Crashing Toward You

In Birmingham's Lower District, on one of the few bustling streets, the Hound Bar was always brightly lit.

Every night was like this. It had always been like this.

Scantily clad dancers came and went, carrying the scent of cheap perfume and forcing smiles for customers onto their lips. Workers seeking thrills after work pulled Denier from their pockets, puffed smoke, and traded it for a fleeting moment of numbness and pleasure.

People occasionally arrived with money and desire in their hearts, then sank into the place's allure, unable to pull themselves free—until they became part of it themselves.

In this bar run by the largest gang in the eastern Lower District, no one cared when a young, numb new face appeared among the dancers, nor did anyone care when a regular customer vanished after falling into debt, never to be seen again.

At the center of the bar, behind the crowded counter, a bartender with an ink-black hound tattoo on his arm lowered the brim of his cap and skillfully shook the cocktail shaker in his hand.

With a flick and turn of his wrist, scarlet liquor poured in a thin stream into a glass. The splashing foam quickly filled the rim and overflowed, leaving a fresh mark on the grime-layered counter.

Having no interest in admiring the smooth performance, the brown-haired woman still wearing an Alchemist Association uniform grabbed the filled glass and eagerly threw back her head, greedily catching the falling scarlet liquid with her lips and teeth as her throat bobbed.

"Glug, glug."

She drank deeply and happily.

Amid the familiar intoxication, Madonna Wilma felt as though she were floating among the clouds. Her thoughts drifted with her, scattered fragments spreading under the influence of alcohol.

Eh, how long has it been since I drank anything else?

The last time was when I drank with the best friend who introduced me to this bar. I can't find her today. I don't get it. How strange.

This wine is obviously so good. How did I never notice before?

The band onstage has changed songs twice already, and I still haven't seen her. Did Karin hide somewhere?

Forget it, who cares about her? There's no such thing as too much good wine~

Tomorrow's me can handle tomorrow's shift. Today's me will drink today's wine!

The Hound Bar's new Crimson Nectar was always so intoxicating, as blood-pumping as the rock music by her ears, making her want to listen more closely.

"Tap tap tap—"

Oh, nice drumbeat. But why does it sound like it's coming from outside? Let me see what's going on~

Madonna's muddled mind no longer allowed her to think any further. Dazed, she turned her gaze toward the entrance. Her blush had yet to fade when she saw—

Outside the doors, a diligent deliveryman carried a large package with its code torn off and thoughtfully delivered sincere blessings to the customers still lingering in the bar.

"Open up, and crash into good fortune!"

On the carriage charging straight toward the bar's entrance, Horn plucked the only string in his hand like a guitarist. Hearing the plectrum's shrill wail, he could not stop the corners of his mouth from curling upward.

Deng, deng, deng, deng!

Listen—the sound of your destiny knocking at the door—

The wheels crazily crushed and bounced over the uneven road. The police carriage, practically brand-new, was already nearing the end of its service life after the short hundred-meter stretch from the street corner to the bar. Veins bulged along the neck of the powerful horse pulling it. Its already large eyes were stretched wide and round, thick breaths blasted from its nostrils, and its mane whipped wildly through the air. It had completely lost its usual gentleness, becoming utterly ferocious.

It looked like it had galloped straight out of a fire.

So stunned that she did not even think to dodge, Madonna's lips parted slightly. The wineglass fell from her hand, spinning across the thick carpet before bouncing up again.

On the out-of-control carriage, its only passenger released the hand pressed against the horse's back, where colorless flames burned. Considerately, he lifted the driver who had been dragged along the ground like a dead dog the whole way, secured him to the horse, and did so gently—without allowing the slightest resistance.

There are countless roads; safety comes first. Drive improperly, and your family will shed tears.

Now sit still like a good driver.

Then the boy took a deep breath, launched himself forward, and rolled upon landing!

See you later!

"Booom—"

The tremendous crash shook the night sky and rattled eardrums. Speed and mass, a powerful union, brought tremendous momentum. Even the half-closed doors yielded to pure violence, first caving inward before snapping straight off the frame and flying into the bar.

It was free now.

And tonight, Martin was paying for more than just this.

At the counter that took the first hit, countless bottles were swept to the floor like worthless trash. Liquor and shards of glass splashed everywhere, while dark-red wine flowed wantonly along the grooves in the floor like snakes, spreading an inescapable bloody stench.

From outside to within, everything was a mess.

After smashing the front half of the bar into ruins, the rampaging carriage finally slowed to a stop against the wall, lying sideways amid the rising dust.

The front of the carriage, which had taken the brunt of the impact, had flown off to who knew where. Its wooden frame had been twisted and deformed into a huge pile of flammable garbage whose Prototype was nearly impossible to make out. One wheel, yearning for freedom, had even come off the axle at the instant of impact and careened through the bar like a bowling ball, knocking over who knew how many stools and the drinkers sitting on them.

Unfortunately, no one had the mind to keep score.

From within the Remnant that had once been a carriage, a battered upper body protruded. Whether extraordinarily lucky or extraordinarily unlucky, Martin had not died yet. He coughed up mouthfuls of blood, babbling incoherently as his pupils began to lose focus amid their trembling.

"Tap, tap, tap."

The heels of leather boots struck the exposed floor. As Horn slowly approached, he coughed, and his face—pale from blood loss—rapidly turned flushed red.

An evening breeze blew through the gap where the door had once been, lifting the hem of his alchemical robe. Beneath it, the transparent flames over his wounds gradually went out, leaving only charred burn marks behind.

Horn had used Flame of Destiny to scorch his wounds, forcibly stopping the bleeding from the scrapes he had suffered in the fall. His spiritual reserves plunged once more, yet an unexpected hunger showed through his sickly flushed face.

Ignoring the clamor spreading through the bar, Horn bent down, straightened Martin's head, and leaned close to look into eyes that were no longer scarlet. He exclaimed in genuine amazement, "What tenacious vitality. You didn't die even after that. I underestimated you."

Next time, I'll have to burn you.

"It hurts... My butt hurts..."

His consciousness was already dissipating from the lack of blood to his brain. Only the so-called Gift kept him barely alive as Martin lay on his back amid the ruins and groaned.

"Don't worry, Mr. Martin. Your butt is still on the carriage."

Kindly pointing to the two legs hanging from the carriage Remnant, Horn showed no restraint as he reached down to feel around Martin's waist. When his probing fingers touched a cold cylindrical object, he yanked it out with force.

Flat and smooth, solid and compact, just the right size, understated and reserved.

A Browning M1900 semi-automatic pistol!