Chapter Text
Through the scrubs, through the brush, a heavy-set boar tore through the sandy earth, rooting, digging, snorting—longing to leave its mark on the cold, uncaring land. Above, a lone eagle soared overhead, wings beating the air. Below, snorting bison bulls threw sand and dirt over their shoulders, fighting not only each other, but the oppressive power stretching from the east, slowly creeping west.
The sand fell like buckshot against the small stretch of dark skin the man left uncovered. He sat astride a roan stud, its blue coat mottled with dark splotches—marks of battles won and lost. A sharp metallic jingle rang across the plains as old spurs struck the horse’s hide, their jingle bobs tussling in the wind.
Black hair fell from beneath his hat as he readjusted it, sharp honey-colored eyes cold and hardened by life on the road. He was a hunter—not the kind who stalked deer or bear, but one who sought to leave his mark upon the cold earth: to find ruins and let them guide him to their secrets.
He did not wish to be known. He wished to be remembered—not for who he was, but for what he had done, what he had helped preserve, and what he had both gained and lost along the way.
but for now that would have to wait.
The roan’s ears pinned back as the scent reached them. It wasn’t just carried on the wind—it forced its way in, thick and cloying, sweet to the point of offense. The smell pressed against the man’s senses, uninvited and unapologetic, like a grin that lingered far too long.
A golden horse stood atop the hill, refusing the dusty ravine below. Rich brown tack dressed it in excess, polished for display rather than use. The man astride it wore a pinstriped suit nearly as gold as the mount beneath him, dirty-blond hair gleaming in the light. The cologne followed him like a second shadow—carefully chosen, meticulously applied, and impossible to ignore.
the darker-skinned man atop the roan guided his horse up the hill, the animal sure-footed as ever, never stumbling once. He sat loose in the saddle, relaxed in a way that came only from long roads and longer fights, hands resting easy as if nothing in the world could rush him. His sharp eyes never left the man on the golden horse.
“Ging! So nice to finally see you again!”
The voice rang out across the plains, and the world reacted before Ging did. Fighting bulls scattered, hogs vanished into the brush, birds tore into the sky—everything in the area knew. It knew that voice was no good for them.
Ging only narrowed his eyes, the faintest tightening at the corner of his jaw. He’d heard that tone before—friendly, bright, and hollow. A voice that smiled while counting the cost.
It wore a mask of sweet, caring warmth, but that love always came at a price.
“What are you doing here, Pariston?” Ging muttered, sharp eyes already making assumptions before the man even spoke.
“Well, I heard you’d found some trouble out here,” Pariston said pleasantly, “and I thought I might come help.” His icy eyes held a faint gleam—no good. That always meant trouble.
The roan began to walk past him. “Thanks,” Ging said flatly, “but I really don’t need any help.” Golden sand reflected its hue onto him as he passed Pariston.
“Oh, surely you don’t mean that,” Pariston beamed.
“Oh, but I do,” Ging shot back, barely audible.
Pariston gouged his spurs into his horse’s sides, sending a sharp shock through the golden hide. The startled animal pranced closer, crowding Ging and his roan. Ging paid it no mind, offering Pariston none of the attention he was so clearly trying to provoke. That only aggravated the blond man further.
“I’ve heard that Kite is doing well,” Pariston prodded.
“Hmph.” The sound left Ging’s throat, low and dismissive. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Pariston—not now, not ever.
This continued until they reached the cliff’s edge, overlooking a small compound. Waggons sat in a circle, and withered horses, skinny as bones, nibbled at the rare scraps of weed that grew. The cattle fared no better, huddled together in a small pen, scrawny and scrappy. Men dragged their feet, stirring up more dust than necessary. Women toiled at the chores, and so did the older children.
All of them shared one thing in common: eyes fixed on what they had been promised—the West.
“It’s unfortunate, really,” Pariston said at last, cutting the silence. “All these people… and all for what? To be murdered, scalped, or die of disease?”
A twitch flickered at the corner of Ging’s eye. The wind stilled as if holding its breath. Dust hung frozen in the air, and even the roan shifted uneasily beneath him. Birds went silent in the trees; a distant bull snorted and froze mid-step.
“Like this whole scalping thing came from my people, and not your own?” Ging barked, voice low but sharp. His jaw clenched, fists tightening in the reins. Heat rose in his chest, but he kept his posture loose, as if the world itself were part of his control. Yet, for the first time, the faintest tremor betrayed him—a flicker in his eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders.
Pariston, of course, noticed.
aA sharp smile etched its way across Pariston’s face. “Fair—I forget that you’re native,” he added, voice light, teasing, as though the words themselves were a game. He leaned slightly forward in the saddle, letting the golden sun catch the edges of his hair and suit, making him glow like he thought he owned the world.
Ging ignored him. “If you’re going to keep pestering me, then we’ll stay here tonight. We’ll work as the night settles in.” His voice was flat, controlled, but the weight behind it made the air heavy.
Pariston chuckled, a low, knowing sound that carried across the plain. “Oh, Ging… always so serious. Don’t you ever enjoy yourself? Look at all this,” he gestured vaguely to the dust, the scorched earth, the compound below. “So much potential, all waiting… and here you are, all work and no play.” His eyes flicked toward the compound, then back to Ging, that subtle glint of mischief and menace dancing in their depths. “You could at least smile. It might make tonight… more interesting.”
He leaned back just enough to let the reins dangle, horse swaying lightly beneath him, radiating confidence and the faintest hint of threat—like he expected Ging to react, and if he didn’t, well… that was just part of the game.
The coyotes yipped under the half-moon, their voices carrying across the cool night. Elk called in the distance, breath rolling over the mountaintops. Men had settled, horses cocked their knobby legs, cattle lay stretched out, long eyelashes fluttering in the chill.
Pariston’s voice broke the quiet. “If I might ask… what did they do for you to hunt them down like this, to ambush them?” He still leaned over the edge, gazing at the camp, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
Ging let out a slow sigh, words drifting across the night. “They took something of mine.” He leaned back against the front of his horse, arms resting easily, posture casual but lethal. His sharp eyes swept the camp, taking in every flicker of movement, every shadow that could conceal danger, yet his body betrayed nothing—just calm, patience, and the barely restrained tension of someone who could move at a moment’s notice.
“All I need from you,” he quipped, voice flat, deadly in its casualness, “is to shut up—and try not to kill anyone.”
Even in his quiet, Ging radiated a weight that made the air feel heavier around him—a silent warning that the night, and the land below, belonged to him for now.
A hush settled across the camp. The somber, low glow of the last lantern finally went out, leaving only shadows and the faint silver light of the half-moon. The coyotes yips faded into the distance, and the elk calls grew faint, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Horses shifted uneasily, cattle huddled closer together, and even the dust seemed to still in anticipation.
It was time. Time to take back what was his. Gings eyes swept over the camp one last time, calm and precise, yet brimming with quiet menace. Every muscle in his body was relaxed, but ready to strike in an instant. The roan shifted beneath him, ears twitching, sensing the tension radiating off its rider.
The night smelled of cold earth, sweat, and danger. Pariston’s presence nearby was a faint ripple in the calm, but ging ignored it, his focus entirely on what lay below. Every shadow, every flicker of movement, every heartbeat of the land seemed to answer him: the reckoning is coming.
Sneaking down from the cliff, the horses moved swiftly toward the camp, hooves silent on the hard earth. Ging’s eyes swept over every detail: the huddled cattle, the slack ropes on the waggons, the shadowed corners where someone might be hiding. Nothing escaped him.
“Pariston, take the other side. We’re getting what I need and leaving—no killing, no fighting. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Pariston replied, mockingly, a sly grin tugging at his lips—but he followed orders anyway, moving into position with unsettling precision.
Ging’s jaw set, lips pressed tight. He leaned slightly forward on the roan, body relaxed, but every movement calculated. The night was his ally; the wind, the shadows, even the animals seemed to recognize his presence. One wrong sound, one sudden move, and he could react before anyone even realized he had acted. Yet he didn’t need to. Control alone radiated from him like a silent warning.
He slipped from his horse and moved toward the largest wagon, boots finding the ground without a sound. Around him, the rest of the camp lay still. Dogs watched him pass, eyes tracking his movement in silence—no growl, no bark—just knowing.
A large team of horses stood nearby, ragged and thin, harnessed and waiting, ribs showing beneath dull hides. They didn’t stir, didn’t spook—only breathed slow and shallow, like silent pieces of worn machinery waiting to be put to work again. Ging’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer than necessary before moving on.
Across the camp, Pariston kept watch from the shadows, posture loose, almost bored, eyes flicking from tent to wagon to sleeping figure. Every now and then, his smile flashed faintly in the moonlight—amused, attentive, and far too pleased with himself as he made sure no one woke.
Ging circled wide around the back of the wagon, keeping to the deepest shadows. The wood creaked softly under the night air, but not under his steps. He paused once, listening—counting breaths, the faint shift of fabric from a sleeping man nearby, the soft stamp of a horse’s hoof. Then he moved again.
He leaned in just enough to peer inside. Lantern light from somewhere deeper in the camp caught the edges of the interior, and there it was—his map—spread across a crate like it meant nothing. The markings he had bled for, the paths he’d traced with care, all laid bare.
Beside it lay the man who had taken it.
A pulse of anger flared hot and sharp, but Ging swallowed it down, letting it settle into something colder. He slid his hand inside the wagon, slow and deliberate, fingers inching forward, feeling the rough wood, the edge of canvas, the familiar worn paper beneath his touch.
Just as his grip tightened around the map, something pressed suddenly into his side.
In one motion, Ging twisted, knife flashing into his hand and rising to the other man’s throat—steel stopping a breath away.
“Kite?” The name slipped out before he could stop it, disbelief cutting through his control.
Ging slid the blade back into its sheath in one smooth motion. “What are you doing here?!” he whisper-screamed, grabbing Kite by the collar and dragging him back into the deeper shadows, toward his horse.
“I was trying to get your stuff back,” Kite said quickly, keeping his voice low as his feet stumbled to keep up. “But I suppose now that won’t be an issue.”
Ging released him and rubbed his temples, fingers pressing hard as he let out a long, restrained sigh. The anger drained out, replaced by something heavier—frustration, worry, and the familiar weight of responsibility he never asked for.
“You idiot,” he muttered, not quite an insult, not quite relief.
“Go get your horse” Ging hissed, already turning. “Meet me and Pariston on the ridge now”
His boot had barely found the stirrup when the night split open.
A bullet whirled past his head, close enough to kiss the air beside his ear, burying itself in the wagon behind him with a dull crack. Wood splintered. Horses screamed. The fragile quiet shattered all at once.
Ging dropped low in the saddle in the same breath, hand already moving, eyes snapping toward the muzzle flash blooming from the dark. His pulse didn’t spike—his focus did. This wasn’t panic. This was confirmation.
“”“Move,” he snapped to Kite without looking back.
Around them, the camp stirred—shouts rising, dogs finally barking, men scrambling for rifles. Whatever they’d taken, whatever Ging had come for, the night had decided it was done being quiet.
Dirt flew as Ging’s stud tore through the camp, hooves pounding earth as bullets whirled past them, snapping through canvas and splintering wood. Shouts rose, panicked and half-awake, men scrambling for rifles they barely knew how to use.
Ging turned in the saddle, movements smooth and practiced, already drawing his gun. An old Navy revolver—scarred, darkened with age—one he’d picked up years ago off a poor bastard who’d thought himself faster. It sat easy in his hand, familiar as breath.
More shots rang out as more bodies stirred, fear multiplying the noise. Ging didn’t rush. He didn’t spray the dark. His eyes found the man who had wronged him—the one who had taken what wasn’t his and lit the fuse on all of this.
One shot rang out.
Bang.
The sound cut clean through the chaos. The man dropped where he stood, the night swallowing him whole. Just like that, it was over. The one who had started this mess would never finish it.
Ging didn’t look back. He kicked his heels in and rode on, smoke trailing from the barrel, the camp erupting behind him—but the damage was already done.
Nearing the edge of the camp, Ging took a hard turn, his horse digging into the earth as dirt from its hooves. In an instant, the golden horse and its rider joined him, keeping pace effortlessly.
Pariston was already grinning, far too ready for a fight, his hand brandishing a Colt Pocket Revolver—.31 caliber, gaudy gold adorning its sides, glittering even in the chaos. The little gun cracked again and again, sharp reports flashing uselessly into the night as shots rang out more for spectacle than effect.
Ging didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could already guess the damage Pariston was doing—and it wasn’t much.
He kept his eyes forward, reins tight, focused only on escape. Whatever mess Pariston was making behind them wasn’t his concern. The job was done. What mattered now was distance, speed, and getting out before the night demanded more blood than he was willing to give.
A gray horse tore into the ground, long, lanky legs eating up the distance in only a few strides before falling into rhythm with Ging and Pariston.
“That, Im guessing, didn’t go to plan?” Kite teased—tone light, eyes sharp, seriousness always sitting just beneath the words.
The horses ripped through the night, hoofbeats pounding and then slowly fading, swallowed by the calls of owls and the steady song of crickets.
“No,” Ging muttered. “No, it didn’t.” He dragged a hand down his face, breath finally catching up with him, hoping no one had seen him back there—and that this wouldn’t turn into something bigger than it already was.
The night closed behind them, quiet once more, as if it had never happened at all.