Flynn stayed low, movin' swift and silent with his stealth ability among the scattered boulders, his boots makin’ no more noise than the whisper of wind through sagebrush. Bloody Bill’s men shouted and hollered in confusion, still not rightly sure how many were against ’em or where Flynn might strike next. He aimed to keep it that way.

  Slippin’ around the flank, Flynn spotted one of Bill’s gunmen crouchin' behind a low rock wall, reloadin’ a battered revolver, swearin' quiet to himself as he struggled to push fresh cartridges home. The man was young, face pale beneath a dust-caked hat, eyes nervous and jumpy as a startled jackrabbit.

  Flynn’s jaw tightened, knowin’ he couldn't hesitate. Quick as thought, he rose from behind cover, Colts leveled easy in both hands. The outlaw glanced up, eyes wide and panicked, pistol fumblin’ awkward-like as he tried to aim. He got off a single wild shot that pinged harmlessly off stone before Flynn’s Colts barked twice, hot lead findin’ its mark true and sure.

  The young outlaw toppled backwards, hittin' the dust without another sound, and Flynn felt that now-familiar surge of energy rush toward him, the D?o power flowin’ strong like a swift current. Right in his vision, that ghostly cartridge belt appeared, hangin’ steady in the air, and Flynn watched as gleamin' cartridges dropped one by one into the loops, finally fillin' every slot neat as you please. It pulsed once, bright and powerful, before disappearin’ quiet-like back into nothin'.

  The gentle voice whispered softly in his ear, almost soothing despite the chaos all around:

  

  Flynn blinked hard, feelin' a clarity come over him sudden-like, sharp as the first rays of dawn breakin' through the night. His eyes swept quickly over the battlefield, pickin' out details he’d never noticed before—the frayed edge of a man’s coat indicatin’ where he favored a draw, the subtle limp of another gunman hidin' behind a rock.

  He drew a steady breath, realizin’ his fightin’ chances had just got a whole lot better. Bloody Bill's men might have numbers, but Flynn now had somethin' more—he had a gift that let him see straight through to their weakest points.

  "Reckon things just got interestin'," Flynn muttered softly, thumbin’ back the hammers of his Colts and slippin’ once more into the shadows, breathin’ steady and slow, keepin' his nerves steady as his heart hammered inside his chest. Bullets cracked sharp against stone around him, scatterin’ grit and dust like desert hail. A moment later, the calm, faintly feminine voice whispered again in his ear, steady and gentle-like despite the gunfire ragin’ around him:

  

  

  

  Flynn gritted his teeth, eyes narrowin’ fierce. This was hardly the time or place for such things—but somethin' deep inside him knew that makin’ the choice now might be what kept him alive till sunset.

  "Aw hell," Flynn muttered quietly, "let's get this done quick-like."

  Immediately, that strange character sheet unfolded itself slow and steady before his eyes, hoverin' ghostly in front of him. He scanned the words, considerin’ them carefully:

  Flynn – Level 3 Marksman

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Flynn exhaled softly, weighin' his options with quick, careful judgment. His gut told him clear—he needed to stay alive long enough to finish this fight, so bein' quicker and shootin' straighter was gonna win the day.

  He made his decision firm and swift.

  "Put two points into Aim," he thought clear-like, and he watched the number slide upward from 13 to 15, feelin' a steadiness settle into his hands. Then he focused again.

  "One more into Quickness," he added. The number rose to 14, and he felt his muscles tighten and loosen, limber as a mountain lion on the hunt.

  The sheet flickered slightly, then displayed the final results clearly:

  Flynn – Level 3 Gunslinger

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Flynn nodded once, satisfied. A feller who moved quick and shot true was a feller who’d live long enough to ride another day. The ghostly sheet faded, and Flynn tightened his grip on his Colts, muscles tense and ready.

  He was still flattened hard against the rock, teeth gritted tight as Liv’s rifle cracked sharp and hateful, bullets whippin' past close enough to taste the heat. That woman was deadly accurate, and her fire forced him, Jed, and Luanne to duck low, unable to get off a clean shot. From below, Flynn heard Bloody Bill's furious voice ring out like thunder on a dry prairie. "Get movin’, you worthless yellow-bellies! Rush 'em now, or I swear I'll shoot you myself!"

  There was hesitation, nervous glances among the few men left, but Bill roared again, voice fierce enough to strip paint off a barn. "Move, damn you! Kill ’em all! Jed Weston, you miserable old fool—I'm comin’ up there to settle things once and for all!"

  Jed’s voice shot back quick as a rattler’s strike, hot with scorn. "Come ahead, Bill! You been threatenin’ me for twenty years—reckon it's high time we finish this!"

  Bill answered with an ugly bark of laughter. "Oh, we'll finish it, Weston—after I put a bullet in that sneakin', back-shootin’ coward you're hidin’ behind. Hear me, gunslinger? You yeller dog! Step out an’ fight like a man!"

  Flynn felt his jaw tighten, keepin’ his head low as another bullet from Liv ricocheted off the stone, sprayin’ chips near his eyes. Bill’s voice cut again, harsh and goadin’. "What's the matter, bushwhacker? You brave enough to shoot my brother in the back, but ain't got the guts to face me man-to-man?"

  Flynn didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he called out steady and calm, eyes scannin' for a gap in the gunfire. "Your brother pulled iron first, Bill! Reckon you Larks got courage only when the odds favor ya."

  Another sharp crack from Liv's rifle nearly drowned out Bill’s furious yell. "I'll gut you slow for that, gunslinger! You hear? You're a dead man!"

  Jed’s shotgun roared, punctuatin' his next shout. "Lot of talk from a man hidin’ behind his wife's skirts!"

  That struck Bill raw, and Flynn heard him holler in rage, boots scuffin’ fast up the rocky slope. "You’ll pay for that, Weston! You an’ your daughter both!"

  Flynn took a slow breath, lettin' Bill’s anger cloud his judgment. He tightened his grip on his Colts, eyes sharp and steady. Bill was mad now—mad enough to make a mistake. All Flynn had to do was wait for the right moment, an’ he’d teach Bloody Bill that courage was more than just talkin’ loud and shootin’ wild.

  Flynn kept low, breath steady, movin’ smooth and silent like a ghost on the wind. The gunfire up ahead still rang out sharp and steady—Luanne and Jed pinned down, forced to keep their heads low as Bill and his last two men pushed closer. Flynn knew he had to be quick, but stealth took patience, and right now, he was fightin’ the itch to move faster. One misstep, one careless footfall, and he'd lose the only edge he had. He eased forward, heart hammerin' steady in his chest, the weight of his Colts solid in his hands. The need for speed and the need for surprise warred in his gut, but he kept to the plan, movin’ like a shadow through the dust and brush.

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  Finally, he reached a good position, circlin’ wide around their flank. The two outlaws ahead had their backs to him, crouched low behind cover, all their focus on tryin’ to overrun Jed and Luanne. Flynn exhaled slow, steadyin’ his aim. Then, just for the hell of it, he triggered that new "Analyze" ability—curious to see what it would show him.

  Words flickered across his vision, sharp and clear.

  Gunman - Level 4

  

  

  

  Flynn’s gaze shifted to the second outlaw.

  Gunman - Level 4

  

  

  

  Flynn let the text fade, readjustin’ his grip. These weren’t greenhorns, but they weren’t the kind of men he’d lose sleep over, neither. They’d fought before, knew their way around a gunfight—but they weren’t fast, and they weren’t clever. Bill had picked brutes, men used to winnin’ through sheer force and numbers, not quick wits or smart shootin’.

  That was their mistake.

  Flynn stepped out from cover, slow and deliberate, makin' just enough noise for them to notice. The moment one of ’em turned, wide-eyed and startled, Flynn’s Colts came up smooth as breathin’.

  "Howdy, boys," Flynn drawled, his voice steady and low, death already hangin’ in the air. "Reckon y’all didn’t count on me bein’ here."

  Flynn didn't need to aim down his sights—his hands knew the dance better than his mind did. The moment his fingers twitched, his Colts bucked, barkin’ like thunder on a dry plain. Even firin’ from the hip, his bullets found their mark near effortless-like, landin’ true where he wanted 'em.

  The two outlaws barely had time to flinch before their bodies jerked hard, like marionettes with their strings yanked. Each took a bullet clean through their gun-hand shoulders, sendin' their pistols tumblin’ to the dirt. Before they could so much as cry out, Flynn’s second shots found their knees, bucklin’ ‘em straight down into the dust.

  The air filled with their howls, ragged and raw with pain, but they weren’t dead—not yet. Flynn had made damn sure of that.

  He was already movin', flippin’ back behind cover, when Liv’s rifle cracked again. A round slammed against the rock he’d been standin’ in front of, throwin' up dust and splinters of stone.

  Flynn pressed his back against his cover, takin' a slow breath, expectin' what was comin’ next.

  Sure enough, that strange current of D?o energy rolled over him like a warm gust before a storm, flowin’ from the downed gunmen into him. He didn’t resist it—hell, he was startin’ to like the feel of it, like takin’ a deep drink after a long ride. Right on cue, his vision dimmed for half a breath, that ghostly cartridge belt unfurlin’ in front of him once more. His gut clenched slightly in anticipation, watchin’ the gleamin’ bullets drop into the open loops one by one.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Each filled notch sent a pulse through him, a subtle buzz that settled deep in his bones, in his hands, in the surety of his next move. But it wasn’t enough—not quite yet. He narrowed his eyes, countin’—only a few slots remained empty now. Another fight or two, and he'd be at the next step. Then the belt shimmered, fadin’ back into nothin’, leavin’ him feelin’ sharp, alive. Flynn exhaled slow, lettin' the energy settle inside him. He wasn’t just survivin' out here. He was changin'.

  Watchin’ the dust settle around the battlefield. Bloody Bill was the last man standin’—or rather, crouchin’ behind a rock like a coyote too stubborn to know it was cornered. His wife, Liv, kept up steady fire, tryin’ to keep Luanne pinned, but there was a hesitation in her shots now, like even she knew the fight was slippin’ away from ‘em. Flynn rolled his shoulders, breathin’ deep, then called out, voice steady as bedrock.

  "Bill, reckon you and me got somethin’ to settle."

  Silence for a long beat, then Bill’s voice came back, raw with frustration.

  "Ain't nothin' to settle, bushwhacker. You murdered my kin, shot down my men, and now you’re fixin’ to talk me into layin’ down my gun?"

  Flynn let out a low chuckle, cold and sure.

  "Now, I never took you for a fool, Bill, but seems to me you're sittin’ behind that rock like one. You an’ yours came out here to take what didn’t belong to you, same as always. You ain’t huntin’ justice. You’re just a bully that ran outta people to push around."

  Another pause, then Bill barked a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it.

  "Big words for a man who’s spent this whole fight hidin' in the shadows. You call me a coward? I ain't the one sneakin’ ‘round shootin’ men in the knees like some low-down cutthroat."

  Flynn eased his weight onto the balls of his feet, lettin’ his hands rest easy near his Colts.

  "See, Bill, that’s the thing—some of your boys are still breathin’. If I wanted ‘em dead, they'd be feedin’ the vultures already. But you? You done made your bed. You want this fight to end? Then step out here like a man, an’ let’s finish it proper."

  Silence stretched between them, long and thick as the desert heat. Then Bill shifted, his boots scuffin’ against rock.

  "No tricks, gunslinger." His voice was low now, real serious. "Just you and me. Fastest draw wins. Loser bleeds in the dirt."

  Flynn didn’t hesitate. "Agreed."

  He turned his head slightly, hollerin' back to Jed and Luanne. "Hold your fire. This one's mine."

  He heard a curse from Luanne, followed by the sharp sound of her rifle’s hammer bein' eased down. Jed didn’t say nothin’, but Flynn knew he’d honor the request.

  Then Flynn called to Bill again, voice hard and even. "You keep your wife in check, too. This is between us."

  Bill spat, then called back. "Don’t you worry. Liv ain't gonna interfere."

  A beat, then Bill stepped out from cover, slow and deliberate. Flynn mirrored him, movin’ steady into the open. The world around ‘em faded—the dust, the gunpowder, the distant crows already circlin’. None of it mattered.

  This was it.

  Flynn studied Bill, takin’ in every tell—his shoulders were tight, his fingers twitchin’ at his side. His holster was worn but well-oiled. The man had a draw on him, no doubt about it. But Flynn had seen men like Bill before. Bill had spent his whole life relyin’ on fear to slow his opponents. He’d never faced someone who didn’t flinch.

  For a moment, the world went still. Then Bill’s fingers twitched toward his iron—

  —but it wasn’t a draw. His free hand shot forward, flickin’ dust straight into Flynn’s eyes as he went for his gun. A dirty trick—one Flynn had half-expected.

  His Instinct kicked in before his mind did.

  Flynn moved on reflex, sidesteppin’ just as Bill’s pistol cleared leather. Through the haze of dust, he saw the barrel comin’ up, but his own Colts were already there, already barkin’.

  BANG—BANG.

  Two shots. One tore through Bill’s shoulder, the second slammed into his gut.

  Bill staggered, his pistol droppin’ from his fingers as he fell to his knees, breath comin’ in short, choked gasps. Flynn blinked the dust from his eyes, steadyin’ himself. He walked up slow, lookin’ down at the man who had spent his life terrorizin’ folks who couldn’t fight back.

  Bill looked up at him, eyes wild with pain and rage. His lips curled in a sneer, breath rattlin’ in his throat. "Damn you, gunslinger."

  Flynn stared down at him, calm and cold. "You already damned yourself, Bill." Bill gave a final, shudderin' breath—then slumped forward into the dirt.

  A long silence followed. Then a sharp, feral scream split the air. Flynn turned his head just in time to see Liv Lark, rifle clenched tight, glaring at him with murder in her eyes.

  Flynn barely had time to register the feral scream before Liv Lark was comin’ straight for him, rifle raised, pure hate in her eyes. She wasn’t thinkin’—just actin’, raw and blind with rage, so lost in vengeance she’d forgotten herself. What she hadn’t forgotten was how to shoot.

  Flynn saw the rifle barrel rise, saw the mad fire in her eyes, and threw himself to the side just as she squeezed the trigger.

  CRACK.

  Pain burned hot along his cheek—just a graze, but it told him clear as day that if he’d been a hair slower, he’d be lyin’ dead in the dirt right now. Seemed them extra points in Quickness had already done their work.

  But Liv had made a mistake. In her mad rush, she’d crossed the invisible line—the one that put her square in Luanne’s kill zone. The moment Liv fired, two rifle shots rang out from behind Flynn, sharp and mean, one right after the other. The first shot missed, but the second found its mark, slammin’ deep into Liv’s shoulder. She let out a shriek, stumblin’ sideways but refusin’ to go down, clingin’ to her rifle like it was the only thing holdin’ her upright. Blood darkened her sleeve, but hate still burned in her eyes.

  Liv might’ve been crazy mad, but she wasn’t a fool. She knew she’d lost. Her wild gaze darted around, takin’ in the bodies of her fallen gang, her dead husband, the damn gunslinger that just cut her world down in front of her. A third rifle shot cracked, but Liv was already movin’, staggerin’ back, barely out of range before Luanne could chamber another round. She turned on her heel, shufflin' toward her horse, blood drippin’ down her arm but refusin’ to stop. She scrambled up into the saddle, gripping the reins with bloody fingers, then turned to face them one last time.

  Her eyes locked on Flynn—pure murder in that gaze.

  "You listen, gunslinger, and you listen good!" she spat, her voice raw with fury. "You think this is over? You think you won? Oh, you poor, dumb bastard—I'll carve your name in my damn soul before I let this lie!"

  She turned her glare toward Luanne and Jed, seethin' through her teeth. "And you two? Hope you got all your affairs in order, 'cause I ain't done with you, neither. You’ll wish you’d died clean out here in the dust before I’m through!"

  She turned back to Flynn, eyes gleamin’ dark, voice lower now, almost a hiss. "You took everything from me, gunslinger. You killed my Bill. You killed my kin. So help me, I’ll see you bleed for it. I’ll see you beg for mercy that’ll never come."

  Flynn didn’t say a damn thing. Just stood there, watchin’ her, his eyes steady, his hand restin’ easy on the butt of his Colt.

  Liv bared her teeth in a twisted grin, her face a pale mask of fury. "Remember my face, Gunslinger! 'Cause next time we meet, I'll be the last thing you ever see!"

  Then she kicked her horse hard, spurrin’ it into a gallop, ridin’ off fast the way she came, disappearin’ into the dust, still hollerin’ curses as she went. Flynn stood still for a long moment, watchin’ her silhouette fade into the horizon, feelin' that odd, quiet stillness that always came after a fight.

  Then he exhaled, reachin’ up to wipe the blood from his cheek. "Well," he muttered, glancin’ toward Jed and Luanne, "reckon I just made myself an enemy for life."

  Flynn had barely exhaled, barely let the weight of what had just happened settle in his chest, when a cold realization hit him—he hadn’t felt the D?o energy from Bloody Bill.

  His instincts screamed at him.

  He spun on his heel, Colts coming up like they were a part of his own breath, dropping to one knee just as Bloody Bill Lark—gut-shot, dyin', but still breathin'—wrenched a derringer from his coat pocket, a last desperate snake-strike.

  Flynn saw the barrel flash. Two shots rang out at the same time. Bill fired, Flynn fired, and a half-second later, Luanne’s rifle cracked through the dust. The sound of it all blurred together, a mix of gunpowder and death. Bloody Bill jerked back like a puppet with its strings cut, a surprised, almost insulted look flashin’ across his face. His fingers twitched, his lips moved like he wanted to curse one last time, but no words came.

  He fell, hittin’ the dirt with a final thud. Flynn didn’t have time to care which bullet ended him. Because his shoulder was on fire. He staggered, reachin’ up instinctively, feelin’ the sticky warmth flood over his fingers. The damn derringer had found its mark—high caliber, close range. It punched clean through, leavin' an exit wound on the other side.

  Flynn clenched his jaw, dropped to both knees, breathin’ hard. Then it hit him—that familiar rush, that strange, electric pull. The D?o energy flooded into him, heavy and strong, sinking into his bones.

  The world went dim around the edges as his vision filled with that ghostly cartridge belt, notches slamming full one after the other, each one a beat of power settlin’ inside him.

  The calm, ever-steady voice whispered, clear as a bell:

  

  Flynn barely had time to process it. The energy swirled, his body burnin’ with the effort of takin’ it all in. Then everything went black. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was that same even-toned voice, whisperin’ soft into his mind—