BANG.
The sound didn't just echo; it shattered the silence of the ancient forest like a lightning strike hitting a mirror. In the fourteenth century, the loudest thing these men had ever heard was a thunderstorm or a church bell. The sudden, deafening crack of a modern 9mm round tore through the fog, causing a flock of crows to erupt from the canopy above in a frantic frenzy.
The lead knight didn't even have time to finish his scream about the pyre. The bullet punched clean through his rusted chainmail, dropping him instantly into the mud like a sack of wet flour.
The remaining two zealots froze, their eyes nearly popping out of their skulls. They looked at their leader groaning in the dirt, then looked up at Ron, who was calmly holding a small, smoking black rectangle in his right hand.
To them, he hadn't just fired a weapon. He had commanded thunder.
"What the—" the second zealot stammered, his pike shaking so violently it rattled. "He split the air! With a gesture! 'Tis the black tongue of Satan!"
"Mercy, Lord Demon!" the third one shrieked, completely losing his mind. He dropped his torch into the wet leaves, threw himself flat onto his face in the mud, and covered his head. "Do not strike us with thy sky-fire!"
Ron slowly lowered the pistol, looking at the two men groveling in the dirt, completely unimpressed. "Man, shut the fuck up. Y'all charged me with pitchforks. What did you think was gonna happen?"
The second zealot, realizing his armor was useless against a god who wielded thunder, dropped to his knees right next to his buddy, crossing himself so fast his fingers were a blur. "Pardon, Sire! Mercy upon our wretched souls! We knew not thou wert a prince of the lower realms!"
Ron rubbed the bridge of his nose. "English, motherfucker, do you speak it? What the hell is a 'lower realm'? And why are you talking like you're at a Renaissance Fair?"
He got no answer, just more frantic Latin muttering and sobbing.
Ron sighed, turning his attention to the pistol in his hand. He was a Texan; he knew his guns, and he knew a standard magazine only held fifteen rounds. Mushasha's words echoed in his head: Permanent infinite magazine capacity. The chamber glitch is permanent.
"Infinite ammo, my ass," Ron muttered. "Let's see about this video game BS."
He turned away from the peasants, aimed at a massive, ancient oak tree about ten yards away, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
He didn't stop. He just kept pulling it, dumping rounds into the trunk.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
By the fifteenth shot, Ron's eyes narrowed. By the thirtieth shot, a mountain of smoking brass shell casings was piling up around his sneakers, glinting in the dark mud. The slide never locked back. The weight of the gun never changed. The magazine stayed completely full, the bullets inside faintly glowing through the grip.
"Holy shit," Ron whispered, a slow, dangerous smirk creeping back onto his face. "The anime nerd god wasn't lying. I really got a cheat code."
He turned back around. The two peasants were now completely paralyzed with fear. The sheer volume of the "thunder" had convinced them that Ron was currently destroying the forest out of pure, demonic spite.
Ron walked over, the squelch of his soaked sneakers making the men flinch, and kicked the shoulder of the second zealot. "Yo. Get up."
The man slowly lifted his head, his face entirely coated in mud and tears. *"Sire?"*
"Where the fuck am I? What city is this?" Ron asked, pointing the gun loosely toward the ground.
The peasant blinked through the mud, trying to process the strange, fast cadence of Ron's voice. "City? Nay, Sire... this be the forest of Valognes... the domain of Duke William... in the land of Normandy."
"Normandy? Like France?" Ron squinted. "Hold up. Did you say Duke William? Is that near Houston? Austin?"
The peasant looked completely blank. "Hous-ton? I... I know not of this saint, Sire."
"Man, I am in the trenches," Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, look. Is there a town near here? A hotel? A McDonald's? Anywhere I can get a damn burger and some dry clothes?"
The peasant caught the word 'town' and nodded frantically. "Aye! Groville! The village is but a league through the thicket! I can show thee! Please, do not consume my soul!"
"I don't want your dusty-ass soul. Just lead the way," Ron said, gesturing with the gun. "And don't try anything funny, or I'm putting a hole in your other boy."
The peasant scrambled to his feet, trembling so hard he almost fell over twice. He didn't dare look Ron in the eyes.
As they started walking into the deep, dark thicket, the fog grew thicker, swallowing the last remnants of twilight. The forest became pitch black. The peasant kept tripping over roots, whimpering in the dark.
"Hold up," Ron said, stopping in his tracks. "I can't see shit."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, still showing that bright, impossible infinity symbol (\infty) next to the battery. Ron swiped down on the control panel and tapped the flashlight icon.
A blinding, hyper-bright beam of pure white LED light cut through the medieval forest, illuminating the trees for fifty yards.
The peasant let out a literal shriek, covering his eyes and dropping to his knees again. "The sun! He holds the very sun in his palm! A artifact of pure sorcery!"
"Bro, it's an iPhone," Ron said, shining the light directly onto the peasant's face, blinding him further. "Get your weak ass up and keep walking. I'm cold, I'm wet, and I'm losing my patience."
The peasant, terrified of the man who commanded both thunder and the sun, scrambled back up and moved as fast as his legs could carry him, guiding Ron through the brush.
Ten minutes later, the trees finally cleared.
"There, Sire... Groville," the peasant whispered, pointing into the valley below.
Ron stepped up to the edge of the ridge, shining his phone light down toward the village. The smirk completely vanished from his face.
There were no streetlights. No paved roads. Just a cluster of miserable, thatched-roof mud huts surrounded by wooden fences. The "streets" were literal rivers of thick muck and pig feces. A few malnourished cows stood in the rain, and the entire place smelled like a mixture of wet dog, burning wood, and straight sewage.
Ron stared at the bleak, dark, miserable sight. He thought about his car, he thought about Debra waiting for him in a heated apartment, and he thought about the king-sized Choco Doms currently floating at the bottom of a river back in Texas.
He slowly lowered his phone, the white light illuminating the absolute garbage dump of the 14th century.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Ron muttered.