"Come, Goliath. I'll be the one to finish her off. Now that things are taken care of here, next you should–"
Glass cracked, then shattered behind Fortier before he could finish.
"Huh?"
From the wreckage of the antique shop, Jackie rose.
She grimaced, dragging herself up from the mangled storefront. Shards of glass and broken porcelain had torn up her arms and legs, blood tracing thin lines across her skin. The sleeves of her shirt hung in tatters. A thick shard of glass jutted from her thigh.
Grunting, she gripped the shard, yanked it free, and hissed through clenched teeth. Without pause, she tore a sleeve from her ruined shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound.
It's a good thing I used my soul weaving in time, she thought, steadying her breath as the bleeding slowed.
Soul Weaving is the ability to harness and manipulate one's own soul. Its form varies from person to person, shaped by the user's nature. For Jackie O'Hara, it manifests in two ways: the physical direction of her soul throughout her body to shield and reinforce it, and the manifestation of her soul as an extension of her body.
Just before the lamppost hit, she had channeled her soul to the point of impact, softening the blow and protecting her bones. Moments before smashing into the antique shop, she shifted it again, shielding her spine and absorbing enough of the crash to keep herself in the fight.
Her soul's manifestation embodies both fortitude and prowess—defensive precision paired with a compelling offense. Not only could she shield herself, but she could also shape her soul into a variety of melee weapons. Combined with her exorcizing ammunition—a fundamental skill for any soul weaver—Ms. O'Hara was a nightmare for most foes and the perfect counter to all Dread Hunters.
"If Goliath can't take me down," she said, leveling her voice with raw defiance, "what makes you think you can?"
She should barely be alive, let alone conscious. Fortier clenched his teeth.
"Change of plans, Goliath," he barked. "She's yours. Tear the entire street apart. The more destruction, the better. Let them see the aftermath and believe it. No one will question the validity of a hero who fought through hell."
"Right!" Goliath roared.
Jackie scoffed. "As if."
Without hesitation, she burst from the storefront in a streak of movement, glass and dust scattering behind her.
"You might've been a problem when your buddies were lighting me up," she shouted mid-leap, "but on your own? You're just a weak, dumb, oversized target."
"Weak?!" the Dread Hunter bellowed, his pride wounded more than his body. "Goliath is the strongest there is!"
"Oh, please." Jackie rolled her eyes, summoning a long blade with a surge of soul energy. The weapon shimmered with a deep blue hue, pulsing as if alive. "You might be big, but I know a teenager who puts up a better fight."
What is that? Fortier's eyes widened as the blade finished forming in her hand.
"A magic sword? Hey! That's cheating!" Goliath protested, his voice high with disbelief.
Jackie grinned. "This isn't a magic sword. This is me."
She moved like lightning, cleaving Goliath's lamppost weapon into fragments with a few clean strikes. Sparks flew as steel shattered. Jackie ducked under a wild punch, spun out of the way of another, and sprang from a bent street sign, flipping through the air.
Landing square on his back, she held fast with one hand like she was riding a bull.
"Get OFF!" Goliath yelled, flailing.
Brandishing her gun, Jackie fired three rounds into the back of Goliath's head. His mask, now riddled with holes, began to fall apart—the stitching unraveling, the glass lenses cracking as it slipped from his face and hit the ground. Blood leaked down his neck, his speech slurred, and his crossed eyes blinked sluggishly.
He stumbled, arms flailing half-heartedly, the fight beginning to drain from his limbs.
"I'm sorry, big fella," Jackie said softly. "I'll end your suffering now."
She pulled the trigger—once, twice, again until the cylinder was empty. Each shot cracked through the air, echoing off the buildings. Goliath staggered, his frame slowing like a machine losing power. He dropped to his knees. Then, with a final groan, collapsed forward.
Jackie remained standing on his back, black blood staining her face. She wiped it away with her sleeve, breathing heavily.
"Six shots, huh? Took that many to make it humane…" Her voice dipped, almost reverent. "Maybe you were the strongest."
Goliath's massive body began to crumble, turning to ash that the wind scattered into the street.
What is she? What kind of power was that?! Fortier's thoughts spiraled, a flood of questions crashing into him. But one idea rose above the noise—stark, unshakable.
"You're evil," he whispered.
Then he started to laugh—high-pitched, broken laughter that echoed through the ruined street. "I knew it! I knew something was wrong with you, but this?! My god. I've truly seen it all now. This whole kingdom's going to hell, and the demons are running around in broad daylight! "
He started pacing, scratching at his scalp like he could claw the truth out of his own skull. "The Dread Hunter was right… he was actually telling the truth…"
Jackie eyed him from across the way, her voice cutting sharp.
"You've finally lost it, haven't you?" she muttered, her words edged with pity and disdain.
Pulling his gun from its holster, he leveled it at Jackie's head.
"Quite the opposite, Ms. O'Hara," Fortier said with a twisted smile. "I see everything clearly now. And you—" he looked her up and down "—you look exhausted. Worn down. I bet even a human like me could kill a demon in that state."
He took a step closer.
"After all, I was top of my class at the academy. Imagine the story I could tell… how I saved this side of Auclair from the Dread Hunters. They might just hand me the keys to the parish."
Jackie raised her revolver—
—but Fortier was faster. He fired a shot, knocking it clean from her grip.
"Don't move!" he snapped.
Then he casually flicked open the cylinder of his revolver, checking the rounds. "Besides, I counted six shots. You're out, aren't you?"
Damn it, he's right, Jackie thought, teeth gritted. Might've been overkill using that many on Goliath. There's no time for mercy when enemies are still lurking, she eye'd Fortier, even if the one lurking is minuscule.
Her body ached. The pain from the glass shard earlier was flaring again, the impact from being launched through the storefront finally catching up with her.
I reinforced myself before I hit… but it's been a while since I've been hit that hard.
"Ms. Jackie O'Hara," Fortier continued, pacing in front of her like a man rehearsing his speech to a crowd. "Daughter of the legendary Jack O'Hara. With a name like that? Oh, this won't just be local. This'll be international."
His eyes widened like a child stumbling into a dream.
"They might even grant me land."
And then, as if struck by inspiration, he hurried toward her, his voice turning giddy.
"Oh! And to really sell the image of a sole survivor… I should be bloodier."
He pressed the barrel of the gun to her forehead.
"How about a close-up for the feature?"
Dang it! I'm actually envying the Dread Hunters right now. A normal bullet could easily be the end of me. Jackie's thoughts raced frantically. I've gotta try something.
Fear gnawed at her, but Jackie's face remained stern, refusing to betray a single hint of weakness to Fortier. She locked her eyes on his—focused, resolute.
Just as Fortier's finger began to tighten on the trigger, a sudden strike across his face threw him off balance. In the same instant, his legs were hauled from under him, and he was slammed onto the ground.
Jackie's heart skipped a beat as she turned to see who had intervened. A blue dot revealed itself in the same place Fortier's gun had been pressed against her forehead. She had concentrated every ounce of her remaining power into a single point, the size of the bullet, praying that her gamble would be enough to stop it at point-blank range.
"Is that… Newbie?" she whispered, her legs trembling as the adrenaline started to ebb.
"You murderer!" Newbie screamed, his voice a raw cry of rage. "You killed them! You're the reason they're dead! Your own men!"
Jackie's breath hitched as Newbie began pummeling Fortier's face, the back of his head knocking into the ground with each blow. She watched, frozen for a moment, as each hit reverberated with the weight of betrayal. "How could you?!" he yelled between blows.
After a beat, Jackie stepped forward, placing a hand firmly on Newbie's shoulder, stopping him just as his fist swung back for another strike. "Hey," she said softly, but firmly, halting him with a quiet intensity. "He's unconscious. You're just hurting yourself now."
Newbie looked down at his hands, staring in disbelief as blood dripped from his knuckles. He'd hit Fortier so many times that the skin on his hands became peeled and raw. There was even a deep cut from one of the teeth he'd knocked loose. The rage hadn't just hurt Fortier; it had torn something in Newbie, too.
Jackie could see it—the frustration, the anger, the ache of not knowing how to cope with it all. She offered him a choice, quiet but clear. "Alive, he can answer for his crimes. But if you kill him now, he gets off the easy way."
Newbie stared at Fortier as though he were nothing more than prey, his body trembling with the weight of his decision. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he spat on Fortier's swollen, bloodied face. Standing up, he asked, "He'll be sent to Purgatory for this, won't he?"
Jackie nodded. "I'll make sure of it."
"Good," Newbie muttered, his voice laced with quiet satisfaction, before he turned and began walking away.
Jackie watched him go for a moment before calling out to him. "Hey, Newbie… What's your name? Your full name."
"John. John Newbie," he replied, his back still turned, his voice almost distant.
Jackie frowned, a confused thought crossing her mind. Wait. People called him Newbie because it was his name and not just because he was the new guy? Hm.
Jackie's gaze flicked over Fortier's battered form before she muttered, almost to herself, "I knew something was off about you, but I never would've guessed it was this bad." She let out a sigh, rubbing her temples. "Taking it easy sucks. Being rusty sucks. This whole situation sucks."
The sudden sound of a loud creak interrupted her thoughts. The car, which had been thrown into the building, crashed down from the upper floor, landing with a sickening thud on the walkway below. Jackie's heart skipped a beat as her mind snapped into focus. Commander LaCroix was right there when the car went through.
She snatched up her gun and sprinted toward the building, ignoring the sting in her leg. Up the stairs she went, two at a time, the thought of LaCroix's fate pushing her forward faster than reason could catch up.
"Is the commander okay?!" she shouted, reaching the top of the stairs. But before she could move any further, two officers stepped in her way, their expressions unreadable.
A thick silence hung between them before one of the men spoke, his voice heavy. "Ms. O'Hara... Commander LaCroix has been killed in action."
Jackie's stomach dropped, her chest tightening with an emotion she couldn't place. But the words didn't sink in before she snapped back. "Let me through."
The officers exchanged uneasy glances, but they didn't move. One of them opened his mouth, but she didn't let him finish.
"I said, let me through!" she shouted, her voice rising in command, the desperation underneath barely contained.
The officers hesitated, glancing at each other for a moment before stepping aside. Jackie barely registered their presence as she stepped through. Her eyes immediately found Commander LaCroix's body lying on the floor, surrounded by rubble, his coat draped over his face. Without a word, she knelt beside him, her fingers gently brushing the edge of the coat.
"I wouldn't if I were you, Ms. O'Hara," one of the officers warned quietly, his voice heavy with an unspoken understanding of the grisly scene.
But Jackie wasn't listening. With grim determination, she lifted the coat just enough to see beneath. The sight that met her eyes was enough to make her recoil, and she dropped the coat with a sharp gasp, stepping away. Her stomach churned, and before she could react further, she hurled into one of the potted plants nearby, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
The muffled voice of a man suddenly traveled through the halls, cutting through her moment of shock. "Let me out of here! Aaaaah! You bastards, I'll kill you all!"
Jackie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, straightening up. "Who is that?" she asked, trying to regain her composure.
"That must be the first Dread Hunter we detained," the officer who had stayed behind replied. "Looks like he woke up before the others."
Her body still trembling from the sight of LaCroix, Jackie made her way toward the source of the shouting.
When she reached the room, she threw open the door to find the Dread Hunter struggling against his restraints. "Who the hell are you?" he spat as the door swung wide.
Jackie didn't answer. She aimed her gun at him, her finger pulling the trigger. But instead of the sharp crack of a bullet, all she heard was the ominous click of an empty chamber.
"Ahahaha! You all out of ammo, little lady?" the Dread Hunter cackled, his head thrown back in manic laughter.
Again, Jackie didn't answer. With a flick of her wrist, her sword materialized once more—glimmering faintly in the dim light. This time, she held it differently. With care. With intent. She whispered a quiet prayer beneath her breath.
"Now I lay the anguished to sleep."
Before the Dread Hunter could process what she said, her blade slipped through his skull like paper, ending him without another word.
When she stepped out of the room, the sword still in hand, silence met her. Every officer watched her, bloodied and bruised, some barely standing. They had given everything in a war they were never meant to fight.
Jackie surveyed them all. "So these are the Auclair Police Officers that Commander LaCroix seemed so proud of," she murmured. Then, louder, "I see why. You performed exceptionally. All of you. Now, tend to your wounded and wait outside. I'll finish the rest."
The men exchanged glances, but none questioned her. With somber hands, they lifted their fallen commander and comrades, carrying them outside.
As the doors closed behind them, Jackie took a breath. She hadn't heard much of LaCroix's final words, but what she did hear in their time together was enough to know: he had built a strong and loyal force in Auclair.
AFTER FINISHING OFF THE LAST OF THE DREAD HUNTERS, JACKIE GATHERED THE surviving officers—thirty in all.
"By my estimate," she began, "we're down about five."
The weight of that number lingered in the silence.
"I've already called in medical support. If you're injured or too exhausted to continue, stay here. Get your wounds treated. Secure the perimeter and look after one another."
She paused, scanning their faces—some smeared with ash and blood, others barely standing but still upright.
"The rest of you are coming with me. We'll head west to reinforce your department across the parish."
No one questioned her. Orders were orders—but more than that, they trusted her.
In the end, less than half of the officers were fit to move. Those who could still fight formed up behind Jackie, while the others remained behind to follow through on her command.
JACKIE AND THE OFFICERS MADE THEIR WAY TO THE TROLLEY STATION, WHERE THEY found Newbie sitting just outside the locked entrance. The station had been shut down due to the emergency, but that didn't stop them from getting in.
One of the officers, familiar with the controls, stepped forward and took the wheel. Soon, the trolley was rumbling to life, set on a westward course.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy. Every soul aboard sat in silence, worn and slouched—too tired to speak, barely holding on.
"I see you brought him along," Newbie said, eyeing Fortier's limp, unconscious body in the back of the trolley.
"We have to keep an eye on him until all this is over," Jackie replied. "We don't want him to escape his punishment, do we?"
Newbie glanced at her, his expression unreadable. Without saying another word, he leaned his head back against the seat and, almost instantly, drifted off to sleep.