The capital was bigger than he imagined. Busier, louder, heavier.

  Swift moved through the crowded lower tiers, keeping to the edge of foot traffic, eyes constantly shifting. Stone roads gave way to packed dirt in places, and gutters ran thick with gray water. Stalls sold everything from dried meat to bootlace charms. Overhead, bridges and balconies formed a tangled canopy, filled with voices, banners, and hanging laundry. There was no order here — just a living machine of trade, motion, and noise.

  Everyone carried a weapon.

  It wasn't like Crescent City, where you could pick out a gunfighter at a glance. Here, children ran around with toy wooden guns. Teenagers showed off weapons sponsoring stickers or hand-carved designs. It was a different kind of city — one where every weapon was different, shaped by the user, blessed or cobbled together. No two looked alike.

  He passed a man with a revolving scattergun mounted to a chest harness. Another woman had what looked like an oversized derringer strapped to her thigh, painted bright red with small feathers braided to the grip.

  Swift’s musket stood out. Or maybe it didn’t. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  He found a cheap lodging house tucked behind a spice merchant and an old book seller. The sign said “Ten Coins a Night” in faded red chalk. Inside, it was worse than he expected: a narrow room, one cot, no windows. But it had a locking door.

  Good enough.

  He dropped his backpack, stashed his gear under the cot, and sat for a moment. The mattress creaked like paper.

  This will be home… for now.

  Swift made his way back to the Mercenary Guild to look for work. Not defending gates or escorting wagons, but an easy job or two to keep food in his mouth and dust off his boots.

  The jobs were plentiful but not glamorous — courier work, messenger duties, light patrols outside the walls. Swift scanned them quietly and picked two contracts that looked simple and stable.

  When he reached the front desk, the clerk barely looked up. “Ten percent guild cut. Submit after-action reports before payment. No advances.”

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  Swift nodded once, took the paperwork, and stepped aside.

  No one asked his name. No one cared that he was a Marksman.

  He was just another gunfighter.

  There was a gear shop three alleys deep into a scrap district, where water barrels steamed and hammer strikes echoed off walls. The shop itself was chaos — crates stacked with straps, buckles, and tools. Belts of old ammo pouches hung like vines. Boots, broken rifles, even glass scopes with spiderweb cracks filled the corners.

  Does anyone here actually know how to make these?

  Swift weaved through the mess, checking out a few knives and flipping through a bin of molded leather slings.

  That’s when he overheard the conversation.

  “—so stupid expensive now. Not worth it unless you’re scouting talent.”

  “Still. It’s The Masters, man.”

  Swift turned slightly.

  The Masters? Oh right, the Gun Master promotion.

  Two gunfighters were leaning against the counter, one with a shoulder-slung lever-action rifle covered in green wrappings, the other wearing a vest stitched with teeth — maybe real, maybe not.

  “You’ve been?” one asked.

  “Three times. Last month’s match? Guy with a hand cannon took out two Experts in under a minute. Damn thing looked like it shot bricks.”

  Swift cleared his throat. “Where is it?”

  Both men turned.

  “You wanna see The Masters?” the one with the lever-action asked, looking him up and down.

  Swift nodded.

  “Coliseum,” the other said with a smirk. “Northwest sector. Follow the green banners. Can’t miss it.”

  He almost turned around at the gate. The ticket price was ridiculous. He could stretch that coin for three days of meals if he wanted.

  But then again… it was information. Real, live data on gunfighters better than him.

  He paid.

  The inside of the coliseum was alive — a roaring crowd layered into stone seating, food vendors carrying trays of meat skewers and drinks. He found a seat mid-tier, tucked behind a man wearing brass goggles and another whose weapon looked like twisted mini flamethrower.

  The arena below was a jagged square carved from packed clay and shifting platforms. Wooden walls rose and fell, some static, some moving. Barrels, crates, and low cover were placed at irregular intervals, forming a sort of maze.

  It looked like a war zone.

  A horn sounded. The crowd leaned forward.

  Two gunfighters stepped onto the field from opposite tunnels — one carrying twin SMGs, the other a long bolt-action with twin barrels.

  How does that work?

  The fight was over in thirty seconds.

  Swift didn’t blink.

  Every second was a lesson. Angles, timing, reload pacing, use of cover, blind fire, baiting movement — it was all there. It felt like watching chess played with thunder.

  He leaned forward on his elbows, mind racing.

  Twin bolt action guy didn’t stand a chance.

  Wait… He didn’t die?

  The man next to him shifted. His weapon made a soft clunk as it settled against the stone bench. It was just a long tube, almost the same length as Excalibur.

  He looked at Swift, amused.

  “First time?”