The Cold Eye of the Wolf

Surin sat bound to a wooden chair, his hands pinned to the armrests by two gleaming daggers. Blood trickled from his wounds, and his body seemed immobilized—yet his captors hadn't noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor. Through the earlier struggles, the ropes binding his arms had loosened slightly, leaving just enough room to pull free. He twitched his forearm experimentally, his muscles tightening as he became aware of something shocking.

"This body... it's trained." Surin thought, marveling at the strength of his limbs. His fingers were calloused in a way that suggested years of handling firearms. "No wonder this revolver feels so familiar."

A sharp slap broke his thoughts. The man with a red mohawk, whose name Surin didn't know, had just struck him hard across the face, shouting in frustration, "You little shit! Tell me what I want, or I'll gut you right here!"

Their faces were close, so close that Surin could smell the stench of his captor's breath. The man was dangerously overconfident, seemingly oblivious to the threat his captive could pose.

Surin's lips curled into a sneer. Fear had no place in his heart. The revolver was within reach, the daggers sharp enough, and his body, though hurt, was strong enough to endure the pain. The odds were shifting in his favor.

"Kill me?" A cold smile flickered across his face as he leaned back, his mind racing through possibilities. He made a decision.

In a burst of action, Surin wrenched his right hand free, the dagger cutting deep between his fingers. Blood sprayed from the wound, but the instant the blade was pulled from his flesh, he ignored the searing pain. His hand remained functional. He could still grasp, still move, still fight.

"?!"

The mohawk man stared dumbly at the blood splattering his pants, eyes widening as if his brain was catching up to the reality of the situation.

Surin's grin widened, baring his teeth. In one swift motion, his newly freed hand shot forward, yanking the silver revolver from the thug's holster. It felt right in his hand, like an extension of himself.

With a smooth, practiced motion, Surin aimed the gun at the man's chest and pulled the trigger.

"Click."

The familiar snap of a revolver's hammer hitting the primer told Surin everything he needed to know. It worked just like the revolvers from his past life.

Bang! Bang!

Two deafening gunshots echoed through the room. The bullets tore through the mohawk man's chest, leaving gaping holes in his body. Blood sprayed across the room as he slumped to the floor, dead before he hit the ground.

Surin's face was splattered with warm blood, a grotesque satisfaction settling in his mind. The revolver's power was unexpected, its kickback enough to throw him back against the chair. But the satisfaction of survival, of killing a man who had threatened him, dulled the sting of his bleeding hand.

Across the room, Gorrik, the bald, hulking brute, stood frozen in shock. His thick body, decorated with tattoos and scars, seemed to have forgotten how to move. The brute's steely gaze locked on the fresh corpse of his companion, processing the fact that the once helpless prey was now a lethal predator.

"Shit!" Gorrik's voice was guttural, raw with disbelief. His reaction wasn't slow, though. The second he saw Surin's revolver turning toward him, he raised his massive right arm, a mechanical monstrosity of brass and iron, with a steam-powered cannon mounted at the wrist.

Boom!

The cannon fired with a deafening roar, shaking the very foundations of the house. But Surin had anticipated it. He twisted his body mid-fall, using the recoil of his shot to evade the high-pressure air blast. It whistled past him, grazing the chair's leg and tearing a chunk from the floor, leaving a smoking crater in its wake.

Though Surin had avoided the direct hit, the shockwave still clipped him, shredding the chair and tearing into the flesh of his thigh. The pain was sharp and immediate, but it didn't slow him. As the chair collapsed beneath him, he rolled, gritting his teeth against the sting of torn muscles and splintered wood.

Surin's mind raced, analyzing every move, every possibility. He had mere seconds before Gorrik could reload. The mechanical arm wasn't fast—he'd noticed its sluggish response earlier. The joints were crude, and it relied too heavily on gears and pistons.

As he tumbled across the floor, his eyes caught the gleam of the revolver still in his hand. The bald man would fire again, no doubt about it. But if Gorrik tried to aim carefully, Surin would have the time he needed. One shot. That's all it would take.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Surin raised the revolver once more, the cool steel resting in his palm. His thumb cocked the hammer, and in one fluid motion, he fired.

Bang!

The gunshot rang out, and time seemed to freeze. The bullet sailed across the room, aimed straight at Gorrik's head. The muzzle flash illuminated his face for a split second—just long enough for Surin to see the fear in the brute's eyes.

It should have been a clean kill. Gorrik had no time to react, and the bullet was heading straight for his forehead. But something unexpected happened.

"What?!"

Surin's eyes widened in disbelief. The bullet struck Gorrik's skull, but instead of shattering it like a melon, it embedded itself in the man's brow, stopping dead in its tracks.

Surin's mind raced. How could it be? The revolver was powerful enough to blow through bone with ease, and yet, Gorrik's head seemed impervious. His skin was split where the bullet hit, blood trickling down his face, but his skull... it hadn't broken. It was as if the man's head was made of steel.

"Impossible," Surin muttered.

A cruel smile spread across Gorrik's face, his single eye gleaming with malice. He wiped the blood from his forehead as if it were nothing more than a scratch, then leveled his cannon at Surin once more.

"You thought you could kill me with a toy gun, boy?"

Gorrik's voice was a low growl as the whir of gears filled the room. His mechanical arm reloaded with a hiss of steam, the cannon's barrel glowing faintly as it prepared to fire.

Surin's thoughts raced. He needed a plan, fast. His leg was bleeding badly, and his right hand was throbbing, the wound from the dagger opening wider with each movement. But there was no time to think about pain now. He was out of options.

Then, he saw it. The mohawk man's dagger, still stuck in the armrest of the chair. With a desperate lunge, he grabbed the handle and yanked it free.

Gorrik grinned, aiming the cannon once more. "Time to die."

Surin didn't hesitate. He rolled to the side, just as the cannon fired. The blast tore through the floor where he'd been lying a second before. Splinters of wood flew everywhere, and smoke filled the room.

Using the momentum, Surin sprang to his feet and threw the dagger with all his strength. It wasn't a perfect throw, but it didn't have to be. The blade spun through the air and struck Gorrik's mechanical arm, jamming itself between the gears.

Gorrik roared in frustration as his arm sputtered and ground to a halt, smoke pouring from the damaged machinery. He tried to move it, but the dagger had wedged itself deep into the mechanism, rendering the arm useless.

Surin didn't waste a second. He charged forward, ignoring the pain in his leg, and tackled Gorrik to the ground. The two men tumbled across the floor, Surin landing a punch squarely to Gorrik's jaw.

But Gorrik was far from done. He swung his left fist, connecting with Surin's ribs with a sickening crack. Surin gasped, but he didn't let go. He grabbed the revolver, now wedged between them, and shoved the barrel under Gorrik's chin.

Bang!

The final shot echoed in the room, and Gorrik's body went limp.

Panting heavily, Surin rolled off the massive man and lay on the floor, his body screaming in pain. His head swam from blood loss, but he couldn't afford to pass out now. Slowly, he staggered to his feet, gripping the revolver tightly in his hand.

The room was silent except for the faint hissing of Gorrik's ruined mechanical arm. Surin limped toward the door, his vision blurring as adrenaline began to wear off.

This wasn't over. He knew more dangers lay ahead, more enemies to face. But for now, he had survived.

And in this world of steam and steel, survival was all that mattered.