The town of Paradise Valley was alive in a way Flynn reckoned it hadn’t been in a long time. Folks moved with a purpose now, something besides weariness settling in their bones. The medicine had been passed around, and those still strong enough to take it were already looking better—color returning to faces, eyes sharpening from that hollowed-out look of hunger and sickness. The food, too, had been distributed, and since there were far fewer mouths to feed than there ought to have been, it meant full bellies for the first time in who knew how long.

  Even the little girl who’d been sitting in the dust when they first rolled in now had some light in her. Flynn caught sight of her darting between tables, giggling as an old woman—her grandmother, maybe—tried to brush her tangled hair into something respectable. That was real nice to see. A child ought to run, laugh, play. Not sit in the dirt, too tired to care.

  Music started up, just a man with a fiddle and another tapping a boot heel against a wooden crate, but it was enough. The saloon, what was left of it, had turned into the gathering spot, tables pulled into a loose square out in the open air, with bottles of whiskey and jugs of whatever passed for beer passed around freely. A bonfire crackled in the middle of the square, lighting up tired but smiling faces.

  Flynn leaned against the bar inside, sipping a drink slow, letting the warmth settle in his chest. He wasn’t much for parties, but he wouldn’t begrudge these folks their moment. They’d been on the losing end for too long—tonight, they had a win.

  Clay, the gambler-turned-mayor, sidled up next to him, rolling a toothpick between his teeth. “Reckon you’ve done more for this town in a day than most’ve done in years,” he said, voice easy, but there was a weight to it. “You brought the medicine, the food. That alone woulda been enough. But you also put Bloody Bill in the ground. And that? Well, that means we’ve got a fighting chance now.”

  The words had barely left Clay’s mouth when Flynn felt it—that odd, telltale shift in the air, like the world itself was holding its breath. Then the notification popped up, clear as day:

  

  Before Flynn could even process it, a small weathered crate shimmered into existence on the bar beside him, materializing out of thin air with a soft thunk. Clay raised a brow, not particularly surprised, just mildly amused.

  “Well now,” the gambler said, tapping the lid of the crate with one lazy knuckle. “Ain’t seen that happen in a long time.”

  Flynn exhaled slow and cracked the crate open. Inside, nestled in soft cloth, was a hat.

  And not just any hat.

  It was a fine piece of work, the kind that spoke of long roads traveled and legends spun in the dust. The leather was rich and deep brown, broken in but not worn, supple but sturdy, with a slightly curved brim that would keep the sun outta his eyes without shading his vision too much. A simple braided band wrapped around the base, darkened with time, the kind of thing that told stories without needing words. The moment he set it on his head, it fit like it had always belonged there.

  A whisper of understanding slipped through him, something deeper than just knowing.

  

  The moment the hat settled, Flynn’s HUD flared to life. The ghostly image of his cartridge belt unfurled, filling notch by notch as the D?o energy from his victory rolled into him. He felt the power settle into his bones, the rush less intoxicating than before, but no less real. He was close now. Not quite at the next level, but real close.

  Clay chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess even the universe itself sees fit to reward a man who does good work.”

  Flynn adjusted the brim, the weight of it familiar, like an old friend. He took another slow sip of his drink, watching as the townsfolk celebrated, as life trickled back into a place that had nearly lost all of it.

  “Seems that way,” he muttered, tipping his new hat forward just a touch.

  Clay reached into his coat, his fingers moving with the easy confidence of a man who handled valuables often. He pulled out a small, well-worn pouch made of dark, supple leather, aged but not brittle. The stitching was intricate, too fine for common hands, with a faint silver sheen woven into the seams. It wasn’t fancy, not the way city folk might think of it, but it was quality—something that had seen years, maybe generations, of use without falling apart.

  Clay turned it over in his palm before handing it to Flynn. "Been in my family for longer than I can rightly say," he admitted, tapping the pouch lightly with one finger. "Reckon it ain't done much for me, but I think it might be of use to you."

  Flynn took it, weighing it in his hand. It was small, just about the right size to fit neatly on the back of his gun belt, tied snug where a man could reach without fumbling. The leather was warm, almost like it had a life of its own, pulsing faintly under his fingertips. He frowned. “And what exactly does it do?”

  Clay smiled, resting his elbows on the bar. “Well now, for most folks? Nothin’. Just a bit of old leather. But for someone walkin’ the D?o of the Gun?” He tapped the rim of his glass, thinking. “Let’s just say it turns some of that energy of yours into something a bit more useful—bullets. Special ones. Stronger than yer normal lead, meant to punch through the kind of things that don’t rightly go down with regular shootin’.”

  Flynn exhaled slow, turning the pouch over in his fingers. It felt like too much. "I ain't sure I should be takin’ this," he admitted, shaking his head. “Feels like something could help keep this town safe. Maybe you should be giving it to someone here.”

  Clay’s smile faded just a touch, the gambler’s usual easy expression turning something close to solemn. “Ain’t nobody left here who could use it,” he said simply. “Not properly. See, a long time ago, there were more folks in these parts who walked the D?o—but they’re all gone now. Bloody Bill? He was the last of ‘em, and he twisted his power to serve himself, to break this place down instead of buildin’ it up.” He shrugged. “If this thing’s meant for anyone, it’s you.”

  Flynn studied him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. He fastened the pouch onto his belt where it sat just behind his holster, snug and secure. As soon as the leather touched his rig, he heard a faint chime—but no words drifted across his vision like before. Still, he knew. The system had recognized the gift.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Clay pushed off the bar, stretching his arms. "Guess that settles that," he said easily, before tipping his hat and sauntering off into the crowd. Flynn barely noticed— he pulled the pouch back off his belt and was staring at it, turning the edges between his fingers. Something about it felt... different. Curious, he decided to activate Analyze

  Artifact: Ghost Iron Cartridge Pouch

  

  Ammo Capacity: Generates up to 6 bullets at a time. Unused bullets dissipate after 24 hours.

  D?o Energy Cost: Moderate per bullet.

  Bullet Types Available:

  Spirit-Touched Rounds (Ignore physical armor and strike ethereal or supernatural beings with full force.)

  High-Caliber Slugs (Increased physical impact, capable of punching through thick cover and armor.)

  Hexfire Shells (Rounds that burn with an unnatural blue flame, searing through flesh and causing grievous wounds to creatures with magical resistances.)

  Flynn let out a low whistle. That was... somethin’. He had himself a pouch that could make magic bullets. He ran a hand over the leather, shaking his head. The world kept throwin’ surprises at him, one after another, but he wasn’t about to start complainin’. If this was part of the D?o, then he was gonna learn to use it. He replaced it on belt and tightened the strap, feeling the weight settle.

  Flynn then pulled the hat from his head, turning it over in his hands. It had the look of something old but well-kept, the kind of hat a man wouldn’t part with unless he was done with this world. The leather band was weathered but smooth, and the wide brim had just enough curl to keep the sun outta his eyes without looking too pretty. Dark brown, richer than the dust of the trail but not flashy, the sort of thing a man could wear into a gunfight or a saloon and not look out of place in either.

  He had a feeling this wasn’t just any old hat. With a thought, he activated Analyze

  Artifact: Gunslinger’s Crown

  

  Stat Bonus: +2 to Aim, +1 to Instinct.

  Passive Effect: "Eyes Like the West Wind" –

  Passive Effect: "Crown of the Quick" –

  Durability: Exceptional. .

  Flynn let out a low whistle, turning the hat over one more time before settling it back on his head.

  “Guess I really am startin’ to look the part,” he muttered to himself.

  He adjusted the brim, feeling the way it fit just right—like it had been made for him, or maybe like it was always meant to find its way to his head. Either way, he wasn’t about to complain.

  A good hat was hard to come by. A damn good hat? Well, that was somethin’ else entirely.

  Satisfied he looked out on the celebrations and smiled. Tonight was for the town. Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow was another day.

  ****

  The room was simple—plain walls, a sturdy wooden bed with a well-worn mattress, a rough-hewn table with a chair that had seen better days. The scent of old wood, dust, and a faint trace of tobacco hung in the air. A single lantern flickered low on the table, throwing long shadows against the walls.

  Flynn exhaled slow as he unbuckled his gun belt, setting it down beside the lantern, the weight of the past days finally startin’ to settle into his bones. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache where that damned skinwalker had knocked him to the dirt, then stretched his arms overhead, working out the stiffness. He needed sleep. But first, he needed to clean up.

  He stripped out of his duster, hanging it over the back of the chair, then tugged off his sweat-stained shirt, using the fabric to wipe away the worst of the dirt before tossing it aside. The old mirror above the washbasin caught his reflection, and he paused, looking himself over.

  There were new scars now.

  One on his shoulder where Bloody Bill’s derringer had punched through. Another near his ribs from the claws of that damned thing in the desert. He touched the healed flesh absently, then shook his head, reaching for the pitcher of water. It wasn’t warm, but it’d do. He ran the damp cloth over his face, neck, and chest, the coolness waking him up just enough to remind him how tired he really was.

  Still, exhaustion couldn’t quite drown out the restlessness humming in his blood. The town was safe for now, the folk were fed, the medicine was doing its work. So why couldn’t he shake this feeling? Maybe it was because the race wasn’t over. Hell, it had barely started.

  Flynn sighed, rubbing the towel over his face one last time before tossing it onto the basin. Whatever tomorrow held, he'd deal with it then. Right now, he just wanted to get some shut-eye before the next storm rolled in.

  Then the door creaked open behind him. Flynn had just stripped down to his trousers, running a damp cloth over his face and neck, washing off the dust and blood of the last few days, when he heard that creak. He stiffened, hand instinctively drifting toward the Colt resting on the table beside the bed.

  Then he caught the scent of lavender and something sweeter beneath it.

  He turned slow, his sharp eyes adjusting to the dim lantern glow, and there she stood—Luann Weston, wrapped in nothing but a wool blanket draped loose around her shoulders, her auburn hair spilling free past her bare collarbones. The flickering light softened the sharp determination in her eyes, but it didn’t take it away. She wasn’t hesitating. Not even a little.

  Flynn exhaled slow, rubbing the back of his neck, already feeling the heat of the moment before a damn thing had happened. "Luann…" he started, his voice low, carrying the weight of a man who wasn’t quite sure what to do with what was happening.

  She didn’t let him finish.

  “I ain’t askin’ for promises,” she said, stepping further into the room, kicking the door shut behind her with a quiet thud. "I ain't askin’ for nothin’ you ain’t willin’ to give."

  He shifted, jaw tight. She was a damn fine woman, and he wasn’t blind. Hadn’t been since the moment he laid eyes on her. But there was somethin’ in him that felt… off about this. Like he was takin’ something he shouldn’t, even if it was being given freely.

  "Luann, I don’t—" he tried again, but she reached up, placing a firm, warm hand against his chest.

  "I promised you a reward for saving my Pa," she whispered, tilting her head, eyes catching the lantern glow. "And I meant it."

  His breath hitched as she stepped closer, the blanket slipping just a bit, revealing smooth skin beneath. Flynn swallowed hard, his resistance feelin’ real thin, real quick.

  "You ain't gotta feel bad about wantin' something that's already yours," she murmured.

  For a long moment, he searched her face, looking for hesitation, for doubt—but there was none. Just heat, just certainty.

  And hell—maybe she was right.

  He sighed, reaching up, catching her chin between his fingers, tilting her face to his. "You’re trouble, you know that?”

  Luann smiled against his mouth as she kissed him. "Wouldn’t be near as fun if I wasn’t."

  The lantern burned low as the night stretched long. And whatever weight Flynn had been carrying—it faded for a little while.