Bolo: Monster Slayer

A Horrible Night

It was a cold, dark night, the kind that made your skin crawl. The streets were swallowed in pitch-black shadows, with only the full, bright moon offering the faintest reprieve from the darkness. The air was thick, almost oppressive. If ever there was a perfect night for something terrible to rise from the depths, this was it.

Somewhere, in a large isolated cabin surrounded by trees, Bolo sat hunched over his workbench, focusing intently on his tools. His cabin was a fortress of sorts, a sanctuary that also told the tale of his life's work. The walls were adorned with monster skulls, fearsome trophies of his countless battles. Weapons of all shapes and sizes hung neatly, ready to be used at a moment's notice, alongside gadgets he had crafted on his many journeys.

He wasn't a hero anymore—those days were long gone. Now, he was a hunter, a lone warrior tasked with eradicating the horrors of the night. His hands, once clumsy and unsure, were now skilled and purposeful as he tinkered with a new gadget, a trap meant to immobilize large creatures.

The air was still inside the cabin, save for the gentle crackling of a nearby fire. But something wasn't right. A sound—a soft rustling—echoed from outside. His sharp instincts kicked in, causing him to freeze. Slowly, quietly, he stood from his workbench, his muscles tensing as he reached for one of his revolvers. The heavy weight of the steel felt comforting in his hands.

He moved toward the side window, his breath steady and controlled. For a moment, he simply listened, scanning the surroundings with his eyes, honing in on the source of the noise.

Then, without hesitation, he aimed at the wall and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the wooden paneling, shattering the silence and striking something outside.

A deep, guttural growl followed. Bolo stepped out into the cold night air, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. Lying in the dirt was a creature, a werewolf-like beast, its breathing shallow and labored as it bled out from the gunshot wound. Its fur bristled as it made a weak attempt to rise, but it didn't stand a chance.

Bolo smirked coldly. Monsters like this didn't deserve mercy.

"Shouldn't have wandered into my territory," he muttered, raising his revolver again. One final shot echoed through the night, and the beast was dead.

Without a second thought, Bolo hauled the creature's limp body back inside the cabin. The cold, clinical way in which he worked—the dispassionate efficiency—spoke volumes of a man who had seen too much, killed too much. He skinned the beast, using a strange, gas-like substance to disintegrate its flesh and bones, leaving behind only its skull as another addition to his grotesque collection.

Once the task was complete, he washed his hands in the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face. His reflection stared back at him, distorted in the dim light. His eyes traced the scar running down the left side of his face, the long jagged mark that refused to heal properly. It was a constant reminder of the night everything changed—the night his grandmother was killed right before his eyes.

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. The fear. The helplessness. It came flooding back, drowning him in a wave of trauma he had tried so hard to bury. His body trembled, shaking as his mind replayed the horrors he had witnessed—the monsters he had fought, the lives he had failed to save.

In a burst of anger, he lashed out, his fist slamming into the mirror. The glass shattered, sending shards scattering across the sink. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, the pain in his knuckles grounding him back to reality.

He looked down at his hands, blood trickling from where the glass had cut him. This was the life he chose. He had become a monster hunter to stop others from suffering the way he had. He didn't care whether the creatures were born of darkness or nature—they were killers, and he had to be one too. A necessary evil.

After cleaning the cuts on his hand, Bolo returned to his workshop. The weight of the night still clung to him, but he focused his mind on the task at hand. His two custom-built revolvers lay on the table, shining under the dim light. They were crafted from titanium and silver, perfect for taking down the supernatural threats that roamed Sequin Land. He had built them after a stint in the Wild West, learning from old gunsmiths the art of precision and power.

His collection of weapons was vast. Guns. Holy relics. Experimental armor that he had yet to test. But none of them compared to his greatest weapon—the Greatsword of Eternity. It hung proudly on the wall, a family heirloom passed down for centuries. His father had wielded it before him, as had his grandfather, and countless generations before that. Now, it was his turn.

Bolo ran his hand along the blade, feeling the energy hum beneath the surface. The sword wasn't just a tool—it was a symbol of his family's legacy, and the weight of that responsibility drove him forward. He couldn't afford to falter.

The night was far from over.

Bolo packed his weapons into a sturdy leather bag, strapping the Greatsword to his back. As he stepped outside, the chill of the night air stung his skin, but he welcomed it. The cold kept him sharp, alert.

His motorcycle—a rugged, homemade beast of a machine—sat parked in front of the cabin. It was built for speed and power, designed to tear through rough terrain and chase down even the most elusive of prey. Bolo strapped on his helmet, revved the engine, and felt the familiar vibration of the machine beneath him.

With a roar, the motorcycle sped off into the darkness, its headlights cutting through the thick night. Bolo's mind was set—he needed the thrill of the hunt tonight, needed to feel the rush of battle. His hands clenched the handlebars tightly as he scanned the trees for any sign of movement.