Chapter 2: Birth of Black Dust

The night hung heavy over Blackthorn Crossing, with the last vestiges of the sun's warmth fading behind the jagged peaks of the Bloodfang Range.

It wasn't long before the wind kicked up, swirling dust and sand in the air, whispering secrets from the horizon. But Bastian and Barok weren't listening to the wind. They were listening to the sound of hooves.

The two of them were several miles out of town, cutting across the rough terrain just beyond the settlement, their horses pounding through the dry dirt like thunderclaps. Bastian's grin was wide—genuine, if a bit reckless—but even he couldn't ignore the mounting tension between them.

Barok's jaw was set tight, his eyes scanning the landscape, always looking over his shoulder, always thinking three steps ahead.

They hadn't even made it out of the town's outskirts before they could hear the distant echo of hooves chasing after them. Not the kind of hooves that belonged to an ordinary cowboy.

"No way we're outrunning him, not on these horses," Bastian said, glancing over at Barok. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it now. This wasn't just a fight for their lives. It was a fight they weren't sure they could win.

Barok didn't respond immediately, his mind already calculating the best course of action. The man on their trail wasn't just any bounty hunter. He was something else—something dangerous. Something that made the hair on Barok's neck stand on end.

When the sound of the hooves grew closer, Barok's eyes narrowed. "You remember what I said about Blackthorn Crossing, Bastian? That place is swarming with trouble. That sheriff wasn't just a man—he was something else entirely."

Bastian didn't need to ask what Barok meant. He already knew. "Gunmancer."

A sharp gust of wind swirled around them, dust and sand churning in the air as the echo of hooves grew louder. A figure appeared on the horizon, riding hard and fast, his silhouette jagged against the dimming sky. His horse's hooves barely touched the ground as it tore across the desert, glowing faintly as if the very magic of the land had charged it.

At the center of the rider's figure was a rifle strapped to his back and a revolver holstered at his side. But there was something unmistakable about him—something that made Bastian's easy grin fade into something more cautious.

The rider's gun wasn't just a weapon. It was somehow a representation of his will. It glowed faintly with an ethereal light, pulsating with an energy that felt almost alive. As the man drew closer, Bastian could feel the strange pull of it, like the gun was calling to him.

The man lifted his hand, slowly and methodically.

"You can run, but you can't hide bastards," the voice rang out, low and gravelly, carried across the desert with eerie precision. The rider's eyes glowed bright under the brim of his hat, a faint, unnatural light emanating from them. "You've been causing trouble in my town, and trouble always has a way of coming back to bite."

Barok didn't flinch. But his mind was already working, pulling at the strands of information he had about this kind of enemy. A gunmancer. One of the dangerous types of gunslingers in the Wild West.

The first gunmancers were said to have come from the ancient marshlands, born from the union of magic and steel. They could infuse their weapons with mana, turning any ordinary revolver or rifle into a weapon of devastating power.

The most dangerous part? It wasn't just about hitting your target—it was about manipulating the bullet in mid-flight, bending it to your will, guiding it like a snake toward its prey.

"Barok," Bastian said in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the advancing rider. "We need to get to higher ground, break the line of sight. He's not just after money—he's hunting us."

Barok nodded, quick and silent. "Split up. I'll draw him to me, and you head for the rocks. Now."

Bastian didn't argue. He kicked his horse forward, spurring it toward a nearby outcrop of jagged rocks, while Barok veered off to the right, toward the open plain.

The gunmancer—Sheriff, as they would come to know him—gave a dry laugh. "You think you can outrun me?"

Barok didn't answer. He wasn't running—he was buying time. He spun his horse around and lifted his hand, subtly shaping a trap in the terrain with his mind, adjusting the path of his escape to ensure Sheriff's pursuit would be as difficult as possible.

The Sheriff's gun flashed like lightning, a low hum accompanying the shot. The bullet seemed to pause in the air, as if suspended by an invisible force. Barok's horse reared back just in time, the shot missing by inches. The Sheriff's revolver pulsed with a bright red light, and the bullet snapped backward, now aimed directly at Barok.

Barok spun his horse sharply, pulling it in a tight circle, but the bullet seemed to follow, cutting through the air like a razor.

That was when Bastian's voice rang out. "Now!"

Barok kicked his horse forward just as the bullet grazed past, a mere whisper away from its target. The pair of them charged toward a ridge of rocks, Barok's thoughts racing with calculations. He glanced behind him and saw the Sheriff still closing in, but not quickly enough. The magic-infused bullet couldn't follow him into the rough terrain.

But as they reached the rocky outcropping, something changed. A flash of light erupted from the Warden's gun, and suddenly, Barok felt the ground beneath him shift. A ripple of power coursed through the earth, and the very rocks themselves seemed to shift, pulling toward the Warden's gun like iron filings to a magnet.

Barok's mind raced. Gunmancy was dangerous for one simple reason: it couldn't just be outsmarted or outrun. It bent reality itself. The bullets didn't just track their targets—they were guided by the will of the gunmancer, often manipulated in ways that defied the normal laws of physics.

That's when Barok realized: they weren't just fighting a man—they were fighting an extension of the land's magic itself

.

He glanced over at Bastian, who had already pulled a stack of cards from his coat and was flipping through them with a grin.

"What are you doing?" Barok asked, but he couldn't keep the edge from his voice. The Warden was closing in, and time was running out.

Bastian's smile never faltered. "Getting creative," he replied, flicking his fingers to the cards. "You're not the only one with tricks up your sleeve, Barok."

With a snap of his fingers, Bastian flung a card into the air, and in an instant, it was surrounded by an almost imperceptible glow. It wasn't a typical card trick—this was something else entirely.

A burst of arcane energy shot from the card, crackling like lightning, and slammed into the ground between them. The ground itself rumbled, sending shockwaves through the earth, just enough to throw the Sheriff off balance for a split second.

Bastian's eyes glinted with the same quick wit that had gotten him out of countless jams before. "Thought I might try my hand at a little gunmancy myself, if the situation's right."

Barok raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with a rare, fleeting smile. "Don't tell me… you've learned it?"

Bastian shrugged, his eyes now calculating. "Guess we'll see."

The Sheriff hesitated for just a moment—long enough for Barok to spring into action. Barok's hand snapped to his holster, drawing his revolver in a blur. But this time, when he fired, the bullet wasn't just fired at a target—it flew in a curved arc, bending through the air as if guided by a force outside of Barok's control.

The Sheriff's eyes widened, shock and confusion crossing his face as the bullet skimmed past him, the magic in the air warping it just enough to graze his arm.

And then, in a fluid motion, Bastian threw another card, this one flashing a brilliant blue, and a second shot rang out—this time, from his own gun.

But unlike Barok's more calculated shot, Bastian's bullet seemed to warp around the Sheriff, grazing his leg before embedding itself in a nearby rock.

The Sheriff was momentarily stunned, and that was enough for Barok to take the shot he'd been waiting for.

The gunmancer's horse, spooked and thrown off balance by the magic, stumbled and fell. The Sheriff scrambled, but Barok and Bastian were already moving.

As the two of them fled into the night, Barok finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, his mind racing with the implications of what had just happened.

Bastian slapped him on the back with a grin. "I told you, didn't I? We make a hell of a team."

Barok didn't respond at first, still processing the idea that they had both just unlocked gunmancy—something that shouldn't have been possible for men like them. He glanced at Bastian, who looked more like a devil-may-care gambler than a man who could manipulate magic with the flick of a finger.

"Guess we're more alike than we thought," Barok muttered, his voice filled with reluctant admiration.

Bastian's grin only widened. He threw an arm around Barok's shoulders as they rode into the night, the horizon stretching ahead of them, full of endless possibilities.

"You know," Bastian said with a smirk, "we should have a name. For us. For this ragtag team we've got going."

Barok raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

Bastian pointed to the horizon, his eyes gleaming with unspoken plans. "Black Dust," he said, his voice filled with promise. "A team of outlaws, of freedom, and damn good shots."

Barok chuckled, shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

"You will," Bastian said, his smirk widening. "Because you're stuck with me, Brother. Always have been."

And with that, the two of them rode into the desert night, their future uncertain, but full of wild possibilities.