Chapter 5: The Avalanche Gambit

The room had gone unnervingly quiet after Barok's sharp warning. Everyone in the saloon seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the situation to escalate. The tension was palpable—like the moment just before a storm breaks. But it didn't.

Not yet.

Jack Rust leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with something cold and calculating, a spark of curiosity flickering in his steely gaze. The revolver's barrel rested on the table between them, but there was no hostility in his posture. Not yet.

"Seems like you two aren't just passing through," Rust said, his voice gravelly but tinged with a surprising amusement. "Most folks come here to end up in the dirt, but you've got something different. Something more."

His fingers drummed lightly on the table, then he gestured toward Barok. "You've got the look of a strategist. A thinker. And you..." His eyes turned to Bastian, who was still effortlessly shuffling his deck of cards, "You're no ordinary gambler. I've seen men like you before. Never trust 'em, but always respect the skill."

Bastian smirked. "You flatter me, Rust. But I'll take it. I do like to think I've got a good hand." He paused, eyes glinting with mischief. "But I'm not here for compliments. What's your game?"

Rust leaned back in his chair, looking from Barok to Bastian, then down at the cards in front of him, as if weighing something heavy. His eyes sparkled with a predatory interest.

"You two want something more than money, I can see it. No one rides out this far into the desert just for the thrill of it. So here's a proposition." Rust's voice took on a darker, more enticing tone. "You join my gang—the Avalanchitz. We're growing, expanding. Got territories all across the West, and we make the rules. Jack Rust's name is known from here to the edge of the mountains." He let the offer hang in the air, his gaze narrowing. "What do you say? You two have skills. And we could use men like you."

Barok's eyes didn't leave Rust's, calculating every word, every nuance in his tone. The offer hung in the air like smoke, thick and dangerous. Bastian, however, leaned back in his chair, studying Rust with that trademark grin, the one that always hid what was running beneath the surface.

"Join your gang?" Bastian said with a chuckle. "I can tell you've got ambition, Rust, but Avalanchitz? What is this, a mining crew or an outlaw gang?"

Rust's lips curled into a smirk. "The Avalanchitz are more than just a gang. We're a movement. We're the ones who decide who gets to hold power out here, and we take what's ours. And if you two can handle yourselves like I think you can, you'll make us more powerful than ever."

Bastian was quiet for a long moment, and Barok could almost feel the tension building in his friend. This wasn't the type of offer Bastian would normally entertain, but Rust wasn't just any outlaw leader—he was something different, a figure that carried weight.

"Alright," Bastian said, leaning forward slightly. "I'm intrigued. But I've got one question for you before we talk shop."

Rust raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Go ahead."

Bastian's smirk widened. "Are you a gunmancer, Rust?" His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it now, a challenge in the air that only Barok could sense fully.

Rust's smile faltered for the briefest of moments before it returned with dark amusement. "Ah, so you've got an eye for the craft," he said slowly. "Yes, I am. What of it?"

Bastian's grin widened. "I've got a few tricks of my own. And I'll admit, I've always wanted to see just how far gunmancy can be pushed."

At that moment, the door to the saloon creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan. All heads turned instinctively toward the sound. A woman entered, her silhouette framed by the harsh sunlight outside. Her movements were fluid, almost predatory, as she made her way into the dim, dusty saloon.

She was tall, with an air of calm authority, wearing a dark cloak that hung loosely from her shoulders. Silver hair cascaded down her back, tied up in an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. But it wasn't just her appearance that drew attention—there was a palpable coldness to her presence, a stoicism that made everyone in the room take a step back.

Her eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, and they swept the room with ruthless precision, landing on Jack Rust and his gang first.

"Jack Rust," she called, her voice smooth yet edged with an undeniable authority. "You're the one I've been hunting."

The room went still. The men at the bar shifted nervously, and even Jack Rust's hardened expression faltered for a moment. He didn't seem scared, exactly, but the woman's presence had made him uncomfortable in a way Bastian had only seen in seasoned gunfighters.

"Is that so?" Rust said, his voice betraying a flicker of tension as he stood from the table. "And who might you be, little lady?"

The woman didn't flinch. Instead, she locked eyes with him and smiled, a cold, unfeeling smile that sent a shiver through the room. "Seraphina," she replied, her voice like the sharp click of a revolver's hammer. "I'm here for your head, Rust. Dead or alive."

Bastian felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as the weight of the moment shifted. This wasn't just some bounty hunter with a badge.

This was someone who had spent a lifetime tracking people like Jack Rust—someone dangerous.

And just as the silence was about to become unbearable, it broke. The entire saloon seemed to erupt into motion at once.

Rust's gang immediately reached for their guns, and Seraphina's hand moved with lightning speed, her revolver drawn in an instant. The first man to pull his gun was met with the unmistakable crack of Seraphina's shot. She didn't miss—ever.

But Rust wasn't one to be caught off guard.

With a sudden twist of his wrist, he drew his own revolver with almost supernatural speed, and as he fired, the bullet didn't just fly straight toward Seraphina—it curled, trailing a stream of burning fire behind it, as if the bullet itself had come alive with heat.

"Fire's my specialty," Rust called out with a grin, watching as the bullet hit the ground with a flash of flame, the fire licking at Seraphina's boots. "You'll learn quick that I don't miss."

Seraphina danced back just in time, the fireball grazing past her, but her eyes were cold, calculating, never losing focus. She didn't hesitate, firing again—crack, another man fell to the ground, but Rust was already moving, his gun firing again, this time sending a bullet that exploded in midair, sending a fiery shockwave through the room.

Bastian's eyes widened. Gunmancy, but not like he'd ever seen before—Rust wasn't just controlling his bullets, he was infusing them with fire. The arcane energy didn't just guide the trajectory; it altered the very nature of the bullets, turning them into volatile projectiles of flame.

Barok, recognizing the gravity of the situation, moved with practiced precision. His revolver was in his hand, but unlike Bastian's flashy card tricks or Seraphina's cold efficiency, Barok's magic was subtle. He focused on the probability of a bullet hitting its mark, bending the odds ever so slightly, enough to avoid the fireball as it whizzed toward him. He fired back, a clean shot that struck one of Rust's men in the arm, knocking him down before he could reach for another gun.

"Don't underestimate us," Bastian shouted, his voice full of the thrill of the fight. He reached into his coat and threw a card into the air, his fingers flicking it with expert precision. The card spun as if caught in an invisible wind, its edge cutting through the air like a razor-sharp blade.

One of Rust's men fired at it, but Bastian's magic ensured that the card would intercept the bullet mid-flight. With a flash of light, the card deflected the bullet and sliced through the man's gun, causing it to shatter.

Rust snarled. He wasn't used to being bested, especially not so easily. He adjusted his stance and fired again, this time fanning three bullets in quick succession. Each bullet trailed fire, spiraling toward his enemies. But Barok, already moving, adjusted his aim with quick precision.

His revolver's shot tore through one of the bullets mid-flight, causing it to explode harmlessly in the air.

The chaos had now fully erupted into a wild gunfight. The saloon was filled with smoke, gunfire, and the crackle of gunmancy at its most dangerous. Rust was a master of manipulating the fire-infused bullets, using them to create explosions, fire walls, and blazing attacks that sent men scattering and caused the saloon's wooden beams to creak and groan under the pressure.

Seraphina, calm in the face of the chaos, fired precisely, each shot finding its mark, taking down another of Rust's gang members. The air around her was thick with tension, but she didn't flinch, her silver hair shimmering with deadly grace.

And then, in a final flash of brilliance, Jack Rust unleashed his ultimate move—he fired a single bullet, his palm open, and the bullet exploded into a ring of fire, sending a massive wave of heat through the saloon. Barok and Bastian dodged, but Seraphina wasn't fast enough. She was sent sprawling to the ground as the fire scorched her cloak.

Bastian, his grin gone, reached into his coat with lightning speed, throwing more cards into the air—this time, they weren't just distractions. With a flick of his wrist, he guided them toward the fireball, each card slicing through the flame and hitting Rust's gun hand with pinpoint precision. The bullets he fired went wild, crashing into walls, missing their target.

"Enough!" Jack Rust roared, but it was too late. With a last, desperate flick of his wrist, he tried to conjure another flame-infused shot, but it misfired, the magic fizzling out. In that moment of hesitation, Seraphina rose, her revolver aimed directly at his chest

.

"Your game's over, Rust," she said coldly, pulling the trigger, releasing a steam of chilling breeze from her chamber.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Rust's body crumpled to the ground, his insides bursted out in piercing frost. His fiery revolver fossilized in ice from his hand. The room went silent.

Bastian wiped the sweat from his brow, a smirk on his face despite the violence. "Well, that went better than I expected, didn't expect you to also be a gunmancer."

Barok holstered his revolver, his eyes still scanning the room. "You always did have a knack for making enemies, Bastian."

Seraphina's cold gaze flicked to both of them, and for the first time since entering, there was a flicker of something else—perhaps respect, perhaps curiosity—in her eyes.

"You two," she said, "are better than I thought."

Bastian grinned, his hand already moving to shake hers. "Name's Bastian. And this here is Barok. We make quite the team."

She paused, studying them both for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

"Seraphina," she said simply, shaking Bastian's hand. "And I think we might have just formed an alliance."

Barok raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting with a mix of surprise and admiration. He couldn't deny it—the Black Dust team had just gotten a good acquaintance.