Death Guns In Another World

The first light of dawn spilled over the rugged mountain range, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet wilderness. A gentle breeze rustled the tall grass, carrying with it the scent of pine and the cool bite of morning air. Birds chirped in the distance, and far below, mist still curled lazily over the valley like a protective veil.

Alex stirred within the tent, his eyes opening slowly to the tranquil morning. There was no rush—no imminent threat or battle cry. Just silence, serenity, and the rhythm of his own breathing. After folding his blanket and exiting the tent, he stretched his limbs, feeling the pleasant pull in his joints and muscles, the aftermath of yesterday’s trials.

Without a word, he began his usual regimen.

First came the run. The narrow trail along the ridge twisted and curved, a natural path formed through time and weather. His boots barely made a sound as they beat against the dirt, every step steady, controlled. Five kilometers—it wasn’t about speed, but endurance. As his body moved automatically, his mind wandered, reflecting on the recent battles—the twin-headed ogre, the salamander, the bandit camp. Each had tested him in different ways. Yet he had emerged stronger, sharper. More certain of his path.

By the time he returned to camp, sweat clung to his body and his breathing came in steady bursts. Without pause, he dropped into a set of push-ups. The earth was cold beneath his palms, but it only served to heighten his focus. Down, up, down, up—hundreds of repetitions flowed seamlessly into squats. His breathing grew deeper, his muscles trembled slightly under the strain, but his will never wavered.

An hour passed in silence.

Finished, Alex rose and moved to the center of the clearing. He opened his item box and pulled out a small arsenal—two short swords, a long blade, a spear, several throwing knives, and even a pair of chakrams. Each weapon glimmered faintly in the morning sun. He lined them neatly beside him like ritual instruments. Today, he’d cycle through them all.

He started with the long blade. With slow, deliberate movements, he sliced through the air, controlling the trajectory of every swing. The blade whistled gently, its arc perfect. Then faster, his feet moving in tandem—slashes, thrusts, parries. The ground bore the traces of his passage: disturbed leaves, pressed grass, flicks of dust. From the long blade, he transitioned to the twin short swords, his form shifting from elegant to aggressive—quick steps, rapid slashes, the faint hum of blades cutting through air like wind.

The spear came next. It danced in his hands like a ribbon of light, twirling behind his back, overhead, stabbing forward with deceptive speed. He flipped it mid-air and caught it behind his back, swinging low and then upward in a powerful, sweeping arc. Shadows played across the grass as he moved like a dancer—every motion precise, honed.

Finally, he picked up the chakrams. They were perhaps the most difficult to master but among the most versatile. With a flick of his wrist, he sent one spinning toward a distant tree. It struck the trunk and rebounded, curving beautifully back into his palm. He smirked slightly at the flawless return. Again. Faster. Again. Sharper.

By the time the sun had fully risen, Alex stood amidst the scattered weapons, chest rising and falling, body glistening with sweat. His muscles sang with exertion, but a quiet satisfaction welled up inside him. This—this discipline—was what separated warriors from survivors.

Not yet finished, Alex walked down to the lake.

It lay nestled between rocky outcrops, its waters still and clear, reflecting the sky’s baby-blue canvas. Birds occasionally darted across the surface, sending ripples that fanned out like brushstrokes. Without hesitation, he stripped down and stepped into the water, the cold shocking his senses. A deep exhale escaped his lips, steam curling from his skin as he immersed himself.

The water closed around him like a second skin.

He submerged his head, letting the lake’s purity wash over him. He opened his eyes under the surface, watching the sunlight break into thousands of glittering shards above him. It was peaceful—weightless. He stayed like that for a few seconds, just drifting in the silence. When he emerged, his hair slicked back, he took a moment to just breathe.

After bathing, he dressed in a clean outfit—dark trousers, a light sleeveless tunic, and fingerless gloves. A fresh scent of mint and cedar clung to him. Then, returning to the campsite, he began preparing breakfast.

From his item box, he pulled out high-quality ingredients: spiced sausage links, salted eggs, fresh tomatoes, and a loaf of crusty bread. He set up a small portable stove, oiling a pan with a flick of magic. As the sausages sizzled, releasing a mouthwatering aroma, he cracked the eggs, letting them fry beside sliced tomatoes. The rich scent filled the camp, a warm, comforting contrast to the cool air.

He arranged everything neatly on two wooden plates and, with a quiet breath, called out:

“Nyx, breakfast’s ready.”

From the edge of the clearing, shadows twisted and folded inward before blooming into the familiar silhouette. Nyx appeared, quiet as ever, her long dark hair rippling as if in a breeze only she could feel. Her violet eyes flicked toward the food, then toward him, and without a word, she sat across from him.

They ate in silence.

The sausages were juicy and smoky. The eggs were golden, cooked just right, the tomatoes sweet and slightly charred. Nyx moved with grace, her motions precise even in something as mundane as lifting a fork. She didn’t speak—she rarely did—but her presence was grounding. Alex had long since learned to read her silences. This was her way of accepting his invitation.

Alex poured warm tea for them both, brewed with dried herbs gathered on the way. As they drank, the wind rustled through the trees, making the leaves shimmer. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out, and the sound echoed faintly across the cliffs.

He leaned back, looking up at the sky. Wisps of cloud floated lazily past, slowly unraveling under the strengthening sun. The warmth touched his face, and for a moment, time seemed to pause.

“Thanks for coming,” he said softly, without looking at her.

Nyx looked at him for a long moment. She didn’t reply—but the way her gaze lingered, calm and unblinking, spoke volumes. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, her form began to fade, dissolving into motes of shadow.

She vanished.

Alone once more, Alex leaned back on his hands, sipping the last of his tea. His eyes drifted over the mountain range. From here, he could see the path ahead, winding down into the valley below and eventually toward the city.

He didn’t mind being alone. Solitude was something he had long come to respect. But he cherished those fleeting moments with Nyx—not just for companionship, but because they reminded him he wasn’t completely detached. That even in a world of blades and monsters, something—someone—still tethered him to a deeper part of himself.

The wind carried a fresh breeze from the north.

Alex took out a flask from his item box—high-grade whisky from a distant region. He uncorked it, took a sip, and let the burn spread warmly down his throat. It tasted like oak and smoke, with a hint of citrus at the edge. He exhaled slowly.

As the morning grew brighter and the world stirred awake, Alex remained seated, watching the lake shimmer and the leaves dance. The peace would not last forever. Battles awaited. Tests. Enemies.