Two months under the rule of Region 97 had transformed the Heretics' Headquarters into a temple of mechanical noise and the stench of burnt oil. In the new world of 2040, the roar of an engine isn't just a sound; it is the scream of a predator consuming what remains of the planet.

  Henry crouched on the ledge of a ruined overpass, watching Gun’s convoy advance along the road below. He felt the weight of his missing brass knuckles, but his hands, now wrapped in filthy bandages, still held the memory of every strike. Beside him, Hiro and Nagi stood motionless. The twins were like mechanical shadows, hands resting on industrial steel katanas, eyes fixed on Henry. They weren't there to assist in the mission; they were there to be Henry’s jailers.

  Below, Gun’s jeep came to a halt. The supreme leader stepped out of the vehicle with the elegance of an executioner. He walked to the center of the road, where a group of desperate peasants had mounted a barricade of wood and scrap metal. Gun didn’t draw his revolvers immediately. He savored the fear.

  "You are blocking the flow of progress," Gun said, his voice echoing through the slit of his leather mask. "The oil must flow. The world must turn. And you... you are merely sand in the gears."

  One of the peasants, clutching a spear made of rebar, shouted about how Gun was stealing their water. Gun only gave a dry laugh, a sound like the click of a trigger. He signaled upward, toward the overpass.

  "Henry!" Gun shouted, without looking up. "Get down here and show them what happens to those who interrupt the 'Demi-God.' And do it the way you like... without wasting my precious lead."

  Henry felt Nagi’s shove on his shoulder—a silent command. He leapt from the overpass, a twenty-foot drop he cushioned with a perfect roll, kicking up a cloud of dust at Gun’s feet.

  "Henry, please... you helped us last winter!" the peasant with the spear implored, recognizing the Heretic.

  Henry looked at the man, then at Gun, who was now stroking the grip of one of his Magnums. Gun’s firepower was the sole reason the 300 Enforcers kept Oregon on its knees. A bullet there was a dark miracle.

  "If I don’t do this, they’ll use the guns, Peasant," Henry muttered, his voice heavy with corrosive guilt. "Run. Now."

  But the peasants were paralyzed by terror. Henry surged forward. In a blur of motion, he disarmed the first man with a spinning kick and snapped the man's spear with a palm strike. He didn’t kill, but he struck with a precision that incapacitated. He was Gun’s tool, clearing the path so the tyrant wouldn’t have to dirty his boots or spend his ammunition.

  As Henry took down the last resister, Gun walked up to the Peasant lying on the ground. He drew one of his Magnums. The silence that fell over the road was absolute. To the peasants, seeing that weapon was like seeing a fragment of a vengeful God.

  "You know... Henry is an artist," Gun said, pressing the cold barrel of the revolver against the man’s forehead. "But sometimes, the audience wants to see a more... definitive performance."

  "Gun, the deal was that I’d clear the path!" Henry took a step forward, fists clenched.

  Gun spun the cylinder of the gun, the metallic click echoing like a verdict. He looked at Henry over his shoulder. "The deal has changed, scout. Fear requires maintenance. And gunpowder... ah, gunpowder needs to be heard."

  KABOOM!

  The shot echoed, a thunderclap that hadn't been heard in that region for months. The old man slumped over. Gun sniffed the smoke rising from the barrel, an expression of ecstasy behind his mask. Henry stood frozen, the blood of an innocent splattered across his face. He was a Heretic, a man who swore to destroy the cult of firearms, and now he was the watchdog preparing the stage for the sacrifice.

  From atop the overpass, Hiro and Nagi sheathed their katanas simultaneously. The message was delivered: in Gun’s world, the physical strength of the Heretics was merely the prelude to the absolute authority of the bullet.

  The Logic of Pain vs. The Hunger for Chaos

  Meanwhile, at the Sawmill, the contrast between Gun’s two generals was what kept the gears of Region 97 turning: one was the Swiss watch of oppression, the other was chaos hungry for a breach.

  While Henry and Gun’s convoy was still on the road, the Sawmill courtyard was the domain of Colt Revolver and Mickey Trigger. The sun was low, casting long shadows over the fuel tanks.

  Colt stood on the bed of an armored truck, checking the inventory of electric darts with a dented metal clipboard. He didn’t look up when he heard the sound of metal clashing against metal coming from the nearby scrapyard. He knew exactly what it was.

  "You’re wasting energy, Mickey," Colt said, his voice dry and devoid of emotion, never taking his eyes off the records. "The Chief wants the scouts rested for tomorrow’s incursion."

  Mickey Trigger was crouched among piles of scrap, holding a broken truck shock absorber. With a sudden, violent movement, he twisted his body and hurled the iron piece against a steel plate twenty yards away. The impact was so powerful that the plate bent, emitting a deafening clang.

  Mickey stood up, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grease-stained forearm. He flashed a predatory grin at Colt.

  "Rest is for those who use toys that do the work for them, Colt." Mickey walked to the truck, snatching an electric dart from the general's hand and spinning it like a toothpick. "You trust that carbine of yours too much. If the gunpowder runs out for good, or if the battery in this dart fails... you become a paperweight."

  Colt finally looked up. His eyes were cold, calculating. He took the dart back from Mickey’s hand with a swift motion and holstered it in his chest rig.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "The difference between us, Mickey, is that I understand the logistics of pain. I don’t need to 'feel' a man’s skull shattering to know he’s been neutralized. I keep the 300 men in line because they know I don’t miscalculate. You? You’re just an animal Gun keeps on a leash for when he wants his hands dirty."

  Mickey let out a raspy laugh and hopped onto the truck bed, coming face-to-face with Colt. The smell of metal and sweat emanated from him.

  "The 'animal' here is the only one Henry respects, you know?" Mickey whispered, his voice laced with venom. "He looks at you and sees a bureaucrat with a gun. He looks at me and sees a reflection of what he could become if he stops praying to Solomon."

  Colt adjusted his cowboy hat, maintaining an unshakeable calm. "Henry is a resource, Mickey. Like oil or water. If he becomes too 'cruel,' he loses tactical utility and becomes a problem. And I solve problems."

  "You solve problems with math." Mickey jumped back down to the ground, picking up a rusted iron bar and testing its weight. "I solve problems with anatomy. Gun knows that. That’s why you get the maps... and I get the keys to the cells."

  Mickey began to walk away toward the dungeons where Solomon and the others were held, dragging the iron bar across the asphalt, producing a metallic screech that sounded like a warning.

  "Colt!" Mickey shouted without looking back. "If there are any 'Heretics' left after tomorrow’s mission, leave the whip boy—the Bosnian—to me. I want to see if his steel cable is stronger than my arm."

  Colt watched the general walk away, his expression remaining a mask of ice. He turned back to his clipboard, jotting down a figure. In Gun’s world, Colt’s order and Mickey’s chaos were two sides of the same lead coin.

  The Weaver and the Executioner

  The air in the Sawmill dungeons was thick, heavy with the scent of mold and diesel fuel. The only constant sound was the iron bar Mickey Trigger lazily dragged against the bars, creating a rhythmic metallic clinking that served as psychological torture.

  Mickey stopped in front of the cell where Vane Zadeko and Kol Valet were confined. He was lean, but his movements had the fluidity of a serpent. He lacked Kol’s raw muscle mass or Henry’s athletic elegance, but there was a dangerous electricity in his shoulders and a quickness in his hands that betrayed a man who had survived a thousand street fights using only what the ground offered him.

  "You know what’s sad?" Mickey began, leaning his forehead against the cold bars, looking at Vane with a manic glint in his eyes. "I heard you’re the diplomat, the man of the whips. The 'Weaver.' But here you are, trapped in an iron loom you can't unravel."

  Vane Zadeko sat at the back of the cell, keeping an upright posture despite being stripped of his steel cable. He looked at Mickey with a Bosnian calm that seemed to irritate the enforcer.

  "The iron that binds us today is the same that will rust tomorrow, Mickey," Vane replied, his voice low and steady. "You serve a man who idolizes the past. We look toward the future."

  Mickey let out a shrill laugh, thrusting his hand through the gap in the bars and spinning a small metal nut he had found on the floor between his fingers with hypnotic speed.

  "The future? The future is whatever I decide with what I have in my hand right now." In a movement almost imperceptible to the common eye, Mickey flicked the small metal nut against the cell wall. The object ricocheted with the force of a projectile, passing millimeters from Kol Valet’s ear before clattering to the floor.

  Kol Valet stood up slowly. The Ukrainian was a mountain of scars and silence. Without his fire axe, he looked like a cornered bear, but his eyes still carried the fire of Europe’s trenches.

  "You talk too much, skinny man," Kol growled, approaching the bars. "In my country, men like you only served to mark where the mines were buried."

  Mickey didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he pressed himself against the bars, offering his face. "Then come on, executioner. Get me. Oh, I forgot... you need your wood-chopping toy to feel like a man, don't you? I killed a military scout last week using nothing but a broken ceramic mug. Imagine what I’d do to that thick neck of yours with a simple screwdriver."

  Mickey began to twirl the iron bar in his hand as if it were an extension of his arm. His combat style was a lethal improvisation: he used the weight of objects, the physics of ricochets, and the anatomical weaknesses of his opponents. He didn’t need to leap between buildings like the Heretics; he dominated the ground he stood on with a malice that no formal training could teach.

  "Henry is out there, doing Gun’s dirty work," Mickey continued, turning his attention back to Vane. "And when he returns, he’ll be a little more like me. And a little less like that decrepit old man you call master. How does it feel, Vane? Seeing your 'moral compass' being used to point out where the oil is hidden?"

  Vane closed his eyes, ignoring the provocation, but Kol punched the bars violently, making the metal vibrate.

  "One day, Mickey," Kol said, his voice vibrating with hatred, "I will find you without these bars between us. And there won’t be enough scrap metal in the world to save your life."

  Mickey only smiled—a smile that didn't reach his eyes—and started walking down the corridor again, dragging the iron bar once more.

  "I’ll be waiting, executioner. But bring the Bosnian along. I like fighting at a disadvantage... it makes the sound of breaking bones more satisfying."

  The sound of Mickey’s iron bar faded, replaced by the metallic echo of a boot tapping against concrete in the next cell. Inside the cell plunged in shadows, Solomon Vane coughed—a dry sound that made Kol and Zadeko draw closer to the dividing bars. The leader of the Heretics sat on a stone bench, hands resting on his knees. Even without his steel cane, his presence still commanded respect.

  "Kol, come closer," Solomon whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with a clarity that isolation could not erase. "Mickey is what we call 'noise.' He wants you to focus on anger, because anger makes your movements predictable. He is dangerous because he has nothing to lose except the next sadistic pleasure."

  Kol pressed his face against the side bars. "He insulted your honor, Solomon. He mocked what Henry is doing out there."

  Solomon gave a sad smile, looking at his own calloused hands. "Henry is doing what I asked: surviving. But he is not alone."

  The Return of the Prodigy

  Outside, the heavy gates of the Sawmill ground open with a deafening screech. Gun’s convoy rolled into the courtyard, kicking up a suffocating curtain of dust. The lead jeep jerked to a halt, and Henry leaped from the back before the engine had even cut out.

  Henry was unrecognizable. His face was stained with the dried blood of the peasant, and his eyes looked like two slits of ice. He marched toward the center of the courtyard, ignoring the soldiers celebrating the "success" of the mission.

  As he crossed the entrance to the dungeons, he came face-to-face with Mickey Trigger, who was still twirling his iron bar with a mocking grin. Mickey stopped, blocking Henry’s path, his gaze fixed on the bloodstains on the Brazilian’s chest.

  "Well, well... if it isn't the new hero of Region 97," Mickey jeered, tilting his head. "The scent of gunpowder and regret suits you, Henrikson. But tell me, did the old man scream much before the Chief blew his head off? Or were you a good boy and held his hand?"

  Henry stopped an inch away from Mickey. The tension between them was almost physical—a force field of pure hatred. Mickey felt the heat radiating from Henry’s body, a contained fury that would make any other man recoil—except him.

  "Gun fired the shot," Henry said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. "But his weapon only fires because dogs like you bark loud enough to make him feel like a God."

  Mickey laughed, a dry sound, and poked Henry’s chest with the tip of the rusted iron bar. "And you? What are you, Henry? You cleared the path. You’re the rug Gun steps on so he doesn't have to dirty his lead. You know what I did while you were away? I reminded your master and your 'brothers' that they are nothing but cattle waiting for the slaughter. The Ukrainian almost cried with rage."

  Henry gripped the iron bar with his bare hand, squeezing the cold metal with a force that turned his knuckles white.

  "Keep playing with iron, Mickey." Henry brought his face close to the general's ear. "Because the day I decide the peace is over, I won’t need gunpowder to wipe that smile off your face. I will use every ounce of pain you’ve caused them to bury you in this scrap metal."

  Mickey didn’t flinch. He held the gaze, his pupils dilated with excitement. Before a fight could break out, the horn of Gun’s jeep blared three times—the signal for the command meeting.

  Gun stepped out of the vehicle, flanked by Hiro and Nagi, and looked at the two generals and the scout in a standoff.

  "Mickey! Henry!" Gun shouted, adjusting the zipper of his mask. "Stop measuring your egos. We have work to do. Freya found the coordinates of an old National Guard bunker. Real gunpowder, Henry. Live ammunition. Tomorrow, we go after the rest of our destiny."

  Henry let go of Mickey’s iron bar, shoving it aside, and walked toward Solomon’s cell without looking back. He knew that the next day’s mission would be the breaking point.

  End of Chapter

  Character Data

  EXECUTORS:

  Mickey Trigger (28 years old, American): The brutal and unpredictable executor. A street fighter who views the world as a giant arsenal. He trains in the junkyards of Chemult, forging scrap metal into tools of death. He holds no attachment to specific weapons; his mind is his greatest asset, capable of calculating how to kill a man with whatever is within reach.

  Colt Revolver (35 years old, American): Second-in-command and the direct tactical leader of the 300 soldiers. Colt is Gun’s military mirror, responsible for maintaining iron discipline within the faction. He is colder and less theatrical than the boss, focusing on the efficiency of their extortion rackets and the maintenance of their armored vehicles.

  Freya "Holster" (30 years old, American): The group’s strategic mastermind. With short blonde hair and a frigid beauty, Freya plans every invasion and supply route. Though she lives like a queen and has her every whim catered to by Gun, she is a high-end prisoner, serving as his mistress out of obligation. Her intelligence is what keeps the Executors one step ahead of rival factions. She lost her parents to an undisclosed disease, and her older brother was forcibly taken by the military for a government experiment. Gun eventually found her among the rubble and became enchanted by her, crowning her the queen of his empire.