Chapter 32: Chaos Ensues

Just a minute before…

The rooftop was a jagged perch, crumbling brick and rusted metal biting into Arwyn's knees as he crouched low. The wind howled up here, clawing at his jacket, tugging at the hood shadowing his face. 

Miles away, down in the belly of the West Coast square, the execution stage stood like a grim monument, dwarfed by distance but sharp in his scope. His hands gripped the sniper rifle—a thing of his own making, born from Passion Energy and years of doodling blueprints in the margins of stolen books. 

It was long-barreled, heavy, with a silencer screwed tight to choke its voice. Not a masterpiece, but it was his, and it had to work.

Arwyn's fingers trembled as he adjusted the scope, the lens fogging briefly with his breath before clearing. The square came into view: a writhing mass of bodies, their chants rolling over the cobblestones like thunder.

He twisted the focus, and there they were. Nathaniel and Santina, kneeling on the stage, wrists bound in iron cuffs linked by thick chains. Above them, two executioners loomed, axes gleaming in the harsh midday sun. Fifteen minutes until the blades fell. Fifteen minutes to not screw this up.

He swallowed hard, tasting bile. He wasn't a sniper, not really. He'd never fired a gun like this, never aimed at a living thing. But he'd studied the mechanics, obsessed over the math of trajectories and recoil. 

He'd poured every ounce of that nerdy fixation into sketching this rifle, willing it into existence with his shaky Passion Energy. Now it was real, cold steel in his hands, and it had to be enough.

"Breathe out, squeeze, don't jerk," he muttered, parroting some half-remembered line from a manual. His heart hammered, loud enough to drown the wind. Through the scope, the first executioner's head filled the crosshairs. Close-cropped hair, a scar slicing his cheek. 

The man didn't know he was a ghost already. Arwyn's finger hovered over the trigger. This wasn't murder, he told himself. It was survival. For Nathaniel. For Santina. For all of them.

He exhaled, slow and ragged, and squeezed.

Thud.

The rifle kicked, a dull punch against his shoulder. The silencer swallowed the shot, turning it into a muffled cough that vanished in the square's roar. 

Through the scope, the executioner's head jerked back, a red bloom erupting before he crumpled, axe clanging against the stone stage. Arwyn's breath caught, sharp and shallow. It worked. The bullet had flown true, miles across the city, and found its mark.

No time to gawk. He swung the scope to the second executioner, already stepping forward, axe raised over Santina's bowed head. The nerves were still there, buzzing under his skin, but quieter now, steadier. 

He lined up the shot. Center mass, no chances, and fired again.

Thud.

Another hit. The second executioner staggered, then dropped, his axe skittering across the stage like a broken toy. The crowd's chants shattered into screams, a wave of panic crashing through the square. Arwyn's lips twitched into a grin, fierce and feral. Two shots, two kills, and they didn't even see it coming.

But Nathaniel and Santina weren't free yet. He zoomed in tighter, the scope framing their wrists. The cuffs were solid, forged to hold, but the chains linking them were thinner, glinting with weak spots. High-caliber rounds could snap those like twigs. It was a better bet than aiming for the cuffs, and it was less of a risk of clipping flesh. His hands shook again, the crosshairs dancing. Steady, damn it.

He targeted Nathaniel's chain first, the metal taut between his wrists. One breath, two, then—

Thud.

The chain exploded in a shower of sparks, links flying apart. Nathaniel's hands jerked free, the broken cuffs dangling like dead weight. Arwyn didn't pause. 

He shifted to Santina, her blonde hair plastered with sweat, her jaw set tight. Another shot, another snap. The chain shattered, and she wrenched her arms apart, the remnants clattering to the stage.

Down below, chaos erupted. Guards swarmed the stage, spears thrusting at shadows, their shouts lost in the crowd's hysteria. A voice cut through. Marcelo, the head guard, all venom and steel. "Find the shooter! Move!" 

His spear slashed the air, pointing at nothing, everything. But they were blind. The silencer had cloaked each shot, and the square's din buried any hope of tracing it. Miles away, Arwyn was a phantom, tucked against the rooftop's edge, invisible in the haze.

Nathaniel didn't hesitate. He lunged for a fallen guard's spear, snatching it up and spinning it like it was part of him. Blood streaked his arms, his blue hair wild as he drove the spear through a guard's chest. The man gurgled, collapsing in a heap, and Nathaniel yanked the weapon free, already moving. 

Santina was right behind, scooping a dagger from the stage, her movements sharp and feral. She ducked a swinging blade, then surged up, slicing her dagger across a guard's throat. Blood sprayed, hot and dark, painting the stone.

The square turned into a slaughterhouse. Guards fell, one after another, their armor no match for Nathaniel's precision or Santina's fury. The crowd had scattered, fleeing in every direction, leaving behind a mess of trampled banners and broken stalls. 

Marcelo bellowed orders, his face twisted with rage, but his men were faltering, overwhelmed by the storm breaking loose on the stage.

And Othello? He ran with the crowd like a mouse running away from the cat. Hamlet was passive, silent, and in the thick of the chaos. All of the Royal Guards surrounded him, and he was safe. But he watched and watched, his coast crumbling in chaos.

"What has this become… That damn Othello, bringing these people here on MY COAST!?" 

Arwyn watched it all through the scope, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. They were fighting back, hard. He'd given them the chance, but this was their show now. He couldn't help anymore, not from this distance, not without risking a stray bullet. 

His job was done. Almost.

Then Nathaniel stopped. Mid-fight, spear dripping red, he turned, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Arwyn froze, the scope still locked on him. 

'There's no chance…' Arwyn muttered to himself. Miles stretched between them, and I mean miles of rooftops and smog, and yet Nathaniel's gaze seemed to pierce right through it. Those hawk-like eyes narrowed, locking on something. Maybe the glint of the scope, maybe Arwyn's silhouette against the sky. 

And then, impossibly, he raised a hand. A single wave.

Arwyn blinked, stunned. "How the hell..?" 

But there it was, clear as day. Nathaniel had seen him, picked him out across the impossible distance. A laugh bubbled up, rough and disbelieving, cracking into a grin. 

He lifted his hand, waving back, the motion shaky but real. Relief flooded him, warm and wild, tying them together across the miles. 

They weren't just survivors. They were brothers in this mess, bound by blood and bullets.

The fight raged on below. Nathaniel spun back into the fray, spear flashing as he took down another guard. Santina moved like a shadow, her dagger finding gaps in armor, her face a mask of grit and fire. The guards were thinning, their line breaking under the onslaught. Marcelo's shouts grew desperate, his spear slashing wildly as he tried to hold the stage. 

But it was over. Nathaniel and Santina were a force of nature, unstoppable now that the chains were off.

Arwyn lowered the rifle, his arms screaming from the weight. His Passion Energy was spent, drained dry by the rifle's creation and the five shots he'd fired. The barrel was warm against his hands, a faint hum lingering in the metal. 

He slumped back against the rooftop's edge, the wind cooling the sweat on his skin. His chest heaved, each breath a struggle, but he couldn't stop grinning. A tired, lopsided smirk.

Flavin went up to the rooftop and shook his head in astonishment. "You're one crazy kid, Arwyn. You're crazy."

"Well, what can I say?" He wiped imaginary dust off his sniper rifle. "This stuff is a piece of work."

Miles away, Nathaniel and Santina broke free, cutting through the last of the guards and vanishing into the warren of West Coast streets. The square was a graveyard now, littered with bodies and broken steel, Marcelo left standing alone, shouting into the void. 

Arwyn didn't care. They'd made it. They'd won.

He tipped his head back, staring at the gray sky, the rifle heavy across his lap. The wind carried the faint echo of the square's chaos, but up here, it was quiet. His hands stopped shaking, finally still. 

He'd done it. He pulled off the impossible with a rifle he'd barely trusted and a plan he'd half-believed in. Nathaniel's wave flashed in his mind, that stupid, perfect gesture, and Arwyn chuckled. Finally, the feeling of satisfaction.