The village stank of blood, smoke, and wet ash.
Dawn came late, its pale light crawling reluctantly over the blackened rooftops and broken fences. Chickens that hadn't been slaughtered in the raid clucked nervously from hidden corners, their wings spattered with soot. The cobbled square where the goblins had fought the hardest was slick with crimson that the villagers tried scrubbing away, but the stains clung stubbornly to the stone.
Zeke Graves sat on an overturned water barrel near the edge of the square, hat pulled low, revolver resting in its holster but heavy as sin at his hip. His boots were scuffed, his duster torn across the back from when a goblin blade had nearly gutted him. The smoke rising from the ruins of a barn twisted upward like accusing fingers, and for the first time since he'd woken under the two suns of this strange world, Zeke felt something he hadn't allowed himself in years: guilt.
He lit a match, cupped it in his hand, and drew flame to the cigarette hanging from his lip. The tobacco was harsh — a gift from the villagers, though from the way they looked at him, it felt more like a curse. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the morning air.
All around him, survivors moved with hollow eyes. Mothers wept into their shawls, men hammered makeshift planks to patch broken doors, and children whispered about monsters that would come back. A horse screamed in pain from somewhere in the stables, and Zeke's stomach knotted. He had faced bandits, rustlers, men with quicker draws than his own. He'd buried more than a few outlaws in shallow desert graves. But this… this was different.
He had bullets, six last night. He'd used them well enough, dropped goblins like vermin. But six wasn't enough. Never would be. Not when monsters came in packs like wolves. He had fought, yes, but he had also watched. He had seen villagers bleed out because his gun ran dry. Seen a boy clawed down while Zeke's trigger finger clicked on an empty chamber.
The match burned down, stinging his fingertips. He flicked it away, jaw tight.
Bootsteps crunched over gravel. He didn't look up until a shadow fell across him.
Lady Seraphine stood there, her armor polished despite the soot, long blonde hair tied back, a few strands loose across her cheek. Her blue cloak hung heavy on her shoulders, torn at the hem from the battle, but she carried herself like nothing could touch her. In one hand she held her longsword, wrapped in a leather sheath. In the other, a wooden practice blade.
"You sulk like a beaten dog," she said flatly. Her voice carried none of the warmth of comfort — only the edge of discipline. "Do you think a smoke will erase the screams?"
Zeke took the cigarette from his lips and exhaled a bitter chuckle. "Lady, if a smoke could do that, I'd buy the whole damn crop."
Seraphine didn't smile. She dropped the wooden blade at his feet. It landed with a solid thunk.
"You survived. That means you can learn. If you plan to live in this world, you need more than your iron toy." She glanced at the revolver like it was a child's rattle, not a weapon that had saved her village. "Steel, muscle, and grit. That is what keeps us alive."
Zeke tapped ash from his cigarette, then stubbed it against the barrel he sat on. "Now hold on. You talk like I didn't do my part last night. Ogre, goblins, hell, I bled just as much as anyone."
Her eyes softened — for a breath, only a breath. "You fought. No one doubts that. But you fought like a man chained to one tool. When it failed, you failed. Do you want more children to die because your weapon runs empty?"
The words cut deeper than a blade. Zeke looked away, jaw clenching. He hated being read so clean. Hated more that she was right.
"You want me to swing a sword, is that it?" he muttered.
"Yes." She stepped closer, her boots inches from his. "A sword. Your fists. Anything that makes you more than a six-shot gambler. The people will never trust you if they see you as helpless without that… Fang of Thunder." She spat the words like the villagers' superstitions disgusted her.
Zeke finally stood, towering over her, though she didn't flinch. He pulled his hat low, sighing. "Alright, fine. You think I need training? Then train me. But don't expect me to bow to your knightly code. I'm no knight. I'm just a man trying to get home."
Seraphine nodded once, sharp as a blade sliding into a sheath. "So be it. Follow me."
---
The training ground was nothing more than the back field of the village, a patch of dirt churned to mud from the storm of boots and hooves. The villagers gathered at the edges, some with arms crossed, others whispering. To them, this was spectacle — the outsider cowboy brought low by their shining knight.
Seraphine tossed him the wooden blade. Zeke caught it awkwardly, testing its weight. It was heavier than it looked, solid oak, far different than the steel revolver balanced so naturally at his hip.
"Feet apart," she commanded. "Knees bent. Blade up. Not like a shovel, like a limb. An extension of yourself."
Zeke grunted, shifting his stance. His boots sank into mud. The weight of the blade made his arms ache already. He glanced at her, annoyance bristling. "Feels more like a damn tree trunk than an extension."
She raised her own practice sword, stance fluid, eyes calm. "You will learn. Or you will break."
Zeke rolled his shoulders. "Lady, I've been breaking all my life. Ain't nothing new."
The villagers fell silent as Seraphine lunged. The wood cracked against wood, the force of her strike rattling Zeke's bones. He staggered back, boots skidding, arms nearly giving out. She pressed forward, a relentless tide, her strikes precise, merciless. Zeke swung wild, more like a man chopping firewood than a swordsman.
Sweat poured down his brow. Each blow sent shocks through his body. His grip slipped, shoulders screamed, and still she advanced.
"Faster!" she barked. "Tighter! Your guard is wide open — you'd be dead a dozen times!"
Zeke cursed, parried, stumbled. His hat fell into the dirt. He swung again, missed, barely caught her next strike. The villagers murmured. Children laughed. His pride burned hotter than his muscles.
Finally, with a single smooth motion, Seraphine sidestepped his desperate swing and brought her blade down in a clean arc. The wooden sword in Zeke's hands exploded from the impact, snapped in two. The flat of her blade stopped just at his chest.
Silence.
Zeke panted, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. He looked down at the splintered wood in his hands. Looked up into her cold, unflinching eyes.
Her voice carried through the field, sharp as judgment:
"You see now, cowboy? With a gun, you are dangerous. Without it… you are nothing."
The words hung heavy in the air. The villagers whispered again, some nodding grimly, others sneering. Zeke's pride screamed at him to argue, to spit, to laugh it off. But deep inside, under the anger, under the shame, he knew she wasn't wrong.
His fingers curled around the broken wood. His revolver felt heavier than ever at his side. For the first time, Zeke Graves — gunslinger, bounty hunter, survivor of deserts and duels — stood unarmed, defeated in front of a crowd.
And Lady Seraphine lowered her blade with one final, merciless truth:
"This is only the beginning."