Courier Six had felt nothing when he put a fist clad in spiked knuckles made from gold through the skull of Salt-Upon-Wounds.

Calling the state of his mind rage wasn't accurate - in the moment that behind his target the New Canaanite missionary Daniel had his flesh perforated by the shots of White Leg storm-drummers, simple elaboration of anger was as unthinkable as men flying might have been to the Dead Horse tribals. Neither was hatred a fitting descriptor; the Courier was long familiar with that particular emotion, and the cold molasses of its pitch flow that settled over Six's very soul as it did was absent.

Perhaps instead, the mindset could be described as truth.

The two spears he hurled as he sprinted t'ords the savage devil of a white-legged warlord were batted aside moments before his strike. It was not in righteousness, or anything described in the holy texts so thoroughly evangelized to him in Zion Canyon that he pushed forward with all strength he could muster.

It was simply fitting, in that moment, to murder. They were no David and Goliath, nor Cain and Abel or even Michael and Lucifer. The two bodies occupying the respective spaces that they did were nothing other than meat, flesh, chemical and energy.

It was a simple matter of physics to kill, then. The factors required were present for an event to transpire, and so that event would happen.

Putting all of his weight behind the blow was standard. Curving the path of his arm as he swung so that his strike would end through and behind his target was normal - ending his blow at the target would induce the reflex that pulled the arm back before it overextended.

Instead of any emotion, all that was induced in the mind of the sapience embodied in the corpse of a package courier was a distant sense of correctness. Bolts went into threaded holes as fittings. Cartridges were loaded into magazines as munitions. Food went to the hungry as given by the devout, and work was done by faithful and practiced hands to further all endeavours.

As mankind was laden with the biochemical reaction of life, so did Six have the radiation that was half of his existence surging into mutated muscle cells to expand, contract and provide kinetic force for the blow.

Salt-Upon-Wounds died with his mouth gaping like a fish at the audacity of the spectre whose eyes glowed red. As the helmet covering his head was shattered into fragments, his skull followed suit to cave inwards from the front. Flesh tore, bone fragments flew and for that small moment, the tribal raiders behind the falling corpse turned to face the noise of the meaty, crunching THUK that echoed from the cavern walls over even the noise of their storm-drum guns.

They were faced with the headless corpse of their leader collapsing to the ground.

Later the Courier sealed the Pine Creek tunnel behind the retreating Sorrows and Dead Horse warriors with explosives. And when he picked up a note penned to him by Daniel, the entity felt the final wisps of evil lift off his soul.

The soul, of which he now knew existed just as surely as his body's blood and bone.

Exsanguinating himself of evil was less of a sensation felt and more akin to easing pressure upon him. Often it was described as a weight you hadn't known you were carrying, or dexterity returning to a limb as a wound was healed. That delivered very literal proof of morality being more than simply the light you looked at things within.

His first kindness done was unto a random tribal, to right his own mistake. Six had put a healing poultice dressing on the leg of Follows-Chalk after the young tracker was hit in the femoral artery by one of his bullets. That was right after the Courier escaped the White Leg ambush that had claimed the lives of the caravan that brought him here. That was the first - for some reason, the entity found it easier to make efforts to reason and relate with the simple hunters of the Dead Horse tribe as a result.

Many more such acts were done, another like of which was the simple act of giving herbal remedies to the missionary Daniel. Ground root and flower forming a powder that helped with the clotting & disinfecting of open wounds. Each time it was handed over in small pouches, Six would feel a phantom sensation like stinging in his bones. When described to others, doubts again were cast on the old rhetoric of feeling like someone was dancing over one's grave.

Now, though? He was free, purified by Zion, his soul as clean as the water of the Virgin River. He had walked into the canyon with his hands bloodied from sin... but in the lights cast by the honest hearts of the tribes' faith, he found reason to clean them.

As he made the trek back to the Mojave, for the first time in memory Courier Six smiled, with mind calm and quiet from doubts and soul resting easy in him.