Afternoons were supposed to be for weapons practice.

  Swift quickly learned practice was a generous term.

  The “instructors” assigned to the range wore the uniform of authority—brass-lined coats, thick belts with Church-issue revolvers—but in practice, they were glorified range safety officers. They barked the occasional “keep your finger off the trigger” or “don’t point that at anyone,” but offered nothing by way of real instruction. No stances. No grip corrections. No fundamentals. No coaching.

  They just let the recruits experiment with their weapons like kids figuring out a puzzle box.

  It grated on Swift more than anything else.

  Back on Earth, he’d been a firearms instructor. Taught civilians and military personnel how to shoot clean, how to shoot safe, and how to shoot under pressure. Watching the chaos on the range now—the flinching, the fumbling reloads, the wasted ammo—it made his fingers itch.

  One recruit especially caught his eye.

  A wiry young man with sharp eyes but terrible posture. His name was Daren. His weapon looked like some kind of semi-auto carbine, slim and lightweight, but every time he squeezed the trigger it jammed or misfired or shot wildly off-target. The poor kid looked close to giving up.

  Swift walked over, calm and easy.

  “Mind if I give you some pointers?” he asked.

  Daren hesitated, then nodded. “I... yeah. Please.”

  Swift crouched beside him, voice low. “Okay, first, your stance is killing you. Feet shoulder-width apart, square your hips. Tuck that elbow in. There. Better. Grip it like it owes you money—but don’t choke it.”

  Daren blinked. “You... used to do this, didn’t you?”

  Swift just smiled. “Little bit.”

  It took all of five minutes to see improvement. After another ten, Daren could consistently hit a man-sized target at 30 steps away.

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  Some of the other recruits started watching, whispering.

  Then came the snickering.

  “Look at that,” someone muttered. “Professor Swift and his failing student.”

  “Should’ve named his gun 'Training Wheels.’”

  Swift ignored them. He didn’t care. He wasn’t here for praise.

  Later, when it was his turn to shoot, he shouldered Excalibur and braced. The blast was thunderous—like a cannon going off. The boom echoed off the stone walls of the practice yard, rattling armor and silencing every other gun on the range.

  The safety officers flinched.

  One of them stomped over, clearly annoyed. “Gunfighter Swift. Kindly use the secondary range from now on. You’re disrupting the others.”

  Swift didn’t argue. He nodded and left.

  Swift fell into a routine. After class, he’d head to the side range—less crowded, more isolated. It gave him space to focus, and time to keep teaching.

  By the end of the third week, he’d helped five recruits fix their grips, stances, reloading habits. By week four, it was seven. Half the class, give or take. Some of the loudest hecklers from earlier now quietly watched from a distance, absorbing what they could without asking directly. Swift didn’t care who thanked him. He wasn’t going to watch people fail because no one gave them the tools to succeed.

  Still, his own weapon was a headache.

  Excalibur was powerful, sure. It hit like a truck and looked like something a god would hurl from the heavens—but it was also a nightmare to shoot.

  Inaccurate.

  Loud.

  Clumsy.

  Anything past fifty steps was a gamble. The smooth bore meant ball ammunition had no spin, and the flight path was more like a drunken falcon than a bullet.

  He’d tried everything. Adjusting posture. Bracing harder. Even shaping the summoned BP rounds with subtle intent. Didn’t matter. Until Excalibur evolved again—added rifling, maybe, or switched ammo types—he was stuck with a close-to-mid-range spear cannon.

  And the sound. God, the sound.

  He needed a suppressor, or his ears were going to turn into mulch before year’s end. A future Swift’s problem.

  Right now, Week 5 was here.

  In the morning, after chow and drills, they were all lined up outside the barracks. A senior officer addressed them—a weathered woman with cold eyes and a prosthetic jaw clacking when she spoke.

  “Tomorrow morning, another group will be summoned at the Armory Tower.”

  The recruits exchanged glances.

  “They’ll enter the Forest of Trials shortly after. Based on timing, they’ll reach the edge of the city by dusk—assuming they survive the day.”

  She paced slowly in front of the line.

  “Your job is to man the wall all day. Reinforce the guards. Provide cover fire when the new recruits emerge. Watch the treeline. Clear the path.”

  A beat of silence passed before she added grimly, “If they emerge.”

  Swift felt a knot form in his stomach.

  He remembered his arrival. The forest. The screams. The way the others panicked.

  He adjusted the sling across his back and looked out toward the looming wall.

  Time to pay it forward.