Gunner

Belial's boots scuffed against the cold stone floor of the training room, the echo swallowed by the cavernous chamber. His ribs ached where the General, the towering, relentless statue that served as his sparring partner—had struck him with the pommel of its blade. A thin trickle of blood ran from his split lip, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand, grimacing. His shirt hung in even more tatters across his shoulder, the fabric sliced clean through by a glancing blow he'd barely avoided. Every muscle screamed as he slumped onto the stone bench near the training mat, his breath ragged but steadying.

Across the room, Rose perched on the stairwell railing, her legs dangling carelessly. The gun rested across her lap like a sleeping pet, its polished barrel catching the dim light filtering through the high, cracked windows. She was chewing something—meaty. 

Her nonchalance grated on Belial's nerves, as it always did. For days now, living with her had been an exercise in patience. She lazed about, never hunting, never cooking unless you counted her half-hearted attempts at boiling roots or scorching meat to inedible char. The only thing saving her from being entirely useless was that she ate sparingly, picking at her food like a bird. Still, Belial was the one who tracked game through the frostbitten woods, who skinned and cleaned their kills, who kept their makeshift camp from falling apart. Rose, it seemed, was content to let him carry the weight.

And yet, she wasn't entirely useless.

Not anymore. 

Not since that first day in the training room, when the General's blade had been a heartbeat from taking Belial's head. He could still feel the cold rush of air as the sword descended, the statue's unyielding white eyes boring into him. He'd been too slow, too clumsy with Bloodless Passage, the battle art he'd been practicing. The technique was supposed to make him untouchable, a wisp of shadow slipping through attacks, but he hadn't mastered it. Not even close. The General's blade would have ended him, except for Rose.

She'd been lounging on the stairs then, too, watching with that bored, distant expression she wore like a mask. Belial hadn't even known she was armed until the crack of her rifle split the air. The bullet hadn't struck the General; it hadn't needed to. It hit the hairpin, that strange, ornate piece anchoring the statue's braided mane. 

The pin was no ordinary trinket—Belial had examined it later, turning his head around the general. Its material was dense, almost unnaturally so, capable of withstanding a direct shot. Rose's bullet had jarred it loose, just enough to disrupt the General's rhythm. A second's distraction, and Belial had slipped away, heart pounding, alive.

"You're welcome," she'd said afterward, her voice light, as if she'd done him a favor as trivial as passing the salt.

He hadn't believed her excuse about being farsighted, not for a moment. The shot was too precise, too deliberate. Farsighted or not, she'd seen the pin, aimed, and fired with a marksman's clarity. The rest, he was certain, was an act, a game she played to keep him guessing. Rose was like that: all smiles and cryptic quips, never revealing more than she wanted. It drove him up the wall.

Since that day, Belial had thrown himself into training with a stubborn intensity. Bloodless Passage was improving, if only marginally. The art allowed him to attacked the vital organs in quick succession, his body becoming fluid and intangible for a fleeting moment. In theory, it was perfect for subduing the adversary. In practice, it was less useful. The statue was too durable, its stone skin impervious to blades and bullets alike. Even a perfect dodge meant nothing when Belial's own weapons couldn't leave a mark. He'd tried everything—slashing, stabbing, even hurling his dagger in desperation, but the General shrugged it all off, its white eyes glowing faintly, unblinking, as it pressed its attack.

Today's session had been another brutal lesson. The General had come at him faster than usual, its blade a blur of motion. Belial had managed to slip through one strike with Bloodless Passage, but the effort left him off-balance. The statue hadn't hesitated, driving the pommel of its sword into his ribs with enough force to send him sprawling. He'd barely scrambled to his feet before it lunged again, tearing his shirt and nearly taking his arm. By the time he'd retreated to the bench, he was battered and exhausted, his pride as bruised as his body.

Rose's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're slow," she said, her tone casual, almost teasing.

"No, he's fast," Belial snapped, still catching his breath. "You think you could dodge that with your tiny arms and ornamental gun?"

She didn't take the bait, just smirked. "I wouldn't need to dodge," she said, leaning forward slightly. "I'd just shoot the pin before he moved."

"You only did that once," he retorted, wiping sweat from his brow.

"And once was enough."

He rolled his eyes, taking a long sip from his canteen. The water was lukewarm, but it soothed his parched throat. His back was slick with sweat, his limbs heavy as lead. Every muscle protested as he shifted on the bench, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his injuries. Rose, meanwhile, looked infuriatingly unbothered, her rifle slung across her lap as she chewed thoughtfully.

"Tomorrow," she said suddenly, standing and slinging the rifle over her shoulder, "you should try redirecting instead of evading."

Belial blinked, caught off guard. "Redirect?"

She started down the stairs toward him, her boots clicking softly against the stone. "Use Bloodless Passage not to vanish," she explained, "but to change your angle mid-motion. You keep trying to move away. Try going through."

The idea was absurd. No, it was suicidal. Bloodless Passage was about evasion, about slipping out of harm's way. Using it to move _toward_ an attack was counterintuitive, reckless even. And yet, as Rose spoke, a spark of curiosity flared in Belial's chest. He hated admitting it, but her suggestion had a strange logic to it. The General was fast, but its movements were predictable, almost mechanical. If he could disrupt its rhythm, throw off its angle of attack, he might create an opening.

Rose stopped beside him, pulling a bullet casing from her pocket. She turned it over in her fingers, inspecting it with a thoughtful expression. "The statue's slow to adjust," she said. "If you confuse its angle of attack, its follow-up is exposed."

She handed him the casing. It was still warm from her pocket, the metal smooth against his calloused fingers. He stared at it, then at her, searching her face for some hint of her true intentions. Her eyes, bright and unreadable, gave nothing away.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked, his voice low.

Rose just smiled, a slow, enigmatic curve of her lips. "Might've been a general once," she said lightly, winking. "Or maybe I'm farsighted and lucky."

She turned and walked away, humming a tuneless melody, the rifle bouncing against her hip with each step. Belial watched her go, his jaw tight. He didn't trust her, not her cryptic answers, not her effortless skill, not the way she seemed to know exactly how to push his buttons. But as much as he disliked her, he couldn't deny the truth: she'd saved his life more than once, and her advice, however infuriatingly delivered, might just save it again.

He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling of the training room. The stone was weathered, etched with faint runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. He wondered, not for the first time, what this place had been before it became their battleground. A temple? A fortress? Whatever it was, it felt alive in a way he couldn't explain, as if the walls themselves were watching, waiting.

Belial's fingers tightened around the bullet casing. It was a small thing, unremarkable except for the warmth it still held. He turned it over, studying the faint scratches on its surface. Rose's shot had been a fluke, he told himself. A lucky hit. But deep down, he knew better. She'd seen the hairpin when he hadn't, acted when he couldn't. And now, with her suggestion about redirecting, she'd given him something new to try—something that might just tip the scales against the General.

He didn't like her. Not her laziness, not her smugness, not the way she seemed to glide through their grim existence with an ease that felt almost mocking. But as he sat there, bruised and battered, he had to admit: he might need her.

The thought didn't sit well. Belial had always prided himself on his independence, on his ability to survive without relying on anyone. He'd hunted alone, fought alone, lived alone for years before Rose had stumbled into his life, all sharp smiles and sharper aim. Now, here she was, complicating everything. He didn't trust her, didn't understand her, but he couldn't ignore her either. Not when she'd saved him. Not when her advice might be the key to surviving the General's next assault.