The weeks passed in a blur. Swift kept up with workouts, training, and classes, but his mind was often elsewhere—obsessed with the idea of gear.

  Every night, he sketched diagrams in his notebook. Not just idle doodles, but blueprints. Modular body armor that could absorb shock and redirect force. Helmets with integrated vision lenses, directional sound tracking, and HUD overlays. Weighted gloves for recoil control. Boots that gripped better on uneven terrain or could enhance his speed with a proper blessing.

  He had ideas—too many of them. But the same problems kept coming back to haunt him:

  One, he had no money.

  Two, he had no idea how to perform a blessing.

  At first, Swift figured he could study the ritual on his own. He spent every spare moment combing through the Crescent City military library, poring over old tomes and faded manuals. But while there were plenty of dusty books singing praises to the Holy Trinity or chronicling battles against the corrosion, there was nothing about how the blessings were done. No diagrams, no procedures, no rituals. Nothing.

  He wasn’t about to ask the priests. He didn’t trust them.

  They had been helpful on the surface—friendly, even—but the cracks were starting to show. They talked about the Holy Trinity like it was scripture, but Swift remembered the five statues back at the Armory Tower. Only three mentioned. A lie still itched at the back of his mind.

  So he kept his distance, kept his questions to himself, and waited.

  The final week arrived with a shift in tone.

  Classes changed focus. Gone were lectures about undead anatomy, corrosion zones, or weapon theory. Instead, instructors brought in representatives to talk about careers. About what came next.

  The first option? The military.

  Stable pay, strict structure, predictable. Good for those who wanted safety and didn't mind taking orders. It came with meals, lodging, and standardized gear. Swift noted the emphasis on standardized. He had seen what they called "issue gear." It was junk.

  The second path? The Church.

  The priests made a rousing pitch. Gunfighters would live in the holy city under direct service to the gods, guided by divine purpose. Their weapons would be revered as sacred instruments. Swift internally rolled his eyes. However, he would be able to learn all the church’s secrets.

  The third? The Mercenary Guild.

  Freedom. Danger. Money. It attracted the bold, the desperate, the ambitious. Mercenary companies were scattered across the continent, some barely better than bandits, others operating like elite military units. The most reputable ones, the instructor said, were based in the capital.

  Swift raised his hand. “What if we want to join a top-tier mercenary company, but don’t want to leave Crescent City yet?”

  The instructor nodded, understanding the question. “Then earn your keep here first. Build a name. Make allies. When you're ready, head east with a caravan or sign up as an escort group. There’s no shortage of people heading to the capital.”

  Money, the answer always.

  Swift spent the rest of the day walking the stone paths of the inner city, watching the sun slide westward as he thought through his next moves.

  The capital could wait.

  He wasn’t ready for a journey yet, not until he had the gear to survive what this world could throw at him. Not until he figured out how to bless it. Not until he knew, without question, when it came to a fight, his equipment wouldn’t fail him.

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  So he made a list—clear, focused:

  Step one: Make money.

  Step two: Get better gear.

  Step three: Learn how to bless gear.

  Step four: Join a caravan to the capital.

  Step five: Sign on with a serious mercenary company.

  He glanced at Excalibur on his back—still the long, odd musket from the Tower, now fused with a bayonet. It wasn’t junk. It had changed once already. He believed it would again.

  The wide courtyard behind the Crescent City barracks had been swept clean and decorated for the ceremony—banners hanging from the inner walls, rows of folding benches aligned in front of a raised platform, and a small crowd of officials and priests occupying the shaded area under a canvas pavilion.

  Swift stood in formation with the other twelve recruits, freshly polished boots lined on the stonework, each of them wearing their standard-issue black and grey uniforms. Most looked eager—nervous smiles, adjusted collars, idle chatter trying to ease the tension. Swift remained quiet, hands clasped behind his back, Excalibur slung across his back like it always was, a silent, constant presence.

  A few rows down, two recruits murmured just loud enough for Swift to overhear.

  “That’s him—the speaker. Look at his wrist, he’s got five dots,” one whispered.

  “No way. That’s a Gun Master. Didn’t think they’d send someone like that just for us.”

  Swift glanced toward the stage as the man in question stepped forward. A tall, broad-shouldered figure with a buzz cut and the kind of sharp eyes that missed nothing. He wore a long coat over his uniform, the fabric weighed down by medals and stitched insignias. As he raised his arm in greeting, the crowd caught a glimpse of the inside of his left wrist—five small, ink-black dots in a tight formation, just opposite of where a wristwatch would be in Swift’s old world.

  Five dots. A Gun Master.

  Swift’s eyes lingered on the tattoo. One dot for a gunfighter, two for a marksman, three for a sharpshooter, four for an expert. Five meant mastery.

  Beyond that… things got murky. The rumors, overheard in taverns and passed around between recruits, said the next ranks weren’t marked by tattoos but by reputation. Tournament placement. Public record. Gun Masters were rare. “B class,” as he imagined it. Above them were the legends—Gun Angels, the elite. Gun Archangels? Nearly mythical. And the Gun God? Singular. One in the world. “SS class.” The apex predator with a trigger finger.

  But those thoughts faded as the Gun Master stepped to the podium. His expression was flat, somewhere between exhausted and indifferent. His voice carried well, trained to project, but there was no emotion behind it—just the rhythm of repetition.

  “You’ve survived ten weeks of training. Learned how not to shoot yourselves. Learned what the corrosion is capable of. That’s better than most. You’re now cleared to live, fight, and serve. Most of you will join the military or the church. Some will die in your first engagement. A few will live long enough to earn a second dot. That’s how it goes.”

  He scanned the crowd, pausing just long enough to ensure everyone was paying attention.

  “Fight well. Remember what the weapon you carry means.”

  He stepped down without flourish. No applause, no dramatic farewell. Just the sound of boots on stone as he walked down the line of recruits.

  When he reached Swift, his hand gripped Swift’s hand tightly—stronger than necessary, eyes narrowing at the visage of Excalibur on Swift’s back, then drifting over Swift’s frame.

  “You're the solo, aren’t you?” the commander asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Swift said, standing tall.

  “Training worked. You’ve packed on muscle. Don’t waste it.”

  He moved on, shaking the next recruit’s hand.

  The ceremony dissolved quickly, officers and priests scattered, the benches pulled away, and the recruits either headed to their barracks or the city to celebrate. Swift lingered in the square, watching the sunlight fade into the stone.

  He turned to leave when a voice called out behind him.

  “Swift,” said Instructor Calderon, the stern, grey-bearded man who’d led their early weapons sessions.

  Swift turned. “Sir?”

  “You're not joining the military, so I won’t keep you. But you’re staying in Crescent City, right?”

  “For now.”

  “We get a new class tomorrow. Could use someone like you during firearms practice. The other instructors can’t shoot for shit, and you’ve got experience. Come by two times a week. Paid, of course—barely. But the recruits need it.”

  Swift hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  As the instructor left, Swift glanced down at the inside of his wrist—the lone dot still etched there, black and unmoving. He flexed his fingers once and then walked back toward the barracks under the settling dusk.

  He didn’t know when Excalibur would evolve again. He hadn’t used the bayonet against the undead, hadn’t needed to. But he didn’t see his musket as some burden. Not anymore. He believed it would change.

  One day Excalibur will be legendary.