The gates of Crescent City slammed shut behind them with a deep, echoing boom, sealing off the forest’s screams behind solid stone. Swift braced a hand on his musket—Excalibur, he supposed—and let his breath slow.

  Before he could get a proper look around, a squad of guards approached from the inner gatehouse. They wore silver and crimson armor, steel forged and polished, adorned with small banners indicating their weapon affinity. Each of them had a firearm slung across their back or holstered at their hip.

  “Hands out,” one barked. “Corrosion check.”

  Morrow gave a small nod, murmuring, “Standard procedure. Just comply.”

  A guard raised a wand-like artifact—clearly magical in nature—and passed it slowly over Swift’s body. The end of the rod glowed pale green and gave off a soft chime.

  “He’s clean,” the guard announced.

  “Lucky,” another said. “Confession burns like sin.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow. “Confession?”

  “The Church purges taint from the soul—and the flesh—when the corrosion gets in you,” Morrow explained. “They’ll boil your insides if they have to. Most don’t come out whole.”

  Swift gave a sharp nod. “I’ll keep myself clean, then.”

  The guards stepped aside. “Follow me. Orientation’s standard for all newly summoned. You'll get the layout of Crescent and be handed off to the barracks after.”

  Morrow gave him one last nod before disappearing into the inner city. “You’ll see me again. Crescent’s a small place. Tell me your name when you figure it out.”

  Confused by that, Swift said, “Swift”

  Morrow stopped, looked at Swift for a second, “See ya ‘round, Swift”

  As Swift walked with the guards, he took in Crescent City.

  The architecture was unmistakably medieval—stone walls five meters thick, towering watchtowers, slate rooftops, and iron portcullises. The buildings inside were packed close together, forming narrow alleys and bustling plazas. Each district seemed organized by purpose: merchant squares, stables, public wells, and long stone barracks for the soldiers. Smoke rose only from hearthfires and bakeries, not factories.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The only real signs of magic or modernity were the blessed weapons carried by the guards and gunfighters. No one else here bore such arms. Some common folk still carried blades, spears, or bows slung across their backs. Children ran barefoot through the streets. Chickens and livestock scurried between wagons. Life here clung to old rhythms.

  Above them loomed the Crescent City Church—a massive cathedral of pale marble with arched stained-glass windows depicting divine figures wielding firearms instead of staffs or swords. Its presence dominated the city center.

  “The Church of Recoil keeps records of all gun evolutions and blessings,” the guard explained as they passed. “They handle confessions, weapon issue, and... let’s just say, judgment. Don’t cross them.”

  Swift studied the spires and the bell towers. “Religious and military authority in one?”

  “God who created the blessed only speaks to the Church,” the guard said, keeping his voice low. “One and the same.”

  The tour moved quickly. They passed through the training yards—wide open spaces with wooden dummies riddled with bullet holes and scorched by divine powder burns. Wooden towers served as sniper roosts for practice. Weapon halls displayed relics of evolved firearms behind enchanted glass.

  Gunfighters, some practicing, others chatting in groups

  A commander's voice rang out across one of the yards. “Blessing flows through discipline. Waste not your breath!”

  Swift watched them train for a moment. Each shot was measured, precise—no one fired rapidly. But it wasn’t out of precision. More like hesitation?

  “New summons go through a ten-week program,” the lead guard said as they reached a squat stone building just below the barracks wall. “No exceptions. Mandatory training, coursework, exercise, survival. Ten topics. Ten weeks.”

  Swift nodded. “Makes sense. Structure means fewer dead.”

  He was led into the Requisition Hall next. Inside, scribes and armorers worked side by side to record data and grab gear suited for Swift. One look at Swift’s large frame made them pause.

  The med-tech scanning him blinked at her crystal reader. “...What in the gods’ name? Bone density—off the charts. Your muscle structure’s compensating for something. You’re not from a standard rebirth template.”

  “There were,” Swift said. “Complications.”

  She stared a second longer before the others simply handed over his gear: a reinforced tunic tailored in black with silver accents, sturdy leather boots with steel caps, a small field kit, and a cloak bearing the emblem of the unranked—those still in their first evolution.

  He was escorted to a room and changed quickly, stowing his old suit in the trunk provided. Excalibur leaned in the corner like some forgotten broom, still awkwardly long, still unnaturally heavy.

  A final guard led him down a narrow hallway to the Initiate Dorms. Dozens of rooms lined the stone corridor, and distant murmurs echoed through the walls—other summons adjusting, muttering, crying, or cursing the gods who dropped them here.

  “Room C-19,” the guard said, handing him a key. “Lights out at ten bells. Be at the practice field before sunrise.”

  The door clicked open.

  C-19 was plain. One bunk, one small desk, one footlocker. A narrow arrow-slit window let in a dying shaft of orange light from the setting sun.

  Swift walked in and let the door shut behind him.

  He removed Excalibur from his back and leaned it against the stone wall. Then he sat on the edge of the bunk, hunched forward, staring at his hands.

  Burned knuckles. Splintered skin. But they were still his.

  He sighed. School, again.

  Ten weeks of hell before the real world starts.