In the days before the End, the Old Ones spoke of highways as arteries, carrying the lifeblood of commerce and connection across vast distances. Now, these cracked and grit-covered ribbons are more akin to scars upon the land, remnants of a world long past.

Yet, it is often upon these very scars that we find our path forward. For in this new world, to remain static is to invite death. We must move, must seek, must discover. Some chase rumors of sanctuary, others pursue fragments of the old world's knowledge. A few seek nothing more than the next meal, the next safe haven.

But all who walk these broken roads share one thing: hope. Hope that over the next hill, around the next bend, there lies something better. Something worth the dust in our lungs and the grit beneath our feet.

In my travels, I have found that it is not the destination that defines us, but the journey itself. For in the crucible of the road, alliances are forged, secrets are unveiled, and the true nature of a person is revealed.

The Old Ones had a saying: "Not all who wander are lost." In these times, I would argue that it is only through wandering that we can truly find ourselves.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

The sun had barely crested the horizon when November, Scout, and the Librarian prepared to depart Haven. As they cleared the town's perimeter, Scout's excitement was palpable. "We're really doing this!" she exclaimed, her hands drumming a staccato beat on the steering wheel.

November's eyes never stopped scanning the horizon. "Keep your voice down," she warned. "Sound carries far in the open."

The Librarian nodded in agreement. "Indeed. The grit has a way of... amplifying things. Both the mundane and the mysterious."

They traveled in silence for a while, the only sounds the rumble of Win's engine and the crunch of grit beneath its wheels. The landscape was a sea of red, broken only by the occasional jutting remnant of the old world - a rusted signpost here, a crumbling wall there.

As the morning wore on, the terrain began to change. The endless dunes gave way to more solid ground, and in the distance, a dark line began to emerge from the red haze.

"There," the Librarian said, pointing. "The High Way."

Scout squinted. "It doesn't look very high to me."

"It's what the Old Ones called a highway," the Librarian explained. "A road for fast travel between distant places. This one's been half-buried by grit for years, but it's still the safest and quickest route north."

As they drew closer, the true scale of the High Way became apparent. It was a massive ribbon of cracked concrete, rising out of the grit like the spine of some enormous beast.

November leaned forward, her keen eyes picking out details. "There are vehicles up there. Old ones, stuck in the grit."

The Librarian nodded. "Yes, remnants of the Exodus. When the grit first fell, many tried to flee. Not all made it."

Scout guided Win up a grit-slope to the edge of the High Way. As they crested the rise, the full expanse of the ancient road stretched out before them, disappearing into the hazy distance.

"Well," Scout said, a mix of awe and determination in her voice, "I guess this is our road now."

November settled back in her seat, rifle across her lap. "Just keep your eyes open. We're not the only ones who use the High Way."

As Win began to roll forward along the broken concrete, the Librarian pulled out a small, worn book. "Perhaps," he said, "this would be a good time for a story about the Old Ones and their roads."

Scout grinned. "Now you're talking!"

And so, as they embarked on their journey, the Librarian's voice rose and fell, weaving tales of a world long past, while the endless red horizon stretched out before them, full of promise and peril.

****

Win made good time on the High Way, which made sense, November supposed. This was the sort of road it had been built for. She had tried to doze, but the unnervingly smooth ride, with no bumps or jostles to give it rhythm, made that impossible.

Instead, she leafed slowly through what the Librarian had called a “classic spy thriller”. She had already forgotten the cover - something about diamonds. It was interesting to read how the Old Ones lived, all the luxuries they took for granted. A number of scenes revolved around some kind of hostel called a hotel, but every guest had a room and bed to themselves, and could request food to be brought to them without paying the bullets upfront. November couldn’t imagine such space, or that the owner could ever be so trusting.

Unfortunately, there were also gunfights. These she found irritatingly short on detail, with no specifics on ranging or firing positions. The author didn’t even think to mention when his characters reloaded or what their ammo count was - basic firearm discipline was sorely lacking. November had heard too many stories from the Old Man of soldiers caught exposed when their guns ran dry, and learned the importance of keeping behind cover. Ten percent of a battle is shooting the targets, the Old Man reminded her. Ninety percent is not getting shot. If you miss your target, you can always take another shot. If you stick your head out too far and get it blown off, no one is going to give you another head.

The Librarian asked how she was enjoying the book, so she lied, which seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

Scout had been unusually quiet, which was probably a bad sign, so November twisted her head around to get a view of the driver’s seat. In fact, Scout was hunched forwards over the steering wheel, her face practically pressing against the glass of Win’s front windows. “I think…I think there’s someone up there,” she said uncertainly.

November was at the passenger’s seat without conscious thought. “You remember I have a scope, yes?”

“Um, obviously not,” Scout said guiltily

“Slow down,” November ordered, bringing the rifle to her shoulder. There was a figure up ahead. Single rider, headed in the opposite direction to them, back towards Haven. Wide-brimmed hat and some kind of cloak she had never seen before and - she adjusted the scope - two weapons. Revolvers, one on each hip.

His horse looked well-cared for, and she hoped it wasn’t going to be necessary to shoot it. It was always best to shoot the horses first. Easier targets, and half the time, the rider would be crushed under their weight.

“Turn off the engine and keep coasting forward,” she instructed. “Count to ten and then brake to a halt. Then hit the floor. ”

As Scout cut the engine, November eased open the passenger door, waited for Win to slow and then dropped smoothly onto the High Way. A slight stumble, but she kept her legs under her and kept running, using the vehicle as moving cover to keep a barrier between her and the rider.

As Win came to a gentle stop, she flattened herself against its back and took a quick glance around the corner. No one’s going to give you another one, the Old Man reminded her.

The rider had come to a halt, and yes, his one hand was at his belt. She leaned out again more slowly, dialing him in with the scope. The range was definitely in her favor, but a handgun could still tag her, especially if he pulled the second one and just pumped lead in her direction.

The rider drew his own weapon, but slowly, almost lazily. Then he tilted it in his hand and lifted it. November tensed, but instead of drawing a bead on her, he continued the arc of the revolver until it was pointed vertically and touched the barrel to his hat, then swung it out horizontally to his right, pointed nowhere near her. Despite the slowness of his motion, there was a curious grace to it.

“Wait!” yelled the Librarian suddenly from Win. The unexpected sound nearly made November fire on reflex. “Don’t shoot! He’s a Brother of the Eastern Wood, a gun-saint! He could have killed us all five times over by now!”

The ‘gun-saint’ tipped his hat. “Hail, Brother. I see your key. You are far from the Glass Castle.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Yes,” called the Librarian, dismounting from Win and incidentally blocking November’s firing line. She put up her rifle. If this ‘gun-saint’ had meant them harm, he could have gunned the oblivious Librarian down, or more practically, put one in his leg, leaving Scout and November with the decision of watching him bleed out or breaking cover to rescue him. That’s how she would have done it. She certainly wouldn’t have wasted valuable seconds waving her gun around in a pretty pattern in the air. ‘Gun-saint’, indeed.

By now, Scout was out of the Winnebago as well, so November reluctantly left cover. As she moved closer, she heard the familiar clicking of Rattler shifting targets, and belatedly realized the auto-turret AI probably could have handled the whole situation without her intervention.

Even a smart gun is just a tool, said the Old Man. Relying on smart weapons too much makes you stupid. Like how people stopped being real pilots and used drones, and then when the drones got hacked they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

The imagined monologue made her feel a little better.

“I am called Josiah,” said the rider.

****

Josiah produced some cured meat and cheese to add to their supplies and they settled comfortably in Win to eat it. Scout was glad that the Librarian and November were getting more settled in the Winnebago, it made it feel more like a home.

“So,” she said, chewing noisily. “You’re a member of an order like his. And they talk to each other, but they’re not all the same.”

“Yes,” said Josiah, who’d removed his hat to reveal smooth, almost delicate features. “Sometimes, the Librarians need protection on the road and we will aid them. And in turn we get to use the great library to study the weapons and warriors of past, and perfect our art.” He wore a single bullet on a chain around his neck, much like the Librarian’s key.

“Your art,” said November dourly. “Which is shooting people.” Scout wasn’t sure what was up with her, she seemed to be in a bad mood, even after Scout had made sure she got the largest piece of cheese.

“That’s…an over-simplification,” said Josiah. “We seek to master the gun, yes. But I would be a happy man if I never drew against a living target again. It is enough to learn the forms and practice them.”

“Like that big wave you did with your gun,” November said.

Josiah smiled. “Yes, the warrior’s salute. In olden days, people would offer a salute to a potential opponent with their sword before a duel, as a mark of respect.”

The Librarian nodded eagerly. “Yes, I’ve read of such things. Particularly if the duel was between equals to settle a dispute. Sometimes they would only fight to first blood and then consider the issue resolved. A much more civilized form of conflict resolution than any those out here follow, I’m afraid.”

November’s brow crinkled with distaste. “But we’re not using swords. I could have shot you dead and your gun was never in a decent firing position.”

The Librarian looked embarrassed but Josiah’s smile only deepened. “My right gun, no. My left, I had drawn and aimed at you while you were following my salute. If you had opened fire, I would have known you had no honor and fired in return.”

November’s face went momentarily slack and then she flushed red with embarrassment. “Psy-Ops tricks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mind games, to put your opponent off-balance.”

Josiah bowed his head. “We believe that a battle is fought as much in the mind as with the gun. And that there are many old lessons to be learnt from even those who fought before the rise of firearms. Everything is a weapon, and everything is war.”

November looked like he slapped her across the face. “What did you say?”

“It is one of our tenets. Studying old philosophies of battle is one of the reasons we visit the Glass Castle.”

“I have to get some air,” November said suddenly.

****

Her cheeks still flushed, November stalked away from Win. So he had her in his sights the whole time, did he? And to hear the Old Man’s words come out of his mouth like that had stung her to the core. Had the Old Man known about gun-saints? Why hadn’t he taught them - her- any of this warrior’s code stuff, if it was so important?

Careful, warned the Old Man. A wound to your pride can kill faster than a wound to your flesh.

“November!” Scout called after her. Perfect.

November didn’t turn around. “I’m busy!”

“Staring at the dark?” Scout said doubtfully.

“I…thought I saw a Duster,” November muttered.

Scout checked a small device in her hand. “Nope! Rattler’s motion sensors say we’re all good for a hundred meters in every direction!” she added cheerfully.

Great. Even the machine was more useful. At this rate, the Librarian might suddenly show undiscovered hunting talent.

Scout stopped next to her. “So Josiah’s pretty cool, huh?”

November scanned the distance for any Dusters that might be one-hundred-and-one meters away.

Scout, being Scout, failed to take the hint. “I asked if maybe he’d like to join us, but he has to head back to Haven to re-supply, and then head out again. He’s on a quest!” she said in deeply impressed tones.

“A quest?” Of course. The great gun-saint couldn’t just be hunting Dusters or escorting a Librarian, like a normal person.

“Yeah, I was going to ask for more details, but then he and the Librarian started swapping stories about more books from the Glass Castle, and I thought it would be rude to die of boredom right where they could see me.”

November snorted.

Scout bumped her shoulder gently. “November?”

“What?”

The other girl smiled shyly. “I’m sure you could have taken him.”

“Thanks,” November said, surprisingly touched.

“Wanna head back? There’s more of that yummy cheese…”

November allowed temptation to lead her back to the Winnebago. Anything that wasn’t cured Duster meat still had a pleasing novelty.

****

There are different tones to gunfire. The panicked spatter of reaction fire, the measured boom of a sniper at work, the sharp bursts of someone clearing a target zone. So November wasn’t startled awake by the measured bangs of target practice. One of the family was clearly up early, training to impress the Old Man. Her bunk was especially comfy this morning…

The sleep haze left her and she blinked in confusion, staring at Win’s ceiling. There was another shot.

“Morning,” smiled the Librarian. “One of the pains of travelling with a gun-saint. He’s been out at it for a few minutes, on and off. I don’t know how she’s still asleep.” He jerked his head at Scout, curled up in the driver’s seat, her snores rivaling the gunfire.

“Morning,” muttered November, dragging the blanket around her. But curiosity got the better of her, and she emerged from the vehicle to see Josiah staring intently at a row of ration cans.

His guns seemed to leap from their holsters into his hands of their own volition. They spoke as one and two cans leapt into the air. The guns were already back in their holsters.

“Good morning,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”

November blinked, surprised. “Uh, thanks, but they’re a little close for my rifle.”

“Please, use one of mine.” His eyes still fixed on the cans like they’d spoken ill of his mother, he pulled his right-hand gun from its holster and proffered it.

Surprise deepened to astonishment. Most people were decidedly cautious about handing over their weapons. Besides sentimentality, and the obvious risk of getting shot with your own gun, you could never be sure if someone wasn’t about to foul their workings with grit-stained hands. To just offer what was clearly one of his most-treasured possessions to a near stranger, so automatically - well, there was no turning that down.

She felt an unaccustomed nervousness as she reached out and took the shining revolver, feeling the textured wood of the grip. Josiah inclined his head and stepped back from the targets to give her a clean sightline. It was something of a relief to be around someone who respected basic firearm discipline again.

She shifted into a combat stance, the revolver held with both hands, angled slightly, her elbows bent. The family mainly used semi-automatics and she hadn’t used anything but her rifle for months, so the weapon felt strange and off-balance, but she slowed her breath and paused for a moment, then fired six crisp rounds. Six cans leapt, one after the other, and Josiah made an approving sound.

“Ah. The Center Axis Relock stance. Good for close-combat and rapid 360-degree target acquisition. An excellent counterpoint to your rifle, I imagine.”

November blinked again. She knew that most people just pointed a gun like a finger and fired, and she’d never doubted that the Old Man’s way was better, but she have never expected it to have a name.

“I must say, I expected the Weaver, but the CAR is a refined choice. You’ve had fine training,” Josiah continued, the hint of a question in his voice.

November’s defenses came down automatically. “So what’s this about a quest?” she countered.

Josiah did not press the matter, holding out his hand for her to return the gun. Behind her, the Librarian and Scout emerged blinking into the early light. “Yeah, tell us!” said Scout curiously.

Josiah nodded. “Of course. I seek the Man Who Walks on Air.”

“Excuse me?” said Scout.

“I should explain. Have you heard of the town of Four Fields?”

“Yes,” said the Librarian, ”it’s up north of us - we’ll probably pass it in the next day or so.”

Josiah’s face turned grim. “I would detour around. Nothing lives there now.”

“Oh dear,” murmured the Librarian. “Duster swarm?”

“Yes, and no. I happened upon it after the attack and put down those who had risen, but there were a couple of survivors, badly afflicted with grit-fever. I had to give them the Lead Mercy as well, but before they turned, they spoke of the attack, a horde of Dusters led by a normal man, except that he walked in the air above the horde, held aloft the grit itself.”

His face hardened. “Had only one of them told me the story, I would have put it down to grit-fever, but all the survivors told it the same. Four Fields was a good place. Its people deserve justice. I do not know what devilry this man practices or how he directed a Duster attack, but I have taken the Oath of One Bullet to the Gunpowder Gods that I will find him and bring him to justice.”

“Oh my!” said the Librarian. “The Oath of One Bullet - I had thought that practice had passed from use, even among the gun-saints!”

Josiah shook his head. “A few of us still follow the old ways.” His hand went to the chain around his neck. “And Four Farms demands the highest commitment.”

“What exactly is the ‘Oath of One Bullet’?” asked November, impressed despite herself by the reverence with which both men spoke.

Josiah bowed his head. “When a Brother of the Order of the Eastern Wood is absolutely certain a man must die. He picks a bullet. Each night he meditates on it and on the man he must kill. When he finds the man, he must kill him with that bullet with a single shot. If his meditation is focused and his heart is pure, then he will succeed.”

“And what happens if he misses?” November asked, ever-practical. “Or never finds the guy?”

The Librarian swallowed. “Then, he uses a bullet on himself, in penance for his failure. It is a way of showing absolute commitment to your goal. Long ago, there was a great explorer who arrived in a foreign land, and burnt his own ships so that there was no way home. He wanted his men to know their only options were victory or death.”

“Just so,” said the gun-saint quietly. He drew his weapons and they spoke as one again. Two more cans leapt into the air, and in the silence that echoed afterwards, it seemed no one could find a thing to say.