Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 36: Rage
Billy has always been on the run.
That was the truth of it he ran. When the odds turned bad, when the bullets started flying, when the law came knocking. His gift wasn't brute strength or swords skill. It was staying alive. Lying when needed, smiling when afraid, talking his way out of nooses, gunfights, and backroom deals.
But not this time.
He had nowhere to run.
The two companions who once stood beside him Musashi and Lapulapu were down. The two powerhouses of the group
Billy just stood there.
Protathlitis roared above, a monstrous blur streaking through the void. Wings tucked, arms folded like a missile forged by gods. A thunderous wind whipped around the arena, debris swirling, the air itself trembling under the weight of the descending champion.
And Billy didn't move.
His boots were heavy. Not from weight, but from fear. Not the kind that screamed and panicked but the slow, icy dread that settled deep in the gut. The kind that whispered this is it. His revolver felt useless. His hands were shaking.
"You're weak."
The words echoed again in his head, not from the crowd, not from his enemies from Protathlitis himself. That towering bastard had looked at him, not with hatred, not even with disdain but pity. Like he didn't even matter. Like he wasn't even part of the fight.
But what could he do?
He wasn't a warrior. He didn't have a sword. He wasn't like Lapulapu, who stood like a mountain, or Musashi, who moved like a flowing water. He was just Billy the Kid. A smart mouth with a fast draw and quicker feet.
But still he was here.
And they were down.
The pressure of Protathlitis' descent intensified, the force of it crashing down like a divine judgment. The crowd—phantoms or not—screamed in hysteria. Their champion was about to end it.
Billy looked up.
The wind hit his face, tearing at his coat. His hand hovered over his holster. Not steady. Not calm. Just there.
Then, something shifted. It wasn't courage. It wasn't anger. It was something quieter.
Resolve.
For the first time in his life Billy didn't run. He took a step forward. Just one. His breath caught, but he didn't waver.
Protathlitis was seconds from impact. A force of nature.
Billy didn't blink. And as the shadow of death closed in above him, he whispered under his breath.
"Not today, you bird faced bastard."
Billy's left mechanical arm whirred softly.
The fingers twitched index, middle, and thumb locking into place while the ring and pinky curled inward, forming a crude gun shape.
Then something shifted.
Small panels in his hand retracted with a soft click, revealing a compartment nestled beneath the palm. From within, a dull metallic barrel emerged—unfinished, just the frame, six empty chambers waiting.
But Billy wasn't done.
He reached to his side where, tucked into a hidden slot, was a revolver cylinder without a handle. The barrel glowed faintly, a soft blue light pulsing from a single special round.
He slid it in.
The chamber clicked home, locking tight.
His mechanical arm snapped shut, fusing seamlessly with the handleless revolver. What was once a hand was now a makeshift weapon.
Billy's left hand had become a gun!
No more tremble in his body. No more hesitation in his breath.
He raised the barrel, eyes locked on the falling shadow above.
And took aim.
A hiss of steam burst from Billy's mechanical forearm.
The plating on the arm shifted, vents snapping open along the sides. A low hum built in his wrist followed by a crack of electricity dancing across the surface of the gun-barrel fused to his hand.
The glow intensified. From the muzzle, a bright white light formed—a gathering pulse of raw energy, crackling like a bolt barely contained.
Billy didn't flinch.
Above, Protathlitis feel like a meteor, wings tucked tight, body a spinning mass of death barreling down.
Billy squared his stance.
He aimed.
He fired.
A blinding beam of light burst from his left hand a high-pitched scream of energy tearing through the air. It collided dead-on with Protathlitis mid-fall, the force detonating like a thunderclap.
The blast didn't just knock Protathlitis off course.
It punched through the arena.
Where the beam struck, the stone walls fractured then collapsed inwardly a wide and jagged, crumble dust open. The stone crumbled like paper, revealing a black void beneath.
Like space itself had been torn open.
The phantom audience at that section, once deafening with cheers, began to fade. Not in smoke, not in sound. They simply… vanished. Thousands of bodies dissolved into glowing dust, lifting into the air like ash caught in moonlight.
No screams. No goodbye. Just soft flickers of light rising, drifting upward and gone.
The blast didn't stop the champion but it did change his trajectory.
The descent veered his spin unraveled. Protathlitis smashed into the ground, not like a god, but like a man denied his moment. The impact still hit hard, sent a ripple across the floor, carved a crater but there was no apocalypse.
Billy exhaled shakily, smoke trailing off his mechanical hand. He tasted iron—blood trickling from his nose, ears, even the corner of his eyes. The recoil had taken something out of him.
But he grinned.
Behind his scratched sunglasses, his eyes burned sharp with light.
He twirled his hand, still fused to the weapon, and blew the smoke away.
"Bang," he muttered.
Musashi and Lapulapu look over at Billy, who was still grinning like a madman blood dripping from his nose, ears, and the corner of his mouth. His chest rose and fell like he'd run a marathon, but he was still breathing. Still smiling behind those dusty, cracked sunglasses.
Lapulapu glanced down at Billy's arm. It was mechanical fully integrated from the shoulder down, metal plating connected by intricate joints, steam faintly rising from the seams. The muzzle of the weapon that had just fired still glowed faintly.
Lapulapu narrowed his eyes, not out of judgment, but curiosity. He hadn't known. Hadn't seen it before.
Musashi tilted his head, wiping blood from his chin. "Well… I'll be damned."
Billy coughed, then spit red into the dirt, laughing dryly.
"Yeah… hurts like hell," he said, still blood flowing. "But, hell, it works."
Lapulapu stepped closer. "Your arm…"
"Yeah, yeah," Billy cut in, waving his hand—or rather, clinking it. "It's a long story. Y'all remember when we were makin' requests from that creepy bastard—the Watcher?"
Musashi raised an eyebrow. "Barely. I only asked for these cuties and basic survival kit."
Billy snorted. "Yeah, well, I got ambitious. Told him I wanted a super duper powerful gun. Like, real game changer sh*t."
"And?" Lapulapu asked.
Billy sucked in a sharp breath, winced, and continued. "He gave me that deadpan, annoyed voice you know the one. Said somethin' about 'equivalent exchange'… that I couldn't just get power. I had to give somethin' up."
Musashi leaned on his side, smirking. "So what'd you give?"
Billy grinned wider, his teeth pink from the blood. "Smartest damn move I made told him, 'Fine. Take my left arm… and while you're at it, rip out my heart and make that the core snd my entire body as the fuel.' Boom. Got myself this little toy."
He held up his mechanical arm, now dim and sparking.
"It only got six shots," he said. "Each one is powered by me. My blood heats the core. My replacement heart pumps the energy. Every time I pull the trigger… I'm burnin' myself from the inside out!"
Musashi laughed. "You're crazy!"
Even Lapulapu couldn't help it.
A faint smirk tugged at the edge of his normally unreadable face, small, subtle, gone in a breath but it was there.
He didn't say anything, just nodded once. A gesture of respect. Maybe approval.
The dumb*ss cowboy had earned it.
Billy winked behind his shades. "It's just a way to make myself powerful."
A gust of wind kicked up around them, feathers drifting through the dust-choked air.
Protathlitis the Champion took flight again.
He hovered high above the arena, wings spread wide, casting a massive shadow over the cracked stone below.
His sharp avian eyes scanned the destruction Billy had left behind the scorched impact zone, the faint glowing hole in the arena wall, the lingering static in the air. And the phantoms.
Those closest to the blast had been torn apart by the sheer force vanished like mist in sunlight. But the rest? Still there. Still cheering.
Still chanting his name.
CHAMPION!
CHAMPION!
CHAMPION!
Protathlitis let out a roar.
Not a boast. Not a proclamation.
It was rage raw and howling. A sound so piercing, so full of fury, it cracked through the arena like lightning. The walls trembled. The floor shook. And the ears of the trio rang as if thunder had struck just beside them.
Billy clutched his head, staggering. Musashi gritted his teeth, planting his blades into the ground for support. Lapulapu shielded his ears, muscles tensing.
It wasn't just a scream.
It was a promise of violence.