The clattering of boots and armaments, six forms shadow the entrance to the building as they file in. Wide-brimmed hats on heads and bandannas covering faces they fixate on the conversing pair.

Alto audibly reacts as the first bite enters his mouth, the soft texture and slightly spicy taste of real meat luxurious enough to ascend a dive bar into a dining establishment instantaneously. Food fit for the President of the Federation or even a Northlandic king, a relative rating scheme betraying the actuality of both quality and circumstance.

“Hey! Hey you!” The grizzled voice yells. “Never seen you round here!”

The Gunslinger doesn’t react, his next, slowly portioned bite consisting mostly of synthesized nutritional supplement. Formulated solely for survival and sustenance, the bitter taste forces a frown on his face.

The voice continues. “I got two of my friends dead outside of town… you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that right?!”

The Gunslinger blinks, slowly turning to face the arrivals. Expression blank, the young man immediately gauges the encounter.

Six personnel; men and women of the banditry occupation based on their rugged, identity concealing clothing. A mixture of repeaters and revolvers, the one at the far end of their formation carrying within her hands a lethal assault rifle.

The seven bars of the Federation are inlaid atop its receiver, a confirmation of its intended usage now pilfered for more illegal activities.

“Hey, anyone in there?!” The head bandit snaps at the figure before him. “We’re talking to you!”

Old Joe slowly slinks behind the bar, the Gunslinger remaining expressionless at the verbal assault.

“You think you can just kill two of us and get away with it?! Huh?!”

From upstairs they all hear the sounds of light movement, the frame of Clee stopping at the apex of the stairs as she stops in shock. Thin paper in hand, all eyes fixate on her.

The bandit leader motions to one of his men. “Eseel, grab her.”

Large framed, the enforcer begins to ascend the staircase, Clee turning to run as the man turns back to his primary target.

Voice cracking slightly from overuse, a threat still maintained in armament. “What are you, stupid?! Answer me!”

The mute screams of a little girl bear no reaction from the Gunslinger who stares into the distance, the old man raising his voice as he watches her get roughly dragged down the staircase by her arm. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”

A massive gunshot rings out as the bandit fires a warning shot into the far wall. “Shut your mouth old man!”

Heavy revolver, .357 caliber minimum; the gang’s temporary leader’s status cemented from the raw firepower at his disposal.

Piece of paper held in the girl’s grasp, the enforcer grabs Clee by the neck as he attempts to read the thin parchment. “What’s that little girl? Give it TO ME!”

Cocking the revolver’s hammer, the man aims his loaded weapon directly at the Gunslinger. “Since you can’t talk, I’ll make this easy to understand.”

Bones break as Clee’s arm shatters under the enforcer’s clutch, form tossed aside hard into the wall as the man rips the paper from her broken grasp. Holding the newspaper clipping, the man reads the headline. Words processed, thoughts crashing and eyes wide, his rough voice barely speaks through shock. “Uh dude… ”

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“Either you’re coming with us…”

“Dude?”

“... and we’ll kill you quick and easy…”

“Dude!”

“Or I’m going to have to shoot you right here. Right in fro…”

“DUDE!”

“WHAT?!” The leader roars as he keeps his weapon pointed directly at the Wanderer.

Stuttering, words unvocalized as shaking hands grip a thin strip of newspaper. “T-t-t-t-tha-tha-...”

The leader growls after ten seconds of wordless mumbling, frustration rising from rage. “SPIT IT OUT!”

“I-I… t-t-think… ” His large frame points to the Gunslinger. “That’s… A-Alto Carrin.”

“Yeah right.” Anger turns to curiosity as the bandit turns, snatching the paper from his enforcer’s hands.

A single headline and photograph, stripped from the isles of an issue now come to pass. Form in the midst of a dusty world, a blur barely caught by machinery. Eyes staring onto a far distance, readying himself against death itself.

THE VIGIL AT CAPE WRATH, SAITO “MILLION KNIVES” SONO DEAD

Recognition before terror, the human mind is unable to comprehend the Gunslinger’s movement as his weapon’s barrel is leveled directly onto the bandit’s head. A moment to the next, the only evidence of his draw found in the form of displaced dust.

Revolver of terrifying construction, the polished silver of barrel and action meshes awkwardly with a grip of pure, divine black. A fragment of a broken god forged together with mortal construct, the weapon warping the very fabric of reality even in its fallen state.

Deeper than the darkest of nights, the gun tears raw emotion from the depths of the human soul. Like staring into the abyss of a neverending nightmare, the judgment of gods levels itself on incomprehensible mortals.

Nothing more than sand on a desert wind.

Illusion of power broken, the bandit chokes on his own words; eyes wide as he stares down the barrel of a god gun.

Behind him the bodies of comrades shake and murmur in religious horror, divinity falling into their wretched worlds.

“There are six of you.” The Gunslinger coldly speaks. “There are six chambers in this weapon.”

A string of thuds sounds across the bar as the bandits collectively drop their weapons, their leader falling to his knees as breathless tears form at the edges of eyes.

Silence echoes as the wind howls through the building.

Death incarnate, a single trigger away from a final end. Green eyes behind carved sights, lifeless in the wielding of divine power.

“There has been enough killing today.” The Gunslinger informs. “Leave.”

Words barely reach minds, the men behind their leader slowly scampering to the exit. On the ground the bandit crawls on his back, slipping through chairs and tables as the weapon’s sights follow him.

Scrambling onto his feet he attempts to breathe. “W-W-we’ll be back! And when we do the Boss’ gonna burn this entire town to the ground!!!”

Cocking the weapon, the crisp metallic sound is enough to send the man running. Without words the Gunslinger tracks his movement through the slits of windows, a confirmation of retreat in the final moments of confrontation.

There is nothing except the creaking of broken windows and the howl of the wind.

In deadly silence the form of the Gunslinger lowers his weapon, taking a quick calming sigh as he picks the bandit’s fallen revolver from the ground.

Peaking above the bar, the Old Man attempts to speak. “I-it’s really you.”

Opening the cylinder of the captured firearm, experienced eyes identify the rounds within: the legendary .357 magnum cartridge in five.

On the wall the whimpering of the injured girl carries through the deserted bar, a thin arm twisted at a sharp angle as she huddles on the cold ground.

“Is there a Leyline Tower in town?” The Gunslinger asks the Old Man.

“Yes in the town square…”

Kneeling onto the floor the man begins to sign out words to the girl. This will hurt, but I can help you. Do you trust me?

A hand moves, pain coursing through the young frame as only a single limb is able to make the half-word.

The duality of standard language born in ancient times; grave irony as the Gunslinger reads her sign, similar wording alluding to one of two meanings:

SALVATION

VENGEANCE