Gunfire rang through the fluorescent-lit aisles of the supermarket—deafening, chaotic. Shoppers screamed. Metal shelving crashed to the floor. Swift moved on instinct, slipping between overturned carts, stalking the sound.

  The madman’s voice echoed through the store, unhinged and ranting. “You’re all filth! Every single one of you—!”

  Swift emerged from cover, sidearm raised—a Rhino Revolver. His grip was calm. His breath steady. The man turned, saw him too late. One clean shot. The man dropped.

  But blood still poured. Sirens wailed. Swift’s vision tunneled, his legs gave out, and he collapsed beside the man he’d stopped—his own shirt slick with red.

  Darkness swallowed him.

  Sharp piercing light scorched his vision.

  Swift gasped and sat up in bed.

  What

  Was

  That

  The stone ceiling of the Crescent City dormitory loomed above him, and Excalibur leaned against the wall beside his bunk. But it wasn’t the same.

  The musket’s surface pulsed faintly, glowing with ethereal veins of gold. At the end of the barrel, fused into the wood and steel as if forged by divine hands, was a long, tapered bayonet—dark and deadly. The barrel was thicker now, the steel darker, almost alive with energy.

  Swift reached for it.

  A hum vibrated through the air, like a heartbeat syncing with his own.

  “So it evolved,” he whispered, running his fingers along the new blade. “Must’ve been all those undead.”

  He stood, adjusted his uniform, and moved toward the door. He figured he'd leave Excalibur behind. It was too long, too awkward to carry for workouts. He stepped into the hallway—

  Fwoom.

  The weapon appeared in his hands, as if summoned by thought, weight and all.

  Startled, Swift nearly dropped it.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Alright. So I guess I don’t get to leave you behind anymore.”

  He slung it over his back and made his way toward the courtyard, following the faint sound of barking commands and echoing boots.

  The training yard was already alive with motion—soldiers doing pushups in unison, drill sergeants screaming cadence. The moment he stepped outside, twelve heads turned toward him.

  Twelve recruits, all dressed in the same black and silver uniform he wore, but with different crests stitched onto their shoulders. Most of them were young, early twenties, a mix of races and backgrounds—some tall and athletic, others wiry or stocky. Each carried a firearm that looked pristine, untouched by the wear of combat.

  None of them smiled.

  “Look who finally showed up,” one of them muttered.

  Another scoffed. “He’s the only one who made it, right? The whole group... gone.”

  Swift said nothing. He could feel the tension, the weight of a dozen unspoken judgments. They’d had five weeks to wait, to stew, to anticipate the arrival of a new group—and got one survivor in return. One who already had an evolved weapon.

  He stood off to the side, letting them size him up. One of them, a tall, sharp-faced woman with short red hair, leaned over and whispered something to a stocky man beside her. They both laughed under their breath.

  It didn’t matter. Swift had dealt with worse.

  A whistle cut through the air.

  “All right, you sorry lot!” barked the Training Sergeant, stomping into view. Her boots hit the cobblestone like gunshots. “Morning workout! You know the drill. You’re blessed with god’s guns, not a damn spa package! Form two lines!”

  Everyone moved quickly. Swift fell in at the end of the second row.

  Pushups. Squats. Sprints. Core. For an hour straight, the courtyard thundered with movement. Swift powered through, his reinforced body enduring with almost unnatural ease. But he noticed the glances—some annoyed, some impressed, some outright hostile.

  “You don’t slow down, do you?” the redhead snapped during a short break.

  Swift wiped sweat from his brow. “Don’t see the point.”

  Another recruit, a lanky guy with glasses and a hunting rifle slung on his back, chimed in. “How’d your weapon evolve so fast? We’ve been here five weeks and nothing’s changed.”

  Swift didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to explain nearly dying twice in the past day. He didn’t know how to tell them that Excalibur felt more like a limb than a tool.

  The Training Sergeant called for the end of drills, and they all stumbled toward the chow hall—a long stone structure filled with benches, tin trays, and the scent of dried rations. Swift took his portion and sat alone. A few of the others kept glancing his way. None joined him.

  By the time breakfast ended, the sun was fully up and the courtyard buzzed with new recruits being marched off to various buildings.

  Enna reappeared. “World History. Classroom Six. Move it.”

  They moved.

  The building was cold stone, the classroom a large hall with wooden desks, a blackboard, and parchment posters depicting different historical maps and weapon evolutions. A man in priest robes stood at the front—clean-shaven, pale, with a revolver holstered at his waist.

  “I am Father Mathan,” he said. “Servant of the Church of Recoil. You will be learning the truth of this world—not the myths, not the whispers. The war you’ve entered has lasted over a century and a half. Your presence is not a gift. It’s a necessity.”

  Swift leaned back in his chair, Excalibur across his lap like an obedient dog.

  He could already tell.