Life after graduation wasn’t exactly glamorous.

  Swift kept to a rhythm—The first two days of the week were spent back at the barracks, working with the fresh-faced recruits during their firearm sessions. The so called instructors let him take over entirely, trusting him to handle the safety and instruction with a level of expertise no one else on staff seemed to have. The new recruits weren’t bad, just green. Some were eager. Some scared. Most just wanted to hit something.

  The rest of Swift’s week was spent taking jobs off the mercenary guild’s bulletin board. But the assignments for a first-ranked gunfighter were about as exciting as watching paint dry—assuming paint even existed in this world.

  “Find a missing cat.”

  “Deliver crates to the southern market.”

  “Help rebuild a collapsed shed.”

  They paid, barely. Enough for food and supplies, a little extra to put away each week. But he wasn’t complaining. He knew how things worked. Reputation built slowly, especially for solo operatives. Until he hit Marksman status—or earned some fame—this was his lane.

  Still, the downtime gave him something more important than coin: time to plan.

  Swift’s obsession hadn’t faded—it had sharpened. He was determined to build out a full combat kit like what he’d worn in his previous life. But nothing like it existed here. Helmets were made for knights. Backpacks were leather sacks. Gloves were thick and clumsy. Chest armor was all iron plates and buckles. No one had ever seen anything like a plate carrier, or ballistic eyewear, or tactical pouches.

  Worse, none of the local blacksmiths were interested. At best, they laughed. At worst, they quoted prices that sounded like scams—demanding a hundred silver just for a basic mockup.

  One smith even waved him out with a sneer. “You’re just a first-rank. Come back when you’ve got coin or a name.”

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  So Swift kept training. Every morning began with martial arts drills in the alley behind his rented room—punches, footwork, throws. He’d made dummies from hay and rope to simulate targets. In the afternoon, he’d work on physical conditioning or shoot at isolated ranges beyond the city walls, practicing with Excalibur even if its effective range made it feel like gambling past fifty steps.

  But nothing changed until he met her.

  Swift was in the lower artisan quarter, following a flyer for a man who carved intricate wooden hilts—another dead end—when he passed a small workshop stuffed with oddities. Glass bottles of every shape and hue filled the windows, patterned cloth hung from racks beside ceramic figurines and leather-bound boxes. A wooden sign above the door read simply:

  “Lee’s Makeshift Miracles”

  He hesitated before walking in.

  The interior smelled of dye and smoke, but not unpleasantly. There were tools everywhere—carving blades, spools of thread, glass-cutting gear, tiny hammers and pins.

  A woman crouched over a table near the back, soldering what looked like a loop of silver wire onto the edge of a clay bowl. She glanced up at the jingle of the bell.

  “You’re not a tourist,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”

  Swift stepped closer. “I heard you make custom work. Of all kinds.”

  She raised a brow. Her black hair was tied up messily behind her head, and her features were sharp, almost fox-like. Her voice had an accent, but it was subtle—Korean, maybe? Hard to say.

  “I make what I like. Not what people think they want.”

  He held out his notebook, flipping to a page with one of his sketches. A modern tactical glove, with reinforced knuckles, a flexible wrist strap, and leather pads to keep it breathable.

  The woman stared at it for a long time. Then flipped to the next page.

  Body armor—closer to a modern carrier vest, layered fabric and plate inserts, with magazine pouches drawn in the margins. Then a backpack. Lightweight, modular.

  She sat back and whistled softly.

  “Where the hell are you from?”

  “Nowhere close,” Swift said with a grin.

  She didn’t ask more, just kept flipping through until she hit the final drawing. The helmet. Visor. Heads-up display ideas. Ear protection with directional mics.

  “That one’s above me,” she said. “I don’t do… magic computers.”

  Swift chuckled. “I figured.”

  “But the rest?” Her eyes lit up. “This is amazing. Functional. Beautiful. Ahead of its time, and completely not impossible.”

  She snapped the notebook shut.

  “I’ll make these. On one condition—I get to reproduce and sell them.”

  Swift hesitated, then nodded. “Deal. Except for the helmet. That one’s mine alone.”

  She stuck out a gloved hand. “Name’s Lee. You?”

  “Swift.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “It is now.”

  Lee smirked and shook his hand.

  “We’re gonna make beautiful gear together, Swift.”