Soaring14: A Letter

Preface:

Art should take on the responsibility of nurturing thought.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[Part ① · No Surprises]

"Night Demon."

"Minion of Ming De."

Judas cursed under his breath, instinctively shrinking back.

He was so terrified that he'd lost his mind. Just seeing the Gunsmith had already stripped him of all will to fight.

"Blasphemer."

"Heretic who rejects the gods of Amon."

"Demon from beyond the realms."

He muttered incoherently, repeating the words he'd been assigned—

—all those titles were things Judas had made up, things he'd repeatedly preached to Shambhala's many subordinates.

For the past five or six years, every time he received news that the Madness Butterfly Sect had been wiped out, battle reports from the various administrative districts, or combat footage recorded on GoPro cameras, those audio and video records had demonized the Gunsmith. They'd become a shadow in Judas's heart.

Here's a ridiculous hellish joke: every time he gathered Guiyi Sect cadres to review these recordings, Judas had to emphasize that underage Madness Butterfly followers needed to watch them accompanied by adult cultists. People with high Madness Index readings, potential heart disease, or a strong desire to join Guiyi Sect were advised against watching the Gunsmith's battle records. The whole thing was too bloody, too violent, and far too insidious.

This man could tear Flash Butterflies apart with his bare hands, defeat monstrous beings from myths and legends, and kick the heads of mountain demons and giant monsters around like balls. He was the embodiment of violence. Quite a few old warband veterans who'd survived the expedition had gone on to tattoo the Unknown's helmet insignia on their bodies. They practically worshipped the Gunsmith as a god.

Judas couldn't crawl fast, and he couldn't escape—

—there was still a rock tied to his leg, as if