Fate is a collapsing mountain, constantly trying to remove us from this world. It is almost as if we were never meant to exist. Yet, our creations hold us firmly within this reality. So, may the children of tomorrow fight even if all else is destroyed.

Crafted, Ensigiled, and Inscribed by Arnold Pilner.

* The inscription upon the Fate Sealer's case

I walk in Johnny's steps toward the fateful Colt, the cherry wood of its handle beckoning me. I gradually slow as Johnny's hand lays against the glass case. His head turns to me briefly, his eyes red and bloodshot.

Shrugging my shoulders, I lean toward the case, touching it with the Bloody Palm as another prick of pain erupts on my finger.

"Ow!"

I rip my finger back as Johnny's head turns from the Colt to me.

"Something wrong? Do we need to leave?"

My pupils land on my hand, a tiny blob of blood leaking from my index finger. I shake my head, pretty confident that it is a similar phenomenon to how the door opened.

"Yeah. I think--"

A wailing cry of glass makes my ears crinkle with discomfort as the glass case interrupts me, the transparent material somehow sliding down into the ground.

The moment it opens, Johnny's hand darts toward the Colt, the man evidently too excited to control himself. I step back with widened eyes just in case something happens. I flinch in preparation for anything as his fingers meet the wood of the Fate Stealer.

Johnny has always been a paragon of self-control to me. But right now, as his hand grips the Lumen, I wonder if that is all just an illusion. No, surely not. Guns have always been his vice, something he fiddles with while stressed and fights with to relieve that stress.

To him, a gun such as this is more than a weapon. It's a future.

And so, with bated breath, I observe the Angel's fingers run over the wood. A second passes as he holds the Colt, then two, then three, and finally five before I breathe out.

"Is it okay?"

Johnny nods vigorously, his movement so animated he almost knocks into a nearby weapons shelf.

"Yes. Better than okay. This thing... He is amazing."

His wording makes me think of the Lily, another Colt addressed with such a term.

"He? Is it sentient?"

Johnny's head pauses for a second before shaking.

"Not quite. I think it was at one point, though. From what I can sense with my Ether, the Colt seems old, weathered, and tired. Maybe the years did damage to it? I mean, time ruins all, right?"

I bob my head along with him as a pit is conjured in my stomach of disappointment. It's damaged? After all this? Is the Lumen damaged? What about all the others? This one has been in a glass case the whole time, unlike Maddox's famous Lumen, Ocean's Tempo. That bastard sword has been thrown in the ring with him as its owner many times.

"So, is it broken? Can it still shoot?"

This time, Johnny is the one to shrug his shoulders, the man still inspecting the Colt with his eyes and Ether.

"I don't think it's broken; I think it was never entirely made. It feels incomplete, almost as if..."

He goes quiet, his voice fading into obscurity as I'm left here staring at him, staring at the gun.

"As if what?"

Johnny looks up at me and finishes his words with a flourish of Fate Sealer, the six-cylinder centerpiece of the Colt being flung out. Oddly, the chamber size doesn't appear to fit standard rounds, either.

"I think that Arnold wasn't able to complete the Fate Sealer. It only has one Gambler. For something of such... grandiosity, I think it was meant for more, just that the previous Prime didn't have the time or Gambler Sigils to elevate it to the level of Demonsbane. People used to talk about Arnold's ambitions to create ten weapons, each with the power that could rival a Prime. Sadly, not one of them reached that level, not even Demonsbane."

Still frustrated at not having an honest answer, I wave my hands toward him. But Johnny ignores me and returns to the glass case, leaning down and picking up a box.

"So, does it still work? Or is the 7th Lumen a dud? Should we just go find Earl, wherever he is, or--"

The gun enthusiast raises one hand to shut me up as he opens the box with the other, revealing an ornately decorated wooden frame with at least two dozen bullets inside. He enunciates as he loads the revolver-shaped flintlock.

"It works. It just only has two abilities, unlike all the other Lumen. The first is that a missed bullet will converge fate. The second is each bullet seals a slice of a target's fate, gradually weakening even the most powerful foe."

I can only raise an eyebrow at his cryptic words. I'm no poet.

"What."

Johnny laughs as he closes the cylinder and motions for me to look for something.

"The not yet formed mind within told me that as if it was tapered to only say those things. So I figure it means missed bullets will curve and hit the intended target, similar to Earl's skills. The other one likely means that each time I hit, even if I don't kill the target, I'll likely drain something from them: vitality, Ether, willpower, or something else I don't quite understand. Now, stop worrying about my things. Go find yourself something."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I nod to him and step away through the dimly lit armory, my eyes scanning the dusty shelves for a weapon. That glass case was the fanciest thing here. Everything else is primarily dusty without Edmund to take care of the place.

The air is thick with the musty smell of old metal, and I can feel the weight of history pressing down on me from the knowledge that this place was made by a Prime and the hope he left inside it. I need to find something quickly, though - something that will give me a fighting chance against whatever foe I may face.

My current Claymore, the steel brick I left by the wagons, is good, but I want something better. It's heavy and unwieldy, and while I find it fits me quite well... I don't know. I just need something else. Probably a Colt since the Intervention was destroyed.

And so, my gaze falls upon a collection of old revolvers, their wooden grips polished smooth by years of unuse in preparation for their inevitable servitude. I pick one up and run my fingers over the barrel, feeling the cool metal beneath my touch. It feels heavy and solid in my hand, and I know it will pack a punch.

Diving a bit deeper, I glance at the tag where it is sitting.

Python - 2nd Mark Colt - Rogue and Freak - Leaves behind a poison and has higher penetrative power than most other Colts.

Shaking my head, I pull myself from the Colt. There is no point in inspecting it further. I merely looked at it out of curiosity. I could just scan the room, looking for the highest color of the rainbow. Still, I don't want to miss something with a fantastic ability implanted into the weapon by its Sigils.

So, I move down the row of shelves, my eyes darting from one weapon to the next. I see muskets, the earliest form of Colts, swords, halberds, and even battleaxes, weapons more typical of the Nahullo. But none of them have anything special about them.

It's all just extra power, speed, flexibility, or some other thing like poison. Nothing... with that specialty. Am I asking for too much? I don't want something as cool as Johnny's Colt, but I do want something interesting.

I know that it is difficult to make weapons with functional abilities beyond such primary components, but I know it is also possible. The Lumen is an example, so I continue to look even as my hope dwindles.

Closing my eyes so I am not tempted to walk toward the dark blues of the 6th Sigil, I take a deep breath and let my instincts guide me.

My steps bring me around as I maneuver with my hand as my directory, telling me what I'm walking past. I feel sharp blades, dull clubs, pointed edges, and smooth barrels. But still, nothing calls to me. The skills bestowed by these weapons aren't anything special enough to be worth using over my current Claymore. Every Colt is also competing with the eventual Blooming Lily that I will have. Might as well plan for success, eh?

But even after several minutes, I still don't find anything. And at this point, Johnny has gone back to the surface, I'm sure, to practice with his new Colt.

I'm not jealous. I'm not. Really. I swear. Nuh-uh. Not at all.

Maybe a bit. But I mean, come on!

"This is my Vault now, right, Edmund? Did you leave anything for me?"

I cannot help but speak to the old man as I sit on one of the tables with weapons laid out for easy pickings, courtesy of Johnny, while I was searching for my own earlier.

And as I sit at this table without a response from the dead man, I groan and lie down on the table, pushing aside some weapons. My eyes roam the Vault again, but this time upside down from my lying position. As I do so, I notice something in the far corner, a long coat on a coat rack.

Why is there a coat in here? That's not Johnny's. It's dark blue, a very dark blue, and that's not even mentioning the light blue chains I'm only now noticing.

I sit up almost instantly, the discovery so foreign I struggle to fathom it. Clothing with a Sigil? What? Is it an artifact of some kind? The most substantial resentment in a dead Sigil can form into items, though incredibly rarely. The demon's Heirlooms and the Vial made from Edmund's body are exquisite examples.

Confused, I weave through the shelves with my eyes locked on the coat as if it will disappear should I look away, which is entirely possible if it is indeed an artifact. The shits are so bizarre; you never know with them.

But as I get closer, it doesn't disappear. It just sits still. And when I get within a foot, I notice that it also has a tag similar to all the weapons in the Vault. I reach out and gingerly raise the label to read it.

Adumbral - 5th Threaded Bulwark - 3x Nightowl 1x Rogue 1x Prowler - Increases the wearer's speed at night and can turn the wearer into shadow with enough Ether injected. The material is tough enough to stop low-caliber bullets and protect against minor injuries.

The description on the label wrests away any caution I had as I heft it off the coat rack. Sliding my arms into the sleeves of the supernatural overcoat, I feel the cool, sleek fabric enveloping my body. The coat is a deep, mesmerizing shade of shady blue, reminiscent of the vast expanse of midnight skies. Its surface is rough, while the inside is soft, a strange counterbalance.

As I pull the coat over my shoulders, a tingling sensation courses through my skin as if the very essence of shadow seeps into my being. I can feel twinges of Ether run along the fabric in small amounts, barely caressing my body. The material clings to me, conforming to my contours like a second skin. It is simultaneously firm and yielding, offering a protective embrace. I can't help but grin with elation. Maybe this will help me get hurt less.

Next, I cinch the coat's buttons in front, the action taking only a short instant. Then, almost ignoring the unknown words on the label, I take a moment to savor its ethereal presence. Despite its apparent weightiness, it feels weightless against my body, as if it is composed of whispers and echoes of the night. I run my fingers along the collar, tracing its sharp lines' contours and marveling at the craftsmanship that went into its creation.

I pinch it with my hand before inspecting it with Ether, and the coat feels harsh to the touch on the outside despite its surprisingly controlled temperature inside with an odd softness. I can't quite tell if the coolness is from the shadowy nature of the Sigils within or an effect of whatever fabric the coat is made with.

But I'm not going to complain about any of it, even if I thought Sigils couldn't be imbued into such significant works. This coat is so much bigger than a shotgun or rifle, and I thought that was the limitation.

And so, with this Adumbral on my frame, I walk back to that table with the weapons, giddy about the result and eager to see what turning into a shadow is like. But, I wonder, is it like Virgil's rapid pace in the dark? That man seems to move like a bullet if he covers himself with gloaming.

To do so, though, I must eliminate this damned Ether saturation bugging me these past few weeks. Good thing these Vaults come with a few Concoctions loaded in, five Concoctions, and one Serum for this one. Unfortunately, for the future, both Blake and I are taking one each, which is reducing the five to three.

Had there been a Serum when I passed out trying to save Bonfire, I'd be fine now, but sadly, those are scarce, even among such rarities as a Vault.

And so, I grab one of the Concoctions and sit in a nearby chair. Then, I take a deep breath as I roll up my pant leg and bring the Concoction toward my leg. My breath hitches as the needle gets close, the memory of the lava-like liquid etched into my mind. The pain of it makes me squint, unsure if I should relive it.

Focus. Think about this unbelievable coat you got! To use it, you need to inject yourself with the Concoction.

Yeah, I'm fine. It'll be fine. I've already used a bunch before, right? What's another one?

With a burgeoning confidence, the needle enters my skin. Then, with a breath siphoned through my mouth, I apply pressure toward the syringe. For a moment, all is swell, and then, a moment later, fire emerges inside my veins, the abyssal liquid of the Concoction deceptively searing.

Gritting my teeth, I almost fall off the chair from the pulsing sun within my flesh. I feel the heat thumping through my veins, a molten fire threatening to consume me from within. It is almost as if I am a volcano, the burning earth and the scorching sun all at once. My body trembles as the heat surges through me. I struggle to contain the Concoction as it boils away the remaining Ether within my sickened flesh.

I can feel the abyssal sticky liquid coursing through my innards, a fiery torrent that rages unchecked. It sears my flesh and burns away my ailment, leaving only rawness in its wake as I shiver on the ground, the chair long gone.

With each passing moment, my control slips further and further away. But, just as my vision darkens, I feel the wave of heat recede, allowing me to notice that I've drenched the floor with my tears. With a growing soreness, I stand and wipe away the watery fluid beneath me so that no one else will know.

Then, with struggling legs, I reach inside myself and pull a strand of Ether, eager to see if everything is better. And it is, the substance reacting faster than ever before, even if my body still feels quite raw. I try to rub the muscles on my arms, but I quickly get off track with the harsh texture of the coat and start to gather Ether to use its trait.

I still don't know how it works, so it might take a while. But as I look it over and flow Ether into it to find its core, I rethink the traits.

The trait for Sigils 1-3, the increased speed, then the trait for Sigils 4-6, the shadow movement thingy. Most creations by Craftsman, no matter how good, follow the rule that items imbued with Sigils are far weaker than a person, the abilities both diluted and limited in number, generally limited to one per realm.

But in just a minute or so, I find the core, a bundle of one Metamorphosed Sigil and two singles within the fabric of the chest pocket. And with the center located, I push Ether into it with a large volume, a small spike rising in my head from the recency of my saturation.

A complete second passes before my vision abruptly turns wavy and full black and white as if everything is within a photograph. Confused, I raise my arm but see nothing, just a vague blob of darkness. Next, I reach forward toward the candlelight nearby, and the shade becomes more tangible and visible, a massive pull on my Ether that I'm forced to maintain.

Without a firm grasp on Ether manipulation and a robust body for Ether, someone would likely only be able to use this shadow thingy for a few seconds before being ripped out. And if they entered the light, it would be an immediate break of the skill.

I smile as I push more Ether into the heart of the coat, the streams of Ether reaching a new high with the recent increase in my level of control from my saturation. But, of course, the difference would be even more prominent if I had time to slowly recover instead of just taking that Concoction.

So, as my vision darkens further, I grin and move toward the ladder, the movement within the shadowy form surprising me with the speed boost. It feels almost like I'm a cloud of gas, bereft of any weight!

Oooh... stealthy and fast? I think I'm starting to really like this coat. I should go and 'surprise' someone with it!