Editing Gwynn/Rising

After that, I made a few upgrades to the weapon using a special material from a laboratory on Venus that I bought off a black market merchant. According to the merchant, it's just a common chunk of metal in the hands of most, but when influenced by Light, it can create a singularity capable of twisting gravity itself. At first, I didn't want to spend all my Glimmer on such an absurd-sounding material. But then the merchant targeted Attal's Mint, planning to take the handicraft she'd spent so much effort making. In the end, I was the "proud" owner of a chunk of outlandish metal. I shaped it into a sphere and inlaid it on my scythe's blade (although I'd initially intended to make an hourglass out of it). To my surprise, the merchant had been telling the truth. My scythe became one worthy of a true reaper, with the Light and gravity both sapping sinners' vitality once the verdict is issued. Attal and Crowther, however, are less interested in its energy gathering capabilities than they are the gravity twist's side effect—a small wormhole generated not far away.

All that's left of the Golden Age are bones. There are bones in the literal sense, of course. Human bones scattered in the wild, some still sitting in the husks of vehicles, long past needing a proper burial. Then there are the ruins covered in weeds—the skeletons of long-abandoned buildings. No matter how glorious their past was, now they're but crumbling walls. Be it skeletons or rubble, both are commemorations of bygone days. And among them rest some manmade objects with more unique looks. Though built to withstand the test of time, they lack any practical usages beyond remembering the past. The continent of Europe is filled with such things-monuments of various shapes and sizes. One of them looked relatively plain, yet still left quite the impression. It's composed of two upright slabs with roughly-cut concave edges facing each other, looking as if a giant bullet had pierced through them. No doubt erected in memory of a major pre-Golden Age war. Ironically, that war brought only fleeting respite to the majority of humankind. The flames of war would be fanned again soon after, then came a renewed peace and new monuments. On and on, the cycle would continue...

I once read a story about this place, introducing its navy tones, the pointed roofs adorning all the tombstones, and the colored illustrations those roofs shelter, which tell stories about the permanent residents resting below. Most of the illustrations are portraits, but some are snapshots providing a look into the deceased's life. A young man driving a combine, a man playing the violin with a friend, an old lady in a black hood reading at a desk—all of these illustrations lighten the gloom of the cemetery, hence the locals calling it the Merry Cemetery. When we actually set foot here, though, we found that most of the graves had fallen into disrepair. They were faded, damaged, even covered in thick blankets of dust. But Attal still checked the pictures on every tombstone with excitement. Our hands were positively filthy by the end. We also found several new tombstones. Their paint was more vivid, and though the decorations on them were humble imitations of the older graves', they still featured illustrations celebrating the lives of the deceased. In one of them, a warrior was celebrating a victory over the Fallen. Before departing, we left behind two bullets at each of the new graves. Maybe one day, this place can regain the cheery look I saw in the books.

Located in Eastern Europe, this cemetery contained all the elements one would expect of such a place—dead trees, crawling vines, damp soil, and moss-covered headstones. The only difference was the density of graves within. The tombstones stuck out from the soft soil with no sense of organization, and some had almost completely sunken into the earth. In addition to the grassland dotted with countless graves, there were a couple of hills overflowing with stacked tombstones. Before the Collapse, this cemetery had served as the final resting place for centuries of residents. Local tradition dictated that tombstones not be moved, and thus over time, they became more and more crowded. These hills weren't natural; rather, they were formed by new gravestones being placed and crowding the old ones before the cemetery expanded. And around the cemetery, we could see a huddle of ruins, indicating that this was once a central part of the town. The living and dead crowded together, blurring the boundary between this world and the afterlife.

I met Death many times while I was tortured and imprisoned by Walter. Strangely, He would appear before me not after I died, but when I would take my last breath. He appeared in a black robe every time. Though blurred and ethereal like a mist, I could always recognize Him. His form and voice varied—sometimes that of an elder, sometimes that of a woman, and other times indistinguishable, but always hoarse and relentless, like a cold breeze wafting out from an empty crypt. But I knew it was Him. The grim reaper, the scythe-wielding skeleton, the black angel that whisks away souls... Books describe many different identities, all of which are Him.  

He would always quietly arrive in a blink, looking down at me as I lay dying on the ground. In the beginning, I thought He would take me with Him, that He would free me from Walter's imprisonment, but He just looked at me quietly until I fell into a deep, deep slumber. The next time, I begged Him to bring me along, yet He always answered with just a single word—sometimes "wait," other times "patience." The voice was prolonged, as if time had stopped flowing. It carved itself into my mind and even frequented my dreams. I began to follow His advice and endured Walter's torment. Gradually, my fear of pain and death disappeared without a trace. Every death was a rebirth, a chance to be free until my verdict arrived.

After executing Walter, I donned a black robe in His image and beqan wandering the world. Evildoers feared me, and those I rescued called me by His name. There are many more awaiting Him—many more awaiting His sentence. Thus I shall keep upholding relentless justice until He finally takes me away with Him...

This is Gwynn's top agent, the herald of death, the one and only Crowther. If you're reading this, you must be a real fan of Gwynn. You're likely wondering, 'Why are you recording all this?' Well, the reason is simple enough—because Gwynn's the absolute BEST! Her name alone strikes fear into the hearts of sinners! Naturally, I need to spread the word about her. So here are some facts about Gwynn.  

Death never refuses anyone—unless that person is Gwynn.  

Gwynn never goes hunting, because "hunting" implies a possibility of failure. She just kills.  

Gwynn doesn't teleport—the space just moves to where she wants to be.  

Gwynn's tears can heal the Traveler. Unfortunately, she never cries.  

Gwynn doesn't need to aim when she shoots—her bullets fly right to her enemies.

Threatened people and massacred the innocent. Died in a duel.