GONG GONG.

  The bells atop the clock tower marked noon, causing the whole city to stir with movement. Men with various types of work clothes, ranging from tuxedos to jumpsuits, filled the streets as they headed to the local restaurants and food stalls.

  The carriages moved from side to side, creating chaotic traffic along the stone brick roads.

  Among the workers and bystanders, a single figure stood out, wearing a faded green poncho and a simple brown cowboy hat, hiding his face in a slight shadow while showing only a few strands of uncommon blue hair that peeked from underneath.

  “Shit, this can't be true,” he muttered to himself. “I laid low for so long. What could I have done wrong this time?”

  The man made his way through the crowd, his boots heavy against the ground as he stumbled into people with a certain frequency, ignoring their protests and curses as he kept moving forward.

  His left hand twitched at his sides with anxiety, while his right hand held a playing card, the sort that was used by seers and cartomancers.

  He read and reread the contents of the card and looked at the drawings many times, as if trying to figure out whether the card was real or not.

  It depicted a figure carrying a lantern beneath a starry sky. His hair was blue, and his right arm was metallic—just like the one holding the card.

  At the top, it read: The Hermit IX.

  At the bottom, in bold letters: Elias Thorne – Dead or Alive – 22,250 Leads.

  In a nearby street, the noise seemed to quiet in sections, as bystanders couldn’t help but stare at the towering figure of a man striding through town like a moving fortress.

  He was blond, with a well-groomed beard, and scars that traced proudly across his otherwise handsome face. His eyes were a piercing brown, the kind that made you feel seen—and judged.

  A long, shaded brown cloak wrapped around his broad frame, but the silhouette of armor beneath it was unmistakable.

  One local merchant was so mesmerized by the man’s presence, he didn’t notice him approaching until it was too late.

  When the man finally spoke, his voice was calm, but it carried weight—like steel wrapped in velvet.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to take your time, but have you by any chance seen this man?”

  He showed a playing card.

  At the top, it read: The Magician I.

  At the bottom, in bold, etched letters: Cassian Vale – Only Dead – Reward: 27,500 Leads.

  The merchant glanced at the card, then quickly shook his head.

  The towering figure sighed. When he spoke again, his voice came down like thunder:

  “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

  The massive figure continued his slow journey through the city until he reached a local saloon.

  In total contrast to the curious bystanders on the street, the people inside the saloon barely reacted to his arrival. They clearly noticed him—but they didn’t care. Strangers like him, it seemed, were a natural occurrence in this place.

  The man walked straight to the counter and sat carefully on the tall bench, mindful not to place his full weight on the worn wood.

  "Give me a Folgado, please."

  Folgado—a drink made from equal parts rum, soda, and lemon juice. A southern staple.

  “You’re not from around here, are you? Ha! I know a Falstian accent when I hear it,” said the barkeep as he prepared the drink. “What brings you this far from home? Work, by the looks of it,” he added, nodding toward the faint bulge beneath the man’s cloak where armor peeked through.

  “I’m looking for someone, actually,” the man said, sliding a card across the counter.

  But before the barkeep could respond, another card slapped onto the table.

  "Cool card, man! I’ve got one just like it!"

  The card showed a man in a flashy red coat, red round goggles, and leather gloves. His hair was messy and yellow, and he held a pistol raised in one hand, a revolver pointed down in the other. Beside him sat a table with a gun, a blade, a rum bottle—and a wanted poster of himself.

  The stranger leaned in and casually slung an arm around the larger man’s shoulders, as if they were old friends.

  "Cassian Vale," he said with a grin. "Now that is a handsome fella."

  The armored man turned his head to look at the hand on his shoulder. Blond. Red coat. Round goggles.

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  It was Cassian Vale himself.

  The town plaza bloomed with activity, as people flowed through the surrounding market stalls and workhouses.

  At its center, a crowd stood in contemplation, drawn to the fervent words of a preacher who spoke from beneath a beautifully crafted gazebo.

  "Be it by Thy will," whispered a woman passing by.

  She was cloaked head to toe in soft gray robes trimmed with light pink. Her face remained hidden in shadow, save for the white hair spilling over her shoulders and the unmistakable glow of violet eyes, shining like stars in the gloom.

  The woman walked with purpose, fingers gently toying with a deck of cards tucked in her pocket. She moved through the crowd with ease. People glanced her way and gave respectful nods, which she returned with silent acknowledgment.

  As she made her way through the bustling market, drawing closer to her destination, a sudden collision sent her stumbling backward.

  Someone had bumped into her. Both figures fell to the ground.

  Reacting quickly, she pulled her hand from her pocket, and several cards scattered onto the cobbled street.

  "I—I’m sorry... He—here, let me help you," stammered the man, clearly nervous as he got to his feet and reached out to assist her.

  His eyes dropped to the fallen cards, strangely all face-down.

  "I—I’ll help you with that," he offered again, kneeling beside her. Then, curiosity got the better of him. He flipped one card over.

  His metallic hand froze.

  The card was upside down—but unmistakable.

  A man with blue hair held a lantern high, lighting his way through a starry night.

  The man trembled. His hat had fallen off in the fall, revealing long strands of blue hair.

  Slowly, he looked up—tense, exposed—and met the woman’s gaze. Her violet eyes locked onto his. Not just his face. Not even just his eyes.

  Into him.

  Into his soul.

  But before either could speak or react—

  The saloon doors across the street burst open. Screams rang out as people ran for their lives.A moment later, gunshots shattered the air.

  BANG

  An explosive gunshot rang out from inside the saloon, followed quickly by a flurry of others.

  "That was a double-pipe… N37? Sounds right. Those are only used in Saint Falst by high-patent soldiers… The follow-up shots are local revolvers… but not common ones. Runic?"

  The woman muttered to herself, her eyes on the scattered cards at her feet, which she picked one by one.

  Her voice was so quiet it would've been impossible to hear in the chaos—even with one’s ear right next to her lips.

  But Elias, crouched on the ground beside her, heard every word with clarity.

  He wasn’t surprised by her deductions. He had made them himself.

  Three quick shots. Then silence. Cooling barrels—he’s using explosion runes. Smart, but risky.

  Elias’s thoughts raced, a thousand per second. But something pulled him from his trance:

  The woman ran. Straight toward the saloon.

  What is she doing?

  Elias felt his breath catch. Every instinct screamed at him to stay put, to not get involved—but something deeper urged him forward, something curious, desperate, and impossible to ignore.

  Time slowed.

  Why did she have his card? Why did she look at him like that? Why was she running toward a gunfight—no, a runic gunfight?

  Elias wasn’t a brave man. His fears usually got the better of him—rising like cold sweat at the nape of his neck, tightening his chest as if his ribs were locking in place. But the pull of mystery,of needing to know, always burned just a little hotter.

  He needed answers

  The Hermit card slipped from his hand and fell to the ground.

  In a sudden burst, Elias followed her.

  His metallic arm hissed, steam rising from its joints. Glowing purple and green tubes pulsed beneath the skin like synthetic veins.

  He threw his poncho back.

  And from beneath it, he drew a rune-engraved Thompson gun.

  BAM

  The door slammed open as a beautiful woman stepped into the saloon. With her hood now pulled back, her dark skin became a striking canvas for her shining eyes, white eyelashes, and flowing white hair.

  Suddenly, Elias’s hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and yanked her down—just as a smoking projectile flew centimeters past her neck.

  "A-ARE YOU CRAZY? IF IT WASN’T FOR ME, YOU’D BE DEAD!" Elias shouted from the bottom of his lungs as they both hit the floor.

  "But you are here," Selene replied calmly, taking cover behind an overturned table.

  "T-THAT’S NOT THE POINT! YOU… YOU’RE ALIVE BY CHANCE!"

  "It is not chance. It is fate. And why do you care, Elias Thorne?" she asked, calmly reorganizing her cards.

  Noticing the Hermit card was missing, she reached toward Elias’s pocket and pulled out a crumpled, oil-scented card—the one he had been holding. She didn’t seem to mind the smell as she shuffled it back into the deck.

  Elias was speechless. The gunfire outside hadn’t stopped—bullets slammed into the table they were hiding behind.

  Damn, we need to get out of here—this table won’t protect us for much lon—Wait... These are explosion-infused bullets. That table—and me—should’ve been blown halfway across the saloon.

  His gaze shifted to the table. A faint dark blue aura surrounded it, suspending it in a frozen, unchanging state. The impacts, the debris—they simply didn’t affect it. It was locked in time.

  Slowly, Elias turned to look at the woman beside him. She was now holding two cards.

  One of them was The Magician’s—Cassian Vale.

  The other showed an armored man, clad in gear-laden armor with tubes running across its surface, standing atop a burning tower beneath a stormy sky. Lightning slashed through the clouds in the distance, while human silhouettes were cast out from the flaming windows, swallowed by smoke and chaos.

  The Tower XVI

  Alric Voss Dead or Alive – 20,000 Leads

  Alric Voss stood in the center of the chaos, wielding a massive double-pipe gun. He fired in steady intervals, his armor hissing steam with each recoil as he advanced toward the trickster, Cassian Vale.

  Cassian danced between the shots with maddening ease. He spun, slid, ducked—never quite in the same place twice.

  One bullet struck Alric square in the forehead—and exploded.

  But in the next instant, Alric’s armor vented a burst of steam, and the sound of sizzling flesh echoed from within.

  As the smoke cleared, his face remained intact—just a few scratches. But the skin at the base of his neck glowed a deeper red, like heated metal beneath the surface.

  Cassian kept firing, both revolvers barking in perfect rhythm—three shots at a time, timed like clockwork. After every sixth shot, he ducked behind cover and whispered incomprehensible words into each barrel before emerging again to resume the barrage.

  Alric’s mind stayed sharp, even under fire. Every move Cassian made, he tracked with cold precision.

  One, two, three… He switches revolvers. One, two, three… Count to four and—fire again. One, two, three… One, two, three… Now.

  As Cassian darted back toward cover, Alric's armor whirred to life. Cogs clicked, pistons compressed—and with a roar of steam, he launched forward, ignoring gravity like it was a minor inconvenience.

  He rounded the corner of Cassian’s hiding spot, gun raised and ready—

  But it was empty.

  Only a greenish liquid shimmered on the floor.

  As the liquid began to glow, Alric’s mind raced.

  Cassian was already staring at him from another angle—one he’d slipped to the moment he broke line of sight.

  BOOOOOM!

  The explosion consumed the space in fire and smoke. The whole saloon shuddered.

  Cassian lowered his gun slightly, smirking as he peered through the haze to admire the results of his trap.

  But the smirk vanished.

  The smoke cleared—fast—blown away by another hiss of steam.

  And through it came a searing-hot iron gauntlet, flying straight at his face.

  BLAAM!

  Cassian crashed to the floor, unconscious, as Alric stood tall above him, his armored frame wreathed in smoke, steam rising from his clenched fist.

  Elias watched the scene unfold from behind cover. It felt surreal.

  He was a rune user himself, but even he knew how rare runes were. This wasn’t something you saw during a casual walk through town—yet now, four people with magical relics and powers were under the same roof.

  The armored man, Alric Voss, turned and met Elias’s gaze. Elias was still peeking from his hiding spot.

  Instinctively, his hand gripped his weapon, while a flood of thoughts surged through his mind.

  "Sorry for all that," Alric said, voice calm. "I mean no harm. You can come out now."

  "Y-You mean no harm? What does that even mean?! You’re a wanted criminal! You just turned this place into a warzone!"

  "It wasn’t my plan. I came to ask that man some questions—he must’ve mistaken me for a bounty hunter."

  Alric paused, then added, "And about that 'wanted criminal' part... I’d say you’re not in much of a position to talk, Elias Thorne."

  Elias’s mouth opened, a sharp retort forming—

  But Selene stood before he could speak, stepping out from behind the table. Her eyes locked with Alric’s.

  "I have the answers you’re looking for," she said.

  Alric blinked, slightly surprised by the sudden appearance. But his composure returned instantly.

  "And who are you? I don’t remember your face on the posters they circulated earlier."

  The woman drew a card and raised it with elegance, revealing it to the two men watching her intently. The illustration showed a serene-faced woman gazing at her own distorted reflection in a river that split the scene in half.

  On each side of the river stood a wolf: the one on the left had black fur, while the one on the right had light gray fur. In the sky above, the full moon shone with commanding brilliance, outshining all the stars around it.

  At the top of the card, it read: The Moon XVIII.

  And below, in bold letters: Selene Duskbane — Dead or Alive — 20,500 Leads.

  "I am Selene Duskbane. And as I said—I can give you answers. Why we’re on those cards. Why our bounties are so high."

  She paused, letting her words sink in.

  "But it comes with one condition."

  Alric narrowed his eyes. "And what would that be?"

  Selene shuffled her deck one final time, then slid it back into her pocket.

  "Get all of us out of here. Alive."

  As the final word left her lips, a thunderous voice echoed from the street—so loud and sharp it seemed to drill into their very skulls:

  "MAVERICKS THAT TAINT THIS SACRED TOWN—COME OUT OF THE BUILDING WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR. IF YOU DO NOT OBEY, WE WILL NOT HOLD OUR FIRE."