In the Name of God - vanish into fiction

The subway station had collapsed in a miserable heap.

The shattered remains of a building leaned at a sharp angle.

Here and there, large and uneven holes pierced through structures, and slabs of concrete had been sliced apart in unnatural shapes.

Everywhere he turned, buildings that had been torn apart to a brutal degree scattered a bleak, desolate atmosphere.

“Haah… haah….”

In the middle of the silent ruined city, a faint breath escaped his mouth as he lay sprawled on the ground. Between breaths that felt as if they would snap at any moment, painful groans slipped out.

He pressed a bloodied hand against the ground and sat with his back leaning on a wall broken open with metal bars jutting out. He tried to push himself up using the wall for support, but his thigh had been cut so deeply that the blade had reached the muscle. He could not put any strength into it.

He tried to stand again and again only to collapse helplessly each time.

Someone who had been watching from afar, as if quietly appreciating the sight, began to walk toward him.

Step. Step.

The sound of shoes crunching over concrete debris and powdered stone rang out unusually loud.

Hearing footsteps between his rough breaths, he widened his eyes and lifted his head. His lips, which had been dripping with blood, twisted with difficulty.

He narrowed his eyes and raised his right hand. The pure white handgun in his grasp aimed toward the approaching figure. The engraved decorations on the gun answered him, drawing in the last of his remaining mana and giving off a faint blue glow.

The man approached and stared silently at the barrel pointed at him. He took in even the strained tremble in the arm holding the gun, and his expression turned sorrowful as he looked at Do-yoon.

“Are you hurting that much?”

“You really have the nerve to ask… you bastard….”

Just keeping his arm raised made his breath catch in his throat. Every inhale brought a tearing pain to his chest and lungs.

It hurt so much he felt like he could die.

He grit his teeth and forced his eyes wide open.

The wound on his right shoulder, cut open earlier, sent waves of extreme pain crashing into him without end. Blood streamed down from the deep gash and soaked his white coat until it grew heavy and red. His ruined left arm was no different, so damaged he could no longer move even a fingertip.

He forced himself to focus on his broken condition and glared at the man before him.

There were injuries on him here and there, but none of them were fatal. His face, twisted into a bitter smile, bore no more than a single mark where a bullet had grazed him.

Could he do it?

The distance was close enough.

Even if weak, if he gathered every last bit of mana remaining inside his body and pushed it to the limit, he could probably land at least one shot. If he gritted his teeth and endured the pain from the recoil, perhaps even two.