The man tipped his hat. “Name’s Morrow. Guide for the freshly bonded. And judging by that ridiculous thing you’re holding…” He whistled low. “Looks like we got ourselves a wildcard.”

  The forest beyond the Armory Tower looked alive—but not in a good way. Vines like veins ran up bleached tree trunks, and the moss covering the ground squelched like it bled. Low mist rolled over the underbrush, diffusing the weak, red-tinged sunlight.

  Morrow led the way, his wide-brimmed hat dipped low as he ducked beneath a twisted root arch. Swift followed, musket in hand, watching every shadow.

  "You got a lot to learn, greenhorn," Morrow muttered. "Lucky for you, I’ve been doing this job for thirty years. Guiding the blessed. Most wouldn’t last past the first day without me."

  Swift kept pace, glancing at the glowing dot on his wrist tattoo. "This thing. What does it mean?"

  "That little bullet dot?" Morrow raised an eyebrow. "Means your weapon’s in its first evolution stage. You’ll get more dots as it grows. Whatcha name your Weapon?”

  Swift hesitated, embarrassed but confidently said, “Excalibur.”

  “Nice name, it’s got some flair to it."

  "...It was a slip," Swift muttered.

  "Well, it stuck. no takebacks." Morrow smirked. "Good start kid."

  They walked in silence for a few moments, the oppressive hush of the forest making Swift hyper-aware of every snapping twig.

  “What else should I know?”

  Morrow continued. “There is also something that gunfighters call Bullet Points—BP for short. Think of it like the holy juice that keeps your weapon fed. Everyone starts with a certain amount. You use BP to reload your weapon. Replenishes over time—about one percent per minute.”

  "So you have to conserve shots," Swift said.

  "Depends. Most gunfighters don’t spray and pray unless they’ve stocked up. Weapons that take casings or mags can manifest physical rounds using BP. Take ’em out, store ’em for later. Efficient."

  Swift looked over his shoulder at his ridiculous seven-foot musket. “What about mine?”

  Morrow gave him a pitying look. “I think taking ammo out of that is going to be tough. You got it unlucky kid.”

  Swift frowned. “Then why the hell did I choose it?”

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  “Who knows,” Morrow said.

  They pressed on. The air grew colder.

  “Crescent City’s about half the horizon east. Keep low. We’re in Corrosion edge-zone. Only weak undead here, but they swarm if you’re loud.” Morrow paused and tapped the cane on a rock. "By the way, if things go sideways, don't expect me to die for you. I’m not a gunfighter.”

  Swift eyed the cane. “Not even armed?”

  A sly grin. “Don’t need a gun to kill things. You’ll see.”

  They moved in silence. Swift absorbed the information, piecing together how this world worked. Every decision—every shot—mattered.

  Eventually, the distant crack-crack-BOOM of gunfire echoed through the trees.

  Swift’s eyes sharpened. “That’s them.”

  “The others.” Morrow's tone darkened. “Impatient group. Told ’em the same as you. Waited maybe twenty breaths before they ran off chasin’ glory.”

  The gunfire didn’t stop. If anything, it intensified.

  Swift’s instincts screamed to run in—but Morrow raised a hand. “Don’t. If they’re firing like that, they’re panicking. Probably attracting a whole damn swarm.”

  “But we can help.”

  “And die trying?”

  Another sharp report echoed, followed by a long silence.

  They crept forward, crouched low behind the undergrowth. The scent hit Swift first—rot and wet copper.

  Bodies. Torn open. Mangled. Limbs twitching even in death.

  And the undead… hunched over, gnawing. Skin like melting wax, eyes glowing dull blue. Dozens of them. One had half its jaw missing but still chewed like it mattered.

  Swift’s jaw clenched. “We’re too late…”

  “Keep it quiet,” Morrow whispered, backing up slowly. “We’ll—”

  Snap.

  A branch behind them.

  Both turned.

  One undead, closer than the rest, stared directly at them. Then it screeched.

  “Oh sh—” Morrow started.

  The creature charged.

  Swift didn’t hesitate.

  He raised Excalibur, cocked it back, and fired.

  BOOOOM.

  The shot shattered the quiet like thunder. The musket exploded with force, hurling the creature’s upper body into a tree in a burst of gore. Swift turned, cocked the hammer, and attempted to fire again.

  Silence.

  Then came the screams.

  Undead poured from every direction.

  “RUN!” Morrow yelled, covering his ears. “Dammit, kid! Big mistake!”

  Swift tried to keep a half step behind, Excalibur in his hands, empty but too loud to shoot. He didn’t mind; he would now rely on his bayonet training.

  An undead lunged. Swift spun, slamming the buttstock into its temple with a sickening crunch. Another reached out—he drove the long barrel through its eye socket, twisted, yanked it free. More came.

  Swift smacked and smashed in a blind rage.

  He didn’t stop.

  “Kid! Let’s go!”

  A small gap in the mayhem was when Swift felt the back off his collar being pulled. Swift snapped out of it and they ran through rot and death, dodging grasping claws and leaping over half-eaten corpses.

  By the time the tree line broke, Swift was drenched in gore, breathing hard, fists clenched.

  Ahead: a massive wall stretching for miles. Five hundred meters away.

  Crescent City.

  From above, soldiers spotted them. “CONTACT! TWO FRIENDLIES! COVER FIRE!”

  Gunfire erupted from the walls, tearing apart undead behind them. Swift and Morrow sprinted the final stretch, the horde right on their heels.

  "LAST HUNDRED STEPS!" Morrow shouted.

  “Go!” Swift roared.

  The gates opened just enough for them to slide through.

  As they passed the threshold, the world fell silent—save for the rhythmic thud-thud of snipers cleaning up the stragglers.

  Inside the gate, Swift collapsed to one knee, panting.

  Morrow bent over, hands on his knees.

  “Well,” he wheezed. “We made it. Welcome to Crescent City kid.”

  Swift looked up at him, eyes burning. “What the hell is this place?”

  Morrow gave a dry chuckle