"I made a sacrifice and forced a bigger sacrifice on you."

It feels wrong. It looks wrong, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. But, then again... It is what he wanted in this battlefield afterall. He wanted to win, to laugh, to shoot this shotgun, and watch as the bullets scattered and struck the head of anything in his way. It was easy, it was simple, it's what he truly wanted—a firearm that'll blow the heads of anyone he sees through a simple pull of a trigger.

Does it matter, when he kills? Does it truly matter? Each bullet he shot struck down a victim who had a beloved, they all fell down one by one as if it's like potatoes slipping out of a fishnet. It's like splashing a bucket of water across a ruined canvas we'd call 'art'. All that, only from a single shell.

This stupid place? This ruin? It's always a warzone, a battlefield, death is something you'd obviously expect.

...

The devil promised him to give him a gun that'll obliterate anything he sees. As long as he aims true, as long as the bullet glides through the air, it'll strike them down. But of course, the devil's not a good guy. It never was.

The catch is, the last shell he'd fire.. Will kill his beloved. Thanks to that, he's free to fire at whoever and whatever. The pendant around his neck is simply a reminder he refuses to acknowledge, as he decided to forget about her.

You'd run across the battlefield, looking around and panting with each step. It's whole mountain of bodies, all either shot to bits or got a hollow hole right through their poor skull. Bullet casings are everywhere, and they all belong to a shotgun—Heathcliff's shotgun, the cursed one. You continue to run under the red sky and crimson sun. There's no other colors besides white, black, and red. While yes, maybe a hint of gold and yellow, it's all mostly red and black.

"You there." A voice rings out, as Heathcliff steps up into the peak of the corpse mountain. His gaze struck you, forcing you to step back and sweat. He'd huff, resting the shotgun on his shoulder. "Whose side are ye on?"