Swift rubbed his eyes, “The Commander?”

  “Yes. Said it was important.”

  No explanation. No urgency, either.

  “...Alright,” Swift said, and closed the door.

  Ten minutes later, freshly dressed and still confused, he stepped into the headquarters building—a place he hadn’t been in since the first day of class.

  The commander was seated at his desk when Swift arrived in the commander’s office. The same Gun Master from graduation. Broad-shouldered. Thick beard. Imposing posture, but with eyes reading more bored than hostile. Just like during the speech weeks ago.

  “Gunfighter Swift,” he said without standing. “Congratulations.”

  Swift stood straight, uncertain. “Sir?”

  “You’re a Marksman now. Two dots. A real one. Most don’t make it that far in two years. You’ve done it in what? Four months?”

  “Roughly, sir.”

  The commander gave a vaguely approving grunt.

  “I’m glad you're here,” he said. “Wanted to ask you a favor.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow.

  “Before you leave on your Ascension Trial,” the commander continued.

  Swift didn’t move.

  “Your instructors speak highly of you. You’ve made a real impact with the new recruits. I want a training manual. Everything you’ve taught them. Tactics, safety, mechanics—especially mechanics. We don’t get many firearms experts with a knack for teaching.”

  Swift nodded slowly, masking the confusion building inside him.

  “Of course. I’ll get it done.”

  The commander waved him off, already moving to another document.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Good man. Dismissed.”

  Swift left the office, walked out into the courtyard, and stood there for a long moment.

  Ascension Trial?

  What trial?

  Nobody had told him anything. He hadn’t signed up for anything. There had been no formal contract, no briefing, no guild correspondence.

  But now he was apparently leaving “within the week.”

  And the only people who would know... worked at the Mercenary Guild.

  In the morning, the guild hall had life like a concert venue —mercenaries arguing pay rates, clerks fetching contracts, guild staff trying to organize mission rosters. Swift moved through it all like a man on a mission, until he reached the front desk where the grumpy clerk usually sat.

  Sure enough, there he was.

  A man built like a loaf of bread stuffed into a sleeveless vest, scribbling onto a piece of parchment with clear disdain for the world.

  “I need to know why the military commander thinks I’m leaving on an Ascension Trial,” Swift said, tone flat.

  The clerk didn’t look up.

  “Oh yeah,” he muttered. “That’s about right.”

  Swift frowned. “I didn’t sign anything.”

  “You don’t have to,” the clerk said, still writing. “You’re a two-dot now. New rules kick in.”

  “New rules?”

  The man sighed, dropped the quill, and finally looked up with the dead eyes of a man who’d had this conversation far too often.

  “Marksman status. As of, what—last week? Anyway, per guild regulation, all newly promoted two-dot mercenaries must complete a mid- or long-range field contract within one cycle to validate the rank.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

  “Since always,” the man replied with a shrug. “You didn’t read your guild orientation packet?”

  “I didn’t get one.”

  “Well, that’s your problem.”

  Swift crossed his arms. “And if I don’t take one of these contracts?”

  “Then you get put on a temporary suspension,” the clerk said, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a stamped form. “No missions. No pay. And your ‘Marksman’ status goes into stasis until you fulfill the requirement.”

  “Any exceptions?”

  The clerk looked at him. “You are the exception. Most people get sent into the wilds. You get a supply escort.”

  Swift paused. “To the capital?”

  “Yep. Easy trip. Standard caravan escort. Four wagons, some hired help, couple of other gunfighters. You leave in three days. If you do a round trip, it’s about two months.”

  Two months.

  Swift stared at the floor for a beat, weighing every angle. He couldn’t refuse if he wanted to remain in the guild. The military wasn’t an option. The Church? Absolutely not. And going solo meant dropping off the grid completely.

  Is hermit a valid lifestyle? No. No, it’s not.

  The clerk leaned forward.

  “Look. You don’t have a choice if you want to keep your freedom. Just do the job, come back, and you’re golden.”

  Swift nodded once.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Good,” the man said, grabbing the form and stamping it twice. “Three days. Prep well. Don’t die.”

  Swift didn’t waste time. He stepped out of the guild and jogged straight back to the barracks. He had three days to write a proper training manual, finish his helmet blessing in secret, and prepare for a journey across corrupted lands.

  No pressure.