“Would you like a bag?”

  “No thanks, I already got one.”

  He pulled off the backpack from his back. Black, tactical, overkill for making a short grocery run, but perfect for riding his motorcycle.

  “Swift?”

  He looked up. “How do you…”

  “Your jacket… what are you fast or some’ thin?”

  His leather jacket had a patch on it with his callsign from his military days.

  “Not particularly.”

  He finished packing up his backpack and slung it over.

  “Have a great day speedy!”

  He chuckled as he walked away. What a nice old lady in this run-down supermarket.

  The fluorescent lights flickered overhead like a bad omen, their dying hum nearly drowned out by the distant crackle of cheap speakers playing some overplayed pop hit. Swift's boots padded softly against the linoleum as made the long walk to the exit.

  Outside, the sun was beginning to dip below the skyline, casting the glass entrance in a blood-orange glow. In another life, this would’ve been an ordinary evening.

  He’d left his motorcycle outside, parked slightly askew, like he always did. People gave him strange looks as he walked past the other checkout lines. The tall, stoic guy with the sharp jawline and tired eyes. He’d stopped trying to fix their perceptions a long time ago.

  Doesn’t affect me.

  Swift pulled his phone out, double checking his grocery list. As he moved past the last registers, something prickled the back of his neck—an instinct honed by years in uniform, cockpits, and dojo mats.

  A man in a black coat was standing outside near the entrance.

  The way he stood, too still, head down and hands fidgeting inside his jacket.

  Swift’s heart didn’t race. His breath didn’t catch. He just moved—effortlessly, decisively—walking towards the exit like nothing was wrong.

  But when he walked through the exit and glanced over his shoulder, it confirmed what he felt.

  The man was reaching beneath his coat.

  Swift dropped his helmet. The motion wasn’t fear, it was calculation. His legs moved on their own. He sprinted. Closing the distance in heartbeats.

  “Hey!” he called, loud enough to turn a few heads.

  The man jerked in surprise. Their eyes met—just a moment.

  The hesitation was all Swift needed.

  He tackled the man to the ground. Something heavy clattered across the asphalt—a weapon. Screams erupted behind them. Shoppers scrambled.

  A fist came for Swift’s temple. He ducked. Drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. The sickening crunch of bone. He felt the man’s hand clamp around something cold—

  Bang.

  The world spun. A flash of heat in Swift’s abdomen.

  Adrenaline fueled motions, Swift twisted the firearm in the gunman’s hand and placed it center mass.

  Bang!

  And another shot. Muffled. Distant.

  Someone yelled.

  Swift rolled over.

  The sky overhead began to blur, bleeding oranges into deep purples.

  Swift looked down at the spreading stain on his shirt.

  “Damn it...”

  Between death and the infinite, he woke.

  The light wasn’t white. It wasn’t even light, really. It was presence. All-encompassing. Warm, but not soft.

  “Do you know why you're here, Swift?”

  The voice was like thunder buried in silk.

  Swift opened his eyes. Or at least, it felt like he did. There were no limbs to move, no pain, only awareness.

  “I died.”

  “You chose to fight,” the voice corrected. “You saw a monster with a gun and stepped into the line of fire.”

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  “I didn’t think about it.”

  “You didn’t have to. That’s what makes you different.”

  Swift’s presence drifted—still calm, still focused. “So what now? Heaven? Reincarnation? Am I getting a medal?”

  The god laughed. It wasn’t mockery. More like... approval.

  “Something far more interesting. I’ve created a world—well, more accurately, I’ve rescued a world. It is dying. Drenched in filth, overrun by something ancient and foul. I send souls like you there. Souls who still have teeth. To fight.”

  “I see.”

  Swift didn’t flinch. “And what do I get?”

  “Purpose.”

  He considered momentarily and nodded. “Alright. Are there perks or powers there? How about a legendary sword to slay the Filth King?”

  “Quite the imagination. There are powers in place given by the resident Administrator. Tho limited in capability, vast in potential.”

  Swift replied, “Very, insightful…”

  “It seems this is unsatisfactory. Very well, because of your heroics, I shall grant you a perk of your choice.”

  Swift paused, thinking on it.

  “Immortality?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Telekinesis?”

  “Not in this world.”

  Swift continued to ponder. If not immortality or telekinesis, then what else? Maybe something for correcting flaws. What flaws do humans have?

  What do I regret?

  The silence thickened. “Speak.”

  “Alright! I want to always improve. Forever. Physically. Mentally. I want the skills I’ve built to stay. I want my body to permanently remember what it learns. No more atrophy. No more rusty skills. My stats only go up. Always.”

  A pause. Then—

  “Clever. And human. So very human. Granted.”

  A burning sensation spread across his back—his first feeling since death.

  “It is done. You will be reborn in a forsaken land, among the last of the blessed. Your body will be rebuilt by the administrator upon your arrival. If you cleanse this world of its rot, we shall meet again.”

  Swift said nothing.

  “Remember,” the voice said, quieter now. “Every soul carries a stain. Seek guidance and wisdom to conquer your…”

  The world vanished.

  Swift woke with metal under his spine and air tasting like ozone.

  The room was impossibly large—a perfect circle of polished stone beneath an open sky. A view of mountains to the north but no visible ground. A tower. They were above it all.

  He wasn’t alone. Eleven others stirred on beds spaced evenly around the center of the chamber, covered with a thin sheet like Swift, each beneath a glowing monitor blinking with alien data.

  Swift sat up first. His head throbbed, not from pain, but from adjustment. His gaze flicked to the screen beside him.

  ERROR – MEMORY DELETION

  ERROR – MUSCLE DENSITY

  ERROR – ORGAN PRESSURE

  SKELETAL STRUCTURE: ABNORMAL – TITANIUM BASELINE

  CORRECTIONS: COMPLETE

  OVERRIDE: ACCEPTED

  He blinked. Titanium?

  A quiet memory surfaced: the titanium plate in his collarbone from a skiing accident. He ran a hand over the spot. Still there. But now… expanded. His entire skeletal system felt heavier. Denser. The muscles around them had been adjusted, he could feel it with every breath.

  “...Damn. You really went all in, didn’t you?”

  The hiss of pneumatic hydraulics drew everyone’s attention. In the center of the tower, a shimmering figure flickered to life—projected light forming the shape of a robed humanoid with no face, only pulsing lines of data where eyes should be.

  "Welcome to the Armory Tower," it intoned. Its voice was genderless, synthetic yet ancient.

  "Choose a weapon.”

  “You may take only one. Name it, and it will bind to your soul. A tattoo will reflect the bond."

  On cue, Swift’s wrist itched. He looked. The central bullet-shaped mark now glowed faintly; with six empty notches.

  "Your most familiar protective gear has been restored, based on biometric memory. Gear up."

  Near the beds, lockers popped open.

  Swift crawled over, heart tightening as he saw the familiar green flight suit hanging neatly, complete with steel-toe combat boots. Boxer briefs and boot socks included! He stepped into it like a second skin.

  Others murmured nervously. A woman gasped. One man refused to move. Some of the others started putting on their clothes. Most had common outfits, jeans, T-shirts. Swift guessed he wore a flight suit more than anything else in his past life.

  “Is this a dream?” someone muttered.

  “What are we supposed to do?” another asked.

  The projection answered only once more:

  "Those who fail to choose a weapon will not survive."

  They got dressed quickly.

  On the outer wall of the chamber was a plethora of weaponry. Racks stretched in circular rows, thousands of firearms—some familiar, some utterly alien. The chamber was dimly lit except for five great statues lining the outer ring. Each bore a weapon type: a pistol, shotgun, rifle, sniper, and grenade launcher.

  Swift circled slowly, eyes scanning the weapons.

  "How'd you pick one so fast?" he asked one of the others, a man already walking toward the staircase with a silver shotgun in his arms.

  “It… it kind of glowed,” the man muttered. “Just… stood out. Called to me.”

  One by one, the others made choices.

  A girl clutched a blocky pistol and shouted, "His name is Teddy!" Her mark pulsed. The tattoo on her wrist twisted, reshaping slightly with a single dot glowing beside it.

  Swift was alone now.

  The others had grouped up, muttering about sticking together. He watched them move out toward the staircase to head down into the mist-wrapped forest below.

  He wasn’t ready.

  Too many choices. Too many questions. He loved guns. He knew them. To pick one at random? No—this decision mattered.

  He moved toward the edge of the tower, climbing up onto the side. Below, the others were fading into the green. The frustration welled up in his chest.

  “They just left…” he muttered. “Figures.”

  He slammed the bottom of his fist into the stone pillar beside him—one of the statues.

  A crack. The stone groaned.

  “Didn’t realize I was that much stronger.”

  Dust puffed out from the base of the sniper statue. His eyes narrowed. Beneath the broken brick was a dark cavity, just wide enough to reach into.

  His hand slid inside. Something buzzed at his touch.

  Cold metal.

  Heavy.

  Solid.

  It didn’t slide out easily. It fought him.

  Swift grit his teeth and pulled harder. A scream built in his muscles—not from pain, but strain.

  With a final yank, the weapon came free.

  Airborne, falling backwards, and from his lips, without thinking—

  “Excalibur!”

  He slammed onto the floor.

  His mark ignited. A violent flash burned into his tattoo as the bullet symbol rotated, absorbing into a new pattern. One dot glowed deep blue. He looked at his new weapon.

  “Oh, come on…”

  In his hand was a 7-foot musket, blackened silver with etched runes down the stock. A long barrel, nearly a lance. Along the side it read “Excalibur.”

  “Well, that’s embarrassing… can’t do anything about it now though.”

  He descended the dark spiral staircase and… fell.

  It was gone.

  In its place: a slope. The ground beneath his feet buckled—he slid down the tower in a blur of stone and speed.

  At the base, dust rose around him as he landed hard but upright.

  Waiting there was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, leaning on a cane. Eyes gleamed with curiosity.

  “Well,” the man said, voice gravelly but amused. “Took you long enough.”

  Swift stared at him, still gripping the absurdly long musket.

  “Who are you?”