Chapter 1: The Beginning Chronicles of Two Men

The sun hung low in the sky over the Red Desert, its scorching heat giving way to the first cool gusts of evening wind. The sands, as wide and barren as the empty promises the land had to offer, stretched into infinity. 

This was the West—the frontier of survival, lawlessness, and broken dreams. It was a place where the sharp cracks of a revolver spoke louder than the law, and the only currency more valuable than gold was a man's word.

But for two young men, Barok Graves and Bastian Marrow, the world was still a place to shape, to conquer, and to forge a future free of chains.

Barok and Bastian were just boys—brothers, by bond—growing up on the wrong side of a world that demanded you either fight or die.

When they were kids, Barok and Bastian had been inseparable. They had grown up fending for themselves, just the two of them in the wilderness after their orphanage was claimed by the unforgiving land.

Orphaned by the harshness of the world, they found solace in each other. Barok, the older of the two, was the calm, the voice of reason, even at that age. 

He would guide Bastian, protecting him from the dangers that swirled like dust storms on the horizon. But Bastian—Bastian had fire. He was the one who ran

into the storm, daring anyone to try to stop him.

He was wild, charimastic, but he loved his brother fiercely—his family, the only thing he truly cared about.

They had fought for scraps of food, for a place to sleep, for each other's backs.

They had defended each other from rival gangs, and when their fists couldn't land hard enough, they had drawn their old revolvers together; stolen from random gunmans that Bastian swindered through his silver-tongue and Barok by setting the event, always as a team. 

Their connection was as unbreakable as the steel of their revolvers. And even then, when they were just kids running wild in the desert, they dreamed of something more—of being free, of creating a legacy that would endure even when the world seemed set against them.

———~

In the frontier West, the era of 1874 Newsis, the sun had nearly sunk beneath the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows across the dusty streets of Blackthorn Crossing.

The town was quiet for the most part, save for the occasional clink of metal against stone, the low murmur of voices from behind closed shutters, and the distant howls of coyotes that had begun their nightly serenade. But there was one place where the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife: 

The Rusty Spur Saloon.

It was an old, weathered building, a sanctuary for those who needed to forget their past, escape their future, or simply drown their present. 

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, the low hum of conversation barely audible over the rattle of dice and the shuffle of cards. At the far end of the room, beneath the flickering light of an oil lantern, sat a man who seemed to have forgotten the meaning of limits.

Bastian Marrow leaned back in his chair, his boots kicked up on the table, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over the roguish grin that stretched across his face.

He had a way of looking at the world—as if he knew something everyone else didn't, and that made it all the more amusing. 

His fingers moved like a snake's tail, quick and fluid, tossing a deck of cards between them, the edges of the cards worn smooth from countless games.

A pile of silver and gold coins sat in front of him, growing higher with every round.

Across the table, a wiry man in a tattered coat scowled, his fingers twitching nervously around his own hand of cards.

Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his eyes darted to the pot—easily ten times the amount he'd started with.

"This ain't no fair game," the man muttered, looking around as though expecting someone to step in and stop the game. "You've been at it all night, Marrow. Nobody's got luck like you."

Bastian chuckled, tossing a few more coins into the pot, his eyes flashing with amusement. "Luck's got nothing to do with it, my friend. You see, I don't rely on luck. I rely on knowing when to play my hand... and when to fold yours."

The man's face flushed, and he hesitated, clearly unsure whether he should call or run. His mouth opened to say something, but before he could speak, the door to the saloon swung open with a creak. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, the last rays of the sun spilling around him like a halo.

Barok Graves stepped inside, his dark eyes immediately scanning the room. He was a man who didn't speak much—he didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to quiet a room, even in the roughest of places. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered coat and a scarf tied around his neck, Barok looked more like a man who'd come to enforce the law than to make a wager.

His gaze locked on Bastian almost immediately, his jaw tightening.

Bastian didn't even need to look up. He could feel the shift in the air, the way the room seemed to quiet just a little more when Barok entered. He didn't know how his old friend always managed to track him down, but Barok always found him.

And tonight, he knew there was trouble in the air—just like always.

"Barok," Bastian said casually, not bothering to look up from his cards. "You've been following me again, haven't you?"

Barok made his way to the bar, his boots thudding softly against the creaky wooden floor, his gray pale eyes never leaving his friend. "You always make it easy, Bastian. I could hear your voice from three streets over." He didn't sit.

Instead, he rested a hand on the back of a nearby chair and nodded toward the table where Bastian was playing. "How are you spending your evenings now? Gambling with fools who don't know better?"

Bastian shot him a look, flashing that trademark grin. "They know better, Barok.

They just don't care. They come here to lose, and I'm just the man with the cards to help them do it." He dealt another hand, flicking the cards with a practiced motion. 

"Besides, they never seem to mind the money. And the company... Well, I make that entertaining."

Barok's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile—if he'd ever been the type to smile. He turned toward the bar and ordered a whiskey, keeping one eye on Bastian and the other on the room, what a strategist. 

He knew his friend too well. There was more going on here than just a simple game of cards, but Barok wasn't going to pry until the moment came.

Bastian would come to him when he was ready to talk, well if he was genuinely ready to talk.

As Barok leaned against the bar, the air seemed to thicken. A few of the men at the tables glanced nervously at him before lowering their heads. They all knew who Barok was—the man who rarely spoke, but when he did, it was with authority.

Some said he had a past that could send chills down a man's spine. Others just said he was the type of man you didn't mess with.

The game at Bastian's table continued, but it was clear the tension had shifted.

The man across from Bastian, his nervous energy now replaced with thinly veiled hostility, slammed his cards onto the table. "You cheatin', Marrow!" he spat, standing up so quickly that his chair crashed to the floor.

Bastian raised an eyebrow, still unbothered. "Cheatin'? My friend, if you think I'm cheating, then you don't know how to play the game." He leaned back, hands still casually resting on his cards. "Now, if you want to throw a tantrum, by all means. But I'd prefer you leave your temper at the door."

Barok's eyes sharpened as the confrontation unfolded. He didn't need to hear the words to know what was coming next. He didn't want to see Bastian get into trouble—not again. Not tonight.

Before the man could make a move, a loud crack echoed through the room as another man—drunker, and clearly looking for a fight—lunged toward Bastian, drawing his gun. A flash of metal. The soft click of a trigger.

Without a moment's hesitation, Barok's hand was on his own revolver. He moved in an instant, faster than most could blink, disarming the man with a single fluid motion and knocking him to the ground in one swift strike.

The room fell silent.

"Barok…" Bastian muttered, not even looking up as he placed his cards neatly on the table. "I didn't need your help."

"Yeah, you did," Barok replied, his voice cold and level. He didn't take his eyes off the fallen man. "But we don't have time for this, Bastian."

Bastian finally looked up, that roguish grin still plastered across his face, though now there was a glint of realization in his eyes. "Always so serious, aren't you? Fine. I guess we've made enough noise for the night." 

He stood slowly, gathering his winnings and tucking the money into his coat with a practiced ease. "But if you're worried about me getting caught, don't be. I've got this all figured out."

Barok didn't respond. He stepped toward the door, his gaze fixed on the street outside. "Get your things. We're leaving. Now."

Bastian hesitated, a moment of playfulness lingering on his face. "You always do this," he said, but his grin faltered. There was something in Barok's eyes—a rare mix of concern and urgency—that made him pause. Slowly, Bastian tucked his winnings deeper into his coat and followed his old friend outside.

The cold night air hit them like a slap in the face. Barok's hand was already on his holstered gun, eyes scanning the street. The town was quiet for now, but Bastian could feel the heat rising—the kind of heat that came before a storm.

"Things are getting tighter in this town," Barok muttered, not looking at Bastian. "And I'm not sticking around to see how this plays out."

Bastian raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was the one who didn't care about trouble." He slapped Barok on the back, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Alright, alright. Let's go then, Brother. I guess there's no beating you at your own game."

As they walked toward the edge of town, the Rusty Spur Saloon stood behind them, its windows dimmed now, the game of cards and chance continuing inside.

But for Barok and Bastian, their stakes were always higher. The game had just begun, and it would be a long road before either of them could call it quits.