“It’s my first time.”
“What would you like t’know?”
The voice beside Swift was calm, amused, and almost too casual for someone sitting with a recoilless rifle leaning across their knees. Swift turned slightly to look at the man beside him. Black coat with a maroon lining, fingerless gloves, relaxed posture— the guy radiated a kind of confident mischief.
Swift didn’t hesitate.
“Everything. But first… how come Mr. Bolt Action didn’t die?”
The man chuckled.
“Good eye, mon ami,” he said. “Look at the end of their barrels.”
Swift squinted. It was difficult to see from this far up, but with enough focus, he could barely make out a strange device attached to the muzzle. Cylindrical. Grooved. Maybe a suppressor?
“Damage suppressors,” the man explained, casual and smooth. “Blessed gear. Instead of bullets punchin’ through bodies, they shut down the body. Paralysis, not penetration.”
Swift raised a brow. “So it just… shuts off the nerves?”
“Somethin’ like that. You get hit, it’s like steppin’ in a puddle o’ lightnin’. Can’t even twitch your trigger finger.”
Swift frowned. “How does that work with grenade launchers? Or anything explosive?”
The man pulled out some slips of paper, grinning.
“Same principle. Blast hits the nerves, not just the body. If you’re close when it goes off—bam, lights out. Might go flyin’, might go cryin’… but you ain’t dyin’.”
Swift pointed toward one of the heavy wooden barriers on the field. “But what about the debris? One of those things bursts, someone’s getting shredded.”
The stranger laughed out loud this time, short and sharp. “Mon dieu, you a proper nerd, huh.”
Swift blinked.
“Reinforced,” the man continued, tapping the side of his weapon. “Each one takes punishment and keep its shape. They even change between rounds.”
Right on cue, the arena began to move. Walls sank into the ground while new ones rose in different configurations. Obstacles rearranged themselves into fresh lanes, kill zones, blind corners.
He checked his papers and put them away.
“New layout, new round,” the man said, leaning forward. “A’right, my money’s on the guy with the shotgun.”
Swift glanced at him. “You bet on these?”
“Hell yeah,” the man replied, eyes twinkling. “What else is there t’live for?”
Swift raised a brow, uncertain if that was sarcasm or sincerity.
“Is that allowed?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Officially? Nah. But here in the capital, everything’s got a price tag. Bettin’s just part o’ the dance. That’s why I show up early — the real fun starts ‘fore peak sun.”
Swift looked puzzled. “Aren’t all of these ranked fights? Promotions to Gun Master?”
The man shrugged. “Sure, the later matches are. But the mornin’? That’s when you get the real heat. Free-for-alls, grudge matches, ugly drama the church pretends ain’t happenin’. Hell, I’ve seen full teams settle beef before the sun’s even finished risin’”
Down in the arena, the shotgun-wielder charged through cover and swept his opponent off their feet with a brutal blast of compressed force. The match ended in seconds.
The man beside Swift whooped. “Whew! That’s it, Woody, show ‘em how we sweep!”
Swift smirked. “Friend of yours?”
“Somethin’ like that. He rolls under someone I know.”
Swift leaned back. He could feel his mind pulling in every detail, every rule, every strategy he saw unfold.
He hesitated for a second, then asked:
“Who runs all this?”
The atmosphere shifted. The man’s smile faded, the spark dimming behind his eyes.
“The Church.”
He stood up, brushing dust from his jacket and grabbing the massive weapon beside him with one hand, almost effortlessly.
Swift sat forward. “Hold on. I still have questions.”
“Next time, mona mi,” the man said with a wink. “Gotta go collect my winnin’s.”
With that, he turned and vanished into the crowd.
Swift sat back, staring out at the now-empty arena, its walls already shifting into yet another configuration. The crowd cheered as a new set of names placed on the display board.
So much power, all gathered in one place. All regulated. All controlled.
By the Church.
The matches, the rules, the suppressors, even the layout — it was all theirs.
Swift’s fingers brushed against Excalibur’s sling. His weapon hadn’t fired a round in a long time. Not really. Not like this.
And now he knew where he had to go if he wanted to be more than just another mark on the board.
If he wanted to stand on that field one day…
He’d have to step into their system.
But not without knowing more.
Swift stood and moved toward the aisle, hoping to catch up to the man with the massive rifle and velvet drawl— but the crowd had already swallowed him whole.
He lingered at the stairs, eyes darting through waves of spectators, heads bobbing, arms raised with drinks and food. Nothing. The man was gone.
Still, Swift wasn’t ready to leave.
He exited the viewing stands and began walking the interior ring of the coliseum. The outer corridor wrapped around the entire structure, packed with vendors selling food skewers, roasted nuts, bread bowls, and green drinks served in ceramic mugs shaped like bullet casings. It reminded him of the stadiums back home — loud, lively, overpriced.
Only here, the crowd was armed.
Most wore their weapons slung casually across their backs or chests — sleek, odd-looking, some as small as darts, others as long as spears. Every gun was different. Every owner proud.
But what caught his eye next wasn’t a weapon.
It was a jacket.
Several men and women moved through the crowd wearing dark suits beneath striking green jackets, the same bold shade worn by golf champions in his old world. But here, the green wasn’t celebratory — it was official. Branded. Church-issued.
He watched one wave off a group of rowdy betters, calm and composed. Another stood by a column near the vendor stalls, arms folded, scanning the crowd. No weapons visible. No name tags.
Security? Staff? Enforcers? Hard to tell.
Swift stepped closer to one and asked, “Where do people sign up for the morning matches?”
The man turned, polite but unreadable.
“Other side of the coliseum, east wing. Look for the office with the silver lantern above the door. Registration opens just after sunrise.”
Swift thanked him and moved along, noting the directions carefully but keeping his pace casual. He wasn’t signing up. Not yet. He just wanted to see the place.
The east wing was quieter. No vendors. Just stone arches, heavy doors, and one small structure set back beneath a shadowed overhang. A lantern — silver and polished — hung from a wrought iron hook above the door.
Found it.
He slowed, studying the door, the architecture, the position of the guards — if they were guards at all. As he was turning to leave, someone shoulder-checked him.
“Watch it,” came a voice — flat and dismissive.
Swift stopped. His eyes narrowed slightly. His voice stayed level, almost quiet.
“You watch it.”
The man paused mid-stride, then turned around slowly.
Swift could tell from the man’s eyes — dark, calculating, and unwavering — that he wasn’t the sort to back down.
For a moment, neither said a word.