Flynn woke up to the slow, rhythmic rocking of the wagon, a gentle, almost rolling motion that didn’t quite sit right with him. It wasn’t the steady clip-clop of a horse beneath him or the heavy drag of boots across dirt—no, this felt…different. Like a boat on calm water. He didn't remember ever bein' in a boat, but the moment the thought crossed his mind, he knew exactly what it was like—the way a hull cuts through water, how a vessel rides the swell and dip of a river. Strange thing, knowledge. Seemed like there were gaps in his memory big enough to ride a herd through, but then something like this—something random—came clear as day.

  That alone made his gut sit heavy.

  He cracked one eye, takin’ in the inside of the covered wagon, light streamin’ soft through the canvas flaps. He was stretched out on a pallet of blankets atop some crates, the familiar creak of wooden wheels and oxen hooves tellin’ him that Jed Weston and his daughter were still movin’ the caravan forward. Judgin’ by the angle of the light and the warm air seepin’ through the canvas, he figured he’d been out for a couple hours, at least. Then, in the lower right-hand corner of his vision, he noticed it—a faint, pulsin’ glow. Flynn sighed, already guessin’ what it was. A system notification.

  "Right," he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly against the blankets. "Still in this. Still playin’ by some rules I don’t rightly understand."

  The thing was, he couldn’t keep ignorin’ it.

  The more he fought, the more he felt the system was real and changin’ him. He wasn’t just some drifter with a pair of pistols—the more he moved forward, the sharper he became, the more he understood things that he had no business understandin’. That wasn’t just natural talent. That was the D?o system workin’ in him.

  He sighed and rubbed his face, feelin’ the sore spot where Liv’s bullet had grazed his cheek.

  "Best start learnin’ what I can, seein’ as I ain't got the luxury of ignorin' it anymore."

  He focused on the blinkin’ light, and sure enough, the words flooded his vision in that clean, crisp text that always made him uneasy.

  [Pistol Savant] (

  The Tinker’s Touch

  Trick Shot

  

  Flynn exhaled, sittin’ up just enough to brace his elbows on his knees.

  

  This was the longest message he'd gotten yet. It also explained why he’d been knocked out longer than usual. Seemed like the system had to reset, rework some things—probably adjustin’ to the fact that he wasn’t followin’ the path of a long-range shooter like it originally expected.

  That part bothered him.

  "Does that mean this system ain't just givin' me a path? It's tryin’ to shape me?" He thought.

  That thought didn’t sit right, but it was the truth, plain as day. He had no clue if there was some invisible hand tryin' to guide his choices, or if the system was just moldin' itself to fit the way he naturally fought. Either way, he had to start usin’ it proper.

  "No use fightin’ against it. If I gotta play this game, I best play to win."

  He focused on the last message, mutterin’, "Yeah, let’s do it. Let’s allocate them points. Quickness, Instinct and Grit, is what I need most right now.”

  The familiar character sheet unfolded in his vision, clear and crisp as before.

  Updated Character Sheet – Flynn

  Level 4 – [Pistol Savant]

  A master of the revolver, blending precision with sheer skill, making the six-shooter an extension of your will.

  Attributes:

  Quickness: 15

  Aim: 15

  Grit: 15

  Instinct: 15

  Presence: 12

  Available Points to Allocate: 0

  That done, Flynn let the screen fade, rolling his shoulders. The wound where Bill’s bullet had punched through still ached, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it should’ve been. Another quirk of the system, he figured—seemed like leveling up helped him bounce back faster. Still, the more he advanced, the harder these fights were gonna get.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Flynn let out a slow breath, watching the last remnants of his stat sheet fade away. He wasn't one for fancy book learnin’, but if there was one thing he understood, it was knowin’ your tools. And right now, his tools weren’t just his Colts—it was this damn system. Abilities, skills, stats, energy. He had ‘em, but he wasn’t about to start usin’ ‘em blind. With the same focused thought that brought up his stat sheet, he turned his mind toward whatever else the system had tucked away.

  A moment later, a new screen unfolded in front of his eyes, crisp and clear like someone had written it up special just for him.

  Abilities & Skills – Flynn (Level 4, [Pistol Savant])

  Abilities (Active Powers – Requires D?o Energy to Use)

  

  The Tinker’s Touch (Cooldown: 24 Hours | Cost: 10 D?o Energy)

  

  Trick Shot (Cooldown: 10 Seconds | Cost: 5 D?o Energy per use)

  

  Eagle Eye (Cooldown: 30 Seconds | Cost: 7 D?o Energy per activation)

  

  Quick Draw (Cooldown: 5 Seconds | Cost: 3 D?o Energy per use)

  

  Skills (Passive or Activated at Will – Some Require D?o Energy to Maintain)

  

  Stealth (Activated | 1 D?o Energy per 10 seconds while active)

  

  Horsemanship (Passive | No Energy Cost)

  

  D?o Energy Pool:

  

  Flynn stared at the words, lettin’ them settle into his mind like a well-worn saddle onto a horse’s back.

  “Well, hell…”

  It wasn’t just gunplay and reflexes anymore. He had a pool of power to work with, and he was already burnin’ through it with every fight.

  Tinker’s Touch was limited—once a day, no more. That was fair. No gunsmith alive could modify a piece faster than that anyway. But Trick Shot? Eagle Eye? Quick Draw? Those were damn near essential. And then there was Stealth, which trickled energy every second it was active. Flynn rubbed his jaw, sittin’ up against the wooden frame of the wagon, lettin’ the details settle. This wasn't just a gunfight anymore. This was a game—a system with rules, advantages, and consequences. If he was gonna win—hell, if he was gonna survive—he had to learn how to use it right.

  He clenched a fist, flexin’ his fingers, already feelin’ the difference. He was faster now, more precise, and that naggin’ sixth sense that had kept him alive so far? It was gettin’ sharper. Didn’t mean he had all the answers. Didn’t mean he liked bein’ a piece on someone else’s board. But Flynn wasn’t the kinda man to lay down and let fate decide for him. He’d play their game. But he’d play it his way.

  Flynn sat there, staring out the back of the wagon, still chewin’ on all the changes rollin’ through his head. The more he thought on it, the more he realized he wasn’t just a man caught in the middle of somethin’ bigger than himself—he was bein’ shaped by it. Like a pistol smithed and tempered over fire.

  But he wasn’t the sort to sit around wool-gatherin’ while others did the work.

  With a grunt, he shifted his weight and started moving to get up, the wagon bed creaking under him. That rustlin’ must’ve caught Luann’s attention, ‘cause a second later, her head popped in through the canvas flap.

  "Oh, welcome back to the land of the livin’, Flynn," she said, all sweet and teasing, though there was a flicker of something else in her pale eyes—relief, maybe.

  Flynn swung his legs over the side of the crates, rolling his shoulder. Still sore as hell, but not near what it should’ve been.

  "You mean I ever left?" he muttered.

  She scoffed, stepping into the wagon proper, arms crossed. "Might as well have. You were out cold. Thought I was gonna have to bandage you up, but then you started glowin’ all funny—like a campfire ember. Next thing I know, the wounds just up and closed themselves. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it."

  Flynn paused at that, brow furrowing. Glowin’? Damn system workin’ on him again. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna say that out loud.

  "Still hurts," he said instead, rolling his shoulder again.

  "Well, yeah," she snorted, hands on her hips. "You ain’t invincible, just lucky. But you’ll live."

  The wagon slowed as Jed pulled back on the reins, bringing the oxen to a stop. A second later, the old man’s voice called from the front— "’Bout time you stirred, son."

  Flynn swung his legs off the crates and hopped down off the back of the wagon, landing a little stiff but firm on his feet. Jed was sittin’ on the buckboard, watchin’ him with the quiet amusement of a man who’d seen plenty of fights, plenty of bruised-up men, and knew exactly what a fella was goin’ through the morning after.

  Flynn adjusted his hat and squinted against the bright sun. "Figure I oughta be doin’ somethin’ other than gettin’ dragged across the desert like a sack of grain."

  Jed chuckled. "Don’t reckon we minded. Gave us time to clean up after that mess back there. Got you into the wagon, checked the pockets of them fellas you put in the dirt."

  Flynn raised a brow at that.

  Luann smirked. "Turns out, they were well-paid men."

  She motioned toward the side of the wagon where a bulging saddlebag sat tied down, stuffed full of loot.

  "All theirs. All yours now," Jed added. "Even their horses. They’re tied to the back of the wagon, followin’ along like a proper little herd."

  Flynn turned, catching sight of the string of horses tied together, their reins looped to the back of the wagon. Five in all, lookin’ healthy and well-kept. Not bad spoils, if he was the sort to count loot from dead men.

  He let out a slow breath. "Guess we’ll sell ‘em when we get to Paradise Valley."

  "That was the plan," Jed said.

  Flynn looked out across the horizon, the stretch of red rock and desert scrub still sprawlin’ out in front of them. "How much longer you figure?"

  Jed rubbed his chin. "Another day and a half, if we keep at this pace. If we don’t run into any more setbacks."

  Flynn snorted. "Well, we ain’t been too lucky so far."

  He stepped toward the saddlebag full of loot and untied it, fishing inside. His fingers brushed over a few purses, a handful of cartridges, a worn deck of cards, and—most important—a pair of pistols. He pulled them out, turning them over in his hands. Well-used but solid. And as he stared at ‘em, something clicked deep in his bones. He could take these apart. Strip ‘em down, piece by piece. And if he had the right tools, he could use their parts to make his own guns better.

  A slow grin crept across his face. Tinker’s Touch, huh? Looked like he had somethin’ to do when they got to town. He slid the pistols back into the saddlebag and tossed it back onto the wagon, stretching his shoulders one last time before pulling his hat down low over his eyes.

  "Alright then. No sense sittin’ around bein’ lazy. Let’s mount up and get this caravan rollin’ again."