The bell tower was torn apart in an instant.
Chunks of stone and shattered wood rained down. I staggered back, arms shielding my head, as debris slammed into the ground all around us.
Then, with a sickening crunch, Sheriff Malgrave hit the mud—buried beneath the wreckage.
The fall damage alone should’ve been enough to kill him. But… no way. His hand twitched under the rubble. Impossible. He was still alive?
With torn pants and a blood-soaked shirt, he slowly pulled himself free. He was ten steps away. Our eyes met. Or rather, his pinned me in place. I couldn’t even move my damn eyeballs.
Then, from behind me, a whisper.
"Looks like… you’ve got a symbol over your head now too."
I blinked. What?!
A faint glow flickered at my feet. I looked down.
There it was.
An old, rusted revolver.
Had that just… spawned?
Sweat dripped down my temple. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Malgrave’s bloody hand creeping toward his holster.
"I heard your draw is just as slow as your brain."
His fingers curled around the grip. Slow. Controlled. Unstoppable.
"Draw… if you wanna live."
My throat went dry.
Great.
The final boss phase is a goddamn Wild West duel!
And it meant one thing: Life or death.
"Ten steps between 'em. Two men. Two Colts. One bullet to decide who stayed standing and who disappeared into the dust. Sheriff Malgrave, a man who once stood for law and order, now little more than a walking curse with a tin star on his chest and darkness in his heart. And not a damn drop of HP left to spare. And then there was… the other guy. The poor, weak bastard who had stumbled into this godforsaken town called Blackridge. Now he stood there, a rusty revolver in hand, with no chance in hell of making it out alive. One man and one dead man walking. A hundred thousand readers of that dime novel, holding their breath."
A hundred thousand readers? Dime novel? What the hell was he talking about?
I hated that damn Texan narrator. Probably sitting somewhere safe in the demon-infested saloon, warm and dry, sipping bourbon while I stood here drenched, clutching a piece-of-crap revolver. With my free hand, I pushed my glasses back up my nose. My hands were shaking.
Why me? Of all people, why the weakest member of the group? This was absolute bullshit. I turned halfway, glancing desperately toward my teammates. But every single one of them lay injured and broken in the mud.
"The rules are simple," Malgrave said. "Whoever shoots first, lives."
I swallowed hard. My fingertips brushed the cold, worn metal. Would it even work? Not that I’d have a real chance to use it.
Malgrave waited for me to draw first. We locked eyes. His, filled with death. Mine, frozen in fear like a deer caught in headlights.
Damn it, I didn’t even know how to fire a revolver!
Slowly, his fingers slid toward the grip of his gun.
I wished I had another shot of the Paladin’s speed and strength potion. If the world around me slowed down like before, maybe… just maybe… I’d have a chance.
But there was no potion. No salvation.
Suddenly, the sound of a bottle shattering echoed from the saloon.
I pulled the revolver up.
Malgrave drew.
He was faster. Way faster. Faster than the human eye could follow.
I barely saw the muzzle of his gun before a blinding white light filled my vision.
A deafening gunshot.
I squeezed my eyes shut in what I thought would be my last moment.
The gunshot rang out.
Darkness.
…
…
…
But I was still alive.
…
…
Or was I?
…
I blinked. Slowly, the world came back into focus.
I was… inside the Paladin’s fearbubble. Again.
Quickly, I turned around. He was still standing in the mud, blood pouring from his stomach, hand outstretched toward me. Then his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
No time to waste. The Sanctified Aegis would only hold for a few more seconds.
A few seconds of being immune to all damage.
I spun back toward Malgrave, took aim, and fired.
Bang!
His shirt tore open.
But the bullet bounced off him like it had hit solid steel.
What the hell? Was he cheating too?!
I fired again, this time at his shoulder.
Bang!
Another metallic clank.
One more shot. This time, the bullet went straight through his throat.
Blood sprayed from the wound.
I cocked the hammer. The cylinder rotated.
Malgrave grinned at me, teeth bared. He stammered something, choking on his own blood. It splattered from his lips as he forced out one last word: dishonorable.
I aimed a little higher.
And shot him right through the teeth.
Sheriff Malgrave crashed to the ground.
Silence.
Had we done it?
Shaking, I dropped to my knees, sinking into the mud. Rain poured down on me. Only now did I realize I was completely drenched. My heart was pounding.
"Honor’s a damn funny thing. Some men die for it. Some sell their souls for it. And some don’t give a rat’s ass, long as they make it through the night. Sheriff Malgrave? He was one of the first kind. A man who lived and breathed law and order, right up until there wasn’t a scrap of it left. Just a broken thing, holding on to his beliefs like a drowning man clutchin’ a dead branch. And now? Now he was just another corpse in the dirt. Was it a clean victory? Hell no. But there ain’t no clean victories in Blackridge. Just the ones still breathin’ and the ones left to rot. Malgrave was dead. But the story? The story was still kickin’. The town took another soul, leavin’ a dead man in the mud, tin star on his chest, bullet in his brain. And the outlaws? They won. If you could call it that. They didn’t stick around to celebrate. Didn’t bother lookin’ back. They just mounted up and rode west into the settin’ sun."
"SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU GODDAMN BASTARD!" Ryn Valen’s voice thundered through the rain.
Soaked to the bone, he stood there, slamming his Sword of Justice into the ground. With both hands outstretched, he activated Holy Retribution once more. The AoE damage struck like a meteor storm, reducing the entire saloon to rubble in seconds. Flames erupted as shattered wood caught fire. Everything inside perished in the wreckage.
Then Ryn Valen dropped to his knees, too weak to stand. Instead of healing himself, he had saved the last of his mana to give me the divine shield. He had pushed himself beyond his limits, overloading his magical system and casting an AoE spell even though he was completely OOM.
He panted, spat blood. The Paladin was dying right in front of us, and there was nothing we could do about it. At least, not Sin-Joo and me.
Hye-Rin, our combat medic, had an ace up her sleeve. She pulled bandages and a large healing potion from her backpack. It was already open. She had given several sips of the precious, high-trade-value potion to her fiancé. Now, she pressed the entire bottle into Ryn Valen’s hands.
He chugged it in one go, like a man dying of thirst in the desert.
Even without magic, Hye-Rin was insanely useful. It wasn’t just her kind words that kept us going. She was saving all our asses right now. Without Ryn Valen, we’d never survive the final boss.
Was this what Ryn meant at the start? That we’d all play a role in this dungeon?
The potion stopped the bleeding and restored some of his strength, but the gunshot wound still needed magical healing. Or at the very least, emergency first aid, which Hye-Rin provided as best she could, wrapping him in layers of bandages.
A brief pause. A moment to catch our breath.
We were covered in mud, exhausted, beaten down. While the others gathered around Hye-Rin, Ryn Valen limped past me, hunched over like an old man, and knelt beside Sheriff Malgrave’s body.
Of course. We still had to loot the boss!
I was about to roll Need on the revolver, but I hesitated. Hye-Rin could use it too. After what she just did, we all owed her our lives.
"Here." Ryn Valen tossed it to me without even looking back. It landed at my feet.
"What? You’re giving it to me?"
"You walked into this dungeon with a rusty pocket knife as your strongest weapon," he muttered. "You look more like a scared little Boy Scout than a Monster Hunter. Don’t you think having a real gun might give you some damn confidence?"
I hesitated. "Shouldn’t we at least roll for it? I have dice in my pocket... that’d be fair."
"Fairness." He snorted. "I don’t give a damn what you do with it. I have no use for a weapon with an item level of 35."
Level 35?!
I knelt and examined the revolver. It was a beauty. Etched along the long barrel were the words: Infernal Peacemaker.
This had to be at least a blue-tier item. A level 35, blue-tier weapon... in an A-rank dungeon? But clearly, this wasn’t some noob-friendly instance. Our Paladin had almost died fighting a mini boss. Or a mid boss. Whatever.
I picked up the revolver (BoE, checked my Dex). It was as heavy as a damn dumbbell. At least for me. The greed in my eyes must’ve been obvious. The same look we’d all had since entering this dungeon.
I wanted this weapon.
I needed it!
With this gun, I wouldn’t just stop being the weakest member of the party.
It would finally make me strong.
Then, suddenly, I remembered stealing money off a corpse.
Was this really who I was?
I didn’t want to be consumed by the dark impulses that Nihilith’s domain seemed to bring out in me. But then a voice whispered inside me, urging me to take it. Telling me I was destined for greater things.
I fought against the urge. Gritted my teeth and forced myself to take a step toward our group.
"You’re going to give it to Hye-Rin," I told myself. Step by step. Hold on to your words.
I wasn’t sure why, but as I walked away, I turned back toward Ryn Valen.
What I saw sent a chill crawling up my spine.
What the hell is he doing?
The Paladin must’ve thought no one was watching. His hand moved toward the dead man’s neck. Was he messing with the body? No. He was taking something. A pendant.
It pulsed with... demonic energy.
He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the pendant beneath his breastplate. Then he rose to his feet, turning back toward us.
I quickly looked away, heart pounding.
"Let’s get the hell out of here," he called, already wading through the mud, past the ruins of the small whitewashed church, leaving behind Blackridge, this godforsaken Western town. The rest of the group slowly followed.
Except me.
None of them turned to check if I was still there. None of them even noticed I was missing.
A sick feeling gnawed at my gut. I adjusted my glasses, gaze drifting back to the dead sheriff.
Ryn had taken something. Something he didn’t want us to see. And I was sure… it wasn’t anything good.
My breath quickened as I forced myself through the thick mud toward Malgrave’s lifeless body. Crouching beside him, I carefully pulled back his grimy trench coat. Beneath it, under the oversized, tattered cotton shirt, gleamed a perfectly fitted suit of armor. One that looked like it had cost a fortune. Not just expensive. Custom-made.
I traced the dents in the breastplate. The same spots where my bullets had struck him during our duel. That’s why it had sounded so hollow and dull when I hit him.
A sinking feeling settled in my gut.
I pulled back his unbuttoned coat, revealing the engraved emblem on his chest.
The sigil of the Elysian Wardens!
"Why…?" I whispered, my gaze drifting toward the rest of the group, their silhouettes fading into blurry shadows in the distance.
An Elysian Warden.
And judging by his armor, a high-ranking one.
I pulled the trench coat back over his chest and removed the sheriff’s badge. Sheriff Malgrave. I weighed it in my hand, staring at the name. Malgrave.
Something about it felt off.
My thoughts raced.
Why did it feel like the name itself was mocking me?
M-A-L-G-R-A-V-E
The longer I stared, the more unease crept into my chest. A terrible thought took shape in my mind. At first, it seemed absurd. But then I started rearranging the letters… just to be sure.
I began with the V. Then the A.
V-A…
Next, I needed an L. There it was.
V-A-L…
I mentally crossed out each letter, and as the answer slowly took form, my breath caught in my throat. A name. A name from old legends. A name that once commanded respect. A name that now filled me with pure horror.
Malgrave was an anagram… a deliberate disguise for his true identity.
Valgarem.
Velric Valgarem.
The legendary Paladin. Ryn Valen’s mentor.
I dropped the sheriff’s badge as if it had burned me.
Oh, God.
Malgrave had been nothing more than a mask. A cover for who he really was. Or maybe… just another twisted reflection of reality in this cursed domain of Nihilith the Puppeteer.
Damn. We had just fought a Paladin legend. That explained why a mere mini boss in an A-rank dungeon had nearly wiped out our entire party.
I reached for the chain around Valgarem’s neck and unfastened it.
Valen had taken the mysterious pendant… but left the guild badge behind.
The quest meant as little to him as his own team did. Or rather—he didn’t want us to find out who Sheriff Malgrave really was.
Ryn Valen had his own agenda.
I slipped the Elysian Warden insignia into my pouch and pulled out my old, battered smartphone to check our quest status.
Quest Objectives:
- Find the missing Elysian Warden squad:
- Investigate the fate of the missing members (Completed)
- Collect their guild badges (5/5)
- Defeat Nihilith the Puppeteer (0/1)
- Stabilize the dimensional rift using the Gorex? Stabilizer 3000X (0/1)
That was it. We had all five badges. Another step closer to finishing the quest.
But instead of relief, all I felt was unease.
There had once been a squad here, led by a legendary Paladin. A Paladin even stronger than Ryn Valen. And yet, they had fallen. Fallen because of… something.
Was it Nihilith’s corruption?
Or had it started long before that... with the thing Valgarem carried around his neck?
Ryn knew.
He had known all along. And he had led us here… not to purge this dungeon, but to… what? What the hell was he planning?
This whole thing stank to high heaven.
I pushed myself up from my crouch, and that’s when I saw it.
For the first time.
The sunset in the west.
Crimson. The color of blood.
This dungeon was driving us insane. Time here didn’t follow a linear path. Nothing made sense anymore. And as I walked back to rejoin the party, my footsteps slow and deliberate, I heard it again. From the ruins of the collapsed saloon. A lone melody, carried by the evening breeze.