"It's getting hotter."
Gunjo walked ahead, walking down a trail which was surrounded by skulls piled up on top of each other.
'Hambern Alley. This place is known for traveling demon merchants, they're usually against the Demonic Order, wanting to spread some of the magic weapons they create to fight them off. The Order, in the mist of them trying to get everyone to fear and respect them, have killed millions, and to this day, I still don't know they're ultimate goal. They're always a bigger picture.'
Gunjo looked forward, and saw a traveling merchant.
[System notification: Talk to the Merchant.]
"Um, I don't think they like me very much."
[Who does?]
"Hey! Some people do ya know?! Who even are you anyway,"
He sighed, and walked forward, and he saw the Merchant had a wooden face and silver armored body, he had a hat on, holding a large bag on his back.
Gunjo asked, "Um…what's up?"
The Merchant replied, "…."
"So…"
"…."
"I know what you're thinking. Oh, what's Gunjo doing out here in my face? You probably wanna fight, don't you?"
The Merchant nodded up and down slowly.
Gunjo continued, "I have a feeling…you might need help? And I'll do what I can to help."
"OH THANK GOODNESS!"
"Whoa! Excited.."
"Sorry, haha. I've heard news of what you've done for the Whisperers, and I've been looking to run into you. I need your help."
"With..?"
"Automata. A steaming sentient humanoid weapon I created has turned berserk due to the fact that one of the demon lords of the Order stole her from me to make Automata their personal toy."
"So you want me to steal her back and kill the demon lord?"
'Am I even strong enough for that?'
The Merchant replied, "Automata killed the demon lord."
"No way.."
"Only because it was unexpected, if not, she would've been ripped apart. And now, she's using her weapons to kill, she won't leave a certain area. She's using a weapon called the Wargun. One hit could kill you, but knowing and hearing what you've done, I think you can pull it off."
"Sounds damn near impossible if you ask me. What do I have to do?"
"If you can hold up one of my other creations to her, then she won't shoot you. She found this pretty interesting to mess around with during idle time to keep her busy."
The Merchant pulled out a wooden puppet, with a red hat, blue and black slacks, and dress shoes, and it had red eyes.
He handed it to Gunjo, and Gunjo responded, "So I hold this up and she won't attack me?"
"If anything, she'll try and hit you in spots where you aren't holding this doll."
"Sounds super duper fun and suicidal, I can't wait to partake in this." Gunjo chuckled sarcastically. "What's this doll's name?"
"Pinochio."
"Where have I heard that name before…"
"Please hurry. After the Order sent my family to the Hall of the Fallen, Automata is all I have left. Please, save her."
"Say I do get close, what then?"
"Her seeing Pinocchio should make her change back. If not..then please kill her."
"…I'll do my best."
'I'll try not to kill this machine, it seems important to this guy. But if it comes down to it…'
"Also, there's rules. Holding Pinocchio won't be easy."
"MORE CHALLENGES?!"
"N-No it's not bad! Trust me! Holding Pinocchio up for more than ten seconds will make him wake up, and if he sees Automata is going crazy, he'll instantly try to run to her and save her. But anything could happen where she accidentally shoots and kills him, like I said, her actions are unpredictable even though I know she'll feel a certain way after seeing Pinocchio. You'll know if he's waking up once your hand starts to burn. Only wake him up once he's near her."
"….Okay. I got it. But why did you design Pinocchio to be like that?"
"As a fail safe. The Demonic Order is known to just take items from the Merchants. I made it to where if they held Pinocchio up for more than ten seconds, then their hands would burn off and Pinnchio would wake up and attack them as they're sort of weakened."
"That's..pretty awesome."
"I'll show you where to go.."
"No, it's fine. I'll come back."
"And as a reward, I'll give you her Wargun."
Gunjo smirked, "OH YEAH? THEN CONSIDER IT DONE!"
Gunjo dashed off, exclaiming, "MORE POWER!"
The Merchant watched, smiling slightly, "Even after being stripped of his demon king power, he smiles. And here I thought all of those Order bastards were the same. What made Gunjo, the most arrogant demon king, like this now?"
[Automata quest begins. Redeem Automata. Rewards: 50 XP. 8 skill points]
Gunjo ran ahead, holding Pinocchio by the back.
'I'm liking this. More power coming my way just from side quests. I still have my rewards from last quest, I'll go ahead and apply them now.'
[Level 3]
Strength: 300 /10000
Speed: 350/10000
Magic : 300/10000
Dexterity: 280/10000
Constitution: 270/10000
Intelligence: 500/10000
Wisdom: 300/10000
Charisma: 280/10000
Toughness : 1,017/10000
[Skill points: 8]
'I'll spread them out evenly. A skill point is worth 50 attribute points, so in total I have 400 points to spend.'
[Level 3]
Strength: 400 /10000 (Added 100 points)
Speed: 400/10000 (Added 50 points)
Magic : 350/10000 (Added 50 points)
Dexterity: 300/10000 (Added 20 points)
Constitution: 270/10000
Intelligence: 550/10000 (Added 50 points)
Wisdom: 350/10000 (Added 50 points)
Charisma: 280/10000
Toughness : 1,097/10000 (Added 80 points)
Gunjo's heart thumped unevenly as he advanced through the vast, apocalyptic meadow of Hell, the uncomfortable weight of tension pressing upon his shoulders like mountains forged of dread. The terrain sprawled endlessly into the distance, the demon mountains standing sentinel in the horizon, their peaks jagged like the maw of some colossal beast. The sky overhead lay choked with smog, casting a perpetual twilight that made every shadow a hiding place for horrors unseen.
'Don't fear like you did the Umibozu…be vigilant…' Gunjo thought to himself.
Pinocchio, serene in his slumber, was a silent ward in Gunjo's protective embrace. The wooden figure slept soundly, unaware of the dire straits in which they found themselves—a puppet amongst devils, swathed in the cold cloak of potential perdition.
The air around them felt electric, punctuated by heat and sulfurous whispers, and Gunjo's pulse echoed the beat of an ill omen, each throb a morse code of mortal distress.
'Breathe... steady your mind... anticipate.'
Without warning, the discordant symphony of silence was torn asunder—a gunshot cleaved through the air with the ferocity of divine judgment. The ground erupted where the shots landed, carving furrows in the earth, a graffiti of annihilation wrought by an unseen hand. Gunjo felt his breath hitch, the rapid pattering of his heart palpable against the stillness that returned as fleeting as it had left.
'Stay calm. Listen for the mechanics of the gun. Predict the trajectory. Move!'
Another shot shattered the tranquility, mud and stone erupted skyward. Gunjo's movements were a dance with chance, every decision split-second and vital, his well-honed instincts the only shield against the relentless volley.
He could feel the energy gathering, the rush of air preceding each shot.
'Focus... where are the shots reverberating from? There... no, shift! Move to the left!'
Struggling to maintain control, Gunjo's gaze scanned the jagged skyline, searching for any hint of Automata. The monstrous gunshots seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the shooter eluding every desperate bid for clarity.
KATHOOM!
The ground exploded beside him, but Gunjo jumped to the right.
'It came from that direction! But following it is worthless, she just moves every five seconds.'
With shaking hands, Gunjo lifted Pinocchio—his last defense—but immediately felt his flesh sear with the heat of holding up the sleeping figure. The trap was set; too long in his grasp, and the puppet would awaken, too brief, and their end would be writ in the ruthless ballet of gunfire.
'Counter-intuitive... an aggressive defense. Hold up Pinocchio. Invite the shot, then evade at the last heartbeat.'
Automata, the steaming automaton with a propensity for destruction, was the thunder behind the trigger, the harbinger of ballistic ruin. Every shot she released was a tempest housed in a bullet, its purpose singular and terrifying: annihilation.
Gunjo's desperation mounted as the shots came sporadically, his senses stretched to their limits, his eyes darting and his body moving in jerky, unplanned responses. It was as if the shots knew of his intentions before he did, or so it seemed in the heat of the relentless assault.
'Need a better angle. Predict her next position, must be faster... Charred Ascendance!'
His skin began to harden, contours shifting like an armor of volcanic rock while his speed increased, and the growing horn upon his head afforded him a heightened sense of awareness—yet these gifts were fleeting.
'She's constantly on the move... up those ridges. There's a pattern, there must be. Remember her last positions, predict her movement, anticipate the shot!'
Sweat mingled with the char of his transformation as Gunjo tried to catch a glimpse of Automata. Another gunshot boomed, and he threw himself and Pinocchio to the side, narrowly escaping the catastrophic path of the projectile.
'Time is running out. Hold him... Now!'
Unable to keep Pinocchio aloft for more than ten harried seconds, Gunjo's fingers felt as if they would crumble to ash. The puppet's innocence juxtaposed cruelly with the landscape that tried to claim them.
Each time he predicted a shot's course, it seemed as though Automata anticipated his foresight, her gun thundering a roar that seemed to laugh at his efforts. The steampunk visage he'd managed to glimpse only once was etched into his mind: a humanoid figure, brass and copper fused into a form both beautiful and terrible. Gears whirred where membranes should be, steam hissed from joints alive with dreaded purpose, and at her arm, a weapon not born of this dimension, capable of sundering soul from flesh.
'Read the wind, it carries the sound. Count the seconds between shots.'
Determining that with each discharge Automata was compelled to move, Gunjo became attuned to the earth beneath his feet, seeking disturbances, a hint of movement in the peripheral of his sharpener vision. Momentarily, he saw the sheen of metal—no, gone as if it were only the trick of light.
'Tracks... discern the patterns in the rubble. Each step she takes, seek the displacement of heat, the stink of oil and rust.'
High above, the mountains seemed to mock with their stability, the peaks untroubled by the mayhem unfolding at their roots. Gunjo couldn't help his pulse from skyrocketing, each thud a cacophonous drone that seemed as loud as the gunshots raining down.
'Calibrate your pace. Sprint between shots, cover... there! She's targeting the open spaces. Feint movements, be unpredictable.'
Another shot, a terrifying crescendo that sheared through the atmosphere, came so close to slicing into him that he felt the rip through his senses. Blind luck had played its part; skill needed to supersede it.
'Pinocchio is key. She'll cease fire if she sees him. Just a few seconds more, don't falter...'
His arm trembled as he upheld Pinocchio; the sear of the burn on his palm bloomed with agony. The puppet stirred slightly, a reminder of the impending disaster should it awaken to this hellfire.
The scent of scorched earth filled the air, a nauseating reminder of each shot's lethality. Gunjo's vision, sharpened by his ascended form, caught a glint—an errant reflection of setting sun on metal.
*'There! Dodge, then ready for the next. Hold him up... Now!'*
But as the Automata's figure materialized, another blast was already cleaving the air towards him. Pain shot through his body as he shifted; his breath caught—a beast snared.
'Keep moving. Eyes on the peak. There—she'll be there. Must beat her to the spot.'
His horn's growth peeked out further, sharpening his focus to a razor's edge. The air itself seemed to slow around him; each shot from Automata now a challenge met with an answer—a step, a stretch, a pivot.
'Evade, then straight to the next cover. Press forward to her once predicted spot. Be quicker, always quicker.'
The burning sensation was relentlessly spreading up Gunjo's arm as he shifted Pinocchio's weight. His muscles screamed for reprieve but were answered with the call of duty and urgency—the automaton must see the puppet.
Precision became his mantle, every movement executed with an intention honed by the whetstone of desperation. The onslaught eased; the gap between shots widened. Gunjo took advantage, rushing forward.
'Corner her. Limit the angles she can exploit. Force her onto the same playing field.'
A misplaced step, a cascade of pebbles. Gunjo tensed, but his anticipation paid off—a shot rang out, grazing only shadow as he darted to the left.
'Good. Now calculate her reload time. Use the window. Almost there, expose Pinocchio. It has to work.'
The cracked earth beneath Gunjo's feet gave a shuddering groan, an ill portent that heralded the arrival of a new adversary. From the sulfurous bowels of the forsaken terrain, a demonic beast, horned and heaving with the palpable lust for battle, tore itself free, its maw dripping with the ichor of malice, eyes the hue of burning coals.
It roared, and Gunjo said, "Shit! Of course! Bastards are always around!"
Gunjo could feel the beast's monstrous intent, its raw animality a stark contrast to Automata's calculated strikes. The creature lunged, each swipe of its taloned limbs a blurring motion that ripped through the air, desperate to cleave flesh from bone.
Evading the bestial frenzy, Gunjo decided then to wield the chaos as an instrument, picturing the beast as a pawn in the grander scheme of survival. Automata, still reeling from the puppet's tranquil countenance, was momentarily sightless to the demon's intrusion.
Stepping aside, Gunjo felt the beast's winded fury pass harmlessly by. Each narrowly avoided strike by the demon aligned with the imminent report of Automata's firearm—a symphony of savage intent and mechanized precision. The demonic beast, in its relentless assault, became a jarring rhythm to be anticipated alongside Automata's gunfire.
Gunjo's fist, encased in the hardening char of his Ascended form, found its mark against the demon's jaw. A sheer force, a calculated trajectory, and the beast's head was met with an immovable terrain, the skull yielding to the earthen anvil, a spray of ash and brimstone marking its expiration.
Smoke billowed from the shattered remains, a dark signal that danced with malice in the twilight air. Gunjo poised, readying himself for the next eruptive burst from Automata's weapon, knowing the second's grace he had to act.
As the sharp crack of the gun pierced through, Gunjo's body moved with driven purpose. With both hands, he directed the inert bulk of the demon beast in a trajectory towards one area of the mountains, Pinocchio was sent spiraling towards one area, and he himself, propelled by sheer will, took flight in a completely different direction.
'Throwing them into the spots where she shoots from most, she's bound to move towards one of them! Even then, it will hold her for a second! That's all I need!'
Gunjo's keen observation had unveiled patterns in Automata's movement, sometimes a mirrored strategy, but more often a decipherable path dictated by the terrain and her weapon's mechanics. Through the chaos, the lifeless form of the demonic beast arced towards Automata. She, absorbed in the readiness to fire, was oblivious to the impending collision.
The demon's corpse barreled into Automata with the force of a siege hammer, the unforeseen weight throwing her aim skyward as a bullet sped harmlessly into the clouded firmament. With Automata staggered by the impact, Gunjo, seizing the tumultuous moment, descended from his self-made zenith with the full might of gravity as an ally. In mid-flight, Gunjo's thoughts raced with the clarity of a stream over polished stones. Before Automata could recover, he envisioned the precise moment of impact: the way the dust would billow, the way her gears would crunch under his mass.
'Thanks to my Charred Ascendance and increased intelligence and wisdom stat…I can see her patterns. Though In reverse at times, she's a machine that doesn't think like us.
The ground screamed a prelude of collision as Gunjo, body readied in a coiled strike, envisioned the fracturing of Automata's brass and copper under the might he was to unleash. He saw in his mind's eye the postures she favored, the angles she struck from. He recalled the scent of oil and steam, the lightning-quick movements that spoke of her presence. Timing his descent perfectly, Gunjo imagined the exacct persistence his arm would need to absorb upon landing, how he must roll to mitigate damage, how he must place his weight to ensure maximum force.
As the air whistled past him, Gunjo tasted the anticipation of a plan reaching fruition. There was no hesitancy in his thoughts, no second guessing—a warrior's mind is the sharpest blade.
Gunjo focused on the heartbeat before the strike, sensing the exact orientation of his body to deliver a shattering blow—a single, imperious moment where thought would merge seamlessly into action. Like the climactic end of a concerto, Gunjo awaited the silence after the crescendo, the quiet ebbing that signaled the firm placement of his feet and the surrender of Automata to the compelled force of his resolve.
His strategy crystalizing in the instant before contact, Gunjo felt the constraint of time dissolve. As soon as he heard Automata begin her doomed counterstrike, he rallied his spirit to throw all into the final movement. With Automata reeling from her misfire and the unsought encounter with the beast, Gunjo made his final, desperate descent. The sound of crunching gears and the yowl of dislodged steam heralded the death of conflict and the birth of a fragile triumph.
"Agh!" Automata said, and Gunjo sitting on top of her.
"Phew! That was close—."
BOOM!
Automata shot the ground, and they both blasted into the air.
Gunjo thought, 'She shot the ground to get me off of her?! Okay now I'm getting pissed off.'
Gunjo and Automata slid back from each other, and Gunjo said, "Okay, you're coming with me."
"….Who are you?" She began to aim at him.
"I wouldn't do that. I have a very high ability to attack when provoked, I'm trying to work on that—."
VVANG!
The shot rang out, but instantly, Pinocchio dashed in slashing the bullet in half, making it decimate in his face.
Pinnochio's arm was a blade now, fully red with red sparks of electricity around it.
Automata gasped, saying, "Pinno..chio..?"
The scatter of dust had barely settled when a gleam caught the sulfurous air. Pinocchio, transformed and frightening, emerged with an arm now a honed blade—the stark extension of his wooden sinew.
Gunjo said, "You're awake…?"
Pinnochio dashed up to Gunjo, and said In his ear, "Father put me on some kind of shut down mode or something, but I woke up, did you throw me???"
"Um, yeah? I had to. I was predicting every place she ran to after a shot, so I threw you, myself, and a monster in those directions."
"Ah."
"So what's your plan? Gonna talk some sense into her?"
"I'm gonna sound super cool and dramatic and badass, watch this."
"Do your thing. Sounds like you're In love."
Pinnochio blushed, "W-Well I mean you can SAY that, I mean maybe that's the case, but—."
"If you have some sort of feelings into those puppet hearts, then you shouldn't hesitate to test the waters."
"Wow mister, you know about love."
"I have a wife who I miss very very dearly. Her name is Sevyn, and there's no telling what's going on right now wh her. I'm starting to to regret sending her out. But go do your thing."
"She'll be okay, don't worry. Okay here I go. Dramatic time."
In a flash of defiance and precision, his blade-arm sang through the air, slicing the bullet that aimed to end Gunjo's stand. Two halves clinked harmlessly against the parched ground, an ode to the swift interference.
Pinocchio, his expression carved from the gravest of woods, turned to face Automata, the lines of his visage set in a stern narrative. "Once, crafted by hands cursing in the marketplaces of perdition, did I come to be," he began, his voice echoing the depth of infernal kilns.
Automata, still grappling with the cogwork recesses of herself, leveled her weapon at the approaching Pinocchio, a tremor betraying the mechanism's brewing autonomy. Her aim wavered as he spoke.
"In this realm of endless torment," Pinocchio continued, "a merchant of twisted wares breathed malevolent life into my fibers, shaping me from the cursed timber found at hell's darkest wood."
"And yet, amidst the wicked screams and caustic air, I yearned for more than this chiseling existence; I yearned for the light of truth." Pinocchio's blade glinted as it reflected the dim fires that blazed around them.
Automata's arm shook harder, the barrel of her gun drawing erratic beads on Pinocchio's advancing form. "Why do you approach me?" her metallic voice rasped, a hint of the artisan's touch still lingering in her query.
"Because, Automata, like you, I was molded from the depths but craved the heights," Pinocchio intoned, step by deliberate step, drawing nearer the conflicted machine.
"For each act of wickedness I committed in blind obedience, my body would contort, growing limbs of lethality," he admitted, his eyes never leaving hers. "My father, Geppetto's damned soul, could only wail as his creation turned monstrosity before him."
Automata's arm faltered yet again, the grip on her weapon loosening slightly as the haunting narrative wove its way around her mechanical heart. "Pinocchio..." her voice lingered on his name.
Pinocchio halted, standing before the shaking gun. "Though we were born of despair," he confessed, "I chose to seek redemption amidst the brimstone. Our paternity is of infernal forges, yet we are not bound by it."
Automata's calculations churned, the gun lowering an inch. Logic and emotion, alien and kin in one casing, fought for supremacy within her.
"We share a smith," Pinocchio stated simply, "But bounded not by chains or mandates. Our will is our craftsmanship now, Automata. Do you wield the artistry to choose your destiny?"
The pressure in the air grew taut as a violin string, the anticipation a melody capable of snapping. Automata's gaze locked onto Pinocchio's wooden eyes, the act of destruction ceased, her arm no longer a harbinger of death. In the stillness that followed, chaos, it seemed, awaited the whisper of choice.
Automata ram up to Pinnochio, and hugged him, saying, "Pinnochiooooo!"
Pinnochio blushed, his body twitching, "I-I-I-I-I—-!"
Gunjo said, "Welpppp guess my job is done here."
Automata dashed up to Gunjo, hugging him, saying, "THANK YOUUUU."
Gunjo stuttered, "U-Um-Um—."
Pinnochio pointed, "WHY ARE YOU HUGGING HIM?!"
Gunjo said, "GET OFFA ME!"
Pinnochio looked away, saying, "Something's coming.."
Gunjo stopped, thinking, 'Something's coming…'
Automata said, "I'm feeling left out."
As the echoes of Pinocchio's revelatory sermon dissipated into the sulfurous air of the hellscape, an eerie cadence encroached upon their moment of clarity. A haunting chorus marched towards them, a litany of voices as one, singing a sardonic parody of familiar notes. "Run, rabbit, run," they crooned, the melody distorted into a symphony of the damned.
From the foreboding horizon, an army emerged, their frames meticulously wrought with hellish ingenuity—a legion of bunny rabbit automaton demons. Each construct bore an unsettling countenance, their cogs and gears imbued with the sinister vermilion glow of dark hell magic. Eyes ablaze with a spectral fire, they moved with uncanny synchronicity, their formation as precise as it was chilling.
Gunjo, his stature rooted in the unwavering resolve of a titan, stood at the ready. Beside him, Pinocchio, blade-arm gleaming with foreboding shadows, shifted into an aggressive stance. Automata, now an ally amongst the once adversaries, locked her joints in anticipation of conflict, her weapon function merged with her newfound purpose.
Pinocchio's voice rose, carried forth with an edge honed by adversity. "These machinations before us are the spawn of the Merchant's ingenuity—stolen," he declared, "wrenched from their creator's hands by demonic order and twisted by the decrees of lords and monarchs."
Gunjo nodded, tightening his gauntlets. "Spawns and thralls they may be," he growled through gritted teeth, "but against our combined mettle, they'll find no quarter."
Automata, her systems whirring harmoniously with the pulse of free will, added, "Then let our resistance be as the thunder that echoes through these forsaken valleys—unyielding and momentous."
With predatory grace, the trio dashed forward, an indomitable force of defiance amidst the dusk of damnation. The automaton bunnies advanced in counterpoint, their own formations deliberate and formidable, the large, named boss leading the fore—a behemoth amongst rabbits.
The boss, adorned with ornate carvings that told of its feculent baptism and bedecked with weaponry from hell's own arsenals, spoke with a voice that resounded like the clash of iron gates. "For the All Mother, for the Order," it bellowed, "our twisted forms march, and through our conquests, her glory shall spread like the darkest of dawns."
This largest of the rabbit automatons, its luminous eyes seething with mania and purpose, led the legion in their diabolic procession. Clad in armor that was rough-spun from the very bones of subjugated fiends, it stood as a monument to doom.
Behind it, the lesser but no less disturbing rabbits brandished their weapons—serrated blades and spines, muskets belching infernal smoke, and limbs reforged into instruments of terror. Their stances were those of creatures corrupted beyond recognition, beyond the playful lechery once associated with their kind.
Each of the rabbit automatons bore the mark of the Order, a sigil that emanated with vile energy, a brand that bound them to the will of their unseen, malevolent matron. With unholy armor wrapping their forms, they resembled grotesque knights preparing for an infernal joust.
"Aberrations of steel and sorcery, your end comes," Gunjo proclaimed, his voice like thunder over the battlefield. "And it is we who deliver it!"
The melody of "Run, rabbit, run" continued, a sinister rhythm to their unhallowed advance. The battle cries of Gunjo, Pinocchio, and Automata melded with the drone, creating a discordant symphony that heralded the inception of a savage ballet.
Gunjo made his scythe form and his Shard from Bahamut form, embedded within his scythe, the blade burned with dark purple, black, and red flames.
[Quest completed: 50 XP gained. 8 skill points earned]
[Optional quest : Destroy the automatons. Rewards - Automaton armor: Upgraded]
'Guess I'll do it. Fighting alongside a puppet and machine, this should be fun.'
Pinocchio said, "We have to destroy them, there's no saving them. I can't save them because they don't really know me, only Father has been telling me stories about them."
Automata with her Wargun added, "I know them. They hated me."
The clash was imminent, an unstoppable force meeting an entrenched malice. In the final breath before steel met steel and flesh tested the mettle of enchanted iron, a silence fell, pregnant with the promise of war.
And then, with the ferocity of a storm breaking upon the shore, the battle began.
The trio ran forward together, and Gunjo smirked. "I'm gonna have fun with this!"
Pinnochio said, "Wait! Someone ask me a question I have to lie about!"
"Why can't you lie about something yourself?"
"I just can't think of anything right now!"
"Um…you're in love with Automata."
"I am!"
His nose didn't grow, and Automata blushed, "Oh, is that how you feel, Pinnochio?"
"I-I-I-I-!"
Gunjo said to Pinnochio, "Do you like fighting?"
"I don't!"
His nose grew, and Gunjo laughed, "Yeah I knew you were insane."
"I'm not!"
His nose grew more.
Gunjo, invoking the Death Punch, leaps high above the automaton horde, his fist glazed with his own ignited lifeblood. With a heaving roar, he slams into the ground amidst the rabbit maelstrom. The impact reverberates, halving automatons scatter like broken toys, their innards a testament to the wrath of the hell-born warrior.
He grinned, reminiscing about the times where he would absolutely destroy rebel demon armies with his power.
'This feeling…of complete annihilation…I missed this feeling!"
Automata, sighting through the aftermath, unloads the Wargun at a monolithic rabbit looming over Gunjo. Its explosion-bullets blast into its torso, etching deep into the demonic alloy, each round opening hellish fissures in the air to rip reality asunder and drawing forth plumes of sulfurous smoke.
Lunging forward, Pinocchio, his bladed limb an extension of his dire intent, carves precise arcs through the air. The acid of his lies, launched from his elongated nose, collides with the automaton bunnies; they burst into caustic, sanguine flames, further culling the nightmare swarm.
Gunjo rises, scythe in hand, the Shard of the Abyssal Feline transfusing it with malevolent energies. He slashes in wide, devastating sweeps, leaving trails of shadow that cut through metal and malice alike, the added power rending the battlefield in frigid despair.
Pinocchio and Automata, in concerted flow, combine their onslaught—his blade deftly guiding the targets into the path of her explosive ordnance. Each bullet meets its mark with violent precision, their synergy a dance of annihilation.
Automata shifts, employing the brief sanctuary to reload the Wargun. As the automatons close in, she spins, her gears calculating the trajectories, and unleashes another volley; the resulting detonation consumes the assailants in blinding conflagrations.
Gunjo, his blood boiling with Scalding Vitality, becomes a beacon of retribution. Each strike leaves behind lingering embers that etch into the enemies, a brand that ensures their wounds reverb with echoes of their own savagery.
Pressing their advantage, Gunjo and Pinocchio unleash a relentless barrage, Reality Sunder pulsating with every third strike, causing the ground beneath the rabbit legion to crack and fracture; the rhythm of their battle cries weaving with the vibrations to disorient and stagger.
9. The boss rabbit automaton charges, but Gunjo meets it head-on. The scythe, gleaming with the cumulative might of the Abyssal Feline Shard, slices through the demonic armor as if through parchment, sapping the creature's strength with the Binding of Bahamut.
Pinocchio, his form immaterial in the frenzy, threads through the fray. Each automaton, touched by the hollow tip of his blade, bursts asunder, the dark flames from his deceitful nostrils painting the sky in a morbid aurora of corruption.
With Scalding Onset in full surge, Gunjo's scythe becomes an extension of his fiery blood. As it sears through the advancing horde, it ignites their hell-crafted sinews, turning their very existence into funeral pyres.
Automata, aligns her sights on a distant cluster of rabbit automatons. With clockwork precision, she fires, and the landscape erupts, torn remnants of her foes melding with the earth.
In an arc of unity, Pinocchio vaults over Gunjo, his cursed nose launching a volley as he somersaults. The projectiles rain down, a hailstorm of death, and every landing heralds a burst of horrors upon the platoons of rabbit demons.
Gunjo, executing Charred Ascendance, grows his solitary horn; awareness amplified, he navigates the fray with brutal grace. Each motion is a prelude to devastation, a harmony of increased speed and imparted ruin.
The trio, a testament to bizarre camaraderie, dances amidst the onslaught. Automata's Wargun, now pulsing with surreal potency, finds accord with Gunjo's ferrous tempest and Pinocchio's swift retribution.
Automata's might escalates, her bullets now larger, the reload time forgotten amid adrenalin. The expanse between them and their enemies dwindles, each explosion from her Wargun delivering cataclysmic payloads with relentless cadence
.
Pinocchio continues weaving falsehoods into ammunition. His fibs, now mammoth in magnitude, find solace in the heart of the fray, each shot blooming in diabolic plumes that singe the fabric of reality.
The boss rabbit, now faltering under the weight of stolen power, faces down the wrath of Gunjo. Blow after blow, the scythe flashes with arcana and primal force, carving runes of demise into its chassis, cleaving shadow and sinew inequal measure.
Automata calculates angles of impossible geometry, her Wargun carving swathes through the air that fold upon themselves, the cracks catching automatons and dragging them into voids where their screams are silently captured.
Together, the trio stands, surrounded by the carnage of their own making, the smoldering carcasses of rabbit automatons littering the nether landscape. In their eyes, a hellfire blazes, signaling an end to the assault as the final echoes of the battle sing their deathly chorus.
Automata hugged Gunjo and Pinnochio at the same time, saying, "We did it!"
Pinnochio blushed, "Ahhh."
Gunjo scoffed, "Get OFF ME."
[Side Quests completed]