Chapter 37
The Gunslinger
The gunslinger is a legend who lived in the past, in the savage West where bloodshed and annihilation were the law. These were tales from ancient times, but in our modern era now—what do you think, gentlemen? Who is the gunslinger, and where does he aim? At our thoughts? At our beliefs? At our religions? Or directly at our minds? Is he the one in control, or is he a follower? Is he human, or is he something else? Honestly, I don't know. But all I know is that the gunslinger is real, standing in the dark desert, staring at the corpse of a crow, its carcass perched proudly atop a cracked rock.
The chapter begins with Gabriel, Bruno, and Marcus, who continued to drown in the source of fear—in the terrifying ocean, in the depths, in the mysteries, in the darkness, in the solitude, in the tranquility, in the earthly void. They felt every sensation one could feel when sitting alone on the shore in the dark, watching the waves and waiting for the *Flying Dutchman*, Cthulhu, the Kraken, or any other sea legend to pass by. Unlike land myths, we cannot say with absolute certainty that the myths and legends of the ocean are lies. After all, we know only about 5% of it. We know a drop of water from an endless downpour, a single star among millions. But the only thing we know for sure is that the ocean is the fountain of fear.
As for the question I posed at the beginning, your mind surely wandered, lost in thought, drowning in that question—perhaps even distracted from the horrors and tragedies unfolding here. The gunslinger is not an external enemy, not a cosmic entity, not a supreme power. Your problem is that you always see yourself as the victim. The gunslinger is *you*. He is an internal enemy, the genius subconscious of the human mind—the mind that refuses to let mysteries remain unsolved, even if it costs it everything. The gunslinger was Karl in the last chapter.
Let us return to our companions, who were drowning in the dark depths. They were like an open eye in the darkness, unable to perceive whether it was truly open or still shut.
They were sinking slowly, their minds incapable of comprehending everything that had happened to them so far, continuing to fall into the true void—the ocean.
They were drowning in the void, in the depths that had no bottom, where there was no beginning or end—only an endless expanse of blackness and oblivion. Their sense of time faded, and their bodies became mere thoughts falling into a sea of nothingness.
Then, from the nothingness itself, the scene unfolded before them.
A massive entity, almost larger than the concept of space itself—a body woven from light and shadow, chaos and order—the embodiment of nightmares yet unwritten. Its glowing head resembled a burning sun emerging from the heart of nothingness, like a lion ablaze with light rather than fire. Strands of its hair moved like living flames—though it was light, not fire—rippling like the tremors of an earthquake shaking universes. It had no eyes, yet it watched, perceiving even the void itself.
Its body resembled a serpent, but with rough, cracked yellow skin, harder than any lizard's hide in the universe.
Its first arm stretched into the void, holding a pitch-black planet, dense like a concentrated black hole, pulling everything toward it. The planet pulsed like the sick heart of the universe, sending tremors through the abyss. Its other arm held another planet, radiant with an eternal golden glow, as if it were the source of all stars that had ever burned through the ages.
Before this entity stood a person—or something—its body rising from the darkness itself. It had no fixed shape, more like twisted roots ascending from the depths of a bottomless hell. Every part of it moved slowly, as if searching for a form suitable to face the entity staring at it.
The sky behind them was not a sky, but fragments of shattered universes—ruins of another reality that had faded eons ago, drifting slowly through space like remnants of a lost memory.
Gabriel, Marcus, and Bruno could not even process the sight, but it pierced their minds like an arrow through soft flesh. This was not just a scene—it was an idea, a primordial thought that had dwelled in every mind since the dawn of time, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
They were drowning, but now, they were floating before a nightmare not crafted by humans, nor created by any god. It was something older than existence itself.
Something that could not even be named.
Then, they fell back into the dark oceanic void, where black jellyfish flew and began stinging them with venom.
Then, suddenly, the water around them shattered like fragile glass, and they were no longer drowning—they were falling.
The fall was not toward the earth, but toward a scene that could only exist in dreams or nightmares. They found themselves passing through pink clouds—clouds that were not soft as they seemed, but instead carried an eerie glow, as if saturated with a strange energy. Below them were sharp red mountains, rising amidst a whirlwind of crimson dust that spun around them like a barrier between reality and nothingness.
Before them, high above, the red moon illuminated everything around the clouds.
On the horizon, there was a massive rock—a leathery mountain. They were falling toward the leather island that had imprisoned them, as if it had summoned them back, as if their attempts to escape were futile. It was shrouded in thick fog. But when the fog cleared, they saw—the island had three climates: the first glacial, the second desert, and the third Amazonian. Beneath the island were gigantic gears, as if they were the same gears rumored to exist beneath the pyramids. The island was one of the strangest oddities.
Gabriel, Marcus, and Bruno were not falling toward the ground. They were falling toward a truth that should never be uncovered.
Then, each of them entered a different climate. Three enormous hands emerged from the island's surface, reaching up into the highest skies, seizing each of them.
The first was a spectral, icy green hand, surrounded by ghostly wolves, snowy owls, and phantom witches. It dragged Gabriel toward the glacial zone.
The second was a sorcerous hand, shrouded in a sandstorm, shaped like a palm filled with crows, snakes, animal skulls, and blood.
The third was a hand overgrown with trees, inhabited by yokai—Kappa, Tengu, Noppera-bō, Rokurokubi, and Okami. These terrifying monsters clung to the branches of the arboreal hand, some biting into it until it bled.
Then, all three hands pulled them down, each into a different land—but the horror was shared across all of them.
---
Let us first go to Marcus, who found himself standing once more in the heart of the Desert of Death. The winds struck him violently, yet he stood tall as his cloak whipped fiercely in the storm. The dunes shifted endlessly, as if the desert itself refused to settle into a single form.
The red moon blazed in the sky, surrounded not by stars but by utter darkness. Strange metallic objects—discs and spacecraft—hovered in the air. A colossal statue of a shadowy woman in a black cloak stood proudly before a golden pyramid.
On the ground, grotesquely deformed dinosaurs roamed. A leafless tree stood in the distance, its branches crowded with crows. Behind it, a massive black wolf with razor-sharp teeth and crimson eyes prowled.
Marcus wandered the desert in stunned disbelief—until he saw a group of riders on horseback. They were not cowboys, not human at all. Their skin was pale, wolf-like, with hollow eyes. They wore tattered cowboy hats and weathered clothes, their white hair spilling from beneath their brims.
One of them threw a lasso around Marcus, dragging him away as he screamed in terror:
"Where are you taking me?!"
One of the riders turned, his voice dripping with dread, vapor escaping his mouth as he spoke. His eyes darkened into a bloody crimson as he answered:
"We're taking you to our god...
The Gunslinger.
Marcus gasped.
"Who... who are is The Gunslinger?"
They walked for hours—or minutes, or days. Time had no meaning here. The deeper they went, the more horrifying the desert became. The crows multiplied, the red moon burned brighter, and the twilight grew more beautiful—until they stopped.
Before them stood a monstrous scarecrow, wearing a cowboy hat. It was not made of straw, but of the skeleton of some alien creature. Its spine was unnaturally thin, covered in thorns. Its hands were like the claws of witches from ancient horror tales. Its face was shriveled, its mouth a jagged slit, its hollow eyes staring at them with an unsettling gaze.
And behind it—something indescribable loomed.
---
In the heart of the desert, growing stranger and more terrifying with every step, Marcus stood before a sight not even his most hellish nightmares could conjure. The sky above was like a black sea, heavy clouds swirling around the red moon—its lone eye pulsing like that of an ancient god, watching in cold silence.
No stars. Only darkness swallowing the void, making the world feel as though it were marching toward inevitable doom.
Before Marcus lay the ruins of a shattered city, its walls cracked and scorched, as if demonic fire had ravaged it, leaving only the ashes of memories. Above the ruins, a demonic entity soared on tattered black wings, as if burned in forgotten ages.
It was a hairy abomination, a living nightmare, with a single red eye glowing in the center of its grotesque face. Its maw gaped, filled with nail-like teeth, dripping black saliva. Its breath reeked of decay, carrying the stench of unbearable death.
The creature hovered, its massive claws outstretched as if to tear reality itself. Below, the earth breathed fire—small volcanoes glowing in the dark, spewing thick gray smoke that slithered through the wreckage.
And amidst the ruin stood a barren tree, leafless for centuries, its branches weighed down by crows. Their eyes were black voids, watching without life, without mercy.
**On the horizon, beyond this chaos, a golden pyramid rose, glowing with an eerie light—as if it were a gateway to another world, one that did not belong to humans.** Before the pyramid stood a shadowy woman, draped in a long black cloak, her face indistinct, as if she had no features or the darkness had consumed her entirely. She stood in silence, an eternal ghost waiting for something—or someone.
Marcus, bound by the rope in the hands of the strange cowboy specters, could only stare at this scene, lost between horror and awe as he was led toward his fate. The riders, with their hollow eyes and wolf-like white skin, did not utter a word. They walked steadily, as if they knew the path well. And with each step, Marcus felt the world grow colder, madder, more nightmarish.
Trembling, Marcus asked them:
*"Is this the place of the Gunslinger you spoke of?"*
One of them replied:
*"No. His place cannot be grasped. But we are close... to the Messenger, who will send you to* **The Gunslinger.** *You should be proud, little sacrifice of our god."*
They reached the golden pyramid and entered. And when they emerged—Marcus saw something that made his eyes widen in shock, his mouth hanging open, his words stolen from him until the end of his journey. It was as if his mind had been shattered.
---
**In the depths of the desert**, where no life existed except death suspended in the air, Marcus finally stopped. He did not know how long he had walked—time itself had dissolved, as if the desert had swallowed his mind just as it had swallowed thousands of souls before him. The scene before him was like a painting carved from an eternal nightmare, where the cracked, dry earth met the black sky, reflecting only infinite void.
On the horizon, beneath a sky dark as cosmic emptiness, a blood-red moon hung, radiating a strange glow—neither warm nor illuminating, but watching in silence, like the eye of an ancient god forgotten by time. There were no stars, only faint, scattered dots drowning in thick darkness, as if the universe itself was exhaling its last breath. And as Marcus stared at this ominous moon, he felt—for a moment—that it stared back, as if it were a living entity, waiting for the right moment to devour him.
But that was not what shattered Marcus' mind.
What shattered him was the realization—they were in space. Specifically, standing on the surface of Mars.
---
Before Marcus sat a creature draped in a filthy gray robe, its back hunched, its body weighed down by the burden of its own existence. It did not move. It made no sound. It simply sat there, like a statue carved from the void itself. The sands surrounded it, yet there were no footprints—as if it had never walked, but simply appeared, as though it had always been here, waiting for the moment of revelation.
The robe covering it was not mere cloth—it looked like dead skin, cracked and eroded by scorching winds and cruel time. No face could be seen beneath the hood—only darkness, swallowing everything, as if what lay beneath was beyond comprehension.
The cowboys spoke:
"We have arrived at the Messenger of the Gunslinger. Throw this human to him—he will fulfill his purpose."
The silence was thick, almost tangible. But Marcus felt something whispering in his ears—voices not from the outside, but from the depths of his own mind. Distorted, ancient words speaking of death, of rebirth in a different form, of obedience to the Gunslinger. The crows filling the sky above did not fly aimlessly—they circled, as if observing the ritual about to begin.
Then, the Messenger spoke:
Welcome, Marcus. You will be a delicious meal for my master. But first... meet this little girl.
Beside it stood the Egyptian girl, laughing mockingly. She sneered:
"Throw this fool to the Gunslinger. He deserves it."
Marcus' tongue lolled out, his eyes rolled back—his mind was breaking.
The Messenger seized him—and hurled him into a massive black hole, dragging him into the vast cosmos. He fell through space, past stars, supernovae, nebulae, and planets. In that moment, he saw the universe in its entirety—every star, every planet, every galaxy, everything. Unlike us, who see only a single star, he saw it all.
Then, suddenly, the entire universe coalesced into a single entity—a colossal shadow-woman, draped in a black cloak, her body woven from darkness and void. Stars glittered across her form, galaxies swirled in her chest, black holes pulsed within her, supernovae flared in her veins—things beyond comprehension. And when Marcus finally looked upon her, he saw—
The Gunslinger.
Or rather—he saw the Supreme Entity, the Overlord of the Universe, the Shadow Demon—ĤĔ.
The Shadow Demon smiled.
Marcus saw its hellish teeth, illuminating everything—he could not grasp the horror of those fangs, nor the terror of its crimson eyes. In that moment, he saw the Shadow Demon in its true form—a form even I cannot fully describe.
And then—his mind exploded, from sheer screaming.
He awoke in the desert, his brain shattered, unaware of his own destruction. He stumbled forward until he saw a lake, thinking he had escaped the nightmare—
But then he saw his own head, split open, chunks of his brain spilling out. There had been a bomb inside his skull all along.
And so, he died by the lake.
The blackness that turned to red...
He died without ever knowing the answer to his question:
Who are is The Gunslinger?"
End of chapter