Montana reluctantly fled with a towed Problem jittering on his shoulder. He passed through a door and disappeared just like that, following the directions that Alexander had given him. Montana had protested his decision and would’ve done more if it wasn’t for the current urgency blatantly present about a block away.

They had to get out. Simple as that.

Alexander heard the two Comets taunting Archknell, something about how weak he was or how superior they were in comparison—the same old, moustache-twirling villain nonsense. And he was about to step into the line of fire.

Where were the reinforcements? Had the Slayers been devastated that much? Or were they intentionally being held back? For what?

There wouldn’t be anyone telling him these answers; for all he knew currently, Archknell was in deep shit and needed some time to recover, just enough to get back on his feet and continue the fight again.

Inhaling, Alexander prayed to whatever God existed up there in the greater universe and stepped out from where he hid. His legs were in burning pain from all the work he’d done. He would collapse at any moment now, no more than a dead man walking. His adrenaline had since ran out. Just a constant, scorching pain that kept him awake. But not a thing happened to him yet.

He figured he could probably squeeze out a few more drops before calling it quits there.

Rather unceremoniously, he crashed the party by shambling in like a drunken homeless man, causing Tewfik, who was the one talking at the moment, to stop. And Pereyra tilted over, curious, before suddenly seizing up.

Alexander had a closer look at Archknell’s condition: he had really replaced his costume with netherstrings, probably giving his body the support it needed after having endured so much trauma. His exposed shoulder was split open, and he was stitching himself up without shedding a tear. How could he deal with that amount of pain so easily?

A [Healing Potion] popped into Alexander’s hands, placed it next to the Slayer. “This probably won’t help but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

Archknell’s blood red eyes went wide, mouth parted. “What… What are you doing here, Shen? It’s too dangerous...”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to help.” Alexander looked up and nervously chuckled. The Sungrazers were much, much larger than he anticipated. He felt like he was David. “Like I said, uh, it’s the thought that counts.”

Tewfik looked down with whatever eyes it had, seemingly scowling. “Foolishness, Alexander Shen. Fortune will it be to this shell and the many worlds. For your death too will arrive, and your stream shall too cease.”

Pereyra said nothing.

“That’s the funniest thing…” Alexander began, stepping in front of Archknell much to his chagrin, facing two of the Kreutz Sungrazers: the Lesser Watcher and the Lesser Cutter. The villains of this story. The minions to the enemy commander. Here, right in front of him. “...What the hell did I do to you? Ever since I met Pereyra yesterday, the thought’s been itching at me. Itching. Problem couldn’t divine the reason. Not even Archknell, and he’s the SS-Rank here. Not me, just some random E-Rank Pseudo.

“Or is that not the case? I’m not just some ‘random’ guy. Not to you. You knew who I really was since the beginning of this fucking incident, haven't you?”

Ever since Pereyra reacted strangely when he intervened back in Black Paladin Station, since the initial scouting mission where he was specifically watched more than anyone else, why? Nothing made sense and Alexander was getting awfully tired of saying that. Nobody knew the reason why the Sungrazers had taken such a keen interest in him.

So he stepped back and looked at the wider picture, recollecting what he’d known since yesterday afternoon when the disaster began (had it been that long?). Only then a spontaneous thought spawned inside his mind: about two years ago he’d sat through a guest lecture on the multiverse and where the physicist described one theory in detail.

To preface: the multiverse is constructed in a specific manner. The general consensus has it split between two parts: principles, the “prototype” of substantially unique worlds; and variations, alterations that stem from their respective principle. No one can agree on what a “principle” looks like, nor can they can agree on how far can a variation differ.

While it's currently impossible to determine the characteristics, you can, however, compare variations against variations. The spectrum of differences could be as wide as a canyon, where two worlds can be completely different. Or terrifyingly enough, be uncannily similar, so much that you'd mistake it as an alternate timeline. Maybe it is.

The latter is what the multiversal similitude theory concerns itself on, first created by a Brailizan physicist who was a Nobel Prize laureate. In a given pool of identical variations, they play out similarly. Perhaps not identically, but with enough commonalities that you can derive patterns from them.

Especially in events, in individuals.

To put it simply: you rhyme. So if you are successful in this life, then it’s likely you’ll be successful in another. The inverse, then, is also true.

Taking the multiversal similitude theory into account, alongside that revelation earlier, then there was only one possible answer as to why the Sungrazers concerned themselves with Alexander.

This wasn't the first time.

Pereyra hovered closer to street-level. The eyes dancing in its plates turned to manically stare at him, twitching and convulsing. “So risk death, have you, Alexander Shen? To receive your auspice by the many eyes that I, the Lesser Watcher, possess?”

“This is foolish,” cut Tewfik, “finish—”

“Silence, Cutter. Speak now or speak in the cosmic waste.”

Alexander turned over his shoulder and caught Archknell intently listening, and nodded. “Yeah, give me my prophecy.”

“On your obituary, let it be written: as Slayer Jury, Adelyn Peers, tasted sweet oblivion in combat as her otherselves—” Archknell muttered something under his breath, “—and a promise is given to you, Starblight, of a desired ending you seek is but folly, and no matter the strength, victory is yours to hold, nevermore.

“Of that world, the illustrious and honorable Slayer Conqueror, the sole carrier of the EX-Rank prestige, has this cursed name: Alexander Shen. Death came to him as to you and this world, for the Imposters and the Carrion, Kosmos, had slain our Dragon King, Ruler of the Hundred Realms, Helodrake Aethfell, reborn as the Lord of Many, King of Stars, Sirius Aethfell, and we servants to him.

“And revenge he calls, and your head he seeks. You, Alexander Shen! You, Kosmos! And you, most of all, Cosmic Seafarer!”

“Huh…” Alexander chuckled, shaking his head at the complete fucking absurdity of it all. “Yeah, how the hell can I respond to that? What the hell does any of that fucking mean?!”

As much as he wanted to ask about Conqueror, the sole EX-Rank Slayer, or literally anything about the previous world, something came to him that frightened Alexander the most. Wouldn’t this mean Seraph and Sage were hiding this information from everyone else? Did Kosmos know about this? What about Sirius Aethfell—Helodrake Aethfell?! That was not a name belonging to this Earth; was he an outworlder then? but how could an outworlder, an immigrant basically, be a ‘Dragon King’ or this 'Hundred Realms' thing and have clout to his name?

And what did his otherself do to him?

How long had Kosmos and Seraph knew?

“Satisfied, are you?” asked Tewfik in a taunting manner, who probably saw the disbelief on his face.

He shrugged, ready to forgo any previous understanding he had about the world and his own life. “Yeah, I needed to shout a little bit. Just fuck, alright then. Does any of that matter now? As far as you’re concerned, I’m still an E-Rank.”

“That is correct,” Tewfik followed, slowly lifting its ichor-dripping arc-blade, revealing several gashes on its arm. It was unnatural how much Tewfik bled; that amount of blood loss could kill gods. “As the Watcher foresaw, shall this body be rendered.”

But before Tewfik could come down, its arm was, predictably, caught by a sharp tangle of strings. The joints were locked and prevented it from performing a full swing, which Alexander heard was necessary for the Cutter ability to take effect.

Archknell stepped forward. His raw shoulder was armored with netherstring. Underneath, the suturework was precise, masterful, but hideous to behold. Alexander had only glimpses through the seams but was revolted at how his flesh was mixed between pink and red, and black from contaminants.

"The Dragon King, isn't it...?" Archknell said, shambling. "Where have I heard that name before...?"

There was only so much he could do before his wounds would get too much.

“Let’s…” he began, voice quiet and drained, but the fire refused to be extinguished, “...finish this. Alexander Shen—no, Conqueror, let’s speak after I finish with these two. We have much to talk about. Go.”

“The Watcher disagrees,” replied Pereyra and tried to sneakily fire a small bolt to kill Alexander on the spot, but after a quick flick of Archknell’s wrist the bolt disintegrated into nothing more than little wisps.

“I wish Pereyra had told me this sooner. I would’ve offered you a contract right there.” Archknell laughed, face scrunching in pain. “Ah, if only Seraph hadn’t claimed you from the beginning. From the beginning. Go and join the rest of your team.”

Alexander’s throat went dry and for a moment or two he lingered, refused to move. It felt wrong being here, seeing the Deathweaver in this state. The famed Slayer who had been mentored by Laurel, the previous Guild Master, the one who had killed a deathless being, killed a god, had led Glory Guild into becoming an international name, the essential founder of weavework.

He was the one who had taken in an outworlder, Lyressa fey Suntear, against the advice of his closest peers. And had shown her the kindness that this world could offer. Although many had unjustly said that, of the four SS-Rank Guild Masters, Archknell was the weakest, he’d always treat those claims with a small, stoic chuckle and flirt with his rivals, playfully challenging them to a match (oftentimes high-rankers sparred but no one truly knew who’d win if they had went all out).

And here he was, having fought for hours against two of the Kreutz Sungrazers. Hurting them, getting hurt.

There was only one possible ending for him.

“We’ll have a long conversation with Seraph after this, once I finish with these two. So go. That is an order.”

“Alright…” His teeth were tense. “Alright.”

And Alexander ran away, undisturbed by the Comets, able to leave with his life intact. He sprinted as fast as he could, legs burning but the pain was irrelevant compared to the turmoil blistering inside his chest. He shut his eyes and was content with running into oblivion, or until his legs gave out and he’d fall and crack his head.

But he hadn’t ran for that long until he heard a voice, then footsteps quickly coming to him.

A gray-haired woman with glasses, sheet white, holding a half-lit cigarette.

Alexander stopped and his body gave out right here, tumbled onto the ground, banged up his arms and legs, of course he did. Audibly he cursed, loud enough that maybe Archknell could hear him. And the Comets too.

Initiate got him to his knees. “Easy, hotshot. Stay still.”

“I thought I told you to leave once you got Montana and Problem out,” he told her, agitated.

“You gave me a shit order. Besides, I don’t take orders from you in the first place, genius.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “C’mon, Shen, you can stop being a hero now. You’re number forty-six.”

“Who’s forty-five?” he asked as an electronic blue light overcame the both of them.

She smiled, smugly holding her cigarette between two fingers. “Me.”

“Ha.” He stared dismally at Archknell’s direction, hearing the battle start again.

The world got brighter. Initiate sighed and threw her cigarette out of the teleportation circle. “Archknell knew what he was getting into. The most disrespectful thing you could do is mourn and regret his decision. Death for people like us, Shen, we wear it like a badge. But…” She frowned. “It doesn’t mean I won’t pour one out for him.”

Alexander said nothing as he was taken to another place, and left the field of battle. Finally, his part was done.

~~~

“Louis,” called a fair woman. Her silver hair bounced as she approached and eyes of sparkling crystal confronted him. A faint aroma of fae magic surrounded this girl—she had said she’d been blessed at birth, which was one of the few things she remembered, including her name.

Louis Strander turned and greeted his Vice Guild Master, smiling softly although the situation would forbid such moods. “What is it, Silverhonor?”

Lyressa fey Suntear stiffened, most likely taken aback (as always) by his calm composure, or had it been the responsibilities that were thrusted onto her? “Surely you couldn’t be this foolish.”

“I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about—“

“Do you believe your men and women would obey an outsider like myself? Not after Mystic’s constant protests? It’ll be another of these…” She waved her hand. “…disasters.”

“It’ll be a temporary measure while I deal with Caller A. It may take a day or two but I have faith in your leadership—“

She shook her head, pointed ears twitching. “I am hardly qualified to take on such a position—“

Louis raised a hand. “I won’t argue about this, Silverhonor. Consult Fenrir and Conquest if you need advice. But my duty to this city trumps everything.”

Lyressa lowered her head in shame, a hand was clenched over her chest. She had always understood his devotion to Ordo. “Very well, Archknell. Finish your mission as soon as you can. I’d prefer not carrying the weight of your guild for so long.”

“Of course.”

“And when this is all over, I would like to take a single weekend to visit the Mother Sanctuary.”

“I’ll grant that once I believe Ordo will recover smoothly.”

“To add, I wish for you to have a reprieve yourself. As a human, you are said to be getting quite an elder—“

“I’ll remind you that a man’s late-thirties are his prime.”

Lyressa had a soft laugh. “Yes. But my point still stands. I am concerned for your health often. No matter how powerful you are, even kings need rest, and the strongest warriors must dream of pastures eventually.”

“I’ll rest once everything returns to normal,” he assured her.

“I mean it. I haven’t relented in my studies, in the science studying ‘vacations’. As a prime man such as yourself, I recommend a mountain retreat or the forests, somewhere isolated. Or if you seek companionship, a brothel would suffice—“

“Ah…” It was a mistake introducing the internet to you. “Let’s talk about my vacation later. I really have to go.”

Lyressa frowned, but Louis reached over and gently patted her head. Although as a half-elf, thus being older than he was technically, she was no more than a young adult discovering a new world. For that, she was precious.

“I’ll allow you to scold me once I come back with that monster’s head, will that be alright?” Louis told her.

She had nothing else to say.

Once Louis had finally departed he sneaked a glimpse over his shoulder, and he found the most solemn expression soiling Lyressa’s natural beauty, and had she frowned any harder she’d grow wrinkles and be an old hag. She had her pride despite her amnesia and other odd quirks, remaining stalwart and refusing to show any vulnerabilities. As the Acting Guild Master that was the first step. The second was leading.

She was trusted dearly by Louis, who had made the bizarre and widely-criticized decision to place an outworlder and fledgling Slayer in the second-most prominent chair of Glory. Truthfully he had not been thinking about the guild’s prospects, nor had he considered what Ordo itself would think; it was a selfish decision, one made primarily to further his own interests.

And that was to see Lyressa prosper.

It hadn’t been an incorrect decision.

[SLAYER SYSTEM ALERT]

You have been selected to take part in the Valiant Supplementary Powers protocol.

Do you wish to protect your home?

[Yes]

[No]

“Yes…” he muttered, curious about this protocol. His voice sounded like an elder’s.

Is your sacrifice final?

“Yes…”

Do you have any regrets?

“Of course.”

What would you like to say to Lyressa fey Suntear?

“Heh… Lyressa fey Suntear, I am honored to have been your host for this wonderful world. You are like a daughter to me.”

Thank you, Louis Strander.

According to the Valiant Supplementary Powers doctrine, you will be given a permanent boost to all attributes in order to eliminate the threat and preserve the Natural Order.

Your Power has been permanently increased.

Your Constitution has been permanently increased.

Your Agility has been permanently increased.

Your Magick has been permanently increased.

[Power: SS5 → SSS5]

[Constitution: SS2 → SSS2]

[Agility: SS4 (+1) → SSS4 (+1)]

[Magick: SS7 (+1) → SSS7 (+1)]

Your Slayer Rank is being tabulated…

Your Slayer Rank is now SSS4.

Congratulations, Archknell! You are the third Slayer in the world to reach Rank SSS!

Third? Ha. That’s another mystery.

Despite officially becoming an SSS-Rank, he felt no better than he had previously—no, something was different. A strange sublime pleasure crept into him, and grew and grew until the sensation blossomed boldly across all facets of his body. Like someone injected pure morphine into him.

Perhaps that was the System’s way of blocking the trauma. Permanently increasing a Slayer’s stats by a whole rank, especially from SS to SSS, could kill the user from the process alone.

Alright then. It was time to go to work.

[Skill Activation: Silk of the Deathweaver - Blazing Lattice]

A lattice was constructed in front of Louis about a street-wide, imbued with a scorching fire enchantment that could turn most into ash. He pushed his hands forward, sent the lattice towards Tewfik.

A single cut tore the threads and the following wind caused the flames to rage. But an SS-Rank’s construct couldn’t be destroyed that easily, no, instead the remnants continued and wefted around that bloody platinum body, locking the joints and burning whatever wounds they touched.

Something flashed to his right, an imminent red spark. He flung himself backwards to avoid a bolt using his passive skill [Weaver’s Mind], which allowed him to produce a telekinetic control of his threads alongside physical action as well. By wrapping his body in netherstring, then, he could essentially achieve pseudo-flight.

It had been hours since the beginning of Operation Scorcher. Since he had led fellow Slayers into the lion’s den, fought the gravest two monsters he had ever met, more so than any Nemesis. He couldn’t tell how many had died since the start. How many he witnessed be killled. A quiet rage stirred his heart remembering the men and women in Pillar Vesper, and some were his.

The Sungrazers had taken them, and continued to take, all to serve the King of Stars, Sirius Aethfell, murdered by Kosmos. Did he foresaw this attack? No, he couldn’t have. But from the moment he heard his victim’s name surely every death meant another pang of guilt. Many would admonish him.

Louis, ultimately, would forgive him, even as he made his peace.

For a moment he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, a red rain was pouring for him.

[Skill Activation: Silk of the Deathweaver - Filament of the Void]

Imbuing his weaves with the power of the Void, a sphere was created, no more than the size of a car. Within was a boiling cauldron of nothingness, black as the ichor that the Comets bled, and it sucked in every projectile, their forms distorting as they reached the event horizon, then disappeared.

Louis gritted his teeth and forced himself back far, very far, to avoid getting sucked in himself. It wasn’t only the projectiles that were attracted but everything in its surroundings. All debris, including broken bodies like his.

Where are you? he thought with such maliciousness that it shocked himself deep down, searching for that one, Pereyra, the one who’d killed Jury.

Jury, Adelyn, was one of the few who adamantly fought by his side no matter her injuries. A stubborn, a stupidly stubborn woman. But as she said one time, her comrades were most important, where she would trek through Hell itself just to save one person. Of all his Slayers, he could depend on Adelyn the most.

At least the rest of your team has escaped due to Conqueror’s bravery. I have failed Hidden, but Montana and Problem will continue underneath Lyressa’s command. I do hope Montana will reach an S-Rank one day, just as he has always promised. And for Problem’s sake, you should return to him, Master Alzahrani. Even Lyressa could learn something from you.

Pereyra appeared between the alleyways, soaring close to street-level to avoid his eye perhaps. A clever tactic, but unfortunately not clever enough. That sort of strategy was practically saying you were injured, and that would give confidence to your enemy. And Louis had much of it, even as he levitated with his body in tatters.

His wrists snapped forward. Strings spewed from his gauntlets and held themselves in the air, spinning more and more until he felt it was right. Louis clawed at the air, commanded hundreds of threads to cut through the buildings, one after another after another, effortlessly toppling them.

Pereyra was startled, its satellite-body revealed once the cover was removed. Every plate surged with red energy—a shockwave, the paralyzing one—and thicker, braided strings whipped the Comet as though it was a punishment. Once, twice, and a solid threaded lance came after, pushing Pereyra into the avenue beyond.

He—

Louis crashed to the ground, fell on a car and bounced off the hood, rolling onto the street, and wind pushed him along until he bumped into another car. For a moment pain had paralyzed him, sapped the energy from his legs and something warm poured from his chest, leaking between the gaps of his weavework armor. He repaired the damages.

Tewfik, of course it was.

But Louis wasn’t dead, and the wind had felt noticeably weaker. Normally, it would’ve done the trick. By the fact it hadn’t, it meant Tewfik was losing power. Louis noticed this ever since the Cutter had caused a massive earthquake to rock Dawns; everything that his pressure winds touched wasn’t completely cutting all the way through.

A flash of genius struck him.

The conceptual power altered the probability of the target, turning ‘something that could be cut’ into ‘something that must be cut’. What if that was the other way around? That instead of modifying the object, it modified the attack itself: ‘an attack that could cut something’ into ‘an attack that must cut something’.

Thus, as Tewfik was tiring, its attacks weren’t as effective as the first. Why? The most likely theory was this: probability, how ‘likely the desired event would occur’. And with a conceptual power like the Cutter, it had to be limited. Magic dealt with mana, firearms dealt with bullets, bows and arrows, certainty and probability.

So Tewfik was running out of probability to guarantee its kills.

“Ugh…” A shame, then, that Louis wasn’t exactly feeling his best to take advantage of this discovery made too late. This was definitely a fatal blow, death by blood loss, and he had already lost much of it. He coughed, did internal repair and squeezed tears out of his eyes from the pain, and stood using the car as support.

Tewfik stomped through, patting any impediments away with a simple swipe of its arc-blades.

Louis flinched each time he thought something would slam into him. Watching as his adversary close the distance. Feeling his heart thump desperately against his chest, each beat taking him closer to the dark doors.

Muscle-by-muscle, his body was failing him.

“This will end!” The Cutter sent a pressure arc cracking towards him, curved and missed about five meters to the right. The second came, deflected by a desperate lash of threads. “Futile, is it, Archknell?!”

Louis’s arms felt as though they’d been set ablaze. He gritted his teeth, weakly threw his wrists to deflect a third. Felt everything cry after that. The fourth missed, the fifth arrived with a chuckle and a parry.

It was getting harder to breathe. Colors were graying—

An explosion rocked him backwards. No, not an explosion—an impact. A red bolt had struck the area, and he found himself deeper into the street. In more pain. Please give me a break. You’re making my last stand look pitiful.

Pereyra returned as ugly as he last remembered.

Louis chuckled, shaking his head. Our forces must be absolutely devastated if none of them are coming any time soon. Look at me now, fighting on my last legs. Is this the ending you all have envisioned for me, as Glory’s Guild Master? Is this the ending you wanted for me, Laurel?

Tewfik taunted about something, created a gust to force Louis back further, wanting to humiliate him.

He tripped, fell on one knee before popping right back up to continue retreating. Certainly, it’s the ending I would actually prefer. My life belongs to this city, it always has been. This is my home. Nothing enrages me more than to see it ruined. To see my comrades senselessly slaughtered. Although sacrifice is an ugly thing, it can be beautiful.

Pereyra taunted next. A bolt crashed behind Louis and forced him on all fours.

He coughed out blood. His legs had given up. He couldn’t stand anymore. If only I wouldn’t cause grief to those I leave behind. To you, especially, Lyressa. Although we have known each other for quite a short time, especially in your perspective, I found the greatest satisfaction in you.

Someday, your memories will return. Someday, you will find peace. And I will be with you, just a fleeting memory and nothing more.

For Ordo as well. I will simply be another man who has made a profound impact. Let’s raise a toast then, for the little article I’ll inevitably have in the textbooks.

Louis rose on his knees and raised his arms, his gauntlets shining.

Tewfik reciprocated, lifting its arc-blade high.

And the Comet was the faster.

Instinctively Louis flinched, braced himself for the wind pressure but not a significant gust came. The taste of ash stained his tongue. He searched, having a sickly feeling crawl up his neck. Although his vision was failing, with his eyes seeing the world as gray and lifeless, little dots littered the air. He squinted.

Embers. They were embers.

Boisterous scarlet cinders entered this desolate battlefield.

Where were they coming from? The fires couldn’t produce this much embers, let alone anything that felt this magical.

Weakly, Louis reached out towards a handful of ashes, clutched them. At first, the heat was small and quaint like candlelight. He thought the warmth would disappear afterwards—but it didn’t. They refused to. There was a rebellion raging in the palm of his hand. Growing, screaming, burning.

First candles, then a fireplace kicked over, a wood pit turned inside out—more and more!—until Louis sensed the heat of the stars within them!

He gasped in astonishment and looked up, and saw the magma handprint that had been burned into Tewfik’s chest. That was the source of the embers, which were now spewing from the boiling scar like a waterfall, thickened from fireflies into locust clouds, and finally a thick fog where all was overtaken by this mesmerizing sight.

Like a mild storm, embers circulated. Fifteen meters in front of Archknell, he could see it despite his barely-functioning vision: an odd entity was standing at the center. First as a smooth blob of sorts, something inexact and vague, possessing odd crevices and valley. But the flames were the womb of change, and so it grew.

Louis held his breath, alert but hopeful.

The fireborn was molded to have two legs and two arms, a proud chest with a beating heart, a head to think with, ears to hear, lips to speak, and molten golden eyes for seeing. From his scalp flowed long, luscious desert-red hair that Louis almost mistaken it to be wings.

He was shamelessly in the nude, the more vulnerable parts obscured by the thick embers. They thickened as he raised his right hand and a crisp snap echoed. Sunfire flames suddenly engulfed his body like new clothes, burning blue at the edges. But the man wasn’t bothered in the slightest. No, these flames were not something to be afraid of.

This was his armor.

“No…” muttered Louis. “You are…”

“Sorry,” said the man quietly, ashamed, “for not poppin’ out sooner. Being stuck inside that bastard is not something I’d wanna repeat, ever.”

Louis inhaled. His expression was overcome by shock for a moment, then eased where he had the smallest smile.

Tewfik exclaimed in anger, “You…!”

“Yeah,” the man snapped.

[Honor Exhibition: Avatar of Phoenix-Ifrit]

An ignited greatsword, as tall as a man, was conjured from Flame, and was hoisted over his shoulder.

“It’s me.” Firebrand pointed his other thumb to himself. “Better late than never. Let’s make this a bloodbath, fuckers.”