Morning light bled in slow through the crooked slats of the window, gilding the floorboards in tired gold. Flynn came to with the weight of the night still clinging to him. The bed was warm on one side, cool on the other. Luann was gone—no note, no word, just the lingering ghost of her perfume on the pillow and the memory of her breath, soft and slow, just before the sun started thinking about waking. He sat up slow, letting the ache of old bruises and the sharper throb of a few new ones settle into his shoulders. The room was still, quiet in that way only an old building could manage—like even the wood was holding its breath.

  He didn’t know a whole hell of a lot, not about himself, not about this race he’d been drafted into, not even about what tomorrow might look like. But he was starting to learn, one step at a time. The system—this strange voice that handed out titles and notches and called him by names he hadn’t chosen—was part of something bigger. He didn’t like being a pawn, but if he had to play, he’d damn well learn the rules.

  He pulled on his shirt, cinched his belt, and glanced once more at the empty side of the bed. No use dwelling on it. A night like that was a gift, and gifts didn’t last long in a place like this.

  By the time he hit the bottom of the stairs, the smell of coffee had already started to do its good work. A few of the townfolk were up, moving slow, nursing hangovers or memories, depending on the shape of their night. Heads turned when they saw him, nods exchanged, a few whispered words he pretended not to hear. Folks around here still looked at him like he was a hero. Truth was, he’d just done what needed doin’, same as anyone ought to when the darkness comes clawing at the door.

  He took his place at the long pine counter, and a woman whose name he hadn’t caught poured him a cup of coffee black enough to count as a sin. It burned like truth going down, but it shook the cobwebs loose. Breakfast came soon after—eggs, beans, and a slab of bacon thick as a book of lies.

  He was halfway through it when the door creaked open and two familiar boots hit the floor with the kind of rhythm that told you they’d been through worse and come out the other side still swinging. Jed Weston looked the same as ever—weathered, square, eyes sharp beneath that wide-brimmed hat. Clay followed behind, still dressed like a man half-remembering his gambling days, but there was steel in him now. Not the kind you carried on your hip, but the kind you wore in your spine.

  “Well,” Jed said, easing himself into the chair across from Flynn, “lookin’ like you slept better’n most.”

  Flynn took another slow sip of coffee and set the cup down with a soft clink. “Didn’t sleep much. Too many questions keepin’ me company.”

  Clay slid into the seat beside Jed and offered a faint grin. “Funny thing, questions. Don’t get quieter till you ask the right ones.”

  Flynn nodded, then leaned in just enough that his voice didn’t carry beyond the three of them. “This ain’t just about a shipment of medicine. Not anymore. This town… this land... it’s wrong. Sick. Like the world’s holdin’ its breath, waitin’ for the last light to die.”

  Jed gave a slow nod, the lines in his face deepening. “You’re not wrong. I’ve felt it too. Wells runnin’ dry. Soil don’t take seed like it used to. Fewer birds in the sky, fewer stars at night. Like the world’s bein’ bled from the inside out.”

  “And most folk,” Clay added, “they don’t see it. Or they don’t want to. Hope’s a stubborn thing. Folks’ll die clutchin’ it before they admit it’s all goin’ under.”

  Flynn stared into his coffee a long moment, then muttered, “I don’t want to see these people turn into more of those things. The Moon-Haunted... they were folks once. I could feel it in their bones, even when I was puttin’ 'em down.”

  “You thinkin’ what I think you are?” Jed asked.

  Flynn looked up slow, eyes shaded beneath the brim of his hat. He weighed his words like a man counting bullets—careful, deliberate, just enough to get the job done.

  “Don’t sit right with me, leavin’ this town behind. Feels like patchin’ a roof while the whole foundation’s rottin’ out. These folks—they need more than a warm meal and a pat on the back. They need a way forward.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under the shift of weight. His fingers drummed against the tabletop, slow and steady like a gambler stewin’ over his next hand. “There’s been whispers,” he said after a moment. “Quiet ones. East of here. Past the scarred lands, past the wind that don’t carry nothin’ but dust. Folks say there’s green out there. Clean rivers, trees tall as spires. Could just be talk.”

  Flynn gave a short nod, but his face didn’t change. If it was just talk, it was better than silence. And maybe—just maybe—it was the next turn in the trail he’d already started down.

  He didn’t say anything more. Didn’t mention the race or the notches or the phantom belt cinched tight around his soul. Some truths were best left holstered, at least for now.

  Flynn pushed his plate away and stood slow. “Well, then. Maybe it’s time I helped write a new story.”

  Jed Weston shifted in his chair, boots planted square, jaw working slow like he was chewing on something tougher than jerky. Clay hadn’t said a word in minutes, just stared into the bottom of his coffee cup like maybe the grounds had an answer tucked away in the dregs. There was a tension there—old, not bitter, but lived-in. Like two men watching the same wildfire from different ridgelines, neither one sure when to say it out loud.

  Flynn leaned forward, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling up through the space between them. “So what I’m askin’,” he said low, “is if there’s a place folk can ride toward. Not just run from.”

  Clay finally looked up, the set of his face tired but steady. “Used to be,” he said, voice scratchin’ through the morning like dry brush in wind. “Place called Hope. I know, I know—it sounds like somethin’ outta a dime novel. But that’s what they called it. Used to sit on a crossroads between here and Kuroyami City. Fertile land, good water, even had a rail line before it all went bust.”

  Flynn cocked a brow. “And it’s still there?”

  Jed answered this time. “Hard to say. Ain’t nobody made it that far in years. Maybe a decade. Route got bad. Ghostlands rose up like a fever dream. Some say the land turned mean, twisted by things that ain’t rightly natural. Others say somethin’ worse—deals made in the dark with things that ain’t from around here. Either way, it shut the road. Trade dried up. Farms failed. City stopped listenin’.”

  Flynn stared down into his cup, then back at the two men. “And you want me to ride lead through that?”

  Jed didn’t flinch. “Don’t want to. Need to. Been needin’ to for years. Problem’s always been the same—we got folk willin’ to follow if someone can lead. Someone who can keep a gun steady and their head clear when the shadows get thick. Ain’t many men like that left. Maybe just one.”

  Clay gave a quiet snort, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You got that feel about you, Flynn. Like you walked in from some other time with bullets for blood and purpose stitched to your spine. You ain’t just killin’ monsters. You’re changin’ things.”

  Flynn said nothing for a long moment. He thought about the twisted things in the dark, the Moon-Haunted, the weight of each pull on his phantom belt, the rising hum of the D?o when danger cracked open. He hadn’t signed up for any of it—but he’d been marked for it all the same.

  “Alright,” he said finally, voice slow and even, like a man loadin’ shells into a cylinder. “But I ain’t gonna pretend I know the land. I don’t know what’s waitin’ out there. Don’t know the stories. Don’t know the names.”

  “You know how to survive,” Jed said. “Rest of it we’ll teach you as we go.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Flynn nodded, the weight of it settling into his bones. “Then we’ll need a plan.”

  Jed scratched at his beard. “Best I can figure, we split the work. I’ll take a few boys, ride back to Dry Gulch. Talk to the folk there—what’s left of ’em. Convince whoever’s still breathin’ and half sober to saddle up and follow me to Hope.”

  “And me?” Flynn asked.

  “You head out east,” Jed said. “Take the folk already willin’. Clay’ll help with the head count and logistics, and Luann—well, she’s already packin’. You’ll move slower, wagon pace, but you’ll be layin’ the trail.”

  Flynn looked to Clay. “You sure you’re alright with this?”

  Clay shrugged. “I was a gambler, Flynn. I know when the cards are cold and when a man walks in holdin’ fire. You ain’t bluffin’. You’re the real thing. This town’s got no chance without someone like you ridin’ point.”

  Flynn stood, the last of his coffee drained and bitter on his tongue. He looked toward the eastern window, where the sun was barely crackin’ over the edge of the world, painting the sky in blood and brass. Somewhere beyond that glow lay Hope. Sounded like a lie, but it was the kind a man needed to believe in now and again.

  He dropped a coin on the table, heavy and old. “Then we ride.”

  Jed and Clay exchanged a glance—something solid in it. Maybe respect. Maybe relief. Either way, Flynn reckoned the next leg of the race had just begun. Only this time, it wasn’t just about notches and levels and shadowy rewards. It was about people. About gettin’ them through the dark and into somethin’ that might still be called livin’. And that was a race worth runnin’.

  The two old boys pushed up from the table, chairs creaking like old knees, and turned to go their separate ways. Jed’s boots made a solid sound against the wood, steady and sure, until he paused just shy of the saloon door. Clay kept walking, fading into the morning light like a man already deep in the work ahead. Jed, though—he lingered.

  Flynn figured he knew why.

  Truth be told, he’d been bracing for this. He shifted in his seat, the coffee gone cold but still clutched between his hands like it might shield him. Last night had been something wild and tender, but the sunrise had a way of making a man reckon with himself. Especially when the woman you’d tangled with turned out to be the daughter of a man you had to ride beside.

  Flynn opened his mouth to speak just as Jed turned back. They both spoke at once, words tangling like reins in a panicked horse. Flynn gave way, nodding slightly, tipping his hat forward with a touch of shame. Best let the old man say his piece. Jed scratched at his jaw and let out a breath like it’d been held too long. His voice was low, roughened by sun, wind, and years of holding more weight than a man ought to.

  “I reckon,” he said, “we’re gonna have to talk about the longhorn bull in the parlor.”

  Flynn almost smiled, but didn’t dare. Jed glanced toward the window where the sun was just startin’ to climb above the roofs of Paradise Valley. He didn’t look angry. Just… hollowed out, like a man who’d been carved down to the parts that mattered and left with only one.

  “I talked with Luann this mornin’,” Jed went on. “And that girl’s got more iron in her bones than most men I’ve known. Always been that way. I don’t own her. Wouldn’t matter if I tried—she’s wild in the blood and sharp in the eyes. She can shoot straighter, ride harder, and drink longer than any cowhand I ever hired.”

  Jed turned his gaze on Flynn, and this time there was no weather in it—just fire.

  “But you need to understand me real plain, son. There ain’t a single thing in this world I love more than that girl. She’s the last piece of good I got left. Maybe the only thing worth fightin’ for. And I know she’s lookin’ at you like maybe you’re the man who can ride this storm with her.”

  Jed leaned in a little, just enough to make his voice low and thick with meaning.

  “So if she’s choosin’ you, then I’m trustin’ her into your hands. Not ‘cause I trust you—truth is, I don’t know you near well enough—but because I trust her. And if I don’t make it out the other side of this fool ride we’re about to start, you make damn sure she does. You hear me?”

  Flynn sat still for a heartbeat, the words sinking deep. Then he pushed back his hat, looked Jed dead in the eye, and spoke quiet but sure.

  “I hear you,” he said. “And I ain’t the kind of man that makes promises easy, but I’ll make this one. If hell itself opens up beneath us, if the skies fall and the ground turns to ash—I’ll see her through. If no one else makes it outta this damn valley, she will.”

  Jed nodded, and for the first time since the wariness started flickering in his eyes, the old man looked at peace. He slapped Flynn once on the shoulder—not hard, but firm—and walked out into the dust and the coming day. Flynn sat back down, ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw, and reached for what was left of his coffee.

  That was when the world shimmered.

  A ripple, soft and sudden, passed through the edge of his vision like the ghost of a breeze over still water. Then it came: that calm, the feminine voice of the system—not askin’, not suggestin’, but telling.

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  [SYSTEM NOTICE]

  > Quest Offered – Cannot Be Refused

  >

  > **Shepherd of the Lost**

  >

  > Objective: Guide the refugees of Paradise Valley and Dry Gultch beyond the Ghostlands to the town of Hope.

  >

  > Primary Requirements:

  > ? Ensure the survival of at least 70% of the caravan

  > ? Luann Weston must survive

  >

  > Threat Level: Significant

  >

  > Known Hazards:

  > ? Twisted terrain warped by corrupted D?o

  > ? Moon-Haunted resurgence near the high ridges

  > ? Arcane weather events and unnatural storms

  > ? Potential ambushes by outlaw clans and rogue practitioners

  >

  > Rewards Upon Completion:

  > ? Weapon lost to time

  > ? Deeper attunement to the D?o of the Gun

  >

  > Bonus Reward:

  > ? Increased reputation among the Threads of the D?o

  >

  > Status: **Automatically Accepted**

  >

  > > [VOICE TRANSMISSION – SYSTEM CORE: DAONA]

  > > “Your path has broadened, Gunslinger. These souls now walk behind your shadow.

  > > The journey ahead is not measured in miles, but in mercy, in fire, and in choice.

  > > Ride strong, and remember—the D?o does not abandon those who walk it with honor.”

  Flynn stared at the message for a long beat, then blinked it away.

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  [SYSTEM UPDATE]

  > Interface Change Detected

  > Tutorial Phase: **Complete**

  >

  > System notices will now adapt to your current level of attunement.

  > Additional functionality unlocked: **Path Tracking**, **Party Status Overview**, and **Environmental Threat Alerts**.

  >

  > [VOICE TRANSMISSION – SYSTEM CORE: DAONA]

  > “You’ve taken your first true steps, Gunslinger. The handrails are off.

  > The choices from here will weigh heavier, strike deeper, and carve longer into the path.

  > Trust your aim, trust your grit... and keep riding.”

  Flynn blinked at the shifting colors on the edge of his vision, the crisp golden banding on the HUD no longer the pale blue of the tutorial. Cleaner. Sharper. Meaner.

  He muttered under his breath, “Reckon I’m outta the shallow end now.”

  And Daona, that ever-soft voice, almost smiled in his ear as the notice faded:

  The air felt different after that—like the trail ahead had teeth. He didn’t much like bein’ handled—by systems, gods, or fate—but this one was stitched into his hide now. He’d set foot on this trail the moment he stepped out of Dry Gulch, revolver in one hand and a head full of questions.

  He wasn’t much of a preacher, but if the world was hellbent on dyin’ slow, someone had to draw fast enough to give the good folk a chance. Seventy percent. Luann must survive.

  He whispered to himself under his breath, just a sliver of dry resolve on his lips. “Reckon we best get to movin’.” The next leg had begun.