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As the first wave of demons scaled the walls, Granger stepped into the void. He didn't fall; he descended. With a flick of his wrist, the first five shots rang out—a staccato rhythm that shattered the skulls of the lead invaders. But the sixth shot was different.

The bells of the Monastery of Light didn't ring for prayer that morning; they rang for war. High above the marble spires, the sky had curdled into a bruised purple, torn open by the encroaching Abyss. 504216_520787

The final bullet didn't just strike its target; it exploded into a supernova of holy light, vaporizing the shadow-creatures in a blinding flash. For a moment, the battlefield was silent, the darkness pushed back to the very edge of the horizon. As the first wave of demons scaled the

Granger didn't look at him. He adjusted the slide of his violin-case-turned-cannon. He wasn't just a soldier; he was the . While others fought with faith and steel, Granger fought with the rhythm of death itself. The Final Movement But the sixth shot was different