Ian! Still Say You Aren't God!

Ian reacted faster than thought.

The moment that Western gunslinger appeared, Ian's right hand had already darted to his waist like lightning. Not for one of his own creations. Not for a power derived from divine blood.

But for another weapon created by God.

The Colt.

This legendary revolver was said to be capable of killing almost every supernatural being, including certain lesser gods.

Although Ian knew that against this gunslinger before him, who represented the very concept of "the end," the gun would most likely have limited effect, he needed time. He needed to break the rhythm of the standoff. He needed—to at least try.

"Heh."

Seeing Ian draw his gun, the scruffy Western cowboy with the antique gun at his hip slowly raised his head.

Beneath the brim of his hat, in the shadows, a pair of eyes lit up.

They were not human eyes.

No pupils. No whites. Only two cold, burning stars, or the embers of wrath deep inside a gun barrel about to erupt—the Saint of Killers was the most terrifying human being in the world.

A true anomaly granted standing by God.

When a soul entered Hell, all love, fear, and hatred would evaporate in Hell's searing heat. But when this man arrived in Hell, his hatred and desire for revenge had not weakened in the slightest.

In the end, tempered in Hell, the Saint of Killers became the most worthy new-generation Angel of Death in the universe. The reason such an anomaly had appeared, when all was said and done, was that God wanted to arrange a retirement ceremony for himself.

And the Saint of Killers was the master of ceremonies God had chosen for his retirement.

He could kill anything.

And he could never truly be killed by anyone.

He was one