It seems like I’m lying somewhere, my whole body transmitting unbearable pain, as if a swarm of ants is devouring my body. Next comes the bone-chilling cold, my breath becomes oppressive, as if I’m on the brink of life and death.

My consciousness is somewhat muddled, even thinking becomes strenuous. I try to move my body, but for some reason, it feels so heavy, even the slightest movement is difficult, as if frozen in place by the cold.

"Many things are counterparts, like light and darkness, life and death, human depravity and virtue."

A man speaks inexplicable words, standing in front of me, his figure so tall it nearly blocks all light, leaving only a pitch-black shadow covering my field of vision.

Who is he? What is he talking about?

The chaotic consciousness makes it difficult to think about these matters, the cold death threatens me, and apart from trembling, I seem incapable of doing anything else.

"So, will you be willing to be vile for a greater wish, or will you hold fast to your principles and choose virtue?"

The man squats down, his face shrouded by an unknown darkness, he stuffs something cold into my hand, then lets out a chilling laugh.

"It’s time for your test, Bola."

After a brief silence, a bell-like gunshot rings out.

...

Bola suddenly opens his eyes, waking from a nightmare, his pupils bloodshot, staring intently at the darkness above his head.

Deep breaths, heavy breathing continually, he presses a hand to his chest, feeling the distinct thumping sensation in his palm.

He slowly sits up, leaning against the wall, cold sweat trickling across his nose, his other hand slowly covers his face, letting out a low growl of discontent.

Bola hadn’t had a nightmare in a long time, let alone one about these things — they should be buried in the depths of memories, but perhaps it’s due to this operation, giving these dead a chance to unearth their graves.

He diligently tries to calm himself, gradually, the intense heartbeat also gradually settles into tranquility, lowering his hand from his face, he looks absolutely terrible. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

His hair sticks to his face from the cold sweat, the collar area is completely soaked, Bola stretches out his hand trying to touch something, but he only grasps at air.

In an instant, he grows tense again, the heart that finally calmed down starts hammering in his chest, he tumbles off the bed, lifts the blanket, searching all around but can’t find that thing, until a sliver of silvery luminescence catches his eye.

"So... you’re here."

Bola exhales deeply, he reaches out his hand and grasps the silver-white Revolver on the table, sits in the chair, and carefully caresses it, as if the weapon in his hand were a precious treasure.

Fingers grip hard, joints turning slightly pale, as if clutching to his own life, Bola and it are inseparable.

"For whom does the Funeral Bell toll."

Bola murmurs, pauses for a moment, he glances at the time and realizes a few hours remain before dawn. In this situation, he doesn’t feel like sleeping anymore.

He opens the drawer, inside dozens of bronze-yellow bullets roll about, mixed with some carving tools.

Casually picking up a bullet, their design is different from the usual commercial ones — these are custom bullets from the Perpetual Motion Pump, using sturdy Pine Iron. According to them, this bullet can easily penetrate flesh and shatter bones alike, a guaranteed kill with one shot.

The ammunition warehouse has plenty of these custom bullets, Perpetual Motion Pump being unexpectedly generous for this operation.

Outside the porthole, the storm still rages, occasionally cut through by lightning. Bola recalls it was just like this outside when he fell asleep, as if the Morning Glow Advance has been stationary, not moving at all.

Amidst the calm, noise from below can be heard, the Morning Glow Advance’s turbine has never ceased work, they’ve been moving all along, merely pursued relentlessly by this storm.

Bola turns the bullet in his hand, under the lightning’s reflection, he can see something carved on the bullet’s surface.

A line of words, a person’s name.

As the cabin shakes, the bronze-yellow bullets in the drawer bump and roll against each other, all with that name carved on their surface, just like the bullet in Bola’s hand.

In clear chirping resonance, the bullets call out that name with metallic timbre.

Froki Willgardson.

Opening the cylinder, mechanically loading the bullet, locking it, raising the Revolver, aiming outside the porthole.

This rage has simmered for a decade — Bola longs to see Froki again, has fantasized about that meeting endlessly, dreams of shoving the gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

Yes, that’s it.

Bola aims the Funeral Bell at the waves outside the porthole, the fierce waves faintly sketching Froki’s visage, he stares at that face, his index finger resting on the trigger.

"Boom!"

Bola whispers.

The next moment, a thunderous explosion responds to Bola, a scorching stream of light reflected in his eyes, it pierces through the waves, directly hits the Morning Glow Advance, a fierce tremor topples Bola, scattering bronze-yellow bullets with a crash, tumble from the drawer, roll across the floor.

Bola dazedly gazes at the darkness above, this sudden change leaving him stunned. Slowly, he raises the Funeral Bell, his expression strangely looking at the Revolver in his hand, until shrill alarm sounds pull him out of bizarre illusions.