The Carnivore

[Part ① · Catch the Wind]

Looking down Grand Avenue, the young men ran into the wooden building and crouched beneath the windows, daring to peek out with only half their heads showing.

A few cigarette butts fell from the second-floor windows of the bar. Some customers hadn't even had time to get dressed. They stared wide-eyed, waiting for the gunfire to begin.

Mr. Vincent's mouth hung slightly open as he let out a heavy, prolonged breath.

He was like a statue cast in iron, from his sharply defined face to the muscles that alternately tensed and relaxed beneath his clothes.

Five Fingers gripped the handles of their guns. The bandits and hired hands around Sullivan did the same.

They stood behind the ranger captain, lined up like a flock of geese. There were thirty-one of them in all.

Quite a few had already drawn their guns. Like the gang, the firearms were called Perfume Bottle Rifles.

They were a very old, traditional kind of fulminate-of-mercury firearm, with two triggers and two barrels. Each load held two lead or iron bullets.

Their muzzles all pointed at Vincent: the unwelcome visitor, the reckless Oriental.

Half a broken whip lay on the ground. Hidden inside it was a sharp [arrow], a substance of the Adamic type containing an expression of the Original Seed's DNA. It was deadly poison, but could also transform a person, letting them rapidly break free of their cocoon and emerge as a butterfly. It came from a ruin in the Colorado Canyon region.

Sullivan picked it up. At last, free from the pressure weighing on him, he relaxed. His expression became light and carefree, utterly refreshed.

The reason he had let down his guard was simple—

—he thought.

No one can survive this kind of firepower.

*Even a