The wagons showed up faster than expected. Two horse-drawn affairs, paint peeling and wheels squeaking with every rotation. Monkey supervised as the other men hauled them into position near the shed's entrance.

  I didn't ask where they'd acquired the vehicles. Didn't want to know. Probably stolen from some merchant's yard or abandoned alley. This was Western Zenas; everything came from somewhere questionable, changed hands through violence or deception, ended up serving purposes its original owner never intended.

  Yep. It was better to maintain plausible deniability.

  "Load it up," I ordered, watching as my crew started hauling crates from the shed. "Everything. Don't leave so much as a bent nail behind."

  They worked efficiently, muscles straining as they hefted the heavy containers. The firearms went first, then barrels of smuggled liquor I'd spotted tucked in the corner, followed by smaller boxes containing who-knew-what. Probably narcotics, gemstones, forged documents; standard black market fare.

  The bodies they left where they'd fallen. Carrion for the crows and whatever other scavengers prowled the slums after dark. The War Lords had made their choice when they hit Angus's shipment. This outcome was just consequence playing out to its inevitable conclusion.

  Still. Seventeen corpses. More blood on Roxam's hands, even if most of it had been spilled by the other men in my party.

  Don't think about it. Don't dwell.

  I climbed onto the lead wagon's bench, taking the reins in one hand. The horse snorted, ears flicking back at my unfamiliar presence. I gave the leather straps an experimental flick, and the animal started forward with reluctant obedience.

  Behind me, the second wagon creaked into motion, driven by the scarred man with the knife collection. The others hung off the sides or perched atop the cargo, weapons still drawn in case of ambush.

  Smart. Western Zenas didn't forgive weakness, and two wagons full of valuable merchandise made tempting targets for opportunistic scavengers.

  Before we'd pulled out, I'd sent Monkey running ahead on foot. His instructions were simple: inform Angus the Grim that we were returning victorious, merchandise recovered, War Lords dealt with permanently. Give the boss time to prepare for our arrival, assemble whoever he needed to properly secure the goods.

  The route back took us through increasingly familiar streets. Morning had given way to afternoon, and the slums teemed with activity. Beggars called out from doorways, their pleas ignored by passing pedestrians. Street vendors hawked questionable meat from smoking grills. Children darted between buildings, playing games that looked equal parts innocent fun and pickpocket training.

  People noticed the wagons. Noticed me sitting on the driver's bench, face hidden behind the bandana, cold white eyes visible above the cloth. They stepped aside, conversations dying mid-word as we rumbled past.

  Good. Fear keeps things simple.

  The Salty Locust loomed ahead, its weathered sign swaying in the breeze. But instead of stopping at the front entrance, I guided the horse around to the building's rear, where a large open lot spread out behind the tavern's main structure.

  The space was packed. Forty men, maybe more, clustered in loose groups throughout the lot. Angus's full gang strength on display, summoned by Monkey's advance warning. They turned as the wagons rolled through the entrance, conversations halting as they sized up our cargo.

  I hauled on the reins, bringing the lead wagon to a stop. The horse stamped and snorted, clearly unhappy about the whole situation. Behind me, the second wagon pulled up alongside, its driver setting the brake with a metallic scrape.

  "Unload everything," I said, climbing down from the bench. My boots hit packed dirt with a solid thud. "Careful with those crates. Drop one and you're explaining yourself to Angus personally."

  That got them moving. The six men from my party jumped down and started hauling containers, passing them to waiting hands among the assembled gang members. A human chain formed, crates moving from wagon to ground in practiced efficiency.

  The tavern's back door banged open.

  Angus the Grim emerged, his massive frame filling the doorway. Afternoon light caught his scarred features, illuminating the broad smile splitting his face. He crossed the distance between us in three long strides, arms spread wide.

  "Skullface! I knew you wouldn't let me down!"

  His voice boomed across the lot, loud enough to make several nearby men flinch. Then his hand came down on my shoulder, which was more like a hammer strike than a friendly pat, nearly driving me to my knees with the force.

  Christ. He really IS strong enough to tear someone in half.

  "You and your boys did good work today," Angus continued, apparently oblivious to the fact he'd nearly dislocated my shoulder. "Real good work. Showed those War Lords bastards what happens when they mess with the Vipers!"

  He turned to address the six men from my party, who'd finished unloading and now stood in a rough line near the wagons.

  "You lot! Inside! Drinks are on me tonight. You've earned it!"

  Cheers erupted from my former companions. They rushed the back door, shoving and jostling each other in their eagerness to claim the free alcohol. Within seconds they'd vanished into the tavern's dim interior, leaving me alone with Angus and the assembled gang members.

  Angus's hand remained clamped on my shoulder, though the pressure had eased to merely uncomfortable rather than potentially bone-breaking. He leaned in close, his breath reeking of tobacco and cheap wine.

  "You're the best enforcer I've ever had, Skullface. You know that?" His voice had dropped to something approaching normal volume, though it still carried across the lot. "Most of these idiots," he gestured vaguely at the surrounding criminals, "they're good for muscle work, collection runs, basic intimidation. But you? You've got something special. Brains AND brutality. Rare combination in this business."

  I maintained Roxam's characteristic silence, offering only a slight nod of acknowledgment.

  "I want to reward you," Angus said, finally releasing my shoulder. "Proper reward, not just free drinks and a pat on the back. So here's what I'm thinking. You ask me for something, and I'll do my best to get it for you. Within reason, of course. I'm generous, not stupid."

  Well. That's convenient.

  Before I could respond, a commotion erupted near one of the unloaded crates. Several gang members had pried open the firearms container, and now they clustered around it like children discovering presents. Rough hands grabbed pistols, holding them aloft like trophies.

  "Look at these beauties!"

  "Military grade!"

  "Worth a fortune!"

  "Hey! Easy with those things!" Angus bellowed, striding toward the celebration. "They're merchandise, not toys! You break one, it comes out of your cut!"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but didn't fully disappear. The men lowered the weapons, though their eyes still gleamed with acquisitive hunger.

  I watched the scene, mind racing through possibilities. Angus had offered a reward, something reasonable, within his power to grant. The obvious choice sat right there in the opened crate, military-grade flintlocks fresh from the royal arsenal.

  Go big or go home.

  "I want one of those pistols," I said, loud enough for Angus to hear over the ambient noise. "Plus ammunition. Powder, shot, everything needed to actually use it."

  Angus turned, one eyebrow raised in apparent surprise. He looked me up and down, as if seeing something unexpected in my request.

  "Didn't figure you for a marksman-type, Skullface." He scratched his jaw, considering. "Always seemed more the sword-and-dagger sort. But hey, if you wanna to branch out, who am I to stop you?"

  He laughed, the sound rolling across the lot like distant thunder.

  "Go ahead. Pick one out for yourself. Take powder and shot too, like you asked. Just don't blow your own damn face off learning how to use it."

  "Too late for that," I joked.

  Angus paused, staring at me with wide yes. Uh oh. Did I say something wrong?

  The big man then laughed uproariously, slapping his knee with his mirth. "Well, well, well! Roxam! I didn't know you could tell a joke! Ha ha! Learn something new every day."

  Whoops. I may have strayed into out-of-character territory with my little quip. Better reign in my sarcasm in the future.

  I crossed to the opened crate, aware of hostile stares from the gang members clustered nearby. They'd been admiring these weapons moments ago, probably hoping to skim one or two for personal use. Now I was claiming one by boss's decree, removing it from available inventory.

  Sucks to be you, nerds.

  The pistols lay nestled in straw padding, identical military models stamped with the royal arsenal's seal. Flintlock mechanism, smoothbore barrel, walnut grip. Standard issue for soldiers and law enforcement across the kingdom. Each one capable of punching a lead ball through armor, flesh, bone with equal efficiency.

  I grabbed one at random since they were functionally identical anyway, then located a powderhorn hanging from a nail inside the crate. A small wooden box nearby contained lead balls, pre-measured for the pistol's caliber. I took that too, tucking everything under my arm.

  Angus watched with arms crossed, amusement playing across his scarred features.

  "Anything else? Or does that satisfy your ambitions?"

  I met his gaze, white eyes to brown.

  "That's sufficient."

  "Good man. Now get inside and celebrate with the others. You've earned it."

  I gave him a nod (brief, economical, pure Roxam) then turned toward the tavern's back entrance. The assembled gang members parted before me, creating a corridor through their ranks. Fear and respect in equal measure, exactly as it should be.

  SCORE.

  The thought erupted unbidden as I stepped into the tavern's dim interior, weapons secured under my coat. My heart hammered with genuine excitement, the kind that came from pulling off an unexpected victory.

  I'd just acquired a firearm. An actual, functioning, military-grade flintlock pistol. One of the deadliest weapon types in all of Path of Exemplar, banned from player use regardless of stats or progression. The game had teased these things throughout the entire campaign, with enemy marksmen wielding them with devastating effectiveness while keeping them permanently out of reach.

  And now I owned one.

  Take that, arbitrary game restrictions!

  I'd briefly considered asking for a musket instead. The long gun would offer superior range and damage compared to the handgun, better accuracy at distance, more stopping power against heavy targets. In pure mechanical terms, the musket represented the optimal choice.

  But practicality overruled optimization.

  Carrying a musket around Western Zenas (hell, anywhere in the kingdom) would be monumentally stupid. Firearms were banned for civilian use, their possession restricted to military and law enforcement personnel. Walking around with a long gun strapped to my back would invite every guard in the city to investigate, potentially leading to arrest, confiscation, or worse.

  At least the pistol could be concealed. Tucked inside my coat, hidden beneath fabric until the moment I needed to draw and fire. Illegal still, obviously, but invisible to casual observation.

  Stealth over strength. Survival over spectacle.

  Now I just need to actually learn how to use it without shooting myself in the foot.

  I shut the door to my rented room and immediately drew the pistol, aiming it at the far wall.

  "Pew," I whispered, squinting down the barrel at an imaginary target. "Pew pew."

  The weapon felt heavier than expected, solid walnut and steel that carried genuine weight in my palm. I swept it across the room, tracking invisible enemies with exaggerated movements.

  "Take that, you scoundrel." I mimed recoil, jerking my wrist upward. "And you too. Pew."

  This was objectively ridiculous. I knew that. A grown man playing pretend with a deadly weapon like some kid with a stick. But I couldn't help myself. The sheer novelty of holding an actual flintlock, something the game had dangled just out of reach for hundreds of hours, demanded immediate tactile exploration.

  I adopted a dramatic dueling stance, arm extended, one foot forward.

  "Pew. Headshot."

  Then switched to a two-handed grip, crouching low.

  "Covering fire! Pew pew pew!"

  The minutes slipped past as I indulged every ridiculous fantasy that crossed my mind. Spinning around to fire behind me. Diving across the bed while aiming. Dropping to one knee for a precision shot. Each accompanied by appropriate sound effects delivered with increasing enthusiasm.

  Eventually (after maybe thirty, forty minutes of this childish display) the novelty began wearing thin. The pistol grew heavier in my grip, my arm started aching, and the voice of reason finally reasserted itself.

  Alright, enough goofing around. Time to actually accomplish something productive.

  I lowered the weapon, feeling tired from all the gunfights I'd endured, even if they were only in my head. The eastern commerce district waited across the river, specifically the weapon shops that would carry quality sabers. That purchase remained essential to my build development, the foundation of everything I planned to accomplish with this character.

  But first, I needed to load the pistol properly. Carrying around an unloaded firearm defeated the entire purpose of having one.

  I set the weapon on the nightstand alongside the powderhorn and ball box, then paused, trying to recall the correct procedure. Muscle memory wouldn't help here; Roxam had never touched a firearm before today, his expertise limited entirely to bladed weapons.

  Fortunately, my gaming obsession extended beyond Path of Exemplar.

  Napoleon's Grasp. Eighteenth-century military simulator. Played it for... what, seventy hours? Eighty? Enough to memorize the loading sequence, at least.

  Granted, that had been a video game approximation of the process, simplified and streamlined for player convenience. But the fundamentals should translate to reality. Probably. Hopefully.

  Only one way to find out.

  I picked up the pistol again, this time with clinical focus rather than playful enthusiasm. First step: verify the weapon was clear. I pulled back the hammer to half-cock, checking the priming pan—empty, good—then peered down the barrel to confirm nothing obstructed the bore.

  Next came the powder charge. I unstoppered the horn, tilting it carefully over the muzzle. How much exactly? Thirty grains? Forty? The game had auto-calculated appropriate amounts based on weapon type, removing player guesswork from the equation.

  Eh. Somewhere in that range should work.

  I poured what seemed like a reasonable quantity down the barrel, the black granules disappearing into darkness. Then grabbed a lead ball from the box, dropping it into the muzzle where it settled against the powder charge.

  The ramrod slid free from its housing beneath the barrel with a metallic whisper. I inserted it carefully, pushing the ball downward with steady pressure until it seated firmly against the powder. Not too hard (didn't want to compact the charge too much) but snug enough to prevent shifting.

  Nice and secure. Good.

  Final step: priming. I poured a small amount of powder into the pan beside the flint mechanism, maybe enough to fill it halfway, then snapped the frizzen closed to protect the charge from moisture and spilling.

  Done.

  The pistol now contained everything necessary to fire: powder charge, lead ball, primer. One squeeze of the trigger would drop the hammer, strike the flint against the frizzen, create sparks that ignited the priming powder, which would flash through the touch-hole to detonate the main charge, propelling the ball out the barrel at lethal velocity.

  Simple. Elegant. Absolutely terrifying.

  I stared at the loaded weapon in my hand, suddenly aware of how catastrophically dangerous it had become. One accidental hammer drop, one careless movement, one moment of stupidity, and I'd blow a hole through something… or someone.

  Right. Where to put this thing.

  My belt seemed the obvious choice. I tucked the pistol into my waistband, angling it... hmm. Pointing forward meant the barrel aimed directly at my crotch. Pointing backward risked shooting myself in the ass. Neither option inspired confidence.

  I'll buy a proper holster later. For now, pirate-stash it is.

  I positioned the weapon as carefully as possible, then pulled my blue coat closed overtop, concealing the grip from casual observation. The hard metal pressed uncomfortably against my stomach, a constant reminder of the loaded firearm resting inches from critical anatomy.

  This is fine. Totally safe. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

  I fastened my sword belt next, the familiar weight of the blade settling against my hip. Then swung the hooded cloak around my shoulders, pulled the bandana up over my ruined face, and headed for the door.

  The tavern common room greeted me with raucous noise. The gang members I'd led against the War Lords had started celebrating in earnest, drunk on cheap ale and victory. They shouted, laughed, slammed tankards against tables with enough force to rattle the floorboards.

  I navigated through the chaos, dodging stumbling thugs and puddles of spilled alcohol, making for the exit as quickly as Roxam's dignity allowed.