The priest climbed the wooden stage, his robes dragging in the dust. The crowd gathered before him was silent, their faces grim, lit by the flickering light of scattered torches clutching his weathered Bible close to his chest, his fingers trembling slightly, though he hid them in the folds of his robe. 

“Brothers and sisters, you have suffered much. I see it in your faces, in your weary hearts. But know this: the Lord sees you. He walks among you, even now, and in His wisdom, He shall deliver you from this trial.” 

     The priest raised his Bible higher. “Do not lose faith! For it is written: ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’ I tell you, your suffering is not in vain!” 

     A cough echoed from somewhere in the assembly, followed by a muttered curse. The priest pressed on, flipping through the thin pages of his Bible. “Let us pray together, for in unity there is strength. The Lord—” 

     He stopped mid-sentence. A figure moved through the crowd, tall and deliberate, parting the assembly like the red sea. The murmurs began, low at first, but they grew louder with each step the man took.

     The speaker mounted the stage, stepping beside the priest as though he belonged there. He wore no robe, no holy insignia, only a threadbare coat that hung heavy with dust. The torchlight caught his face—a face sharp and weathered, with eyes that glinted like steel. 

     He turned to the crowd. “Do you know who this man is?”

     The priest stared at him, his face pale, his lips moving soundlessly. 

“Ladies and gentlemen I feel it my duty to inform you that the man holding this revival is an imposter. He holds no papers of divinity from any institution recognized or improvised. He is altogether devoid of the least qualification to the office he has usurped and has only committed to memory a few passages from the good book for the purpose of lending to his fraudulent sermons some faint flavor of the piety he despises. In truth, the gentleman standing here before you posing as a minister of the Lord is not only totally illiterate but is also wanted by the law in the states of Cordwyn. In Blackridge. In Hollowpoint. In the swamps of Setheral and the salt flats of Venngate.”

     The crowd froze and the priest stepped forward. “This is madness! Lies and blasphemy! Do not listen to him!”

     Oh God, cried the reverend. Lies, lies! He began reading feverishly from his opened
bible. 

“Shall we name the crimes, Father? The chapel burned in Avarath? The children abandoned in Kallenshire? Or shall we speak of Venngate, where the girl’s body lies beneath the salt? How you stripped off her clothes and claimed her virginity?” 

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...” 

“He prays...” the speaker said, his voice sharp with mockery, “But what will his prayers do for the girl buried in the salt? For the children he abandoned? For the people of this camp, whom he seeks to deceive?” 

     The priest’s voice rose in desperation, his words tumbling over each other as he flipped frantically through the Bible. “Judge not, that ye be not judged! For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged!” 
 
     On a variety of charges the most recent of which involved a girl of eleven years said eleven who had come to him in trust and whom he was surprised in the act of violating while actually clothed in the livery of his God.

     A moan swept through the crowd. A lady sank to her knees.

“This is him”, cried the reverend, sobbing. “This is him. The devil. Here he stands”.

“Let's hang the turd”, called an ugly thug from the gallery to the rear. Not three weeks before this he was run out of Fort Smith Arkansas for having congress with a goat. Yes lady, that is what I said. Goat. Why damn my eyes if I won't shoot the son of a bitch, said a man rising at the far side
of the tent, and drawing a pistol from his boot he leveled it and fired.

     The speaker raised his hands, commanding silence. “You have heard him preach. You have listened to his lies. But now you know the truth. This man has betrayed you. He has betrayed the Lord.”

     The priest dropped to his knees, the Bible clutched to his chest. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do!” 

     Already gunfire was general within the tent and a dozen exits had been hacked through the canvas walls and people were pouring out, women screaming, folk stumbling, folk trampled underfoot in the mud. 

     After the commotion he goes in a tavern. The inn was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of cheap liquor and smoke. The bartender was a squat man with a broad, flat nose, his shirt filled with spilled drinks and sweat. Hachizen sat at the bar, his coat hanging loose over his shoulders, his eyes staring into the amber liquid in his glass. 

     The room buzzed faintly with conversation, the sound of boots scuffing against wooden floors and coins clinking on tables. The events of the square already seemed distant, and the mob dispersed. 

     The bartender leaned over the counter, wiping a mug with a rag cloth that was only marginally cleaner than the wood beneath it. He looked Hachizen over, his eyes sharp with curiosity. 

“That was somethin’ back there,” the bartender said, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man torn to pieces so quick.” 

     Hachizen didn’t respond immediately. He swirled his drink in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. 

“You knew him, didn’t you?” the bartender pressed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The priest. Bet you got a story or two about him.” 

     Hachizen raised the glass to his lips and took a slow drink. When he set it down, he spoke. “I never met that man in my life.” 

     There was a strange silence in the room. The men looked like mud effigies. Finallysomeone began to laugh. Then another. Soon they were all laughing together. Someone bought the judge a drink.
The bartender blinked, then let out a sharp laugh, loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. He smacked the counter with the palm of his hand, shaking his head. 

“That’s good,” he said, chuckling. “That’s real good.” He reached for a bottle, poured another measure of whiskey into Hachizen’s glass, and slid it across the counter. “On the house. Hell, if I ever see a show like that again, I might just make it two.” 

     Hachizen took another drink and bowed his head in humble gratitude. With every minute that went by, the crowd's mood lightened and the laughter in the room became louder. Hachizen was left alone at the bar when the bartender went on to another patron. The background fades to the faint din of the inn. He did not move to take another sip of the amber liquid, which rippled slightly in the dim light. A person entered, framed by the fading streetlight, and the door abruptly swung open, its hinges creaking. He was young—too young, some would argue—but he was anything but naive. His boots are scuffed from miles of rough terrain, and his clothes are baggy and dust-frayed worn from miles of bad country.

     The Kid’s face was pale, eyes cold watchful gaze, taking in the room with a predator’s calm. He carried a pistol in hand, but the way he moved—quiet, deliberate—was enough to unsettle the crowd. Conversation dimmed as the patrons turned to look. 

     The bartender scowled, wiping his hands on the filthy rag, “You’re a long way from wherever it is you oughta be, boy.” 

     The Kid didn’t answer. He walked to the bar, his boots scuffing the wood, and pulled out a stool. He sat, leaning forward, elbows resting on the counter. Reaching into his coat placing a single coin on the bars counter—a coin seemed older than the boy himself. 

“Whiskey.”

     The bartender looked at the coin, then back at the Kid, “That ain’t worth much here. Try the next town over, maybe.” 

“It’ll do.” The kid eyes flickered.

     The bartender sighed, swiping the coin off the counter, dropping it into the till. Pouring a glass of whiskey. The Kid took the glass without a word, lifting it to his lips and drinking. 

From his corner of the bar, Hachizen watched. 

“You got a name, boy?” 

     The Kid didn’t look up. He set the glass down, “Reckon I don’t.” 

     The bartender laugh heatedly, “You reckon, huh? Listen here, I don’t take kindly to no-coin drifters thinkin’ they can saunter in here like they own the place. You cause any trouble, and I’ll put you through that door face first, you hear?” 

     The Kid’s grip on the glass tightened. Looking up slowly to meet the bartender’s eyes. There was no anger in his expression, no threat—just a unflinching calm. 

“I reckon you’d best pour another.”

     The bartender hesitated. Then he turned to Hachizen, as if seeking support. “You seein’ this? This little runt thinkin’ he’s somethin’ special?” 

     Hachizen’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. He swirled his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “I’d pour him the drink,” he said quietly. “Unless you feel like testing your patience against his.” 

     The bartender glared at Hachizen but grabbed the bottle nonetheless, pouring another measure and slamming it on the counter. 

“You don’t scare me, Just know I’ve seen men bigger than you fall harder.” 

     The Kid didn’t respond. He picked up the glass and drank again, his eyes never leaving the bartender’s. 

     The Kid sat at the bar. The drink in his hand was untouched, its surface smooth like a pane of glass. The bartender leaned over, his thick arms braced against the bar, the smell of sweat and stale liquor rolling off him. His eyes narrowed as he looked the boy up and down, his scowl deepening. 

“I know your type, Drifters. Vagrants. Outlaws.” He spat the word like a curse, leaning closer, “Think you can walk into my place like you belong here? I don’t serve to bastards like you. Drinkin’ here’s a privilege, not a goddamn right. And seein’ you die of thirst would quenched mine just fine.” 

     A murmur ran through, Heads turned toward the bar, low hum of conversation fading to silence. Hachizen, sitting a few stools away, watched the exchange with quiet amusement. 

“So why don’t you do us all a favor and take your no-name ass outta here? Find some ditch to rot in, ‘fore you start trouble you can’t finish.”

     The Kid finally moved. His hand, still resting on the bar, shifted slightly. His fingers tapped the surface once, twice, a sound so soft it barely registered in the tense quiet. He lifted his head, and for the first time. 

“Trouble?” Reckon I’ve seen my share.” 

“I bet you have. Probably got folks lookin’ to hang you from every goddamn tree between here and the wastelands. That it, boy? They lookin’ for you out in Cordwyn? Maybe Blackridge?” He grinned, baring yellowed teeth, “I don’t serve outlaws. Don’t like ‘em. Don’t trust ‘em.”

     The Kid’s expression didn’t change. He picked up the glass, held it for a moment, then set it down again without drinking. “Don’t reckon I trust you either.” 

     He took a step back, but his voice grew louder, angrier, “You think you’re somethin’ special, don’t you? Think you’re tough. Let me tell you somethin’, boy—this place ain’t got no use for trash like you. The law’ll catch up to you, and when it does, I hope it’s slow. Real slow.”  

     The Kid stood, the legs of his stool scraping against the floor. He reached into his coat, and the bartender froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, the room held its collective breath, waiting for the glint of steel, the sharp report of a gunshot. 

     But the Kid didn’t draw a weapon. He pulled out another coin, and placed it on the bar. “For the drink,” he said softly. 

     The bartender stared at the coin, his hands curling into fists. “You think this makes us square?” he growled. “You think you can walk in here, insult me, and just—” 

     Hachizen spoke his voice cutting through the bartender’s rant, “I’d leave it be, if I were you.” 

“You stay outta this, stranger. This ain’t your fight.”

“Fight?” he said. “There’s no fight here. Just a man who doesn’t know when to quit.” 

     The bartender’s face darkened, but he said nothing. The Kid stepped back from the bar, his boots against the wooden floor. He paused at the door, glancing back at the bartender. 

“Ain’t thirsty no more,” he said, his voice low. Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. 

     The bartender turned to Hachizen, his anger still smoldering. “You got somethin’ to say too?” 

     Hachizen drained the last of his drink and set the glass down carefully. He stood, adjusting his coat, and glanced at the bartender. 

“Just this, You’re lucky he wasn’t thirsty enough to care.”

     The bartender’s scowl faltered, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

     The town was no more than a scattering of shacks nailed together from splintered wood, the streets slick with rain and sewage, the air heavy with the smell of cattle and rot. It sat low under a sky heavy with rain, its streets churned to muck, the lamps along its lone road burning through the fog as the boy tethered his mule to a hitching post outside the saloon, the animal’s ears flicking at the drizzle. He didn’t plan to stay long.

     The boy stepped inside, the door creaking on its hinges. He didn’t make it halfway to the bar before the branded man’s voice rang out. 

“Well, look who it is.” The knife stopped spinning. “The boy without a name.” 

     The room fell quiet. The boy stopped, his boots squeaking against the wet floorboards. His gaze flicked toward the branded man but said nothing. 

     Leland was not a man of small crimes. He’d made his name among one of the most notorious criminals for two years past, where he and a small gang derailed the Iron Western Line. Twenty men were left dead in the wreckage, their bodies  were left mangled, and Leland had escaped into the badlands with a chest of stolen coin and a trail of blood behind him. He wore his crimes as openly as his brand, and the townsfolk knew better than to meet his eye.

     The room fell quiet. The boy stopped, his boots squeaking against the wet floorboards. His gaze flicked toward the branded man but said nothing. 

     The bartender cleared his throat, “Let it go,” he muttered, wiping down the counter. 

“Let it go? And here I thought we was havin’ fun. You don’t like fun?” 

     He stood then, his boots heavy against the floor. The knife stayed in his hand, its dull edge catching the faint lamplight. 

      The boy spoke finally, his voice flat. “I don’t find you as funny as you think.”

“Oh, he’s got a mouth, all right. Bet he thinks he’s clever too.”

     Walking toward the boy, the knife dangling loosely in his hand. The tension in the room grew, the other patrons retreating to the edges of the saloon like shadows. 

“You got somethin’ to prove, boy?” the man said, stopping just a few feet away. “Or you just got a death wish?” 

     The boy didn’t flinch a bit, “Maybe I just don’t like your face.”

     The branded man laughed, loud and sudden, throwing his head back as if the boy’s words were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Then, just as abruptly, he stopped. 

      The knife came fast, its blade toward the boy’s throat. The boy moved, his boots slipping slightly on the wet boards as he ducked low. The knife missed by inches. 

And just like that, the room exploded.

     They burst out of the saloon exchanging flurry of fists and curses, their boots skidding on the rain-slicked ground. The boy stumbled as the branded man swung again, his fist catching the boy’s jaw and sending him sprawling into the mud. 

     The branded man loomed over him, his shadow long and jagged in the faint light spilling from the saloon’s windows. “You think you’re tough, boy?” he sneered, raising the knife. “You ain’t nothin’ but a stain waitin’ to be washed away.” 

     From somewhere in the crowd, someone chanted. “Kill. Kill. Kill.” 

     The branded man swing again, but the boy rolled, the blade slicing through the air where his head had been. He scrambled to his feet, his hand finding a rock to the mud. 

     The branded man lunged, and the boy smashed the rock to his face with all his strength, the impact sending the man reeling to the mud. 

     But it wasn’t enough. Another figure stepped forward from the crowd, a man with a club. He swung, the blow catching the boy on the side of the head, and the world went black. 

     The boy awoke to dim light and the stench of damp wood. His head throbbed, the pain radiating from the knot where the club had struck. He blinked, his vision clearing slowly, to see a face leaning over him—a face with scars and burned letters that seemed to shimmer faintly in the lamplight. 

“You’re harder to kill than you look, boy,” 

     The boy groaned, shifting against the stiff mattress. “We done?” 

“We’re done, Ain’t no sense in beatin’ on a corpse that don’t stay dead.”

     The boy pushed himself upright, wincing at the effort. His boots lay near the bed, muddied and scuffed.

“Thought I’d say this but,” he said. “Someone stole my knife last night and I know who that bastard is.” 

“Let’s go. We have some unfinished business to do.” 

     Downstairs, they travel far arriving in a hotel as he approached the clerk in the counter.

“Which room’s Sidney in?”

     The hotel clerk hesitated, glancing toward the stairs. “Room three, But you’d be better off leavin’. Sidney’s been sayin’ he means to kill you.” 

“I’d hate to disappoint him, then.” 

     The boy stood a few paces back, his hands shoved into his pockets. The hotel clerk appeared in the doorway, “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “Sidney’s meaner than most, and he don’t fight fair.”

“Mean don’t mean much when you’re dead.”

     He glanced at the boy, jerking his head toward the stairs. “You comin’?” 

“I reckon I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.”

     The fight in Sidney’s room was brief but feral. The sounds of fists and boots colliding with flesh reverberated through the narrow halls with the crash of overturned furniture. 

     It ended with the lamp falling, its flame catching the spilled whiskey on the floor. The fire spread quickly, devouring the dry wood and old linens like a thing starved. 

     Sidney was left sprawled across the bed, blood pooling beneath his still form. Leland open the door, the smoke already thick in the air, and the two of them stumbled into the hall. 

     The flames chased them as they fled, licking at their heels with greedy tongues. They burst into the street, coughing and laughing, their faces streaked with soot. 

     Leland threw back his head and howled, his laughter wild and untamed, echoing through the empty street. He staggered through the mud, his arms wide, as if the fire were some grand joke meant just for him. 

     The boy watched him for a moment before turning away. 

     At the edge of town, a Mexican family stood near their modest home, watching the fire’s glow in the distance. The boy approached without a word, his boots squelching in the wet earth and the mule stood tethered in the yard, its head bowed against the rain. The boy untied pulling the reins free with practiced ease. 

     The family said nothing. Their eyes followed him as he mounted the animal. 

     The boy nudged the mule forward, guiding it back toward the road. 

     He saw a guy standing motionless in the middle of the commotion as he passed the burning hotel one last time. Hachizen stood by himself, his face serene and thoughtful, his coat unruffled. Shadows appeared to flicker with their own purpose as the firelight danced across his features. The universe appeared to hold its breath for a second as their gazes locked. Hachizen gave a slow, thoughtful smile. It was not a nice smile, but one of wisdom—of knowing something that the boy could not see.

     The boy turned away, the mule’s hooves clicking softly against the wet stone. He did not look back, but the weight of Hachizen’s gaze lingered on his shoulders as he rode into the night.