Gunsoul: A Xianxia Apocalypse

When Yuan questioned the locals about where he could buy guns, they all answered ‘go to the Bullet Church.’

It didn’t take him long to find the place on the eastern side of town. The enormous stone building loomed over these parts like a Wayfinder’s temple, its steps flanked by statues of ancient warriors adorned with newer bullet bandoliers and crude armor. Impact holes and deep gouges defaced the outer walls’ murals. Yuan assumed that this place used to honor an ancient Lost Age demigod slain during the world’s unmaking.

The courtyard was Yuan’s dream: a bustling market of makeshift racks holding meticulously cleaned rifles, guns, shotguns, cannons, and lovingly crafted explosives lined up between crumbling pillars. Empty bullet casings and discarded magazines formed a carpet of brass and steel, and the lovingly acrid smell of gunpowder lingered everywhere.

This would have looked like home for a firearm-enthusiast like Yuan, if not for a few worrying details. He saw Scraps praying before makeshift altars made from old crates honoring customized rifles and six-shooters; a man in a garb of leather and woven bullet casings applied gunpowder to two men’s faces before letting them play a game of revolver roulette; a black-haired man examining the weapon racks sent Yuan a few worrying looks; and a large, tattered crimson banner proclaimed the place’s motto in bold letters above the church’s grand entrance.

‘No gods or kings, only the Gun!’

Yuan originally thought the name of ‘Bullet Church’ was nothing more than a fancy marketplace’s name, and he now realized his mistake. These people truly worshiped the Gun. Interesting. Yuan wondered if they knew anything about Gunsouls and their abilities.

He barely had time to look at the courtyard’s weapons before a strange gunslinger walked out of the temple to greet him. The odd fellow wore a black cape billowing in the wind and a pair of revolvers around their belt, but their most distinctive feature was the gray bucket they wore over their head. Two bullet holes allowed for a pair of green eyes to stare through it. Yuan couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman until they spoke to him.

“Homing, homing, bullet-brother,” the stranger said with a cheerful man’s voice. “I’m gunpowder-inquisitor Bucket. How may I help you?”

“Bullet-brother?” Yuan asked with a frown. The man didn’t strike him as a Gunsoul and in fact appeared to lack any qi. Then again, Manhattan could disguise his aura…

“I’m a fellow roulette survivor too.” Bucket pointed a gloved finger at Yuan’s bullet-core. “The Gun rewarded our devotion with life.”

A shot echoed out in the background as if on cue. Yuan peeked over his shoulder and watched a duo of onlookers drag one of the roulette players away, his head bleeding red from a big fat hole.

“Another volunteer bites the dust.” Bucket made a sign on his chest with his fingers. Yuan recognized the vague shape of a gun. “May the Gun welcome him in the Bullet Hell, where he shall fight for all eternity.”

“You’re trying to become Gunsouls?” Yuan guessed. “Has it ever worked?

“Not yet,” Bucket replied with disturbing enthusiasm. “But the Gun is bound to choose one of us eventually!”

Yuan hid his discomfort behind a mask of composure. He didn’t blame these desperate Scraps for latching onto any hope of becoming a cultivator, but he wasn’t certain that the Gun picked his chosen according to their faith. Revolver called him a demigod of ultraviolence and revenge who imbued vengeful dead like them with a half-life. Bucket’s inability to recognize him as a Gunsoul told him everything he needed to know.

These people were throwing their lives away on hearsay.

Nonetheless, Yuan was smart enough not to question a cult’s beliefs on their own temple’s grounds. Such an act was bound to make a scene.

“I’m looking to trade,” Yuan said upon opening his bag and revealing its contents: alcohol, housewares, and Lost Age trinkets salvaged from the spirit-train. “I need weapons and ammo.”

Yuan had left Manhattan’s sutra scroll for Orient and Holster to read after his encounter with Manhattan, where he informed his allies of his encounter in the Eastern Caravan office and then returned to Fleshmarket with a bag full of supplies to trade. He didn’t intend to take too long. A few locals already attempted to ransack the spirit-train, though nothing came out of it.

When he’d asked Orient what happened to them, the caretaker smiled sweetly at him and said, “A train’s engine never has enough fuel.”

He didn’t push for more details.

Yuan knew Orient could take care of the occasional Scrap robbers, but it was only a matter of time before local cultivators made a bid to take over the spirit-train. A moving fortress of that size would prove too much of an attractive resource in the coming war. Yuan either had to quickly pick a side or skip town.

“You’ve knocked on the right door, bullet-brother,” Bucket replied while rubbing his hands together. “What kind of weapons are you looking for?”

“Handguns, revolvers, and shotguns,” Yuan replied. He had already secured his group’s provisions and those were the weapons he was most familiar with.

“Ah, the classics.” Bucket knocked a fist against his ‘helmet’ in what could pass for a gesture of contrition. “Unfortunately, they’re victims of their popularity lately.”

Yuan didn’t hide his displeasure. “The Sects already put in orders?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, bullet-brother, we’ve got plenty of weapons. It’s the ammo we lack. See, our Bullet Church has plenty of metalworkers to assemble firearms, but manufacturing quality casings and primers? Producing delicious gunpowder? Those require both scarce chemicals and tools.”

Yuan feared as much. Bullets were often more expensive than the firearms used to fire them, and Sects preparing for war would naturally hoard them. The First and Second Coil cultivators making up the bulk of their troops died to them the same as any Scrap.

“If you’re looking for ammo, Gunsoul, then we’ve got your fill.”

Yuan tensed up, his head snapping in the new voice’s direction.

The black-haired man who had been examining the guns earlier stepped forward. His gaunt frame belied the tense, wiry strength of a trained cultivator. His skin was ashen gray, his jet-black hair spiky and unkempt, his pupilless white eyes sinking into his emaciated skull. Loose purple rags hung on his thin frame, covering everything except for the head and his dirty bare feet, and a rusty chain coiled around his chest like a bandolier.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

It was his smile that unsettled Yuan the most. Something in his yellow-toothed, manic grin felt downright menacing. This man was no Manhattan and hardly any older than Yuan himself, but he radiated a trained killer’s aura.

Moreover, he had recognized Yuan as a Gunsoul unlike the Bullet Church’s members. This guy was no poser.

“Who the fuck are you?” Yuan asked tersely. Bucket took a step back from them, his hands nervously grasping at his revolvers.

“The name’s Gayak,” said the grinning man. “A disciple of the Flesh Mansion Sect. I’ve heard you came in that huge spirit-train parked outside our fair city.”

Yuan tensed up. He knew this would happen sooner or later. “What if I did?”

“Then you’ve got my attention. You wouldn’t have asked about Sect orders if you were associated with one.” The cultivator sized up Yuan, head to toe. “Are you a gun for hire?”

Yuan crossed his arms. “Not for slave runs.”

“I’m only interested in a gun,” Gayak replied with a hint of amusement. “That spirit-train of yours can stay parked for all we care. We just want you to shoot at some overly proud cyborgs for a few days. You kill, you get paid, you leave. Not a bad deal, eh?”

Yuan remained cautious. He held no appreciation for slavers like the Flesh Mansion Sect and fighting the Metallists was way above his usual paygrade, but if they could offer him a Third Coil qi pill… “What do you offer?”

“Guns, ammo… clean pills too.” Yuan didn’t show any hint of interest, knowing that silence would lead Gayak to drive up his price. “And a pardon for your theft.”

Yuan blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“See, a Human Pillar was supposed to pass through this town on its way to Furyland. The sellers never arrived. She was supposed to come from the east, just like you did.” Gayak hummed into the air. “And you reek of a Hitobashira. Strange coincidence, don’t you think?”

“You should check your nose,” Yuan replied coldly. “Or it might break soon.”

Gayak chuckled in amusement at his thinly veiled threat; a typical cultivator’s behavior. “You want to keep that child safe?” he asked. “Make sure no one will ever come after her again?"

Yuan assessed the distance between them. A good Recoil Fist to the man’s head would send it flying into the nearest wall. “Those who try will do so at their peril.”

“I’m just saying we can spare you the trouble,” Gayak replied. “We can cure that girl. Fix her core. The Metallists lack the knowledge and techniques to perform the operation, but we have both. We’ll swear an Unspeakable Vow, if that’s what it takes.”

“An Unspeakable Vow?” That took Yuan aback. “Those who swear it do so on their core.”

“Indeed.” Gayak nodded sharply. “Oathbreakers forever surrender their right to cultivate. No cultivator will swear it lightly.”

And no Sect would offer one to an outsider if they weren’t in a deep bind. “You need help that bad?”

“I’m confident we’ll win without you, Gunsoul,” Gayak replied calmly. Yuan couldn’t tell whether he believed it or not. “But the slower we win, the more damage Fleshmarket will take. What good are victories with ashes for a prize?”

I get it now, Yuan thought. Fleshmarket was a key hub for the slave trade crossing the Fanged Coast. Its destruction would seriously cripple the Flesh Mansion Sect’s activities in the region. Holster is inconsequential to them in the long run. They can always make more of her, but they’ll never find a better trade route.

“I need to think about it,” Yuan replied tersely. He didn’t trust the Flesh Mansion Sect and the thought of helping them preserve their slave trade sickened him, but the offer was tempting. A Third Coil pill would improve his odds of victory once he tracked down Slash, and stripping Holster of her curse would ensure her safety in the long-run.

“Of course, but think quickly. Things are going to get pretty hot in this city very soon. You’ll find us at the Flesh Volcano in the town center.” Gayak shrugged. “I suggest you either pick the winning side or get the hell out of there. Nothing but death awaits you if you join the Metallists.”

Yuan glared at him. “Is that a threat?”

“An observation,” Gayak replied. “The Metallists want this turf so they can expand the Screen City nearby, and they’ve already recruited a Gunsoul of their own. They’re more likely to sacrifice you to him than to give you a better offer.”

Another Gunsoul? Something about the man’s wording sent chills down Yuan’s spine. “Sacrifice?”

“You don’t know?” Gayak’s maniacal smirk somehow widened even further. “Think this through. Crossing the Third means eating a clean qi pill or a spirit-beast’s core, but you Gunsouls have another way available to you.”

Gayak pointed at Yuan’s bullet-core.

“You can hunt down another of your kindred,” he said, “and bite that sweet bullet-core.”

Yuan clenched his jaw. He hadn’t considered that possibility, but now it sounded frighteningly plausible to him. Ascending through the Third Coil involved ingesting a huge amount of qi in a single buffet, and a Gunsoul’s bullet acted like any spirit-beast’s core. An individual on the Path of the Gun could probably benefit from ingesting one.

Revolver must have known. Yet he let Yuan live. Killing me for that bullet would have strengthened him, but he spared me nonetheless.

Meeting kind and altruistic people in the Unmade World was quite rare. Yuan considered himself fortunate that Revolver found him instead of a more unscrupulous Gunsoul.

“That’s the Path of the Gun for you, stranger: weeding out the weak ‘till the lead harvest, or so I’ve heard.” Gayak took his leave. “Think wisely. I pray we meet again as friends next time.”

Yuan watched him leave without a word, then turned to look at Bucket. To his horror, the man was kneeling in the dirt in prayer alongside a few other worshipers.

“A Gunsoul has come to visit us!” Bucket exclaimed for all to hear, his arms opened wide. “Bless you for sending us this holy messenger, oh Gunfire Father!”

“Quiet!” Yuan chided him, though he knew it was already too late. Word of his true nature would spread through Fleshmarket. “Was it true what he said? There’s another Gunsoul in town allied with the Metallists?”

Yuan was no expert on body language, but he detected a surge of disdain coursing through Bucket. “That heretic Gatling Man has indeed forsaken the Path of the Gun for that of the Magnum Opus!” The gunpowder-inquisitor rose back to his feet and began to plead with Yuan. “Have you come to punish him?”

Yuan couldn’t care less about this ‘Gatling Man’ or the Bullet Church’s beliefs. However, if Gayak told the truth, then the other Gunsoul would likely hunt him down once he learned of Yuan’s true nature. The Metallists wouldn’t set aside the chance to strengthen one of their soldiers in the coming conflict.

What a mess.

“Who was that man?” Yuan asked. “Gayak?”

“Gayak, the Organ Fetishist. Elder Polio’s personal apprentice.” Bucket shuddered. “He always harvests body parts from the cultivators he has killed.”

Yuan pondered the information. The name of Elder Polio came up a lot when he asked who led the Flesh Mansion Sect. His personal apprentice’s word carried a lot of weight, so Gayak’s recruitment offer was most likely genuine.

Nonetheless, assisting the Flesh Mansion Sect in protecting their slave trade’s interests left a sour taste in Yuan’s mouth; nor did he fully believe that Gayak’s cohorts would let Holster leave with just a slap on her back.

“I dislike Sects,” Yuan admitted. Serving one only reinforced his distaste for them. “And ultimatums even more so.”

Bucket didn’t say a word for a moment, then joined his hands. “Well, honored Gunsoul… If I told you there was a way to waste both sides, would it pique your interest?”

Yuan raised an eyebrow. At this point, he might as well explore all his options. “I’m listening…”

“Have you heard of the Ammobog?”

“No,” Yuan replied flatly.

“It’s a marsh near Fleshmarket, and the holy resting place of the Gunsoul who gloriously defeated Czar Zoa years ago,” Bucket explained. Yuan recalled that the name belonged to a nuclear cultivator who Revolver mentioned on his way to Gatesville. “Her bullet-core bloomed into a fertile farm of magazines and gunpowder. You can pick an ammo harvest there, since your spirit-train could load up on quite the haul.”

Yuan quickly caught on. Bucket suggested solving the ammo shortage, then equipping both Sects to worsen the conflict.

Quite the interesting strategy. Letting the Sects slaughter each other would spare him both the trouble of dealing with Gatling Man and the Flesh Mansion Sect’s retaliations. Yuan would be on his way to track down Slash by the time a winner emerged.

Lots of bystanders would die in the crossfire, though. Yuan told himself that he didn’t owe them anything. The Metallists and the Flesh Mansion Sects would kill anybody caught between them anyway, guns or no guns. Delivering ammo to Fleshmarket would be like any other courier job. He would make a delivery and then let them duke it out.

Moreover, if eating another Gunsoul’s bullet-core would let him transcend to the Third Coil…

“Wait,” Yuan said as he noticed an inconsistency. “If there's such a place near Fleshmarket, why haven’t you harvested the ammo yourself already?”

“The Gunsoul’s ghost kills everyone who intrudes upon the Ammobog,” Bucket said. “But as a fellow chosen of the Gun, I’m sure you’ll be the exception!”

Yuan sighed. He’d expected as much.

Still… it didn’t hurt to check.

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