Chapter 3: Zen's 15th Birthday, Manhood

  The morning sun cast a warm glow through the curtains of my bedroom as I awoke on this significant day. Fifteen years old—the age of adulthood in this world. I lay still for a moment, contemplating the journey that had brought me here: years of rigorous sword training with Father, countless hours of magical instruction with Miss Zia, and the carefully constructed facade I had maintained about my abilities.

  Today is the day, I thought, running my fingers through my silver-black hair. I'll finally tell them about my sight.

  After dressing in the ceremonial attire Mother had prepared—a deep blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, symbolizing the transition to manhood—I took a deep breath and centered myself. My enhanced perception allowed me to sense my parents' movements throughout the manor; they were bustling with unusual energy, and the kitchen was filled with aromas that suggested something beyond our typical fare.

  Miss Zia's distinctive soul signature was present as well, her dark blue essence mingling with my parents' unique patterns. They were gathered in the dining hall, their whispered conversations and occasional chuckles suggesting a surprise awaited me.

  I made my way through the familiar corridors of our home, my mental sight mapping every detail with perfect clarity—from the ancient tapestries depicting the Bloodson family history to the subtle fluctuations in the ambient mana that permeated our ancestral estate. My hand brushed against the polished wood of the dining hall's double doors. With deliberate slowness, I pushed them open.

  "SURPRISE!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" three voices exclaimed in perfect unison as I entered.

  The dining hall had been transformed. Elegant decorations in blue and silver adorned the walls, and the massive oak table was laden with a feast fit for royalty—roasted pheasant with wild berry sauce, honeyed vegetables harvested from our gardens, freshly baked bread with a golden crust, and various delicacies I could identify by scent alone. At the center stood an elaborate cake, fifteen small magical flames dancing above it, each a different elemental color.

  My father, Grim Bloodson, stood tall and proud, his crimson soul pulsing with rare emotion—pride, perhaps, or something akin to nostalgic reflection. Mother—Melody—radiated her usual lavender warmth, though today it seemed particularly intense, tinged with both joy and a mother's bittersweet acknowledgment of her child's growth. Miss Zia stood slightly apart, her dark blue soul swirling with genuine happiness for her student's milestone.

  Father cleared his throat, his deep voice filling the room. "Yes, happy birthday, my son. It's great to finally see you become a man." His posture was rigid as always, but I could detect the subtle softening around his eyes that betrayed his true feelings.

  Mother rolled her eyes affectionately, placing a gentle hand on Father's arm. "Grim, be quiet, you old man," she chided playfully. "He's still my baby boy, even if he's an adult now." Her voice carried the musical quality that had soothed me through childhood fevers and celebrated my earliest magical successes.

  Miss Zia stepped forward, her half-elven grace evident in even this simple movement. "Miss Bloodson and Mr. Bloodson," she said, her voice carrying a formal tone she reserved for official occasions, "I do have to say, both of you raised a fine young man." Her soul flickered with genuine admiration—not just professional courtesy but true recognition of what we had achieved together.

  Mother's smile broadened, the corners of her eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. "Why thank you, dear, and thank you so much for being Zen's tutor." She moved to guide me to the head of the table, the place of honor reserved for the celebration's focus.

  "Yes, I do have to agree," Father added, his usual terseness softened by the occasion. He gestured for everyone to be seated, taking his customary place at the opposite end of the table. The afternoon light streaming through the stained-glass windows cast patterns across his stern features, highlighting the silver streaks in his otherwise dark hair—evidence of years spent in battle before settling into family life.

  As servers brought in additional dishes and filled our goblets with sparkling fruit nectar, Father leaned forward, his gaze intense even through my closed eyelids. "So, son, what are you going to do now? What are your plans?" The question wasn't unexpected—Father had always been focused on the future, on progression, on purpose.

  I set down my goblet carefully, considering my words. "Plans? Hmm, I was thinking of becoming an adventurer." The words hung in the air, simple yet loaded with implications.

  Father's crimson soul darkened slightly with concern. "An adventurer, you say? You know that's quite dangerous work, son." His fingers drummed once on the table—a rare display of uncertainty from a man who typically exuded nothing but absolute confidence.

  Miss Zia interjected before the moment could become tense. "In his defense, he's way more capable than a top-tier mage, and he has expert swordsmanship like a knight, so I think he should be fine." Her voice carried the weight of professional assessment, not merely the fondness of a teacher for her pupil.

  I nodded gratefully in her direction. "Yes, Miss Zia is right. I have improved a lot." I paused, gathering my courage for what came next. "But more importantly, there is something I need to tell you, Mom and Dad."

  My parents exchanged a quick glance, their souls shifting in synchrony—a testament to years of partnership and shared understanding. "What is it, son?" they asked, almost simultaneously.

  I straightened my shoulders, feeling the weight of years of secrecy about to be lifted. "The reason my eyes are closed all the time is because I'm blind."

  There was a moment of silence—not the shocked, heavy silence I had anticipated, but something lighter, almost amused. Father's expression remained unchanged, but his soul flickered with what I recognized as confirmation rather than surprise.

  "Oh, we already knew that," he stated matter-of-factly, reaching for his goblet.

  Mother nodded, her lavender soul pulsing with gentle amusement. "Yeah, we've known it since you were born. The doctor told us when you were sleeping."

  The revelation hit me like one of my own compressed steam explosions. After years of careful concealment, years of planning this very moment, to discover they had known all along was... disorienting.

  "WAIT, WHAT?!?! SO YOU HAVE KNOWN ALL THIS TIME?" My voice rose higher than I intended, my carefully cultivated composure momentarily fracturing. "DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY MENTAL SIGHT?!"

  Mother tilted her head, her long silver hair catching the light. "No, but we figured since you're so good with sensing mana and such, you have to possess some type of ability that lets you see." Her tone was casual, as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

  I slumped slightly in my chair, simultaneously relieved and bewildered. "Well, sort of." I turned toward my mentor. "Miss Zia, can you tell them?"

  Miss Zia set down her fork delicately, her expression serious. "Zen possesses an ability to sense souls, to determine what type of person they are through their soul," she explained, her tone taking on the quality she used when discussing rare magical phenomena. "Not only that, his mental sight is better than an advanced person's eyesight—he can do anything with precision."

  Mother's goblet clattered against the table as she set it down too quickly, her lavender soul flaring with brilliant intensity. "Sense souls?! Like the ability written in ancient texts?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, reverence and wonder replacing her earlier casualness.

  Father's crimson soul deepened to an almost burgundy shade, his expression finally betraying genuine surprise. "The Soulgazer ability," he murmured, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. "I thought it was mere legend—a power lost to the ages."

  Miss Zia nodded solemnly. "It is incredibly rare, but unmistakable. I've been observing him these past years—his ability to perceive magical currents, to anticipate movements without visual cues, to sense intentions before they're acted upon. It could be nothing else."

  Mother rose from her seat and moved swiftly to my side, her hands cupping my face with infinite tenderness. "My precious boy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Do you know what this means? The ancient texts speak of Soulgazers as harbingers of great change—individuals destined to reshape the world around them."

  Father's chair scraped against the floor as he stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow. Instead of the stern lecture I half-expected, he circled the table and placed a firm hand on my shoulder—a rare gesture of physical affection.

  "This explains your extraordinary progress," he said, his voice unusually gentle. "And why you've advanced so quickly in both swordsmanship and magical arts. You weren't just learning—you were seeing at a fundamental level that others cannot."

  I blinked, my milky white eyes opening fully as I turned to face each of them in turn. "You're... not upset that I kept this from you?"

  Mother's laughter was like windchimes in a summer breeze. "Upset? My darling, we understand why you might have been hesitant. Such abilities often come with burdens as heavy as their gifts."

  Father nodded, a rare smile softening his battle-hardened features. "We've always known you were destined for greatness, Zen. This simply confirms what we've suspected all along."

  Miss Zia lifted her goblet in a toast. "To Zen Bloodson—no longer simply a student, but a man standing on the threshold of his destiny. May your unique vision guide you through whatever adventures await."

  As the four of us raised our glasses in unison, I felt a sensation I had rarely experienced in either of my lives—complete acceptance. Not just tolerance or accommodation, but true understanding and support.

  The afternoon stretched into evening, filled with stories and laughter, plans and possibilities. We discussed potential adventuring guilds, regions ripe for exploration, and the broader implications of my abilities. Father shared tales from his own adventuring days that I had never heard before, while Mother extracted a promise that I would write regularly once I set out on my journey.

  As the final candle burned low and the stars appeared in the night sky visible through the high windows, I realized that this birthday marked more than just my transition to adulthood. It was the beginning of a new chapter—one where I could step fully into my potential, supported by the knowledge that I carried not just the training and wisdom of my mentors, but their unwavering belief in who I was meant to become.

  In this moment, surrounded by those who truly saw me—blind eyes and all—I felt readier than ever to embrace whatever destiny awaited Zen Bloodson, the Soulgazer of a new age.

  Meanwhile, in the far west…

  The merciless sun beat down on the cracked earth of the Western Barrens, its heat rippling the air like water. Dust devils danced across the barren landscape, where only the hardiest of plants dared to grow—twisted Joshua trees and resilient sagebrush that had adapted to this unforgiving environment. A small watering hole, more mud than water, attracted the desperate and dangerous alike.

  Six outlaws surrounded a weathered stagecoach, its passengers cowering inside. The men were hardened criminals—faces scarred from bar fights and desert winds, eyes narrowed from years of squinting against the harsh sun. Their leather vests were adorned with various trophies: silver conchos, tarnished sheriff badges, and even what appeared to be human teeth strung together as grisly necklaces. Each outlaw bore at least three firearms—revolvers at their hips, sawed-off shotguns strapped to their backs, and small derringers hidden in boots or sleeves.

  Perched on a sun-baked boulder nearby, an elderly man in tattered clothes observed the unfolding scene. His leathery skin told tales of decades under the desert sun, and his eyes—though clouded with age—missed nothing. A small leather bag of coins sat beside him, payment for counting whatever violence was about to transpire.

  "You gentlemen need a count?" the old-timer called out, his voice carrying surprising strength despite his weathered appearance.

  Before any of the outlaws could respond, a figure emerged from behind a nearby rock formation. He moved with the casual confidence of a predator who had never known defeat, each step measured and deliberate. His boots—expensive despite the trail dust that covered them—barely disturbed the sand beneath. A black duster coat fluttered gently in the hot breeze, revealing glimpses of finely crafted revolvers at his hips.

  The stranger's face remained partially obscured by the wide brim of his black cowboy hat, but what was visible was youthful—surprisingly so for someone with such a dangerous aura. His clean-shaven jaw and smooth skin suggested he couldn't be older than twenty-five, yet his eyes held the cold calculation of someone who had seen far more death than his years should allow.

  One of the outlaws—a man with a braided beard and a nasty scar running from his left ear to his chin—spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the parched ground and sneered.

  "Please, like this brat could ever beat us," he growled, hand hovering near the worn grip of his revolver. The other five outlaws spread out slightly, instinctively forming a half-circle around the newcomer.

  The stranger tilted his head up just enough for the sunlight to illuminate his face. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes—eyes that reflected nothing but the cold void of a predator assessing prey.

  "I'll put you ol' bastards out your misery," he drawled, his voice smooth as aged whiskey yet sharp as a newly honed blade.

  The atmosphere shifted instantly. The very air seemed to grow heavy, like the moment before lightning strikes. Birds ceased their calls. The wind itself appeared to hold its breath.

  The outlaws, sensing the change, reached for their weapons. Fingers touched gun grips. Leather holsters creaked. Six men, each hardened by years of violence and survival, prepared to draw.

  But what happened next defied human perception.

  The stranger's right hand moved in a blur so fast it seemed to bend the light around it. It wasn't merely quick—it was as though time itself had been rewritten for him alone, allowing him to operate in a dimension where seconds stretched into minutes for everyone else. His movements weren't just practiced; they were supernatural, transcending what human muscle and sinew should be capable of achieving.

  His hand closed around the ornate handle of his revolver—a weapon that seemed almost alive in his grip, an extension of his very being rather than a mere tool. The gun cleared its holster with a whisper of well-oiled metal against leather, the cylinder already spinning, bullets aligned perfectly.

  The stranger's eyes remained perfectly calm, his breathing unhurried as he assessed each target. In the fraction of a second it took for the outlaws' expressions to shift from confidence to the first hint of alarm, his trigger finger had already begun its work.

  Six shots rang out in such rapid succession that they almost merged into a single, prolonged thunderclap. The sound echoed across the barren landscape, sending lizards scurrying for cover and vultures taking flight from distant perches.

  Each bullet found its mark with surgical precision. The first outlaw's forehead erupted in a spray of crimson as the lead penetrated directly between his eyes, the light of life extinguished before his finger had even finished tightening on his trigger. The second and third outlaws received twin shots through their hearts, the impacts lifting them off their feet and throwing them backward into the dust. The fourth outlaw's throat exploded in a grisly fountain of blood, his dying gurgle cut short before it could even begin. The fifth took a bullet through his right eye, the back of his skull disintegrating as the round exited. The sixth and final outlaw—the one with the braided beard who had spoken—received perhaps the most impressive shot of all: a bullet that entered through his open, still-sneering mouth and severed his spine at the base of his skull.

  Before the bodies of the first outlaws had even begun to fall, all six men were dead—their spirits departing for whatever judgment awaited them.

  The gun smoke curled lazily from the barrel of the stranger's revolver, the only unhurried thing about what had just transpired. With a flourish that spoke of years of practice—or perhaps simple vanity—he spun the weapon around his trigger finger, the movement so precise and controlled that the revolver seemed to float around his hand like a planet orbiting its sun.

  With the same unnatural speed that had drawn it, the gun disappeared back into its holster, secure and ready for the next unfortunate souls who might cross its owner's path.

  The stranger adjusted his hat with his left hand, revealing more of his youthful features. His expression remained unchanged, as though the extinguishing of six lives was no more significant than swatting flies.

  "You call that a draw, you old sunabitches?" he said, his tone conveying bored contempt rather than the exhilaration one might expect after such a display. "Golly jee, even my grandma could shoot faster than you slow sacks of horse shit." He paused, surveying the carnage with clinical detachment. "Name's Earnest, but you can call me 'Billy the Kid.' Remember that's who sent you to hell."

  The elderly man on the rock sat frozen, his weathered face pale with shock. The coins in his counting bag lay forgotten beside him.

  "DEAR GOD, I BLINKED AND THEY WERE ALL DEAD!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling as he struggled to comprehend the supernatural display of speed and precision he had just witnessed.

  Earnest—Billy the Kid—turned his cold gaze toward the old-timer. A hint of amusement flickered across his otherwise emotionless face.

  "Well shit, old man, that's your own damn fault for not paying attention," he replied, casually flicking a speck of blood from his sleeve. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a silver coin, which he tossed to the stunned counter. "For your troubles. Next time, keep your eyes open. Might see something worth remembering."

  Without waiting for a response, Billy turned and walked toward the stagecoach, his spurs jingling with each step—a deceptively cheerful sound from a man who had just delivered six souls to the afterlife faster than most men could blink.

  Behind him, the desert wind picked up, already beginning to erase his footprints from the sand—nature itself conspiring to hide the passage of something that perhaps wasn't entirely natural after all.

  Back at the bloodson estate,

  The question lingered in my mind like a persistent shadow. Zag had mentioned there were others like me, but what did that truly mean? Were there other souls who had crossed the veil of death only to awaken in this strange world? Or was I unique in my reincarnation? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

  "What's wrong, Zen? You look distraught about something," Miss Zia's voice cut through my contemplation, her crimson eyes studying me with the shrewd perception she'd always possessed.

  I straightened my posture, trying to mask the chaos of my thoughts. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Blooson Estate's eastern parlor, casting her figure in a golden glow that emphasized the silver embroidery on her midnight-blue tutor's robes.

  "Oh, it's nothing—just thinking about something," I replied, my fingers absently tracing the carved patterns on the armrest of my chair. The wood was smooth from years of similar nervous habits.

  Zia set down the grimoire she'd been holding and approached, her footsteps nearly silent on the plush carpet. "You know," she said, her voice softer than usual, "this is my last day tutoring you. You're an adult now—you no longer need my guidance."

  A heaviness settled in my chest at her words, though I'd known this day was approaching. For seven years, she had been my mentor, my guide through this world's magic systems and social hierarchies. The thought of continuing without her wisdom left me feeling adrift.

  "Y-yeah, I know," I admitted, meeting her gaze. "I feel sad about it. Maybe one day we will meet again." I reached into my pocket, retrieving the small velvet box I'd been carrying for days, waiting for the right moment. "Here, I made you a gift."

  I opened the box to reveal a silver ring nestled against dark velvet. At its center sat a blood-red ruby, cut in the rare star pattern that captured and reflected light from its depths. The precious stone was set within an intricate framework of enchanted silver, runes barely visible along the band's inner curve.

  "This ring will boost your defense and stamina by a lot," I explained, watching her eyes widen. "Think of it as a parting gift. I crafted it myself—three months of work in the estate's forge after you'd retired each evening."

  Zia's composed demeanor faltered. "O-oh, I can't accept this," she stammered, her fingers hovering above the ring without touching it. "This is too nice. The materials alone must have cost a fortune, and the enchantment work..."

  "Please," I insisted, taking her hand gently, "accept this as a token of my gratitude. Without you, I would have remained lost in this world, powerless and ignorant." I didn't add that I'd spent nearly all my saved allowance on the ruby, or that I'd traded rare grimoire translations for the enchanted silver.

  Zia hesitated a moment longer before carefully taking the ring. She slid it onto her finger, and I noted with satisfaction that it fit perfectly. The ruby gleamed as if alive, responding to her considerable mana reserves.

  "I will then," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "and I will always cherish it." She composed herself quickly, though her fingers kept touching the ring as if to confirm its presence. "But besides that, where are you going to go when you adventure?"

  I moved to the window, gazing westward where the mountains rose like jagged teeth against the horizon. "I'm thinking about exploring the Far West," I replied, excitement building in my voice despite my melancholy. "I heard there's a dungeon no one has fully completed yet out there."

  Zia's sharp intake of breath was audible even from across the room. "You mean the Barren West Dungeon?" Her voice had lost its warmth, replaced by genuine concern. "I heard it has one hundred levels. Apparently, it's taken the lives of many high-tier adventurers. Everyone is scared of it, Zen—even the S-rank guilds send only their elite teams, and rarely past the thirtieth floor."

  I turned back to her, my determination hardening into resolve. "I'll be the first to conquer it," I declared, raising my fist. "I swear it, Zia. My unique abilities give me advantages others lack."

  Zia approached me, her expression grave. The ruby on her finger pulsed once, as if responding to her concern. "I hope you will be safe, Zen," she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "It will be dangerous beyond anything I've prepared you for. The dungeon changes its configuration monthly, and the deeper levels harbor creatures that shouldn't exist in this world."

  "I'll be safe, I promise," I assured her, though we both knew such promises held little weight in the face of legendary dungeons. "I've mastered the fourth circle of Arcane Manipulation, and my Void Strike technique is stronger than most veteran mages can manage."

  Zia nodded, though doubt still clouded her eyes. She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking solemnly in the corner. "Well, I better get going. The trip back to my hometown is days away, and the mountain passes will soon grow treacherous with the approaching winter storms."

  The reality of our parting struck me then, more powerfully than any training blow I'd ever received. Seven years of daily lessons, of shared meals and frustrations and triumphs—ending with a simple goodbye.

  Before I could think better of it, I stepped forward and embraced her, something I'd never dared do before. After a moment of surprise, her arms wrapped around me in return.

  "Thank you," I whispered, "for everything."

  As days went on we both left the Bloodson estate and went our separate ways. I headed west.

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  After days of traveling across the rugged terrain of the western territories, I found myself in the Republic of the West. Despite its grand name suggesting order and civilization, the truth was far more sordid—a corrupt, lawless land where might made right and justice was merely a concept for fairy tales. The dusty streets were lined with establishments of questionable repute, their wooden facades weathered by the merciless desert sun.

  I secured lodgings at a nearby inn that embraced the western aesthetic with almost theatrical enthusiasm—wagon wheel chandeliers, antler-adorned walls, and beds with frames fashioned from repurposed timber. After depositing my travel-worn bags in my rented room, my stomach growled in protest of its neglect. I ventured down the block to a saloon that promised hot food and cold drinks, both of which had become luxuries during my journey.

  The saloon's swinging doors creaked as I pushed through them, revealing an interior thick with pipe smoke and the pungent aroma of spilled whiskey. Oil lamps cast dancing shadows across the room, illuminating the faces of patrons whose expressions ranged from vacant intoxication to calculated vigilance. A piano player in the corner hammered out a jaunty tune that seemed at odds with the tension permeating the establishment.

  I collected a plate of what the barkeep claimed was "genuine frontier stew"—a dubious mixture of unidentifiable meat and vegetables swimming in a brown gravy—and found a seat at a scarred wooden table. Beside me sat an elderly man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles carved by years of desert living. His hands, spotted with age and trembling slightly, nursed a glass of amber liquid.

  "Excuse me," I ventured, turning to the weathered local. "Do you know where the Barren West Dungeon is located?"

  The old man's rheumy eyes widened, and he turned to me with an expression of disbelief. "Are you crazy, kid?" he rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot. "You'll die if you go there. That cursed place has swallowed adventurers twice your age and thrice your experience without so much as burping up their bones."

  I met his gaze steadily, allowing a confident smile to play across my lips. "I'll be fine," I assured him, my voice carrying the quiet certainty of someone who had faced death before—in more ways than one.

  The old-timer studied me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if trying to determine whether I was suicidal, naive, or possibly in possession of abilities beyond my apparent years. Finally, he shrugged his bony shoulders.

  "I know where it is, but information ain't free in these parts," he declared, his tone shifting from concern to business. "How about one silver coin? Cheap price for directions that might save you days of wandering in bandit country."

  "Deal," I agreed readily, reaching into my coin pouch and sliding a gleaming silver piece across the table. "That's fine by me."

  The old man's gnarled fingers snatched up the coin with surprising dexterity. He bit it once, seemingly satisfied by the soft indentation his teeth left in the precious metal. After pocketing his payment, he leaned in conspiratorially.

  "The Barren West Dungeon is around fifty miles away from here," he disclosed, his breath heavy with the scent of tobacco and cheap spirits. "Most who've returned—and there ain't many—say the entrance appears like a wound in the very earth itself."

  "In which direction?" I pressed, pulling my half-finished plate closer.

  "Go north until you see a big ol' tower," he replied, tracing an invisible map on the table with his finger. "Can't miss it—like the devil's own finger pointing at the sky. Dungeon entrance is at its base. But I'm telling you, boy, even the S-rank adventurers give that place a wide berth."

  Before I could inquire further, the atmosphere in the saloon shifted palpably. The piano player's fingers faltered, striking a discordant note before falling silent altogether. Conversations died mid-sentence, and the clinking of glasses ceased as the swinging doors parted to admit a new arrival.

  A young man dressed in elaborate cowboy attire stepped into the saloon. His black duster coat, seemingly untouched by the dust that coated everything else in this forsaken town, swayed gently with each deliberate step. Twin revolvers with ornately carved handles rested at his hips, their polished surfaces catching the lamplight. His face, partially obscured by the wide brim of his black hat, possessed a cold beauty that seemed at odds with the dangerous aura he exuded.

  Beside me, the old man nearly choked on his drink, his face draining of what little color it possessed.

  "I-I-IT'S HIM!" he sputtered, his voice a terrified whisper that nonetheless carried in the unnatural silence. "THEY CALL HIM BILLY THE KID! I WATCHED HIM MURDER SIX OUTLAWS LIKE IT WAS NOTHING—FASTER THAN THE EYE COULD SEE!"

  "Wait, what?!" I hissed back, my attention fully captured.

  The name struck a chord of recognition deep within my memories—from my previous life. Billy the Kid, the infamous American outlaw from the late 1800s, known for his deadly accuracy and the trail of bodies he left in his wake. Could this be another reincarnated soul like myself? Or merely someone who had adopted the moniker of the legendary gunslinger?

  I activated my Soul Sight, studying the newcomer's essence. His soul blazed a fiery yellow—the signature of a man intimately acquainted with death yet paradoxically full of vibrant life. Complex patterns swirled within the golden energy, suggesting magical aptitude far beyond the crude capabilities I'd witnessed in this frontier region.

  The stranger—Billy—sauntered toward a table where several men were engaged in a high-stakes card game. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, yet he moved through it with the casual confidence of someone who feared nothing in this world or the next.

  "Mind if I join this game, gentlemen?" Billy inquired, his voice carrying a melodic drawl that somehow enhanced rather than diminished his dangerous presence.

  The gamblers exchanged nervous glances, clearly weighing the risks of refusal against the dangers of allowing this notorious figure into their game. Self-preservation won out.

  "Sure, kid," one of them finally responded, gesturing to an empty chair. "Pull up a seat. Ante is five copper."

  Billy flashed a predatory smile and settled into the offered chair with fluid grace. "Much obliged," he replied, placing a small stack of coins before him. His hands, I noticed, moved with an almost hypnotic precision as he arranged his chips.

  The game progressed with increasing tension. Beads of sweat formed on the gamblers' foreheads despite the relative coolness of the saloon's interior. Billy maintained an expression of casual amusement, studying his cards with the same detached interest one might show a mildly entertaining insect.

  After several hands of building stakes and mounting anxiety, Billy revealed his cards with a flourish.

  "Well, shit," he drawled, spreading a perfect royal flush across the worn table. "That's game, gentlemen. Looks like I won."

  One of the gamblers—a burly man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—slammed his fist on the table, causing chips and cards to jump.

  "BULLSHIT!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "YOU CHEATED, YOU SLIMY BASTARD! Ain't no way you pulled a royal flush fair and square!"

  Billy's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened, like sunlight refracting through ice. "What are you talkin' about, you ol' sack of shit?" he replied, his voice dangerously soft. "You accusin' me of somethin'?"

  "I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" the gambler bellowed, his hand dropping to the pistol holstered at his waist.

  What happened next defied human perception. Before the gambler's fingers could even close around his weapon, Billy's hand moved in a blur of impossible speed. There was a flash, a deafening crack, and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air. By the time my eyes registered the movement, the deed was already done.

  The gambler stood frozen, a perfect circular hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes widened in surprise—a final expression that would remain etched on his features for eternity. Blood and brain matter painted a gruesome constellation on the wall behind him. His knees buckled, and his lifeless body toppled backward, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a sickening thud.

  Despite the violence that had just transpired, the saloon responded with practiced efficiency rather than panic. Two burly workers emerged from behind the bar, grabbed the corpse by its arms and legs, and unceremoniously carried it outside. I heard the dull sound of a body being deposited into what the old man later informed me was the "complaint ditch"—the final resting place for those foolish enough to cause trouble in this establishment.

  A young woman with a mop and bucket appeared almost immediately, scrubbing away the blood with the resigned efficiency of someone who had performed this task many times before. Within minutes, the only evidence of the killing was a slightly darker stain on the floorboards and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

  Billy holstered his weapon with the same fluid grace with which he had drawn it, then calmly gathered his winnings. "Safe to say I won, right, gentlemen?" he inquired, his tone conversational, as if he hadn't just ended a man's life seconds ago.

  The remaining gamblers nodded frantically, their faces ashen. "Y-Yeah, you won. No worries from us, mister," one stammered, his hands visibly trembling as he pushed the remaining pot toward Billy.

  Having collected his earnings, Billy sauntered toward the bar, dropping into the vacant seat beside me and the old man. He signaled the barkeep, who hastily delivered a glass of clear liquid that I suspected wasn't water.

  "Well, shit," Billy remarked, taking a sip of his drink before turning to the old-timer. "If it isn't the old man who watched me kill six outlaws that day? You enjoy the show back then, old timer?"

  The elderly man trembled, clutching his glass with white-knuckled intensity. "I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO SEE IT!" he protested, voice cracking with nervous energy. "YOUR REFLEXES WERE TOO FAST! One moment they were standing, the next they were dead—all six of them!"

  Billy's lips curved into a smirk. "Like I told you last time, it's your own damn fault for not paying proper attention," he replied, downing his drink in one smooth motion.

  "I saw," I interjected quietly, my eyes still closed as was my habit. "I saw everything."

  Billy's head swiveled toward me, his interest piqued. His soul flickered with surprise—a brief disruption in the confident golden flow. "Like hell you did," he challenged, skepticism evident in his tone. "How in the horse shit can a kid who had his eyes closed see my reflexes? You ain't even lookin' at me right now."

  I allowed a small smile to play across my lips. "You shot the man in one nanosecond," I stated matter-of-factly. "You put your gun back in its holster in half that time. Not to mention, you used wind magic to accelerate the bullet beyond normal velocity, and fire magic to augment its impact force. That's why the wound was significantly larger than what a standard .45 caliber would produce. The magical signature was subtle, but unmistakable."

  A profound silence fell between us. Even the background noise of the saloon seemed to fade as Billy studied me with newfound intensity. I could feel his gaze boring into me, reassessing what had initially appeared to be just another foolhardy eastern youth.

  "Well, I'll be damned," he finally drawled, genuine respect coloring his tone. "Didn't know a kid like you could see all that. Name's Earnest, but you can call me Billy the Kid. I'm seventeen."

  "Name's Zen," I replied, extending my hand. "Zen Bloodson, and I'm fifteen. I come from the East. I'm here to conquer the Barren West Dungeon."

  The old man, who had been looking back and forth between us like a spectator at a particularly intense duel, scoffed. "Yeah, this crazy sonofabitch was asking me directions to it just before you walked in. Got a death wish, this one."

  Billy leaned back, his posture relaxing slightly though his eyes remained vigilant. "The dungeon?" he mused, taking my measure. "No offense, kid, but I think you're in for a rude awakening. That place has claimed adventurers with decades more experience than you appear to have."

  I couldn't help but grin at his assessment. "Please," I replied with confident nonchalance. "I can easily clear that dungeon. It's just a matter of understanding the right approach."

  "Really?" Billy's eyebrows rose, his interest clearly piqued. "Either you're lying through your teeth, or you're one crazy sonofabitch." He paused, a calculating look crossing his features. "Either way, you've just become the most interesting person in this two-bit town."

  As we locked gazes—my Soul Sight perceiving the curious flickers in his golden essence—I sensed that this encounter was no mere coincidence. Perhaps fate had more in store for both of us than either could anticipate.

  Billy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the scarred wooden table. The lamplight caught the golden flecks in his eyes, giving them an almost predatory gleam. His fingers drummed a rhythmic pattern against his empty glass—a habit born of restlessness rather than nervousness.

  "Well, shit," he drawled, his voice carrying the measured cadence of someone accustomed to being listened to. "I'll come with you. Been itchin' to test out my skills against somethin' worthwhile." A calculating smile spread across his face. "Not to mention all that treasure in that dungeon waitin' to be claimed. A man could set himself up mighty fine with just a fraction of what's rumored to be down there."

  I studied his soul carefully, noting the fluctuations in the golden energy. Despite his casual demeanor, there was genuine interest there—and perhaps something else. Curiosity? Respect? It was difficult to discern with absolute certainty.

  "How can I trust you?" I asked bluntly, meeting his gaze. "I mean, I just watched you kill a man without so much as blinking. What's to stop you from putting a bullet in my back once we're deep in the dungeon?"

  The saloon had gradually returned to its normal state around us—the piano player had resumed his jaunty tune, conversations hummed at nearby tables, and the bartender polished glasses with practiced motions. Yet it felt as though Billy and I existed in our own pocket of reality, separated from the mundane proceedings by the weight of our exchange.

  Billy's right hand moved to rest casually near his holster—not a threat, but a reminder of what he was capable of. "Well, fair point," he conceded, inclining his head slightly. "But you have my word I won't be a slimy bastard and backstab you." He leaned back, his expression serious despite the casual phrasing. "Out here in the west, a man's word is all he's got. Break it, and you may as well put a bullet in your own head—saves everyone else the trouble."

  I contemplated his offer for a moment, weighing the risks against the potential benefits. Having witnessed his supernatural speed and precision firsthand, I couldn't deny the advantages of having such a formidable ally. The dungeon would be dangerous—perhaps more dangerous than I had initially anticipated—and facing it alone would be foolhardy, even with my abilities.

  "Hmm," I murmured, absently tracing a pattern on the table's surface. "I could use your help, so... deal." I extended my hand across the table. "Partners, then."

  Billy's grip was firm as he shook my hand, his calloused palm a testament to years of handling firearms. "Partners," he confirmed, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "At least 'til one of us gets eaten by whatever ungodly critters are lurkin' in that dungeon."

  He signaled the bartender for another round of drinks—whiskey for himself and a glass of chilled water for me. As the bartender delivered our beverages, Billy leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice despite the ambient noise that would have made eavesdropping nearly impossible.

  "So how are we gonna clear this dungeon?" he inquired, genuine curiosity coloring his tone. "From what I've heard, there's fifty floors, each more deadly than the last." He took a sip of his whiskey, barely wincing at its potency. "Every ten floors, there's a big ol' nasty son of a bitch that guards the entrance to the next section. And not to mention, every sorry bastard that's gone in has died, 'cept like two people—and they only made it to floor ten before turnin' tail."

  The amber liquid in his glass caught the lamplight as he swirled it thoughtfully. "And those two came out half-mad, babblin' about creatures that shouldn't exist in this world or the next."

  I considered his question carefully, mentally reviewing what I knew about dungeon structures from both my extensive reading and the practical knowledge Miss Zia had imparted. "Well, first we need to stock up on ammunition for you," I replied, formulating a strategy as I spoke. "We just need to kill the bosses quickly and efficiently—no wasted movement, no wasted energy."

  Billy's eyebrows rose skeptically. "Well, we don't know how strong they are," he pointed out, draining the last of his whiskey. "Heard tell the tenth-floor guardian nearly tore a veteran adventurer's arm clean off before he could even draw his weapon."

  A confident smile spread across my face as I leaned forward. "They don't know how strong we are, either," I countered, allowing a hint of my magical aura to flare—just enough for someone with sensitivity to notice. "Trust me, we will be fine. Between your speed and my magic, we have advantages most adventurers couldn't dream of."

  The faintest ripple of surprise passed through Billy's golden soul before settling into something resembling respect. He studied me for a long moment, then nodded decisively. "Welp, you got yourself a deal, kid," he declared, setting his empty glass down with a solid thunk. "Think of me as your party member. Like them fancy adventurin' groups they got in the capital."

  "Great," I responded, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. Despite the dangers that lay ahead, I felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of facing them with such a capable ally.

  As twilight descended upon the frontier town, we remained in the saloon, discussing our preparations. Billy shared tales of his exploits in this world—encounters with bandits, dangerous beasts that roamed the western territories, and the corrupt officials who often posed a greater threat than any monster. I listened attentively, gathering information that might prove useful while carefully avoiding direct questions about his previous life.

  The oil lamps burned lower, casting longer shadows across the saloon floor. The crowd had thinned considerably by the time we decided to continue our preparations. We settled our tab—Billy insisting on covering the cost with his recently acquired gambling winnings—and stepped out into the cool night air.

  The street was illuminated by scattered lanterns that cast pools of yellowed light at irregular intervals. Most establishments had closed for the night, their windows dark and uninviting. At the far end of the thoroughfare, a single building remained brightly lit, its windows glowing with warm light.

  "Weapon shop's still open," Billy observed, gesturing toward the illuminated building. "Old Jasper keeps late hours for adventurers passin' through. Let's get ourselves properly equipped before mornin'."

  We made our way down the dusty street, our footsteps echoing in the relative quiet. The shop's interior was a treasure trove of weaponry—racks of firearms lined the walls, blades of various sizes and designs gleamed in glass-fronted cases, and barrels filled with ammunition stood at attention near the counter. The air smelled of gun oil, leather, and metal polish.

  As Billy immediately gravitated toward the ammunition display, I found myself drawn to a case containing an impressive array of bladed weapons. Having focused primarily on magical combat during my training with Miss Zia, I had neglected to develop proficiency with physical armaments—an oversight I now sought to remedy.

  "Yo, Billy," I called, examining the various options with a critical eye.

  Billy glanced up from his inspection of ammunition boxes. "Yeah? What is it?" he replied, moving to join me by the display case.

  "What type of blade do you think I would be good with?" I asked, genuinely curious about his opinion. Despite his youth, he carried himself with the confidence of someone intimately familiar with weapons of all kinds.

  Billy stroked his chin contemplatively, eyes narrowing as he assessed both the available options and my physical build. "I'll probably say a knife," he suggested after a moment's consideration. His face brightened suddenly as inspiration struck. "Oh, I know what you should get—one of them Bowie knives. I got one, and that shit is mighty fine, if I do have to say so myself."

  He drew a wicked-looking blade from a concealed sheath at his back, presenting it with obvious pride. The knife was substantial—somewhere between a traditional knife and a short sword—with a gleaming blade that reflected the shop's lamplight. "Shit, think of it as a mix between a sword and a knife. Perfect for close quarters when magic might be too slow or too destructive."

  He sheathed his weapon and pointed to several options in the display case. "I recommend a twelve-inch blade, or a ten-inch if you prefer somethin' a little more concealable. With your build, you could handle either just fine."

  The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with arms corded with muscle from years of metalwork, unlocked the case at my request. I carefully selected a twelve-inch Bowie knife with impeccable balance. The handle was crafted from polished hardwood with a distinctive gold stripe inlaid horizontally near the guard. The blade itself bore subtle engravings—protective runes that wouldn't interfere with any magical enhancements I might add later.

  "That's a fine blade," Billy approved, nodding appreciatively. He turned to the shopkeeper, who waited patiently behind the counter. "Aye, miss, I would like to buy, say, around five boxes of .45 ammo," he began, his tone shifting to one of business. "Give me one of those lever-action rifles up there and a few boxes of that .45-70 ammunition."

  He gestured toward an impressive rifle mounted on the wall behind the counter. "Could I also get the receiver engraved with 'Billy the Kid' in gold? Oh, and this Bowie knife for my friend, and a bandolier to carry my ammunition."

  The shopkeeper tallied the items mentally, her weathered face betraying no emotion. "Yes, sir," she responded, her voice surprisingly melodious for someone of her apparent age. "That will be around ten gold."

  Billy whistled softly at the price. "Golly jee, that's a lot, but here." He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small leather pouch, counting out ten gold coins onto the counter. The sum represented a significant investment—enough to purchase a modest homestead in some parts of the eastern territories—but would be well worth it if it kept us alive in the depths of the dungeon.

  The shopkeeper nodded approvingly, scooping the coins into a drawer beneath the counter. "The engraving will take an hour," she informed us. "Feel free to return then, or I can have my boy deliver everything to your lodgings for an extra silver."

  "We'll come back," Billy decided, glancing at me for confirmation. "Got some other supplies to gather anyway."

  After arranging to collect our purchases later, we acquired additional necessities from various establishments still open at the late hour—healing potions from an alchemist whose shop smelled of herbs and strange chemicals, preserved rations from a general store, and enchanted torches that would burn even in the oxygen-poor depths of the dungeon.

  Back at the inn where I had taken lodgings, Billy meticulously prepared his equipment. He sat cross-legged on the floor of my rented room, the weapons and ammunition arranged before him in precise order. The newly acquired lever-action rifle lay partially disassembled as he cleaned and oiled each component with practiced efficiency. The receiver, freshly engraved with "Billy the Kid" in gleaming gold lettering, caught the light from the room's single lantern.

  "So," Billy began conversationally as he loaded cartridges into the bandolier, each bullet sliding into its designated loop with a soft leather-against-brass sound. "What are you, kid? A mage, a knight, or somethin' else entirely?" His fingers never ceased their methodical work, even as his attention focused on me.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, my new Bowie knife in hand as I familiarized myself with its weight and balance. "I'm a mage," I replied, performing a simple exercise Miss Zia had taught me—channeling a minute amount of mana into the blade to test its receptivity. The knife hummed slightly, accepting the energy without resistance. "Just an advanced one."

  Billy nodded, seemingly unsurprised by my answer. "So you know a lot of magic and sorts?" he inquired, snapping the rifle's receiver back into place with a satisfying click.

  "Yeah, you could say that," I acknowledged, deliberately understating my capabilities. "I also know how to combine magical elements, which gives me versatility most mages lack."

  Billy's hands paused momentarily, genuine curiosity flickering across his features. "Say what now? What the hell is that?" he asked, setting aside the rifle to give me his full attention.

  I formed a small orb of fire in my left palm, the crimson flames dancing harmlessly across my skin. In my right hand, I summoned a sphere of water, its surface rippling with contained power. "Okay, say you have fire magic in one hand and water magic in the other," I explained, holding up both manifestations. "Most mages would use them separately—fire to attack, water to defend or heal."

  With a subtle gesture, I brought my hands together. The elements merged, creating a cloud of dense steam that swirled between my palms. "You can combine the two to make steam magic, which has properties neither original element possesses. Higher pressure, for instance, and the ability to bypass certain magical barriers."

  Billy's eyes widened appreciatively as he watched the demonstration. "OOH, I get it now, so you're combining the two," he said, a hint of excitement creeping into his usually controlled voice. "That's a mighty fine trick. Bet most folks around here ain't never seen nothin' like that."

  "Exactly," I confirmed, dispersing the magical energies with a wave of my hand. The demonstration had been rudimentary—a mere fraction of what I could accomplish with more preparation and power—but it had served its purpose. "I have to ask you something, though," I added, deciding the time was right to address what had been nagging at my thoughts since our first encounter.

  Billy had returned to his preparations, carefully oiling the barrel of his lever-action rifle with smooth, practiced strokes. The pungent scent of gun oil permeated the small room, mingling with the woodsmoke from the inn's central fireplace that seeped through the floorboards.

  "What is it?" he responded without looking up, his attention seemingly focused on ensuring the rifle's mechanism operated with perfect smoothness.

  I hesitated, considering how to phrase my question delicately. There was no way to be certain, and direct confrontation might shut down any chance at honest communication. Still, the coincidence was too striking to ignore.

  "Did you, perchance, get reincarnated?" I finally asked, my voice deliberately casual despite the weight of the question.

  The effect was immediate and unmistakable. Billy's hands froze mid-motion, the oiled cloth suspended over the rifle barrel. His soul—which I had been monitoring subtly—flared with shock, the golden energy spiking violently before condensing into a tight, defensive pattern.

  "W-What?" he stammered, his carefully cultivated drawl momentarily forgotten. "H-how do you know that? Did you also get reincarnated?" His eyes, now wide with astonishment, searched my face with newfound intensity.

  I nodded, a strange sense of relief washing over me at having my suspicion confirmed. "I figured," I admitted with a small smile. "I mean, there's no way someone would be called 'Billy the Kid' when their name is Earnest. Not unless they knew the historical significance of that alias."

  Billy set the rifle aside entirely, his full attention now riveted on me. "Wait a damn minute," he exclaimed, leaning forward. "So you got reincarnated too? I thought I was the only one in this godforsaken world!"

  "Yeah," I confirmed, feeling an unexpected kinship with this dangerous young man. "But my only question is: how are we talking right now? When I got reincarnated, you died nearly 100-something years ago in my world's timeline."

  The impact of this revelation hit Billy like a physical blow. His jaw slackened, and the color drained from his face. "WAIT, WHAT? IT'S BEEN THAT LONG SINCE THAT DAMN SHERIFF SHOT ME?!?!" he practically shouted, rising to his feet in agitation.

  "Shh!" I cautioned, gesturing for him to lower his voice. The inn's walls were thin, and the last thing we needed was curious eavesdroppers. "Yes, it's been that long. When I died, it was 2019. You died in the late 1800s, right?"

  Billy sank back down, running a hand through his hair in obvious distress. "Well, that's just fucking crazy," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "And yeah, I died in 1881. Shot by that yellow-bellied bastard Pat Garrett when I wasn't even armed." His fingers unconsciously traced the area over his heart—presumably where the fatal bullet had struck in his previous life.

  After a moment of contemplative silence, he looked up with renewed curiosity. "So what happened after I died? Did they at least remember me right, or did they turn me into some kind of monster in them history books?"

  I smiled wryly, considering how to summarize over a century of history and mythology surrounding one of America's most famous outlaws. "Well, I don't know much about America's history specifically, since in my last life I was Japanese," I began, leaning back against the headboard. "But I can tell you about the major world events. Basically, we had two World Wars—"

  As the night deepened around us, I shared with Billy the broad strokes of history that had unfolded after his death. The Spanish-American War, the World Wars, the Great Depression, the Cold War, the technological revolution—each revelation seemed to both fascinate and disturb him. I carefully avoided mentioning his own legacy, uncertain how he would react to learning he had become something of a romanticized figure in American folklore.

  By the time I finished my abbreviated history lesson, the single candle illuminating our room had burned low, casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards. Billy sat in stunned silence, processing the magnitude of what he had learned.

  "Well, that's fucking crazy," he finally declared, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. "God Almighty, like shit, that's just fucking crazy. Flying machines, talking picture boxes, weapons that can destroy entire cities... sounds like something out of them dime novels I used to read."

  I nodded, understanding his bewilderment all too well. "The only reason I can think of that you're here right now is that Zag's plane isn't bound by space or time," I theorized, recalling my conversation with the entity responsible for my own reincarnation. "Anyone who died can access it, no matter if they died in ancient times or in the present. It exists outside conventional temporal limitations."

  Billy furrowed his brow, processing this information. "So you're sayin' this Zag fella—whoever he is—can just pluck souls from different times and dump 'em into new bodies here? Like some kind of divine rancher roundin' up strays?"

  "Something like that," I agreed, impressed by the apt analogy. "Though I doubt even Zag fully understands the mechanics of what he's doing. He seemed... improvising when I met him."

  A slow smile spread across Billy's face as the implications sank in. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, his earlier shock gradually giving way to fascination. "That means there could be others like us out there. People from all different times, walkin' around with memories of lives long past."

  I nodded, the same thought having occurred to me. "It's possible. Maybe even likely, given that we've already found each other by chance."

  Billy retrieved his half-cleaned rifle, his movements now imbued with renewed purpose. "Well, shit," he said, his characteristic drawl returning. "Guess that gives us one more reason to survive this dungeon, don't it? Can't very well solve this mystery if we get ourselves killed by some underground beastie."

  As he resumed his methodical preparation of weapons and ammunition, a comfortable silence fell between us—the silence of two travelers who, despite having originated from vastly different times and places, had somehow found a common path in this strange new world.

  Outside, the stars of an unfamiliar sky wheeled overhead, indifferent to the plans and schemes of those below. Within our small room, however, a partnership had been forged that would soon challenge the deadly reputation of the Barren West Dungeon—and perhaps, in the process, uncover more about the mysterious circumstances of our shared reincarnation.