The morning sun cast golden light across the cobbled streets of Crescent City, washing the stone and timber buildings in warmth that belied the chill wind whispering in from the north. It was the last day of the week.

  Weeks compromised of six days, a minor difference in this world. Months were five weeks, as if to coincide with the summoning schedule. There were still 12 months in a year. The names of days was simple: First-day, Second-day, Third-day, Fourth-day, Fifth-day and finally Last-day.

  But for one day, the recruits were free of their usual grueling schedule of workouts, drills, and mandatory lessons.

  Freedom in name.

  Swift learned early on that two silver coins didn’t stretch far in a medieval city built on survival, fear, and scarcity.

  He strode through the early bustle of the central marketplace, Excalibur slung across his back as always. The long, imposing musket turned more heads than he cared for. Not out of admiration—more like confusion or wariness. No one carried something so archaic-looking, not when sleeker firearms were available. And certainly not when said weapon couldn’t fire twice in under a minute.

  Still, Swift moved with purpose.

  He’d spent the first few days off wandering—observing. The city was a strange tapestry of rustic charm and brutal practicality. Blacksmiths hammered out swords and spearheads in open-air forges. Butchers hawked their goods beside potion vendors, whose glass vials sparkled like jewels in the sun. The contrast was stark. Beautiful and brutal.

  He’d learned a lot in his aimless walks.

  For one, the city used a standard currency system—bronze, silver, gold, and the ever-elusive platinum coin. Simple and familiar. But what wasn’t familiar was the subtle economy running beneath it all.

  A system rooted not in metal, but in ammo.

  Only people with blessed weapons could produce it. Only they could reload. And only they could barter with it. Merchants, mercenaries, hunters, everyone wanted bullets.

  It made Swift wonder. The people here could build crude firearms, he’d seen pistols, breech-loaders, and even break-action shotguns in the armory shops; why hadn’t anyone figured out how to make powder or cartridges?

  Because they couldn’t. Gunpowder was divine, apparently.

  The gods had given the gift of bullets to the chosen. And the chosen alone. But the church creates blessed weapons. The difference, weapons from the Armory Tower evolved, blessed weapons did not.

  Both can create ammo, so everyone has BP in this world.

  But Swift’s ammo was unsellable.

  Who wanted a loose lead ball the size of a grape with no way to fire it? And since he couldn’t remove the round once it was loaded in Excalibur, he didn’t even have ammo to trade.

  So much for starting a side hustle.

  But today wasn’t about money or wandering.

  Today, Swift wanted answers.

  He found Morrow exactly where he expected him—seated at the corner table of a cozy, fire-warmed tavern called The Gray Barrel, a dark pint in hand, cane leaned against the wall beside him.

  Morrow wasn’t in his travel gear today. He wore a plain brown vest over a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal wiry, scar-sketched arms. His beard was shorter now, trimmed, with more gray than Swift remembered. But his eyes were the same—piercing, calculating, and tired.

  “Morrow,” Swift greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.

  The old guide looked up and gave a slow nod. “Swift. I see you are surviving.”

  “And your recent group did too,” Swift replied, signaling the tavern maid for a mug of whatever Morrow was drinking. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that.”

  Morrow chuckled quietly. “Neither did they.”

  Swift leaned in, elbows on the table. “What happened out there? You walked twelve kids through the Forest of Trials without a single casualty. That’s... unheard of.”

  Morrow took a slow drink before answering. “They were lucky. But more than that... they listened. Had more discipline than your group.”

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  Swift said, grimacing. “They got themselves killed rushing through the trees like headless chickens.”

  “I warned them. Just like I warned every group before them.” Morrow’s expression hardened. “You’re the first who listened.”

  “Didn’t feel great when we were running for our lives.”

  “That’s why you survived.”

  The maid dropped off Swift’s drink and left without a word. He took a sip—strong, bitter, dark—and set it down.

  “So how did the new ones do it?” he pressed. “You didn’t even fire a shot.”

  Morrow shook his head. “Didn’t have to. They stuck close. Stayed quiet. Let me guide. And we got lucky—no hordes, no patrols. Just a few strays, easily avoided.”

  Swift frowned. “Still seems too lucky.”

  Morrow laughed. Not loudly, but a short, rough sound—like the bark of a man who's seen too much to believe in coincidences. He set his mug down, exhaled, and looked at Swift with something between sympathy and steel.

  “You want to know what really happened?” he said.

  Swift nodded slowly.

  “I told them about your group,” Morrow said. “Before we even stepped out of the tower.”

  There was a long pause between them. The tavern buzzed faintly in the background—clinking mugs, low conversation, the crackle of a hearth fire—but for a moment, all Swift could hear was the blood in his ears.

  “You told them... about the ambush?”

  “I told them everything,” Morrow confirmed. “How your team panicked. How they shot first and got overwhelmed. How you were the only one left standing. I didn’t sugarcoat it.”

  Swift sat back in his chair, jaw tightening.

  “They must’ve been scared out of their minds.”

  “They were,” Morrow said. “But they listened. Every step. Every order. Not one tried to be a hero. Not one wandered off. Fear can be useful when it’s aimed right.”

  Swift stared into his drink. “So I was the warning.”

  Morrow shrugged. “You were the reason they lived. That’s something.”

  The two sat in silence for a while. Swift mulled over the weight of it. It didn’t feel good, but it wasn’t bad either. Just... necessary.

  “They owe you,” Morrow added. “Even if they don’t know it.”

  Swift nodded. Then after a pause: “Did you know the priests say there were only three heroes? The Holy Trinity?”

  “I’ve heard the sermons.”

  “But the tower has five statues.”

  Morrow looked at him then. Not amused, not annoyed—just studying him.

  “You’re not the first to notice,” the guide said finally. “And you won’t be the last. But I’d tread carefully asking questions about the church.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t like questions. Especially ones they can’t answer.”

  Swift sat back in his chair. He didn’t say more. He wasn’t trying to be a heretic or stir up trouble. He just... wanted to understand. But if the truth had to wait, so be it. Right now, he needed gear. Ammo. Better clothes. Better food.

  The truth could wait.

  He had a war to survive first.

  Swift finished the last of his drink and leaned forward, elbows on the rough wood of the tavern table. “One last question.”

  Morrow gave him a sidelong glance, eyes wary but amused. “Go on.”

  “Why is it always you?” Swift asked. “Why don’t you bring gunfighters with you to the tower? Seems risky, even with all your experience.”

  Morrow gave a small, knowing smirk. “Can’t. Tower won’t let it happen.”

  Swift blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Something about the summoning gets... delayed,” Morrow said, tapping the rim of his mug. “If a gunfighter gets too close before a summoning, the tower shuts down. No lights, no hologram, nothing. It's happened before. Took an extra week before it corrected itself.”

  Swift leaned back, processing. “So they can’t even get near it?”

  “Nope,” Morrow said. “Only folks without a mark on their wrist can go near that place. That’s me.”

  “And what makes you so special, Morrow?” Swift asked, half-joking, half-curious.

  The older man chuckled, then pushed back his chair. He lifted one boot onto the bench beside him, tugging up the cuff of his pants. The leather worn but reinforced, and near the heel was a faint engraving—Korean letters, or something like them, curved and glowing faintly with a pale silver shimmer.

  “Speed and silence,” Morrow said, tapping the symbols. “This little gift’s saved my ass more times than I can count.”

  Swift squinted at it. “What is that?”

  “Blessed boots. Given to me by a gunfighter almost thirty years ago,” Morrow said, voice suddenly more solemn. “He sacrificed some of his own BP. Not temporarily—permanently. Took a chunk out of his total pool just to turn me into a better guide.”

  Swift blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, you can do that?”

  Morrow nodded. “I can’t obviously. But senior gunfighters can, if they are willing to give a permanent cost. Once it’s done, it’s done. But the blessing sticks to the item. For life.”

  Swift leaned back, gears turning. “Can they bless anything?”

  “I guess,” Morrow said. “But that’s their choice, or maybe the church’s, I don’t know… You’d be surprised what kind of enhancements I’ve seen—armor that strengthens limbs, gloves that stabilize aim, even gear that senses heat or life signs.”

  Swift let the thought settle in. “Thanks,” he said finally, standing and nodding respectfully. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Morrow smiled and raised his mug in a silent toast. “Anytime. But don’t go telling anyone I told ya about this.”

  The night air was cool when Swift left the tavern. The stone roads of Crescent City echoed under his boots as he made his way through the quiet market lanes and alleys, back toward the barracks. Lanterns flickered low on the walls. Far above, the stars shone clear and sharp, unclouded by smoke or light.

  But Swift barely noticed.

  His mind spun with possibilities.

  A helmet should come first. One that could feed him data—highlight threats, track heat signatures, maybe even display enemy positions like a shooter HUD from his old world. Sound detection would be second. Maybe a headset—something to amplify whispers and muffle gunfire. Protection and awareness.

  A good backpack, too. For supplies, tools, maybe even blessed for weight reduction. Gloves helping him grip his weapon and maybe even stabilize aim when he fired. Body armor, of course—but he wouldn’t settle for chainmail or leather scraps. He’d make something real, something smart.

  He didn’t have the gear yet. But he had a plan.

  And a goal.

  When he finally climbed into his bunk, Excalibur resting in its cradle by the bed, Swift stared up at the ceiling in the dark. His hand rested lightly over his tattoo, the single black dot just below the wrist—like a mark of beginning.

  The world didn’t feel as foreign anymore.

  It felt like something he could shape.

  Gear, I need gear.