The big city of Tres Raíces was one of the most important economic hubs in the country of Poente. Tourism had bloomed in recent years, with shops, markets, and luxury venues springing up across its vibrant streets.

  The street of S?o Alberto would normally be alive with tourists and vendors at this hour. Instead, it was eerily quiet, its silence broken only by the sharp voice of an official barking orders from the porch of a saloon.

  Inside, Elias and Alric exchanged a quick glance, just as their attention turned to the man slowly getting up from the floor.

  Cassian Vale looked around, eyes scanning the room with a flicker of confusion, as his mind focused on the two men staring at him.

  He pretended to still be hazy from the knockout while his hand moved toward a revolver hidden beneath his shirt—but before he could draw it, Alric’s metal gauntlet clamped around his wrist. The armored man gave him a firm, grave look and nodded toward the wall, where bullet holes and splintered wood gave faint glimpses of the officers outside.

  "It’s not the time for this," Alric said. "I’m not here for your bounty—but they probably are."

  Cassian wasn’t exactly known for caution, but he wasn’t oblivious either. He lowered the gun, understanding the stakes with practiced instinct.

  "So… what now?" he asked quietly.

  Before anyone could answer, gunfire exploded outside.

  Bullets ripped through the walls of the saloon, smashing bottles, splintering furniture, and leaving fresh holes in the already battered wood. Debris rained down, and the brief calm was replaced with violence.

  The four of them ducked behind two upturned tables, which suddenly glowed with a soft, dark blue light. Selene’s aura shimmered faintly around the furniture, locking it in place—untouched by the chaos.

  "They’re going to open fire? Just like that?" Elias asked, his voice tight with disbelief.

  The local authorities were known for their rudeness and brute-force tactics—but even so, it was rare for them to fire without warning, without questions, and without understanding the situation.

  Something felt wrong.

  For thirty whole seconds, the non-stop flurry of lead kept hitting the building, destroying every piece of furniture that had survived the previous fight.

  As the last bullets hit the wall, the storm of lead gave way to deafening silence and the smell of gunpowder and liquor.

  Craaank.

  The four outlaws exchanged looks between themselves as the door creaked open. Heavy bootsteps echoed through the room, accompanied by the crunch of debris and the splash of spilled alcohol.

  To the three hiding behind the tables, the footsteps meant danger was knocking at their door. But for Elias, they meant far more.

  A rune burned at the base of his neck as his senses heightened. He caught every detail—the shift of air when boots lifted from the ground, the friction of cloth against movement, the subtle muscle responses that twisted necks and raised arms.

  With his eyes closed, guided only by sound and sensation, Elias saw the whole scene unfold in precise, minute detail.

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  "Those tables... don’t they seem too intact?" a muffled voice said from the direction of the footsteps.

  The squad of eight men eyed two overturned tables at the back of the saloon. The tables were large enough to hide two or three people each—and had been obvious targets during the assault.

  The man leading the group suddenly halted. He raised a hand, signaling the squad to stop. He looked at them and pointed at the tables. He raised three fingers and made a moving gesture. The meaning was clear: on the count of three, they would turn those tables into splinters.

  As the men gripped their guns and focused on the squad leader, he raised the first finger.

  The three men behind the tables gripped their weapons tightly. The woman kept her hands pressed together, whispering inaudible words under her breath.

  He raised the second finger.

  This isn’t right. The guns they’re using aren’t from the local militia or the military… Are they mercenaries? Bounty hunters? No, too coordinated. Wait—those are weapons from the Brume Theocracy. Wagner 33s? Why are the Brumeans here?

  Elias’s thoughts raced, lights glowing through the veins of his metallic arm. His finger slid along the side of his Thompson gun’s trigger—runes in green and yellow pulsed with arcane meaning.

  The man raised his third finger...

  At least, that’s what he thought he was doing.

  But he was actually falling—losing the strength to lift his hand.

  What crossed his mind wasn’t a thought, but a bullet. A rifle round carrying lethal force and precision, fired from somewhere outside the saloon.

  His lifeless body collapsed to the floor. The others didn’t react at first, frozen as if what they had witnessed were a mirage. One long second passed.

  Then they turned to look.

  That split second of a lapse in attention was their fatal mistake.

  At that exact moment, a man in a green poncho with long blue hair rose from behind one of the tables. In his hands was a ferocious killing machine, roaring to life as it unleashed a storm of lead and sulfur upon the stunned intruders.

  The previously gray and ruined saloon became a canvas of green, blue, and cyan light.

  The bullets from Elias’s gun hissed with toxins, sizzling with acid as they trailed glowing, sickly smoke behind them.

  The seven unfortunate men had no chance to react. Half of them collapsed immediately, life fading from their eyes before they hit the floor.

  The rest were not so lucky. The bullets embedded deep into their bodies, and the flesh around each wound began to rot on contact—melting into a grotesque, gooey mix of bone, meat and skin.

  One man clutched his shoulder in a panic, trying to extract the bullet—only to watch his hand dissolve into a vile liquid.

  In seconds, they all fell, their lungs too weak to scream as their final breaths turned into choking gasps.

  Cassian didn’t wait for the carnage to finish. As soon as the enemies dropped, he vaulted over the table and ran to a nearby window. He peeked outside—only to spot a bullet slicing through the air, heading straight for his head.

  With inhuman reflexes, Cassian jerked back just in time.

  “There are more of them outside!” he called.

  Alric had expected as much. Eight men alone couldn’t have launched a barrage like the one that hit them earlier.

  He glanced toward Selene, still seated beside him. Her expression was calm—almost serene, as though lost in thought.

  “That thing you did to the table,” Alric asked, getting her attention. “Can you do it again?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed a large dining table and flipped it sideways. His gauntlet struck hard, punching a clean hole through the center, splitting it in two.

  He carved another hole—just wide enough for his armored hand—creating a makeshift grip.

  Selene smiled, almost amused. “Clever. So you do understand shielding runes.”

  A shimmering aura ignited from the table—reacting to her blessing.

  Alric nodded once and turned toward the saloon’s front door.

  “We’re going out. If we stay, it’ll only get worse.”

  No one argued. They all prepared in silence.

  Elias finally spoke. “I have a Mechana not far from here. I use it to travel through the desert. If we can reach it, we might have a way out.”

  “Then guide me,” Alric said, reaching for the saloon door. He glanced back at the others.

  Then, with one powerful kick—he blasted it open.