Swift didn’t stop moving.

  Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline still burning in his veins. Maybe it was the thrill of survival. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the simple need to put distance between himself and the skittering hell he’d just sealed behind a pile of rubble. The shifted debris turned out to be just its settling.

  Either way, he made it back to Crescent City in a single day.

  The journey downhill was quicker, easier on his legs. The wind at his back seemed to push him forward. The burden of his overstuffed prototype backpack was offset by a new sense of purpose. Every step brought him closer to results—to progress.

  By the time the city’s stone walls came into view, dusk had begun to settle over the rooftops. The outer guards barely gave him a glance as he entered, coated in dust and web fibers, sweat drying against his collar.

  He wanted to go straight to Lee’s workshop.

  He wanted to drop the pack on her table and start building.

  But his body had other plans.

  By the time he made it back to his barracks room, Swift dropped the pack on the floor and collapsed onto his bunk like a stone thrown into water. The moment his head hit the pillow, his mind slipped into dream.

  He stood in a white void.

  Before him, Excalibur floated—glowing softly, its edges blurred with energy.

  The musket looked the same… at first.

  But then, the changes became clear.

  The bayonet was longer now, curved slightly, no longer an attachment but part of the weapon’s form. Its blade shimmered with dark steel and faint runes along the spine. The buttstock had thickened, strengthened, carved now with elegant, unfamiliar etchings—like ivy wrapping around the wood.

  It looked like a weapon born to pierce monsters and withstand the battlefield.

  Swift reached out to touch it, but the dream dissolved.

  His eyes blinked open in the dim morning light.

  The familiar stone ceiling above him was unchanged—but his wrist wasn’t.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Just below his palm, next to the original black dot, a second had appeared—faintly glowing before fading to match the first.

  He sat up slowly, turning his hand under the light.

  Marksman.

  Excalibur lay on the rack beside the bed. He lifted it, inspecting the changes.

  They were subtle, but real. The bayonet was longer, now fused seamlessly into the barrel. The buttstock had weight and stability—it felt balanced, stronger, more.

  But the inside of the barrel was still smooth.

  No rifling yet.

  He made a mental note: Next evolution—push for ranged kills. The more he used the bullet, the more the gun might adapt its fighting style. His working theory now.

  I meleed too many spiders.

  He grabbed something quick to eat from the mess hall—gravy, bread and spiced beans—and let a few of the instructors know he was back.

  By the time the sun reached mid-morning, he was standing once again outside Lee’s Makeshift Miracles, spider silk almost bursting out of his backpack.

  The bell jingled as he stepped inside.

  Lee glanced up from her workbench, squinting through a magnifying lens. “Huh. You’re not dead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She grinned and stood. “Back so soon too… You must’ve missed me.”

  “I missed real beds.”

  He dropped the pack on her bench with a thud. Dust and web fragments puffed into the air.

  Her eyes widened. “You actually did it…”

  “Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “You’re not going to believe how.”

  They talked for nearly an hour. Swift explained the cave’s layout, the web wall rebuilt each night, the defensive behavior of the spiders, and the terrifying mass of creatures swarming the ceiling. Swift only left out the dream he had in the mine alcove. His secret.

  Lee poked at one of the silk bundles with a pair of forceps, then sliced a sample off and held it up to the light. “Flexible. Resilient. Not sticky. This is perfect.”

  “Think it’ll work for the gloves and vest?”

  “Oh, definitely,” she said, already moving into the back to gather materials. “I can use this for threading, webbing, joint support—hell, maybe even some heat insulation depending on how we layer it.”

  “What about the helmet?”

  She paused, smirked, and waved him off.

  “One miracle at a time.”

  They went over a game plan—fabric layering, structural support, placement of fasteners. Lee jotted ideas as Swift provided real-world context: where gear needed padding, how weight should be distributed, how to prioritize movement.

  After several hours of drafting and modifying, Swift rolled his shoulders.

  “You’ve got enough to start. I should let you work.”

  But Lee didn’t look up from her notes. “You’re not leaving.”

  Swift raised a brow. “I did my part. Brought the silk. Gave you the specs.”

  “You brought the materials,” she said without looking up. “And you know how the gear’s supposed to feel. You’re not just some courier—I need your input on every stitch. At least until we get the prototypes right.”

  He hesitated. He wanted to argue.

  But she was right.

  “Fine,” Swift said. “But I teach recruits in the afternoon, only during First-Day and Second-day.”

  Lee shrugged. “Long as you’re back in the evening, I don’t care if you’re out doing ballet. Just don’t disappear without telling me.”

  Swift cracked a tired smile. “Deal.”

  Lee handed him a pair of shears. “Great. You’re cutting the next spool. Let’s make history.”

  Swift glanced down at the webbing in his hands—pure, silver, and strong as steel.

  Step one: complete.

  Now came the hard part.