Father Mathan stood behind a worn lectern carved from a single slab of stone, his hands clasped over a silver chain bearing the sigil of the Church of Recoil: a detailed sigil with three guns in a triangle. There were no weapons on him, no sidearm holstered at the hip. Just heavy robes stitched with old scripture and the weight of generations of belief.

  “Before you were summoned,” he began, his voice both deep and deliberate, “this continent was whole. Scarred by war, yes—but untouched by the Corrosion. That changed one hundred and fifty-three years ago.”

  The dozen recruits sat in stony silence. Swift leaned slightly forward, eyes fixed on the cracked parchment map pinned behind the priest. The continent’s outline was unmistakably shaped like a sidearm, facing west. The likeness was eerie, too perfect to ignore.

  “The Corrosion came from the far west,” Father Mathan continued, lifting a long ceremonial rod to gesture at the map. “From a place we do not name. A city swallowed by rot, its origin unknown, its infection unstoppable. It swept across the land like plague on a dry wind.”

  His tone was calm, but the weight of his words pressed against the stone walls of the chapel.

  “Cities fell. Forests turned into poisoned mazes. Creatures of flesh and bone twisted into mockeries of life. Humanity was on the edge of extinction.”

  Then his voice softened, reverent. “But salvation came.”

  He lit three long candles at the altar—each flame flickering beneath a symbol carved into the wall: a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle.

  “The Holy Trinity. Three heroes not of this world. Sent by God, it is said, to deliver us from ruin.

  “First, the Righteous Shotgun. The Shield. A warrior who held the line against thousands, shell after blessed shell.

  “Second, the Merciful Pistol. The Heart. Quick, precise, a voice of compassion in a dying world.

  “And third, the Resolute Rifle. The Eye. Leader of the Trinity, tactician of legends, and the only one who ever saw the Corrosion’s true face. Founder of our Church”

  Swift tilted his head. So far, it sounded legitimate… hyperbole.

  Father Mathan pressed his palms together. “They carried holy weapons—blessed guns unlike anything our world had ever seen. They led armies, rallied survivors, and forced the Corrosion back. But they could not destroy it.”

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  He bowed his head in mourning.

  “In their final days, they built the Armory Tower. Poured their souls into its stones. And prayed—begged—that more warriors would be sent. That their sacrifice would not be in vain.”

  Swift drifted back to the Armory Tower with five statues, not three.

  Pistol. Shotgun. Rifle. Sure. But also Sniper and Grenadier. Each one towering, imposing, and clearly meant to represent something—or someone—important.

  He raised his hand.

  “Father,” he asked, “what about the other two statues? The ones in the tower?”

  A murmur ran through the recruits. Most of them had seen them too.

  Father Mathan’s eyes didn’t waver, but his pause was telling.

  “There are many interpretations of the statues. Some claim they are artistic representations of battlefield roles. Others… remnants of corrupted memory. But canon doctrine speaks only of the Trinity. The Three are the saints of our faith.”

  Swift gave a small nod and leaned back. No point in arguing.

  Yet.

  After the sermon, the recruits were ushered out into the city proper. Crescent City wasn’t what Swift had expected. No smokestacks. No gears or wires or steam vents. Just stone buildings with timber frames, slate roofs, and cobbled streets. It was medieval through and through—market stalls, smithies pounding out breastplates and boots, candles flickering behind shuttered windows.

  The only thing modern are the weapons carried by the gunfighters.

  And even those felt sacred.

  Men and women patrolled the walls, rifles slung over shoulders, eyes sharp. No turrets. No factories. No industrial scale of war. Each firearm was bound to a gunfighter. Ammunition wasn’t made—it was willed into existence, summoned by the blessed tattoos each of them carried.

  Swift’s own tattoo sat just under his wrist, opposite where a watch might’ve gone. A small black circle—his first dot, signifying the first stage of evolution. It didn’t hurt, but it hummed faintly if he focused on it. Like a reminder, he was part of something much bigger.

  And something far more dangerous.

  The tour continued through the military quarter—training yards, mess halls, dorms, and classrooms carved into ancient fortresses. Swift took it all in quietly. The standard issue gear handed out—leather armor, stiff boots, basic field kits—felt… inadequate. Everything he wore felt more ceremonial than useful.

  He made a mental note: I need better gear. Fast.

  When the sun finally began to fall behind the walls of Crescent City, casting long shadows across the streets, Swift was led to his room. The barracks were simple: stone walls, a narrow bed, a footlocker, and a rack for his weapon.

  He set Excalibur down against the wall, then paused.

  Even resting, it looked different now. Still long, still unwieldy, but meaner. The grip more solid. The wood darker. Not yet evolved again—but waiting.

  Swift sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck. The day had been long. His thoughts kept circling back to the tower. The statues. The priest’s controlled deflection.

  He wasn’t dumb. Something about the Church’s version of history didn’t add up.

  But that wasn’t his mission.

  Not now.

  Right now, he needed to survive, to learn, and to adapt. The Corrosion was still out there. The others—those poor bastards in his group—were dead. He was the only one left. That had to mean something.

  He looked down at the black circle on his wrist.

  “Alright,” he said. “Let’s see what this place really has to offer.”