Jed let out a low, grim laugh, shaking his head as he watched the smoldering remnants of the house behind them. "Hell, kid, that was somethin'… Jose clawing his way out like that. Shoulda been dead twice over, but there he was, still movin'."
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Charlie caught his breath, his voice shaky but resolute. "It's the crystal, Uncle Jed. I thought it'd grant a wish, but it's more than that. It's wish and power all rolled up together."
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Jed scoffed, wiping the sweat and grime from his face. "Yeah, wish and power. Sounds like somethin' straight out of a snake oil salesman's pitch." He glanced over at Charlie, his tone turning dead serious. "And listen here, we might just have to quit this little crusade of ours before it gets us both killed."
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Charlie stared, taken aback. "Quit? What are you talkin' about? If I don't get that crystal… I'm dead, Jed. You know that."
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Jed looked away, grimacing. "Better to die from what you already got, than to die tryin' to grab onto somethin' you can't control. That crystal… that thing's only gonna draw in more people like George. And every one of 'em'll be deadlier than the last."
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Charlie clenched his fists, voice shaking but defiant. "You don't get it, do you? I want to live, Uncle. You're askin' me to walk away from my only chance."
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Jed sighed, whistling softly to call his horse, King, who trotted over with a snort and shake of his mane. "Look, kid, I know you want to live," he said, his voice softened just a touch, "but what're we up against here? Folks out there knowin' about that crystal means they're bringin' powers to the table. Dangerous ones. And all we got is a couple of guns and enough grit to get us out of the next hour alive—barely."
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King halted beside Jed, and he reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a handful of makeshift bandages. With a grimace, he dug his fingers into his wounded arm, wincing as he pulled the bullet free, blood trickling down his fingers. Without missing a beat, he handed the bandages to Charlie.
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"Alright, boy," Jed said, voice gravelly, "you're gonna have to do the same. Dig in, get that bullet out."
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Charlie looked down, hesitant, his face paling as he touched the wound on his own arm.
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Jed's gaze hardened, but his tone stayed steady. "Don't make me do it for you. This is what it means to stay in the fight, to keep goin' even when it's ugly. Ain't no crystal's gonna fix what's broke in you, Charlie. That's on you."
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Charlie swallowed, nodding as he started to dig into his wound, grimacing but pressing forward.
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Jose gripped his stomach as he rode toward Grant's Pass, blood seeping between his fingers as his eyes narrowed with seething fury. "When I find that puto idiota americano," he muttered to himself, biting back the pain, "I'll make him regret the day he crossed me." His lips curled in anger as he felt shards of glass shifting in his stomach with every jolt of the horse. "Should've killed him when I had the chance. But no—had to play it nice." He let out a bitter laugh. "That damn ant… left me with glass in my gut. Had to shoot myself to get it out."
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As he finally reached the town's edge, he dismounted with a groan, staggering as he clutched his side. His clothes were torn, bloodstained, and dust-covered, but he didn't care. His only focus was finding George and making him suffer.
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"When I find you, George…" he snarled under his breath, his voice low and cold. "I'll make sure it's a long, slow, painful death. I'll rip out your eyes, slice open your throat, and stab you in the gut—twist the blade so you feel every inch." His hand balled into a fist, blood trickling down his knuckles. "Then I'll break every bone in your body before I let you die."
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He barely made it ten steps into town when two locals blocked his path. They were rough men, clad in stained clothes and with sneers plastered on their faces. One of them looked him up and down with a twisted smirk.
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"Well, well, if it ain't a filthy Mexican stumbling into town," the first man sneered, crossing his arms with a mocking chuckle.
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The second man spat on the ground. "Yeah, we don't take kindly to your kind 'round here. You should've kept to your own side of the border, amigo."
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Jose's gaze flicked between them, sizing them up. The fire in his eyes darkened, his lips twitching into a bitter smile. "Oh, really?" he said, his voice laced with venom. "You hate Mexicans so much you'd probably like to see me burn, right?"
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The first man narrowed his eyes. "Damn right. How'd you—"
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Jose's smile widened, cold and dangerous. "Good," he drawled, his voice chillingly calm. "Because I feel the same about you, paleto del campo."
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The second man squinted, his face twisted in confusion. "What the hell did you just call me?"
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Jose's expression hardened, the smile gone. Without warning, he lunged forward, grabbing both men by the faces before they could even react. His grip was iron-clad, fingers digging into their skin with a bruising force. He yanked them forward, slamming their heads together with a sickening crack. Then, without missing a beat, he drove their skulls into the rough, splintered wood of the saloon wall, leaving a blood smear across the boards.
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The two men crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain, their hands clutching their heads. Jose stepped back, wiping his bloody hands on his coat with a smirk. "What's the matter? Can't take a little rough welcome?" He spat on the ground beside them, his disdain palpable.
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Around him, a few townsfolk had gathered, watching with a mix of horror and fascination. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn't care. He was used to the looks, the whispers, the fear. To him, they were nothing but insects.
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Without another glance at the men, Jose strode into the saloon, ignoring the curious and fearful stares that followed him. Inside, he was greeted with the stale smell of whiskey and smoke, and a dozen eyes turned his way. He walked to the bar, each step leaving a faint red trail as blood dripped from his side. The bartender watched him warily, holding a glass mid-clean as if unsure whether to serve him or run.
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Jose reached the counter, his gaze cold. He slapped a bloodstained coin onto the wood. "Whiskey," he demanded, his tone brooking no argument.
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The bartender hesitated but poured him a glass, sliding it over. Jose took a slow sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. As he set the glass down, he leaned back, pressing his hand against his wound, his eyes scanning the room. His mind was already calculating his next steps, his focus sharpened by pain and the dark thrill of vengeance.
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For a brief moment, he glanced at the glass in his hand, a sardonic smirk pulling at his lips. He knew exactly what he was, and he didn't care.
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Cody stood at the edge of town, squinting down at his worn map, scratching his head. "Where the hell am I?" he muttered, glancing around with an exasperated sigh. "Feels like I'm halfway to nowhere." He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Might be even more embarrassing than when I tried to ask out Jess, and she got a whiff of my… spectacularly awful breath."
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He facepalmed, lost in thought, before the slow, rhythmic clop of a horse approached from behind him. The rider was a tall, composed figure, his gaze calm yet intense, cutting through the evening shadows. It was George, a stranger but somehow not. Cody glanced up, slightly startled.
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"Well, hello, good sir," George said with a warm smile, tipping his hat. His voice was smooth, oddly calming, and disarmingly friendly. "How are you this fine evening?"
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Cody cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Uh, good, I guess… Just a little lost." He glanced back down at his map, feeling foolish.
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"Oh, really?" George replied, his gaze now gleaming with a hint of curiosity. "And where exactly are you headed?"
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Cody scratched his neck, mumbling, "Mexico. Got some… personal business down there."
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George's eyes widened slightly, though his expression stayed calm. "Mexico, you say?" He chuckled softly, as if amused by some private joke. "Well, now, isn't that a coincidence. I was just on my way there myself."
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Cody's eyes widened in turn. He hesitated, studying George's face, then said cautiously, "Let me guess… You know about the crystal?"
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George's calm gaze didn't waver as he replied, "I believe it's called the Holy Crystal. A rather… intriguing artifact, wouldn't you say? it has an aura that almost seems to radiate purity."
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Cody frowned, tilting his head. "You… also believe it's all the way down in Mexico?"
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George shrugged, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Some things are worth a journey, aren't they? Though I wonder if you've heard the other news floating around."
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Cody cocked an eyebrow. "News?"
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George's smile grew, his voice lowering as if savoring each word. "There's a rumor about a killer in these parts. They say he's taken fourteen lives in less than three days. Leaves his name in blood on the walls next to each of his victims. They call him a monster, a fiend. A man who kills… every… single… time."
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Cody swallowed, his voice a notch quieter. "Yeah, I've heard about him… Why do you ask?"
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George's smile faded, and his eyes took on an almost predatory gleam. "Because that… would be me."
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Before Cody could react, George drew his gun, the movement quick, a cold efficiency in his every move. The crack of the shot echoed, sharp and sudden. Cody's hand shot to his neck, eyes wide with terror as he stumbled back, blood pouring through his fingers.
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George watched him with a cold detachment, his expression unchanging as Cody dropped to his knees, gasping, struggling to speak. George leaned in close, his voice low, almost soothing.
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"Do you know what it is to live without fear? To be… untouched by pain, or worry, or anger?" George asked, his voice calm, almost gentle. "It's called ataraxia. A state of peace beyond human suffering. Some spend their whole lives chasing it."
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Cody's eyes were filled with terror, his hand desperately pressing against the wound. George continued, his tone eerily composed.
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"But me?" He smiled softly, a cold glint in his eye. "I'm already there. Every cut, every scream—they mean nothing to me." He tilted his head, studying Cody's fading expression. "And that… that's freedom."
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