Flynn eased down the corridor like a man steppin’ careful along a moonlit trail, senses sharper than a wolf prowlin’ the sagebrush. The corridor opened slow-like, spillin' out into a room so vast it fair stole the breath from his lungs. It was an armory, and such an armory as he'd never dreamed existed—row after endless row of iron, steel, and polished walnut, glintin’ softly beneath lights strung from someplace he couldn’t rightly see.

  He whistled low, appreciatin’ the sheer beauty of it all. "If a man's paradise exists," he muttered, half under his breath, "this here might just be it."

  Flynn moved slow-like down the aisles, eyes passin’ over guns of every make and era—long-barreled muskets worn smooth from use, double-barrel shotguns polished bright as a preacher’s pocket watch, rifles leanin’ clean and sharp, gleaming automatics slick and dangerous lookin’. Each one whispered a different story, callin’ out to him with quiet promise.

  He paused, reachin’ toward a sleek Colt .45 automatic, admirin’ its smooth lines. As his hand closed around the grip, the air around him shimmered like heat risin’ off the plains. Suddenly, his clothes faded, replaced by the clean lines of a dark suit and tie, the fabric snug and stiff across his shoulders.

  Flynn chuckled, half amused, half wary. "Ain’t rightly sure I trust any piece o’ iron that dresses a man in city clothes."

  He set the automatic down gentle-like, lettin’ his fingers linger briefly before movin’ along. Other weapons called out—automatic rifles, submachine guns, each time bringin’ with 'em some slick outfit he reckoned a man like him had no honest business wearin’. Flynn shook his head. Too complicated, too flashy. He wanted somethin’ reliable, solid. Somethin’ simple that spoke to his bones.

  At last, down at the far end, his eyes settled on a matched pair of revolvers. They lay nestled on a bed of faded velvet like precious heirlooms passed down through generations. He took 'em up, gently as if liftin’ a sleepin’ child, feelin’ their perfect weight settle comfortably into his palms. The grips were smooth polished walnut, oiled and darkened by the sweat and toil of some unknown gunslinger’s hand. Intricate engravings traced along the barrels and cylinders—delicate scrollwork etched by steady hands and patient craftsmanship. They were beautiful. No other word rightly fit.

  The air shimmered again, gentler this time, and Flynn glanced down. His clothes had changed once more, and this time felt right—a simple cotton shirt beneath a faded leather vest, blue jeans worn at the knees from hard ridin’, sturdy boots that knew the stirrup and trail, and on his head a tan-colored Stetson, comfortable and familiar as a handshake from an old friend.

  Flynn holstered the revolvers slow and easy, feelin’ a rightness in the motion, as natural as breathin’. He nodded, half to himself, as if answerin’ some unspoken question. "Now that's more like it," he said quietly, tuggin’ the brim of his hat lower. "Reckon a man's weapons oughta reflect who he is, an’ these here," he patted the revolvers gently, "these speak my language clear as day."

  Once those revolvers settled easy and familiar at Flynn’s hips, he felt somethin’ stir in the air—a subtle shift, like a cool desert breeze touchin’ the skin on a hot day. In front of him appeared a worn duster coat hangin’ quiet-like from an iron hook that sure hadn’t been there before. It was faded, dusty, a garment of hard trails and harder men.

  Flynn eyed the coat suspiciously. Then, shrugging, he reached out and slipped it on. The coat settled comfortably across his shoulders, as natural as a second skin. He flexed his fingers, feelin’ the reassuring weight of those guns at his sides. If he had to walk a strange road, he figured, it might as well be in proper gear.

  Just as he was adjusting the collar, a sudden chime echoed softly in his ear—or maybe right in his skull. He stiffened instinctively, eyes narrow, wary.

  “Attunement accepted,”a gentle, accentless voice whispered. Flynn glanced around sharply, but no one was there. The voice felt close, intimate, like it was speakin’ straight to his soul. "Step forward and begin your calibration."

  Before Flynn could wonder what in tarnation "calibration" meant, the room vanished, dissolving into sunlight so bright it stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly, shielding his face from a sun blazing overhead like fire on an anvil.

  He found himself standin’ in the middle of a dusty main street that stretched out straight and wide, lined with weathered wooden buildings bleached by the relentless sun. On either side were shops with faded signs: a general store, a livery stable, and directly to his right, a large two-story saloon. Above its swingin’ batwing doors, a faded sign read "Silver Star Saloon," creakin' softly in a slow, dry breeze.

  Flynn's eyes swept the crowd gathered silently along boardwalks on both sides of the street—men and women watchin’ keen-eyed from beneath the shade of their hats, whispering quietly to each other, like folks anticipatin’ trouble. He felt their eyes measurin' him, judgin' him, waitin' for somethin' that was comin', something Flynn felt deep in his bones.

  Above the saloon, an old clock—its hands frozen at just shy of noon—began to move with a loud metallic click. It struck Flynn suddenly: high noon. He knew enough to feel uneasy. The clock's long arm ticked into position, settlin' squarely on the twelve, and the town went quiet. The first chime echoed through the dusty streets, clear and loud as a funeral bell.

  On the third toll, the batwing doors of the saloon swung wide with a creak of hinges. A large, well-dressed man stepped out onto the porch and paused, glaring at Flynn beneath the brim of a black gambler’s hat. A polished vest stretched taut over his barrel chest, a gleaming watch-chain dangled from his pocket, catchin' the sun. He had the swagger of a man who’d faced death plenty of times and always walked away whole.

  The stranger's cold eyes measured Flynn up and down. "You got some nerve showin' yer face here, stranger," he called, his voice a gravelly growl edged with contempt. "You done stepped in it deep this time, boy."

  Flynn tensed, feelin’ instincts stir in his gut, though he didn’t rightly know why. His fingers brushed his guns lightly, comforted by their presence. "Friend," he said slowly, keeping his voice even despite the dry tightness in his throat, "reckon you might have me confused with somebody else."

  The big man laughed, rough as gravel crunchin' under a wagon wheel. "No confusion. Twelve bells mean reckonin', boy. I aim to collect."

  Flynn felt the blood surge through his veins, the tension stretchin’ taut as wire. He didn’t know the man, didn’t recall what debt or grudge could've sparked this trouble—but somethin’ deep inside him knew exactly what came next. His fingers brushed his holsters, reassuring, steady.

  Somewhere deep within, instincts he didn't know he possessed surged like the rush of a river after a thunderstorm. He didn’t know much about himself, not yet, but Flynn felt sure about one thing: he weren’t no quitter, and he weren’t about to back down. The clock began to toll loudly, each chime heavy and final as a hammer on iron.

  The stranger squared himself, his hand driftin’ toward his sidearm. "Make peace with your maker, friend," he growled. "Because when this bell finishes tollin', you’re gonna meet 'im."

  Flynn drew a slow, steady breath. "Might be you’re right," he said quietly, meeting the big man's glare square-on. "Then again, partner, reckon you might be wrong."

  The last chime sounded, long and final, reverberating through the dry, silent air. Flynn's fingers flexed around smooth, well-crafted grips, feelin' their comforting weight. It was time.

  Flynn’s gaze locked hard onto the gambler across the dusty stretch of street, the mid-day sun beatin’ down without mercy, glaring white-hot off the sand-packed dirt. That gambler stood easy-like, but ready, his black suit pressed sharp, silver cuff-links flashin’ beneath his coat sleeves. His dark eyes narrowed beneath that broad-brimmed gambler’s hat, hand floatin' like a buzzard above the ebony-handled pistol at his hip. Flynn could see the muscle twitchin’ in his jaw, tight and coiled like a rattler about to strike.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Flynn's breath stayed quiet in his chest, steady as stone, but something about the scene gnawed at him. Instinct—maybe something else deeper—pulled his gaze upward. His eyes caught movement in an upper window of the saloon: the faint flicker of lace curtains drawin’ back quiet-like, revealing the dark round hole of a rifle barrel peekin’ out, anglin’ right for his chest.

  Well, now, he thought dryly, seems these boys play their cards a mite crooked.

  But it wasn’t just the man above. On Flynn's left, a lean, wiry fella with eyes dartin’ quick as prairie lightning stood too eager and stiff, leanin’ slightly forward, hand hidden behind a battered rain poncho. He wore a dusty derby hat and a grin that was all trouble, his body taut like a horse ready to bolt from the chute.

  Flynn kept his stance loose, his hands hoverin’ low and easy near the smooth walnut grips of the pair of revolvers restin’ in his holsters. Sweat trickled down his temple, but his nerves were steady, calm. He trusted these guns—trusted them more than memory or reason.

  Then the gambler's eye flicked, signalin’ his move.

  Flynn saw it clear as daylight on the plains. His hands blurred faster than conscious thought, drawin’ those six-shooters clean and fast like lightning leapin’ from a storm. The hammers fell smooth under his thumbs, the triggers cool and sure beneath his fingers, pistols roarin’ sharp as thunder.

  One bullet found its mark center-chest in the gambler’s vest, stoppin’ him cold as if he'd run smack into an oak door. The other shot crossed Flynn's own chest at a smooth, instinctive angle, shatterin’ the upstairs window in a spray of glittering shards. The hidden rifle jerked back, clatterin’ loose and fallin’ silent.

  He didn’t pause to admire his work—already rollin’ sideways like a tumbleweed caught in a storm, just as the wiry fella across the street drew his iron, shootin' wild. Flynn felt dirt explode where he'd stood just an instant before, dust risin’ like startled birds. His own revolvers rose again, already cocked and steady. He squeezed the trigger, each blast crisp and certain, both shots landin’ true. The lean fella crumpled backward, legs foldin’ beneath him as he landed flat in the dust. No sound, no movement, just silence and smoke.

  Flynn rose slow-like, revolvers steady, swingin’ smoothly back up toward the window, breath heavy, heart poundin’ fierce as a cavalry drumbeat. But the rifle was slack, hangin’ limp from the shattered glass like a broken limb. The gambler who held it was sprawled on the porch roof, one limp arm danglin’, blood seepin' through a crisp white shirt.

  Three men dead in the span of a heartbeat. Flynn took a slow breath, eyes carefully scannin’ the street as townsfolk murmured, shiftin’ nervously, uncertain whether he was justice or trouble itself. He carefully spun the cylinders, reloaded from the cartridges he hadn’t realized were tucked into his belt loops, then holstered the revolvers smooth and steady.

  Flynn glanced skyward, shadin’ his eyes against the sun, feelin’ somethin’ akin to sadness, regret mixed with respect for lives lost. But there wasn’t time for sentiment—not now.

  "You boys drew first," Flynn muttered quietly, as he stepped cautiously forward toward the gambler’s fallen body. "Reckon you shouldn’t have played a game you couldn’t afford to lose."

  Flynn stood still in the street, the smoke from his pistols driftin' lazily in the noonday sun. Three bodies sprawled in the dirt, silent as stones, each one a testament to his instincts, each one a reminder of how close he’d come to ridin’ into eternity himself. His pulse still hammered in his temples, and he drew in a slow, deep breath of sun-baked air, tryin' to steady nerves rattled by the sudden violence.

  As the dust settled gently around him, a curious shimmer seemed to hover above the three fallen gamblers, like heat risin’ off desert rock at midday. Squinting slightly, Flynn watched with wary fascination as faint swirls of luminous energy curled upward from each of the dead men, drifting lazily toward him. Before he could reckon on what it might mean, the corner of his vision flashed, and a peculiar blinking belt, somethin' he'd not rightly noticed before, appeared at the edge of his sight.

  He shifted his gaze, careful not to startle whatever this apparition might be. A cartridge belt hovered there, faint and spectral, each slot empty like a promise unfulfilled. Flynn studied it thoughtfully, suspicion and curiosity fightin’ a battle within him. Before he could think much further, that mysterious shimmerin’ energy flowed smoothly toward him, like a river rushin' after rain, and flooded straight into his chest.

  Flynn felt warmth surge through him, pleasant and invigorating, as though he’d just swallowed a shot of good whiskey. It settled deep, spreadin' to his fingertips, and for a moment the world seemed to sharpen. The floating cartridge belt shimmered brighter, slots filling instantly, each cartridge flashin’ to life like silver bullets glintin’ in the sun.

  A detached voice, clear and precise yet oddly feminine, whispered softly in his ear, though no one stood near: “Notches earned.”

  The voice spoke again, gentle yet oddly authoritative, fillin’ his mind clearly: "Notches earned. Level advancement initiated."

  The ghostly cartridge belt glowed, pulse-like, and then vanished as quick as a prairie breeze. Flynn blinked, realizin’ the strange swirl of shimmering energy had dissipated, drawn into him, absorbed like rainwater into dry soil.

  The voice returned gently but firmly. "You have advanced from novice to Level 1. Ability acquired: Quick Draw. You have earned your first step along the D?o of the Gun."

  Flynn's hands rested on the grips of his revolvers, which now felt even more comfortable, like they'd spent a lifetime molded to his grip. A newfound confidence surged in him, quiet but powerful, like the feelin’ after landin' the first shot in a high-stakes poker game.

  "Quick Draw unlocked," the voice explained. "You now possess enhanced speed and reflexes in combat. Continue along the D?o of the Gun and earn more notches to increase your strength and gain further abilities."

  Flynn stared down the quiet main street, his jaw set firm, eyes narrowed against the sun's harsh glare. He wasn't entirely sure what this D?o business meant, or how he'd ended up in a place like this, but one thing was clear—he had to keep movin’ forward, keep earnin' these notches, if he ever wanted answers.

  “Well,” Flynn muttered softly, eyes glancin' briefly at the fallen men, "reckon this trail's only just beginnin'."

  Flynn had scarcely holstered his pistols and whispered quiet words to the dust when a sudden flurry of lace and calico skirts caught the edge of his vision. His fingers twitched instinctively toward those walnut grips, but something deeper—some innate sense of honor or instinct—stilled his hand before it moved too far. He turned fully just as a young woman rushed toward him, her bright auburn hair catchin’ the sunlight like polished copper, her cheeks flushed and rosy beneath a dustin’ of face powder. Her painted lips were parted in distress as she hurried toward him, clutchin’ a broken parasol in one dainty, gloved hand.

  "Gunslinger! Oh, Gunslinger!" she called breathlessly, skirts rustling like leaves in a prairie wind. "You gotta help me! Please, my pa's in trouble—"

  Before Flynn could so much as speak, she stumbled suddenly—her boot catchin' on a rut in the dry, hard-packed street—and with a startled cry she pitched forward. Flynn moved quick, catchin’ her slender frame easily, holdin’ her steady as she leaned briefly against his chest, warm and delicate, her breath quick against his neck.

  He glanced down into wide, frightened green eyes framed by delicate lashes. Her blush deepened prettily, redder now beneath the flush of embarrassment. She righted herself quick enough, though she lingered a bit closer than propriety allowed. Flynn noticed the faint scent of lavender lingering about her.

  "Easy there, miss," Flynn said gently, his voice calm as a desert evening. "Just slow down a mite and tell me what’s wrong. What's this trouble your pa's in?"

  The girl straightened herself, steppin' back just a little, her voice trembling as she spoke. "My pa—he's out yonder, just at the edge of town. Coyotes got him cornered out by our wagon. He sent me runnin' for help, said to find someone quick, someone good with iron."

  Flynn considered this quickly, watchin’ her carefully, tryin’ to read the truth in her eyes. As if answerin' him, strange letters appeared, driftin’ across his vision like tumbleweeds rollin' gentle across a dry prairie:

  Quest Offered: Luanne Weston needs your help saving her pa from attacking coyotes. Reward Unknown. Do you accept this quest?

  He blinked at them curiously, feelin’ that odd, inexplicable instinct again stirrin’ in his chest. He didn't rightly understand what "quest" meant or where the letters came from, but he knew helpin' folks in need felt right—felt proper and necessary. Carefully, Flynn let his eyes settle firmly on the word "Yes," and it vanished quiet-like, leavin' him certain in his choice.

  He met the girl's pleading gaze and gave a slight nod. "Reckon you'd best show me the way, Miss Weston. Ain’t no coyote pack gonna hassle your pa long as I've got bullets and breath left in me."

  Relief flooded her expression, gratitude softenin’ those pretty eyes. "Oh, thank you, gunslinger," she said softly, voice quiverin’ just a bit. "Come quick, I'll show you!"

  Flynn tipped his hat slightly, then followed as she turned and led him swiftly toward the edge of town, feelin' again that comforting weight of his revolvers, ready and certain at his hips.