Ghostfire

A silence hung in the air—thick, suffocating, almost alive.

Saint stood frozen, guns drawn but useless now. The spent bullet lay crushed between Nuke's fingers, still glowing faintly from the force of impact.

"You see it now," Nuke said softly. "Why I stayed behind. Why I never came back."

His voice carried an unnatural echo—like it was being spoken across time and space, through a mouth that no longer belonged to a man.

Saint didn't answer.

He couldn't.

Not yet.

Around them, the Hanging Gardens twisted into something darker. The vines curled like veins, pulsing with black blood. The blinking flower-eyes wilted and melted, revealing twitching bone underneath. Zephra's illusion was gone. Whatever came next… was real.

Nuke stepped forward. "Do you know what it felt like, Saint? Being left to die? Feeling your bones crack and your soul burn, only to wake up in something else's skin?"

His hands flexed. Shadows clung to his limbs like hungry things.

"I remember every scream. Every second. And the worst part? I still chose it. I let the Rift remake me—because I believed something had to survive."

Saint gritted his teeth. "And now what? You want revenge? Redemption?"

Nuke's eyes flashed crimson. "Clarity."

And then he moved.

A blur of black flame and warped space, too fast for the eye. Saint barely ducked, the blow grazing his shoulder with enough force to crater the ground behind him.

He flipped backward, landing hard on one knee, pistols raised—but Nuke was already gone again.

"You can't outrun this, Saint," Nuke's voice called from the vines. "You were never supposed to."

Saint's breathing was uneven. His head spun with memories and dread. But something deeper pushed up from inside him—rage.

Not at Nuke.

At himself.

He'd buried the past.

But the past had claws.

"Fine," Saint growled, cocking both pistols. "You want to drag me into hell? Let's see how far I'm willing to go."

He loaded two bullets—special ones. The Ghostfire Rounds. Energy-etched ammo forged from sanctified flame and sorrowsteel. The kind meant to put monsters down. Even the kind that used to be human.

He spun the chambers.

"Let's finish what we started, Captain."

Nuke gave a look of surprise.

"You've learnt some new tricks. But it won't help you."

Nuke dodged all of the bullets effortlessly—one tilt of his head, one twist of his body—and the Ghostfire Rounds zipped past him like harmless whispers in the wind.

"What the fu—" Saint started, only to be cut off as Nuke appeared in front of him in a flash, grabbing the barrel of one pistol mid-fire. The weapon groaned under the pressure, its sacred metal warping in Nuke's grip like it was made of wax.

"You still think this is a gunfight?" Nuke whispered. "I've outgrown bullets, Saint."

Saint jerked back, kicked upward, and shoved Nuke away with a hard boot to the chest. The impact barely moved the man.

No—this wasn't a man anymore.

Nuke grinned. "You're still fast. Good."

The shadows around them thickened, rising like waves. Nuke lifted his hand and the darkness obeyed, forming jagged shapes—like rusted blades and clawed chains—slamming down from the walls of the corrupted garden.

Saint dove, ducked, rolled.

He fired again, but the shots were caught mid-air by the dark constructs, exploding in mid-flight. Vines burned with blue flame, but Nuke walked through the chaos untouched.

"You're dragging this out," Nuke said. "You always do. You hesitate. You pretend you're not one of us anymore."

"I'm not," Saint spat.

"You were chosen by the same fire, Saint. You just didn't burn all the way through."

Saint narrowed his eyes and pulled the second matchstick from his coat. He struck it across his holster and slid it between his lips.

Click.

The fire ignited with a snap, illuminating his eyes—eyes filled not just with defiance, but something deeper. Guilt. Pain. Fury.

"Then let's see if I can still burn you down."

He threw the match into the air.

The moment it hit the ground, it triggered his trap.

Four arcane mines—hidden in a perfect circle.

Boom.

A wall of silver flame erupted, engulfing Nuke in a crucible of sanctified fury. The air howled as the Hanging Garden reeled from the divine heat. Vines caught fire. Shadows shrieked. The entire arena shook.

Saint didn't wait to confirm the hit.

He charged in.

Boots pounding the fractured bone floor, he launched forward with a spinning strike, both pistols firing in rhythm, a cyclone of lead and flame. Smoke swallowed everything—but Saint's senses were razor sharp. He moved by instinct.

He reached the center.

The flame wall dropped.

Nuke stood there, cloaked in ash and ruin—half his armor blown open, bones showing through scorched muscle.

And he was smiling.

"That's more like it," Nuke rasped, spitting blood. "That's the soldier I trained."

Saint's knuckles went white around his grips. "Shut up."

"You hated command more than any of us. You were always the wild card, the hothead. But I knew. I knew you had it in you to go farther. To survive. Just like me."

"I survived in spite of you."

"No," Nuke stepped forward. "You survived because of me."

The shadows reformed around Nuke like armor now. His bones twisted, forming jagged spines from his back. His face—still familiar, still Nuke—began to crack like porcelain.

"You think I died a hero," he said. "But I died a weapon."

Saint breathed heavily, sweat dripping down his brow. "Then I'll break the damn blade."

Nuke launched forward.

Saint met him head-on.

It was chaos—gunfire, shadows, fists, flame.

Saint weaved through attacks, landing a clean shot to Nuke's jaw—only for Nuke to retaliate with a blast of Rift energy that sent Saint hurtling through a broken statue of a weeping angel.

He crashed, coughing, bones aching. One pistol was gone—shattered.

He forced himself to his feet.

"You're slowing down," Nuke said, appearing atop a broken archway. "The truth is wearing on you."

Saint looked up, wiping blood from his mouth. "What truth?"

"That I didn't stay behind to save you," Nuke whispered. "I stayed because they ordered me to. They fed me to the Rift."

Saint's heart sank.

"That's not possible…"

"Oh, it is. High Command knew what was in that breach. They needed someone to absorb it—delay its spread. They needed a weapon. A sacrifice."

"No…"

"And I agreed. Willingly."

The weight of the words hit Saint harder than any blow.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Because someone had to. Because if I didn't... you would have."

Silence fell.

Saint stared at the broken man before him—his captain, his brother, his betrayer.

And then he stood tall.

"I never asked you to make that choice."

Nuke's expression flickered. "Doesn't matter. I made it."

Saint raised his last pistol.

"Then it ends now."

The two stared across the battlefield—just two soldiers, shaped by war, broken by purpose.

Then they moved.

Final shot.

Final breath.

Final choice.

And the garden—Hell itself—held its breath to see who would still be standing.